The Highlander's Excellent Adventure (Survivors, #8)

by Galen, Shana

  “I don’t like the name,” he said, his jaw twitching in that way it did when he tried to repress a feeling and couldn’t quite manage it. “It’s a ridiculous name for a dog. But moreover, no to the dog. We are not taking him with us.”

  “You may not be taking him with you, but he is coming with me. Aren’t you, Loftus?” In response, the dog thumped his tail, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. “Come, Loftus!” She began walking, and the dog followed, giving Stratford a wide berth.

  “I agree to find him something to eat and have the surgeon look at his wounds. But a dog like that is not safe. Those dogs are trained to fight.” Stratford soon caught up, walking on the side opposite the dog.

  “Then we should punish the trainers, not the dog.” There she went again. She could not seem to stop her Very Bad Habit of being Impertinent. But how could she agree with something she did not believe?

  “Emmeline.” His voice was tight.

  She could see the road just through the bushes ahead, and she continued walking.

  “Emmeline.” Stratford grasped her arm. Emmeline heard Loftus growl, and Stratford released her again.

  “Sit,” she told Loftus. She smiled at Stratford. “He is already protecting me.”

  “Only because you promised him dinner.”

  “I know the way to tame savage beasts.” She winked at Stratford, and he furrowed his brow.

  “In all seriousness, you cannot keep it. You can bring it back to Nash’s, but we can’t take it back in the coach with us.” He was giving a little more each minute that passed.

  Emmeline put her hands on her hips. “Two things, Stratford. One, we do not have a carriage at the moment. Two, Loftus is not an it. He is Loftus.”

  Stratford closed his eyes and made a sound like someone was strangling him. Emmeline left him to it and headed back toward the road. He caught up soon enough and then overtook her. She had to lengthen her strides to keep up, but she did not ask him to slow down. They had wasted precious minutes helping the dog, and they were both in a hurry to return to the injured Scot.

  When they had walked for a few more minutes, Stratford looked back at her. “Why Loftus?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The name. Why that name?”

  “I like it. I’ve always wanted a dog named Loftus.”

  “Of course, you have.” He shook his head, but he didn’t seem quite prepared to let it go. “But that’s a man’s name, not a dog’s name.”

  She pressed a hand to her side, which was developing a cramp from walking so quickly. “Are there rules for naming dogs?”

  “I don’t know.” He slowed slightly, obviously to accommodate her. She would have walked more quickly just to prove that she did not need accommodating, but she worried Loftus needed to take a slower pace. He really did not seem well.

  Stratford glanced at the dog. “I’ve never named a dog before.”

  “But you’ve always had dogs. Those little brown ones your mother likes to adorn with bows and such.”

  “And my mother has always named them.”

  “Well, what are their names?”

  “Not human names. One was Trumpet because he had a bark like a trumpet. Another was Floppy because of her ears.”

  “How on earth did you end up with the name Stratford if that is her naming protocol for dogs?”

  “It was her mother’s maiden name,” Stratford said, looking back at the road and then ahead toward where Emmeline hoped a village would soon appear. Her feet were beginning to hurt.

  “I never knew that. I always thought you were named after the village.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks. But I suppose my parents used all the names they really liked on my siblings. The baron has told me more than once that he had nothing to do with naming me.”

  Emmeline stopped. She stopped so abruptly that both Stratford and Loftus continued a few paces before realizing she had stopped. Loftus realized first and loped back to her. She scratched his ears. When Stratford looked back at her, she said, “I have a confession to make.”

  “Oh, God.” Stratford looked pained.

  “Not that sort of confession. My confession is that I have never liked your father.”

  “What a coincidence. Neither have I.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why don’t you like the baron?”

  “Honestly, I never liked the way he treated you.”

  He scowled. “Is this more of how you feel sorry for me?”

  “No.”

  He arched a brow.

  “Maybe?” She shrugged. “It always seemed you tried so hard to please him, and nothing you did was ever good enough.” She raised her hands to ward off the dark look he gave her. “Perhaps I am mistaken. I only spend a few weeks a year with your family.”

  “You are not mistaken.” His voice was low, and she thought she detected a note of anguish.

  “I never understood why,” she said quietly.

  Stratford’s head jerked up. “It’s no matter.” He spoke quickly now. “This journey has already taken too long. We had better hurry before Nash wakes.” He started away. Emmeline watched him for a moment, then hurried to catch up. She didn’t speak. She could tell by the set of his shoulders the topic was closed. Emmeline did not know how to reopen it or if she even should. What did she know about fathers? Her own had died when she was thirteen. He had always been kind to her and her sisters, but he had been distant, preferring to allow her mother to deal with the little girls.

