In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (41 page)

“Yes, indeed.” At the door, Angelica turned. “No letting Lady O find out about anything first.”

Eliza laughed. “Heaven forbid!”

With a smile, she watched her sisters leave. The smile, and the warmth imparted by her sisters’ tacit approbation of Jeremy, lingered as she walked to the bed, lay down on the counterpane, and closed her eyes.

She wasn’t the same person she had been, but she didn’t yet know exactly who she now was.
Perhaps, but she was getting a clearer view of herself with every passing minute.

She’s found her hero, and … she’s his heroine.
Angelica had a habit of putting her delicate finger squarely on the heart of things.

Eliza had been searching for her hero for years, and she knew, to her heart, to her soul, that she’d found him in Jeremy Carling.

Totally unexpectedly, but incontrovertibly.

He was hers, and she was his, and in subtle ways that she couldn’t explain yet was nonetheless conscious of, that had changed her. It had changed her view of herself; it had changed how she felt about herself. Their flight, and the way he interacted with her — all the ways in which they connected, shared, and exchanged bits and pieces of themselves — had altered and molded and re-formed her into a lady who was … much stronger and more confident than the young lady she’d been.

As there was no going back, she could only go forward. Forward into their joint future. A future society would demand and insist they share … but there was no reason they needed to allow society to dictate the tenor, the type, of their union.

It had been his farsightedness in suggesting they leave the details of their “outcome” until later, until now, that had allowed them to see what might be, but she was increasingly sure she would need her newfound courage to secure the future as she now imagined it and wanted it to be.

She knew what she wanted with a certainty that previously had never been hers. She’d rarely, if ever, felt so immovably determined.

She’d rarely felt so arrogantly Cynsterish, truth be told.

There was, now she’d looked, no doubt whatever in her mind. She wanted to translate the relationship, the partnership that had evolved between her and Jeremy during their mad flight through a world not their own, onto this plane. She wanted to bring that same closeness, that sharing, that reciprocal reliance, into this, their normal world, and embed it, enshrine it, in their union.

That was what she wanted — the style of marriage she knew they could have, and was absolutely determined they would indeed have.

The only questions remaining were, first, how?

How was she to effect the translation from a life lived under pursuit, to a life lived among the ton?

And lastly, the even more vital question: When all was said and done, now they were back in society’s fold and the ton had once again laid its hands upon them, would he be willing to go along? More, was he, as she was, willing to fight to hold on to the relationship they’d discovered they could share?

Those two questions circled in her brain, around and around, until sleep stepped in and dragged her down.

“What was the damned man looking to achieve?” Devil appealed to the room at large — Royce’s library, to which all the males had escaped and where they now reposed in various chairs, or propped their shoulders against shelves, or, in Royce’s case, prowled restlessly before the long windows — but no one answered.

The “damned man” to whom Devil referred was, of course, the late laird.

Eventually, Royce said, “Once we learn his identity, we might gain some insight. You can leave that to Hamish and me. He’ll track the riders and learn where they left the body. I’ll follow up, without revealing why I’m interested. The bodies were found near enough to my lands, so my questions won’t seem too remarkable. If the man truly was a highland nobleman, then there’s certain to be talk. There’s no way the death of such a man could pass unremarked. One way or another, we’ll follow his trail back.”

“What I don’t understand,” Lord Martin Cynster, Eliza’s father, said, “is why he, the laird, fought with Scrope, who, by all accounts, was his henchman, and who at the time had Jeremy and Eliza bailed up.” Lord Martin spread his hands. “Why arrange a kidnapping, only to let Eliza escape? More, to
ensure
she escaped? It makes no sense.”

Jeremy had let the arguments run. Now he shifted and said, “I’ve been thinking about that. His actions would, presumably, make perfect sense if we knew his motives. Let’s say he — for some reason we don’t know — needs an unmarried, unattached, Cynster girl. So he arranged for Heather’s kidnapping, but as soon as that went awry”— Jeremy looked at Breckenridge, seated across the room —“correct me if I’m wrong, he dismissed his hirelings.”

Breckenridge nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Go on.”

