In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (29 page)

He’d been half aroused before she’d woken, and hard as a post since she’d first spoken. His body, at least, knew precisely what it wanted.

Perhaps he should take his own advice and stop thinking so much.

“Are you sure you’re not too sore?”

“I’m not.” Eliza was grateful for the darkness; it hid her blush. “And I really would rather know …” Reaching out with one hand, she found his jaw, let her fingers slide further, into his hair, gripped lightly and, using that to guide her, eased up, leaned closer, and touched, brushed, her lips to his. Drew back just enough to breathe across them, “I’d really like to know if the second time will be as good as the first.”

“It won’t be.” He surged up, flipped her to her back, and came down on top of her, pinning her beneath him. He looked down into her face; she couldn’t be sure, but she thought his lips curved in a distinctly male smile. “The second time —” He bent his head and brushed her lips, a return of the tantalizing caress she’d given him. But then he hovered with no more than a breath separating their lips to state, “Will be even better.”

He closed the gap and kissed her. Kissed her until her head was reeling, until her wits were waltzing and her senses singing.

And proceeded to demonstrate that he knew what he was talking about.

hey set out immediately after an early breakfast. Eliza sat on the seat of the gig and tried to keep her smile within bounds. She was grateful she didn’t have to sit a horse, but other than a small degree of chafing in a very sensitive spot, she was feeling on top of the world.

On top of her world, at any rate.

Jeremy had been rather quiet, as if he had a lot on his mind, but she assumed he was absorbed with thinking through the details of their route to Jedburgh and Wolverstone beyond, and she forbore from teasing him.

The chestnut between the shafts seemed to have come to some accommodation with Jeremy; the horse paced steadily on, carrying them swiftly down a minor lane that curved southeast to the small town of Newtown St. Boswells.

“Not exactly a new town at all,” Eliza remarked as the gig traveled briskly down the main street. “Some of these buildings have to date from centuries ago, at least.”

Jeremy glanced briefly at the buildings, some clearly ancient. “At least.”

They were soon through the town and rolling along the last section of the country lane he’d chosen, the better to keep them off the main roads where danger might still lurk, when Eliza closed her hand on his arm. “Stop, please.” She pointed ahead to the right of the lane. “Just across from those bushes.”

He grunted and obliged, without asking why.

She threw him a grateful smile. As soon as the gig rocked to a halt, she slipped down to the road. With an “I won’t be long,” she rounded the gig, crossed the lane, and pushed through the bushes; the clump was high and thick enough to hide her from anyone on the road.

The reins in his hands, Jeremy looked forward, to the junction with the main Jedburgh road just ahead. Fifty yards, and then they’d have to dash. He intended to drive as fast as he could south, all the way to the border. Once over it, the turnoff to Wolverstone wasn’t all that far.

He tried to keep his mind on the journey, but within seconds his obsession with what was developing between him and Eliza had reared its head and snared his thoughts. Somehow, some element he hadn’t foreseen had slipped into the mix, and now he didn’t know what sort of cake they were baking. Certainly not the marriage of calm reason based on mutual affection that he’d thought had been in his cards.

His recipe had mutated.

Somehow.

Last night.

Yet this morning, when they’d woken late and rushed to get downstairs in time for the breakfast Mrs. Quiggs had promised them … everything had seemed so normal. So stable and settled. Eliza had been so happy and content that he’d found it easy to go along, to follow and smile … as if nothing had been awry at all.

Perhaps nothing was.

Confusion wasn’t normally his middle name.

On the other side of the bushes, Eliza rose, much relieved, and wrestled her breeches back up her thighs. This was the one activity that was distinctly more difficult in breeches than in skirts. Still …

Her thoughts halted as she stared down at her boots. At the sliver of light that was playing over them.

She looked up, aghast. Searched in the direction from which the beam had come. And saw, not far ahead, not far away at all, a man sitting a black horse.

“
Scrope
.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper. She stared for a second more, then turned. “Oh, God!”

She fought her way back through the bushes to the lane. Wrestling with the buttons at her waistband, she pelted across it. Raising one hand, she pointed. “Scrope! He’s waiting just ahead — along the main road on the right.”

