In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (34 page)

Now … he didn’t even mentally hesitate over the notion of traveling to London, into the lions’ den, and kidnapping Angelica.

Because there was no other way.

He would have to do it himself; he couldn’t risk anything going awry, not with only her available to place in his mother’s scales, to weigh against the goblet.

She, Angelica, was his last chance.

And if he was damned for seizing her, so be it; he would be even more damned if he didn’t.

As had been the system since time immemorial, his clan depended on him personally, on the clan lands he held, and the clan business he administered.

If he failed, if he didn’t have the goblet to complete the arrangement set in place by his father six months before the old man’s death, then there would be no more clan.

He wouldn’t lose just the castle, the glen, and the loch; he would lose for everyone the very thing that made them who they were.

Clan had stood at the heart of highland life for centuries untold; it was a spider’s web of connections and support that linked everyone who shared his name or blood and held them within its protections.

Clan was the very essence of their life, the beat in their blood, the song in their souls.

Without it, they would die.

He, his countless dependents. The two young boys he now called his own.

Clan was what he stood for, what he represented, and just like his forebears, he would unhesitatingly, without thought or reservation, give his life to protect it, to ensure it lived on.

If not directly through him, then through his heir, the older of those two little boys.

Better he lived; he had no intention of dying. All in all, he did not doubt that his underlying determination would carry him through whatever was to come.

For his clan to survive, he could not fail.

That was all there was to it.

eremy and Eliza drove out of Selkirk the following morning, the very picture of a young couple off to visit family. After providing them with a fortifying breakfast, Mrs. Wallace had seen them off from her door, and the ostlers at the inn had had the gig ready and waiting, a neat roan between the shafts. Beside Jeremy, Eliza sat savoring the sunshine as he set the horse trotting along the high street. They passed the church as the town’s bell pealed nine o’clock.

The road to Hawick was well surfaced and the scenery pleasant enough. Eliza lifted her face to the light breeze, marveling at the sense of simple happiness that suffused her. She couldn’t recall ever experiencing such a sense of inner peace. Of inner calmness and order.

She slanted a glance at Jeremy, managing the ribbons with a ready competency at odds with her scholarly view of him. Her earlier scholarly view of him — that was another aspect that had changed. Dramatically.

Lips lifting, she looked ahead. He might still be a scholar in some ways, but as she’d discovered and had last night confirmed, he was everything she wanted in a man. Some part of her tonnish female self was still faintly astonished by that, but there was no longer any doubt in her mind; regardless of whatever else her strange kidnapping brought about, through it she had found her hero.

She could almost find it in her to thank Scrope and the mysterious laird.

The gig’s wheels and the horse’s hooves played a repetitive tune as they bowled along. Spring had finally laid its hand on Scotland, setting hedgerows blooming and countless wayside plants springing up along the verges. Thrushes trilled and larks swooped. Shading her eyes, she saw a hawk hovering over a field, searching for prey.

Jeremy didn’t speak, but neither did she; their silence wasn’t awkward but comfortable. Companionable. Neither were given to pointless conversation, and while with another gentleman she might have felt compelled to fill the silence simply to be polite, with Jeremy she felt no such pressing need.

Another boon allowing her to relax, and, as they’d agreed, simply be.

Be herself. For the first time in her life, she felt she was starting to get a firm sense of who she truly was. Of the woman she could be.

The journey to Hawick was unremarkable, but a little way before the town they were slowed to a walk by a string of farm carts traveling in convoy. By the time they got free of the congestion and trotted into Hawick itself, it was heading toward noon.

Jeremy glanced at Eliza, for an instant watched her face, her serene expression as she looked about the town. She was fleeing a determined kidnapper and an unknown nobleman, yet she appeared … content.

He felt the same.

Looking forward, he tooled the gig through the light traffic. Inwardly amazed, yet at the same time very certain. Of what he felt, if not why — why being a word for which scholars had an ineradicable fondness.

Currently, the “why” of his own feelings was beyond him. He’d given up trying to analyze and dissect. He’d wanted to hold back, to confirm his control and observe their interplay from an intellectual perspective last night, and had signally failed.

Yet he didn’t feel like a failure; he felt … settled. Satiated, admittedly, but the effect went much further, reached much deeper than the mere physical. He felt … anchored, assured, far more than he’d ever felt before, as if he’d been a ship on a questing keel and had finally come into port.