“So … Fletcher and Cobbins, wasn’t it? They would have described you to the laird. You pulled the wool over their eyes, but what if the laird saw enough to be suspicious, at least to some degree, of your station? You said he followed you, but when he caught up with you — in open country with no one else about, him on horseback, very possibly with a weapon, and you on foot, almost certainly unarmed and with Heather to protect — what did he do?”

“He watched,” Breckenridge replied.

“Did you …” Jeremy gestured. “Sense any menace from him?”

Breckenridge hesitated, then replied, “No. I remarked on it at the time. He watched
assessingly
. He made no friendly overtures, but neither did he make any threatening moves.”

Jeremy nodded. “Exactly. And then once you’d walked on, he checked at a local tavern and learned you’d taken Heather to a manor owned by her family.”

“And then he left the area,” Breckenridge said. His eyes on Jeremy’s, he added, “Because he knew Heather was safe?”

Jeremy nodded again. “That’s what I surmise. Once he gauged what sort of man you were, and that you were protecting Heather, and I don’t know but would guess that he’d seen you and her together?”

Breckenridge nodded curtly.

“Well.” Jeremy blew out a breath. “Let’s remember we’re dealing with a highlander, a nobleman. Let’s assume he hunts —”

“And he’s used to commanding men,” Royce cut in, “used to reading men, and he trusts his instincts.” He’d stopped pacing and was looking at Jeremy. “Your hypothesis is starting to make sense. How does it fit with what happened with Eliza?”

“She’s the next Cynster girl — the next Cynster sister. So this time the laird sends a henchman who’s both more determined and more experienced than Fletcher and Cobbins. Fletcher and Cobbins were effective enough, but Scrope was more so, more ruthless, and also more accustomed to dealing with the ton. Eliza’s kidnapping was neat and efficient, and Scrope struck in the one place he could be certain Eliza would be, relatively speaking, unwatched.”

“True,” Devil said, his tone terse.

“Scrope’s use of laudanum to keep Eliza subdued through the journey, rapid though it was, again suggests Scrope was of a different caliber to Fletcher and Cobbins. But, again, once Scrope lost Eliza”— Jeremy looked at Royce —“I think the laird dismissed Scrope and came after Eliza and me himself.

“I originally thought Scrope and the laird were working together, chasing us. But”— Jeremy nodded at Cobby and Hugo —“as Cobby reminded me, if that had been so, then we should have seen Taylor, one of Scrope’s crew, helping. I can understand that the nurse, Genevieve, wouldn’t have been all that much use in the chase, but Taylor? He wasn’t a mindless thug — he tracked down Cobby and Hugo faster than we’d expected.”

Pausing, Jeremy glanced around the circle. “The only reason I can think of for Scrope
not
to have Taylor helping search for us is if Scrope had been dismissed, so let Taylor and Genevieve go, but then Scrope decided to disobey the laird’s orders and go after Eliza on his own.”

“By all accounts,” Gabriel said, “the laird, whoever he was, was not a man most people would gainsay.”

Jeremy grimaced. “Just from what I saw of him — always at a distance — I would have to agree. He cut an impressive and intimidating figure. Just watching him walk was warning enough. But from what Eliza has said, Scrope wasn’t your average kidnapper, either. He may not have been a gentleman, but he wasn’t far from it.” Drawing in a breath, Jeremy paused, then went on, “And from what we saw of Scrope over the last days, especially from how he spoke just before the laird intervened … well, he didn’t sound all that sane. It was as if the notion of Eliza escaping was, to him, simply
insupportable
. I think it’s telling that, at the last, it was Eliza he aimed at, not me.”

Various mutterings greeted that, but Royce was nodding. “Let’s concede the notion that losing Eliza caused Scrope to fixate on getting her back, regardless of how he did it. Given that scenario, could the laird have been following you with the same purpose as you’ve hypothesized he had in following Heather and Breckenridge — that he was seeking not to recapture Eliza but to consider you, her rescuer, and, if you passed his standards and protected Eliza and got her to safety, then he would let her, and you, go?”