Jeremy lifted the reins as she scrambled up beside him. “Did he see you?”

“Yes! The damned man had a spyglass. That’s why I noticed him — I saw the reflection.”

Contrary to her expectations, Jeremy made no move to turn the gig. “Will he know it’s you? You’re still in disguise.”

She blinked, then met his gaze. “I think it’s safe to say he’ll have realized I’m not a youth by now. He wasn’t that far away.”

“Ah.” Despite his stoicism, Jeremy’s mind was racing. It took no more than a few seconds for him to see and weigh all their options.

And decide that none were good.

“Scrope will have seen you racing back — he’ll already be on his way.” He caught Eliza’s gaze. “Can he come directly across country to where we are now?”

She thought, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. Not unless he can jump a very high hedge. He was on a small hill beyond it.”

Jeremy faced forward. “So he’ll come for us via the road — for him, that’s more sensible anyway. He’ll be at that junction and coming for us at any minute.” He shoved her with his elbow. “Out! Get the bags. Quick!”

The instant she lifted the bags from the boot, he turned the horse and gig, looped the reins, leaving enough play for the chestnut to run with, then jumped out of the gig, slapped the horse’s rump, and raced to Eliza. The horse and gig went rattling back along the lane, going faster as the horse realized and relished the lack of weight.

Jeremy took the saddlebag Eliza held out to him, swung it over his shoulder, and grabbed her hand. “Come on!” He leapt across the narrow ditch, waited until she joined him, then pushed into the line of trees bordering the lane.

The bushes beneath the trees were thick enough to hide in if they crouched. Half bent, they raced across the narrow strip of land to the edge of the main road. Jeremy halted in the cover of the bushes. “Wait,” he murmured. Releasing Eliza, he edged forward, looking down the main road, the highway to Jedburgh.

There was a curve just beyond, hiding the entrance to the lane they’d been driving down. He didn’t see Scrope come thundering up and veer into the lane, but he heard him.

Had to assume it was indeed Scrope.

Jeremy beckoned urgently to Eliza. She joined him without a word, offering her hand. He grasped it. Tipped his head forward. Hand in hand, they sprinted across the highway.

They raced into the trees on the other side of the road. Jeremy paused briefly to take stock, then urged Eliza on, away from the road. “We can’t afford the time to check the map, but I think these woods stretch all the way to the river. Once we reach it, we can follow it south to St. Boswells.”

She strode quickly on, deeper into the trees. “Scrope will catch up with the gig, won’t he?”

“All too soon. Then he’ll be hot on our trail.”

She didn’t ask anything more, but when they reached older woodland and the trees grew larger, the trunks more widespread, she glanced at him, then started to jog.

He kept pace with her, glancing back every now and then, occasionally correcting their path so that they continued more or less perpendicular to the road, putting as much distance as they could between them and Scrope.

The trees did, indeed, run all the way to the riverbank; they halted beneath a large branch, looking down a sharply undercut bank to the swiftly rushing water.

“Which river is this?” Eliza asked.

“The Tweed.” Jeremy eyed the distance to the opposite bank. “I hadn’t realized it would be so wide.”

A sharp but distant
crack!
came from behind them. They glanced back, but the trees and a dip in the land concealed their pursuer.

Jeremy tweaked her sleeve, whispered, “Come on.”

Together they set off at a run, following the river south.

Twenty yards on, the trees to their right thinned, leaving only a meager line along the riverbank to screen them.

Jeremy paused under some low-hanging branches and peered back, across the open expanse of some farmer’s paddock.

“There!” Beside him, Eliza pointed back along the edge of the field.

Jeremy looked and saw Scrope running down the line of the trees, pistol in hand, ducking and checking under the branches as he came.

Pistol?

Jeremy grabbed Eliza’s hand and tugged her on.

She’d seen the pistol, too. They both ran as fast as they could. With only open pasture to their right and a narrow line of trees to hide them, they followed the river south.

Then the trees ahead thinned even more. And beyond, between Jeremy and Eliza and the roofs of what had to be St. Boswells, lay a large field, recently plowed.

Wide-open terrain, with not even a bush to conceal them.