Poetic allusion wasn’t his strong suit. Inwardly shaking his head, he refocused his mind on the present. On their predicament. On its solution.

He nodded at a good-sized coaching inn coming up on the road just ahead. “It’s early, but we may as well halt there for lunch. I don’t think there’s anything but small villages between here and Wolverstone.”

Eliza nodded. “We can eat, check our route, and then”— she met his eyes —“set out on our race for the border.”

Slowing the gig for the turn under the inn’s arch, he murmured, “With any luck at all, we’ve lost both the laird and Scrope. There’s no reason they might think we would come this way.”

“If they’re keeping an eye on the Jedburgh Road, they can’t be watching here as well.”

“True.” He still glanced around, was still very much on guard, his instincts alert, but they weren’t pricking.

Ostlers came running as he drew the horse to a halt in the inn yard.

Five minutes later, he and Eliza were sitting at a table in the inn’s small dining room, their saddlebags at their feet.

“Venison pie, please,” Eliza told the serving girl. “And a mug of watered ale.”

Jeremy smiled at that, then gave the girl his order. When she bustled away, he reached down and drew the map from his bag. “Let’s take a look at the smaller lanes — make sure we’ve covered not just our options but Scrope’s and the laird’s as well.”

Eliza helped him spread the map. “Do you think the laird’s actively following us or simply waiting for Scrope to catch us?”

“We know the laird was on our trail earlier, so we have to assume he’s still out there somewhere.” The table they’d chosen was in a corner, the bench they were sitting on built out from the wall. A window high above their heads shed adequate light on the map. “Here’s Hawick.” He put his finger on the mark for the town.

Reaching out with one finger, she traced the route she’d earlier picked out, following the minor lanes from Hawick to Bonchester Bridge, then on via an even smaller lane to hamlets called Cleuch Head, Chesters, and Southdean, to eventually join the highway just before the border at Carter Bar. “That’s our route.” She glanced sideways at him. “Unless Scrope or the laird picks up our trail and follows us down the lanes, I can’t see how they could come up with us — not short of the border.”

“I was thinking more in terms of whether there might be anywhere along our route where the lane we’ll be on might be visible from the highway, or from some position close by the highway where Scrope or the laird might be waiting, watching, like Scrope was when he ambushed us near St. Boswells … but you’re right.” Satisifed, he sat back. “That lane doesn’t run close enough to the highway, not until it angles in to join with it, for us to have to fear our pursuers inadvertently spotting us and mounting an attack.”

Meeting her eyes, he grinned. “It looks like we’ve a clear run to the border, and after that, Wolverstone’s not far.”

She settled on her elbows. “How far?”

“About thirty miles. Less than three hours. Allowing two hours to get from here to the border, we should reach the castle in time for dinner.”

Eliza smiled at the thought of being back within society, within her customary safe circle, then gently shook her head and looked down.

“What?”

She looked up at the question, met Jeremy’s eyes. Saw his interest in her answer shining there. She hesitated, searching for her true meaning as well as the words, then said, “I was just thinking … despite the trials and tribulations, despite having to run and scramble from Scrope, despite living in fear of being captured by the laird, I’ve … enjoyed isn’t the right word, but …” She held his gaze. “I can see — I feel — that I’ve benefited from the last days. I’ve grown.” She straightened her shoulders. “I suppose you might say I’ve matured — I certainly feel different, more settled, clearer in my mind about … a whole host of things. But most importantly, I’m more certain about me.” She tilted her head. “And for that I thank you — you’ve helped me through it all, the rescue, the escape, and you’ve helped me see things, understand things, too.”

His expression had grown serious; he held her gaze, then quietly said, “I feel much the same. While I’ll be happy to see Wolverstone, I can’t say that I’ve regretted the last days — quite the opposite. I think in years to come I’ll look back upon them fondly.”

“Exactly.” Reaching out, she closed her hand over one of his, lightly squeezed. “While I’ll be happy to know we’re safe, as long as Scrope and the laird aren’t breathing down our necks I feel no sense of desperation over reaching Wolverstone, over bringing this journey to an end.”

Turning his hand, he gripped hers, lightly squeezed in reply.