  As Emmeline trailed Stratford, she tried to remember if her father had ever shown any preference for one sister over another. Marjorie and Hester were the most conventionally attractive. Abigail had been only five when her father had died, and she had been an adorable baby and toddler. It was only Emmeline who had been made to feel as though she did not quite measure up.

  But that was all her mother’s doing. Her father had always seemed to love each of his children the same. He hadn’t cared that Emmeline was plump. In fact, when her mother had forbidden her from having the sweets the other girls ate on special occasions, her father usually sneaked her a slice of cake or a candied almond. He’d told her she was his beautiful Emmie. And Emmeline had believed him. Why should she starve and suffer in too-tight underclothing because her mother wanted her to look a certain way? Emmeline liked her body as it was.

  Once she finally reached her grandmother, she would write to her mother and tell her she’d endured her last Season. Then she would eat what she liked, wear what she liked, and no one would tell her she had the body of a strumpet and had better take care not to look like one. She almost laughed. Some strumpet she was, considering she spent most of her evenings standing or sitting by a wall while other ladies danced or mingled.

  Now Emmeline looked at Stratford again. Perhaps they had more in common than she’d thought. He too must know something about feeling left out and not measuring up. Not in the same ways as she. He was very handsome with that blond hair and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. Ladies were always pretending to be Emmeline’s friend so they could have an introduction to Stratford Fortescue. It annoyed her to no end when he flirted with them. But she never saw him do more than that. He wasn’t a rake or womanizer. He never tried to seduce innocents or made promises he wouldn’t keep.

  Not that he was a saint. She did not believe that, but he was an honorable man—a man forced to follow her around the countryside and try to persuade her to go home. He must know she would never agree.

  As soon as they brought the surgeon back to Pope’s house, she would tell Stratford to go home. She would order him to go home. She did not want to be his or any man’s responsibility.

  “That’s it,” he said, breaking her concentration. “Milcroft village.”

  He was right. She could see a stone bridge ahead and beyond that a cluster of brown stone houses. Window boxes filled with flowers in bloom adorned the homes and shops. Emmeline admired the splashes of red, pink, yello
w, and white. “Do we know which house is the surgeon’s? There are several just across the bridge.”

  “We’ll ask the first person we see,” he said. Once they’d crossed the bridge, Stratford waved to a man pushing a wheelbarrow full of lettuce. The farmer’s weathered face grew wary when he caught a glimpse of Loftus. “Stay here,” Stratford ordered, as he crossed the street to speak to the man. Emmeline petted Loftus, who sat with his nose in the air, probably trying to scent his next meal.

  Stratford returned a moment later and pointed down the street. “The surgeon, a Mr. Langford, is just there.” He indicated a building that looked like all the others but without the flower box. “If we’re lucky, he’s in right now. Apparently, he’s the only medical man in the area.”

  “You go ahead,” Emmeline said. “He won’t want a dog in his rooms. Loftus and I will wait outside.”

  Stratford looked as though he would object, but he must have seen reason as he agreed. After leading her to the door of the surgeon’s home, he ordered her not to move an inch.

  As soon as he went inside, she said, “Come, Loftus.” Emmeline led the dog to a shop with bread in the window. She ordered Loftus to stay while she went inside. Hopefully, the dog obeyed orders better than she did. Once inside, a woman with frizzy brown hair greeted her, wiping hands covered with flour on her apron.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  “Yes, thank you. I would like to buy some food for my dog.” She indicated the dog sitting outside. Loftus had pressed his nose to the window glass.

  “That beast is your dog?” the woman asked. “I’ve seen him skulking about, looking like he wanted to steal my bread.”

  Emmeline wanted to ask why the woman hadn’t given the dog bread if she could see he was hungry. Instead, she smiled. “He is mine now. My cousin and I are staying with Mr. Pope—”

  “Mr. Pope!” This news seemed even more incredible than the fact that Emmeline owned the dog.

  “Yes, my cousin fought in the war with him. Come to think of it, I should buy bread for dinner as well. Might I have two loaves and...do you have anything heartier for the dog?”

  The woman finally closed her mouth. “I just make bread, miss.”

  Emmeline took the few emergency coins from the inside pocket of her dress. Thankfully, she always kept a few coins separate from her purse. “I have coin to pay.”

  The baker looked at the coins then at the dog. “I might have something in the back.”

  The baker retreated, and Emmeline made the sign for Loftus to wait. He licked the window. She tried not to laugh. When the baker returned, she offered Emmeline a meat pie. Emmeline bought it and the two loaves of bread for all the coins she had, more than she thought was fair, but Loftus was hungry, and so was she, and she did not want to waste time haggling. She paid the woman, left the shop, and offered Loftus the pie immediately. He ate it in two bites and looked at her hopefully.