Jeremy halted. He felt fairly certain Scrope wouldn’t be carrying a pistol just for show. If they ran on … they’d never reach the town before Scrope caught them.

Jeremy turned to the river. “There has to be some way …”

Standing on the lip of the bank, sharply carved by winter flood waters leaving a drop of ten feet to the present summer water level, he looked south. The river looped in a large curve just ahead, swinging away to the east and passing out of sight. The bulk of St. Boswells lay along the opposite bank, along the east-flowing section.

“If we had any sort of craft, we could get out of sight that way.” Eliza grimaced. “Please don’t say we have to swim.”

He turned and looked north. And grasped her hand. “We won’t.” He kept his voice at a bare whisper. “We’re going to cross”— with his chin he directed her gaze back up the river —“there.”

Thirty yards back along the river, a collection of four silt islands — the larger two, in the river’s center, thickly covered with scrubby bushes — offered the equivalent of stepping stones.

Scrope was near enough for them to hear him thrashing branches.

“He’ll be here soon,” Eliza mouthed. She pointed. “How do we get down?”

Jeremy crouched, then jumped down to the lower bank, a yard or more of rocks and sand edging the riverbed. He landed easily and immediately stretched up, waving Eliza to him.

She sat on the edge of the upper bank, then, lips pressed tight, wriggled forward and let herself fall …

Jeremy caught her, steadied her on her feet, then took her hand and hurried her on ahead of him, back along the river. The rock-strewn sand was sufficiently compacted; they made little noise and the burbling river masked what sound they did make. They could hear Scrope clearly as he continued searching along the upper bank. Luckily, even if Jeremy stood upright the upper bank was high enough — or the level of the riverbed was low enough — to keep them hidden.

Once he was sure Scrope had passed their position and was continuing to search southward, increasing the distance between him and them as they hurried north along the river’s edge, Jeremy risked murmuring, “He won’t think of us crossing the river, not until he realizes we’re not ahead of him, which he will as soon as he reaches the plowed field. Then he’ll backtrack, but luckily it hasn’t rained recently — we shouldn’t have left any evidence that we got down to the riverbed, and the ground here is so rocky we’re not leaving any obvious tracks.”

He glanced back, then urged her on even faster. “But when he does realize and comes looking, we need to be concealed on one of those larger islands, out of his sight.”

The distance they had to traverse might have been only thirty yards, but it was pitted with rocks; they had to step carefully or risk turning an ankle, or worse. They went on in a mad, panicked, but silent scramble, steadying each other as best they could.

Finally they drew level with the first of the silt islands.

Jeremy held Eliza back, stepped out into the open, and searched back along the raised bank as far as he could see. Without looking at her, he waved her on. “Go.”

He sensed her leap over the narrow strip of water onto the first island. Seeing no hint Scrope had yet started to search down at river level, he quickly turned and followed.

They made it onto the second island, one of the two thick with bushes, easily enough. Jeremy silently directed Eliza around the north edge of the island, keeping them screened from Scrope as best he could.

The central channel between the two larger islands was wider than the channels closer to shore, and the water was running swiftly.

“Careful.” He steadied Eliza on the crumbly, rock-and-sand edge of the island, gauging the danger. He had cause to thank Hugo for her breeches; in skirts, she’d never have been able to manage the leap. Glancing up and back at the higher bank further downriver, and seeing it still empty, devoid of Scrope, he drew her to the midpoint of the island’s shore, then lifted the saddlebag from her shoulder. “Pull back a little, then when I say, run and leap.” He pointed to a bush on the island opposite. “Grab that branch if you need to steady yourself, then get through the bushes as fast as you can and crouch down on the other side.”

She met his gaze and nodded.

Dragging a breath deep into her lungs, past the constriction fear had placed around them, Eliza focused on her target bush on the other side of the rushing water.

Sensed Jeremy peering down along the riverbank. Waited …

“Now!”

She took three running steps and launched herself across the rushing river. In midflight she had a fleeting moment of wondering what the hell she was doing — she wasn’t the venturesome sort, remember? Then she landed, boots firm on the gravelly soil. She swayed, grabbed the branch as instructed, righted herself, and burrowed straight on through the bushes, her attention already split between what lay ahead — hopefully nothing — and what lay behind her.