Approaching footsteps pattered across the floor. They both looked up to see the serving girl hefting a piled tray. Jeremy whipped aside the map. While he refolded it and stowed it away, Eliza helped the girl set out their plates and mugs.

When the girl retreated, leaving them to their luncheon, Jeremy raised his mug to Eliza. “To getting back to our real lives — they won’t be the same as they were, but the challenge will lie in making the most of the changes and opportunities this journey has brought us.”

“Hear, hear.” Clinking her mug to his, Eliza smiled, sipped, then wrinkled her nose at the taste, making him laugh.

Then they turned their attention to the excellent venison pie.

Half an hour later, they climbed back into the gig. Juggling the reins, Jeremy consulted his fob-watch. “It’s not even one o’clock. We should make Wolverstone in good time.” He glanced at Eliza. “Ready?”

She waved dramatically. “Onward to the border — and don’t spare the horse!”

Grinning, Jeremy flicked the reins, sent the roan trotting out of the inn yard, then turned east, away from the major road they’d followed from Selkirk, which led onward to Carlisle.

With the sun gently warming their backs, they drove out of the town and on down a narrow country lane.

The day remained fine and the lane sufficiently well surfaced for them to make good time.

They rattled through several tiny hamlets. The lane twisted and turned but overall kept them on a southeasterly course. Then a gushing stream swung close on one side, the pale water racing past, tumbling and churning.

The further they drove the darker the sky grew, becoming more overcast, the atmosphere more oppressive and threatening. With every half mile, they saw increasing evidence of recent heavy rains over the Cheviots, the line of moorland hills that marched along the border.

“I just hope we don’t run into any quagmires,” Jeremy said. Thus far the lane had been well drained, with deep ditches to either side carrying the rainwater away.

Eliza was peering over the gig’s side. “These ditches look half full.” She glanced ahead to where dark gray clouds hung low, obscuring the horizon. “There must have been a storm.”

Jeremy didn’t like the look of those clouds. “I just hope our luck holds.”

It did, until they reached Bonchester Bridge.

They trotted around a curve and swung into the village, then Jeremy swore and hauled on the reins, drawing the horse to a dead halt.

Several men had come running, waving and shouting for them to stop.

Jeremy and Eliza ignored them, their gazes transfixed by what lay beyond.

Or rather, what didn’t.

Staring at the spot where the road simply ended, to start again on the far side of a chasm currently gushing clouds of spray, Jeremy said, “It seems my comment about having a clear run to the border was premature.”

Over the following hours, Jeremy evaluated every possible avenue to get them over the border. The Bonchester bridge itself was no more, washed away by a torrent the previous night. The townsfolk were stoic, but the disaster had effectively cut the town in two; the questions Jeremy asked regarding the state of the road further on necessitated a great deal of yelling across the chasm, over the raging tumult below.

Eliza pored over the map and made suggestions, but she seemed more resigned than he, or perhaps she was simply more accepting of fate.

Regardless …

“There’s no way forward.” Grim-faced, he finally slumped into the chair opposite hers in the Bonchester Inn’s parlor. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he ran his hands over his face. Looking up, he met Eliza’s hazel gaze. “There’s no chance of getting across the spate in a rowboat, and even if we did manage to find a way across, there’s no gig or similar conveyance available for hire on the other side. Your suggestion of taking that minor lane south and tacking around via Hobkirk won’t work, because the bridge at Hobkirk is out, too.

“And although everyone agrees we
might
be able to go east and then around via Abbotrule to pick up our original route at Chesters — mind you, that’s assuming the two bridges along that roundabout route are still standing — according to all reports from the other side”— he tipped his head toward the southern half of the town —“there’s another bridge just north of Southdean that’s been wrecked, too.”

Holding her gaze, he shook his head. “We can’t get to Carter Bar along that road — the lane we wanted to take.”

The one that would have allowed them to avoid any chance of running into Scrope or the laird.

She studied him for a moment, then said, “It’s not a disaster. We’ll just have to go the other way. We’ll get through — we have until now, and we will, somehow.”

He looked into her eyes, felt her calm reach into him and soothe him. He sighed, dropped his hands. After a moment, shook his head. “I just can’t believe we’re stymied again. It’s as if all of Scotland is in league with the devil — in this case the laird and his henchman, Scrope.”