Jeremy nodded. “I’ve thought back over all that we saw of him, and, yes, that hypothesis could fit. If he wasn’t desperate over
which
Cynster girl he took, then he could afford to be lenient, adjust his plans, and go after the next. He didn’t need Eliza
per se
any more than he’d needed Heather specifically — he just needs, needed, a Cynster sister.”

“So you’re saying he — who had originally hired Scrope — attacked Scrope because Scrope was acting in a way that would endanger Eliza?” Christian looked skeptical.

But Jeremy nodded again. “As far as I can see, that’s the only explanation that fits all the evidence.” He waved at Breckenridge. “All that we’ve seen.”

Breckenridge, too, nodded. “We shouldn’t forget that the laird’s instructions to Fletcher and Cobbins made it very clear that Heather was not, under any circumstances, to be harmed. ‘Not a hair on her head’ were, I believe, Fletcher’s words.”

Silence fell while all present digested that and absorbed the implications of Jeremy’s hypothesis.

Eventually, Lord Martin stirred. “I suppose, given he is a nobleman, then we have to allow that he might have some allegiance to honor.”

“I think,” Royce said, “that we might need to allow that. Regardless, the man’s now dead. We still don’t know what motive drove him to seek to kidnap one of the Cynster girls, but once we learn his identity, no doubt that, too, will become clear.”

“But as he’s dead,” Lord Martin said, “then presumably there is no further threat to the girls.”

“Thank God!” Gabriel’s exclamation was echoed by Devil. “If I had to put up with much more harping from Angelica on the subject of my overprotective tendencies, I’d be inclined to wring her neck myself.” He shook his head at the others. “She has a tongue that’s sharper than any sword. I pity the poor sod she decides is going to be honored by having her to wife.”

The laughter of all the others was cut short by the resonant
bong
of the bell, warning them that it was time to dress for dinner.

They all rose, stretched, then filed out of the library.

Royce, at the rear, following Jeremy, clapped him on the back. “Good work. Thanks to you, tonight is going to be a festive occasion.”

Lips lifting, Jeremy inclined his head. “You should thank Eliza — she did her part, too.”

Royce smiled and nodded. “I will.”

Later that night, Jeremy lay on his back in the very real comfort of a bed long enough to accommodate his length and wondered, rather woozily — courtesy of the draft the doctor, summoned by an insistent Minerva, had given him — whether Morpheus would oblige and allow him some rest.

His arm still throbbed dully, distantly, although the draft had indeed deadened the pain.

His brain seemed determined to keep going round and round, not quite focusing on anything in particular, but equally unable to stop.

And beneath his whirling thoughts lay a disturbing, disquietening sense of something not being right.

The castle gradually settled, and silence fell. He’d almost resigned himself to not getting any sleep when the door to his room opened. Just a crack at first, then it swung fully open and Eliza whisked in and shut the door behind her.

He blinked, concluded, as she glided to the bed, peered at him through the dimness, then whispered, “You’re not asleep, are you?” that she wasn’t an apparition, a figment of his neediness.

“No.” After a second’s consideration, he inquired, mildly, “What are you doing here?” The words came out a trifle slurred.

She was already shrugging out of her robe. “Ssh — no need to talk. I just wanted to be with you, to make sure that you’re all right.”

Beneath the robe, her long, slender body was sheathed in a fine cotton nightgown.

Lifting the covers, she slid into the bed on his uninjured side. She snuggled against him as she normally did, or more correctly as she had done for five of the six nights past. Obligingly, he raised his good arm and she snuggled closer yet.

Her warmth spread like a balm over his uninjured side, then sank beneath his skin and spread further. Reached deeper.

She sighed and settled her cheek on his chest. “Just sleep.”

Part order, part instruction — all in all, an excellent suggestion. His lips had curved; his smile deepened as he squinted at her bright head. Then he did as ordered and relaxed; letting his head sink back into the pillow, he closed his eyes.

It was strange; just having her there calmed his whirling thoughts.

Her appearance in his room, her presence in his bed, didn’t, he knew, resolve any of the issues, answer any of the questions, revolving in his brain. Those issues, those oh-so-pertinent questions, lay before them, but that was for tomorrow.

For tonight … everything was now right, as it should be.