  Emmeline sighed, broke one of the loaves of bread in half and gave him his portion. She started back toward the surgeon’s house, eating a bit of bread herself, just as Stratford came marching toward her.

  “I told you to stay right there.” He pointed at the surgeon’s stoop. “I told you not to move an inch.”

  She swallowed. “We were hungry.”

  “Good God, but you will be the death of me.”

  She offered him the loaf of bread, and he looked like he might refuse. Then he broke off a piece and ate it. Loftus gave a plaintive whine, and she gave the dog more as well.

  “What did the surgeon say?”

  “He is gathering his things and will drive us in his dog cart.” Stratford eyed the dog. “He will have to ride in the box. It will be a tight fit as it is with the three of us.”

  Emmeline did not answer. She had no idea if Loftus would object to climbing into the box beneath the driver usually reserved for hunting dogs. If he did, she would walk back. Loftus would keep her safe from any harm.

  They met the surgeon behind his shop just as he finished harnessing two horses to the cart. He was a man of about forty with a clean-shaven face, light brown hair, and the observant eyes so common in men of his profession. He eyed the dog warily but gave Emmeline a very polite bow.

  “Miss Emmeline Wellesley, this is Mr. John Langford.”

  She curtsied. “A pleasure, sir. You have treated pistol wounds before?”

  “I have, although usually they are the result of inattention while hunting. I’m curious as to how your friend was injured, Mr. Fortescue.”

  “Inattention was most certainly a factor,” Stratford said easily. “Shall we be on our way?”

  “Of course, how should we...”

  “The lady and I will squeeze on the back.” Stratford opened the door to the dog box. “Get in, dog.”

  Loftus looked at him and sat.

  “Come!” Stratford ordered. “Get in!”

  Loftus did not move.

  “He doesn’t seem to want to climb in,” the surgeon observed, wryly.

  Stratford looked at her as though to ask if they could leave the dog to follow, but she shook her head. Loftus was too thin to run all the way back. Stratford sighed. “Fine, I’ll help you in.” He started for the dog, reaching for him, but the dog backed up and bared his teeth. “Or not.” Stratford moved back.

  Emmeline moved forward and stood beside the box. “Loftus, come.” The dog stood, his ears pricked up. He took a step forward then hesitated. “Loftus, come.” Still he hesitated. She looked at her last loaf of bread. Here was to hoping Mr. Pope’s cook found some food in the pantry. She broke off a piece of the second loaf, threw it in the box, and watched as Loftus went in after it. Then she closed the door and smiled at the two men.

  “And there you have it,” the surgeon said. He climbed onto the box, and Stratford offered his arm to Emmeline. She climbed up behind the surgeon on the seat facing away. It was a seat made for only one person, and as soon as Stratford climbed onto it, she wondered how they could both possibly fit.

  “I don’t think this will work,” she said, eyeing the seat. “My bottom is too wide.”

  “Your bottom is perfect.”

  “What was that?” She could not have heard him correctly.

  He cleared his throat. “I said, we will just squeeze together.”

  “I will walk back.”

  He grabbed her wrist before she could climb down. “We will squeeze together.” And he yanked her onto the seat beside him. Or more accurately, he situated her onto a sliver of the seat and a large portion of his lap. “Ready!” he called, putting his hands on her waist to hold her steady.

  Emmeline swallowed and tried not to think about her bottom touching Stratford’s thighs. She tried even harder not to acknowledge the persistent fluttering back in her belly. This time it seemed to be spreading to other parts of her.

  She tried to balance her weight, so she was not fully sitting on him. The dog cart started away, and Emmeline fell back, settling all of her weight on Stratford. His hands closed around her, pulling her back against his chest and securing her bottom against his, er—male parts. At least, that’s where she imagined her bottom was resting.

  “Mr. Fortescue,” she began.

  “Oh, I’m Mr. Fortescue now, am I?”

  “This does not feel entirely proper.”

  “It’s only for a few minutes. The horses will cover the distance in no time.”

  “Still.” She tried to wriggle away from him, to put some space between her body and his.

  He leaned his head close to hers and said in her ear, “Stop wiggling or this will become quite improper.”

  From what she felt against her bottom, things had already become quite improper. Was she really responsible for causing that reaction in him? Was it possible he did not mind having her bottom on his lap? She went very still then and though she tried to concentrate on the fields rushing by, it was difficult not to notice how his arms felt warm and strong around her and how his chest was hard...as well as o
ther parts of him. She wished he would speak to her again, his lips against her ear, his mouth so close to her neck.

  “You’re trembling, Emmeline,” he said, his mouth right where she had wished it a moment ago.

  “Am I?” Even her voice trembled.

  “Do I make you that nervous?”

  The truth? Yes, he did. She had known him all of her life, known his brothers and sisters all of her life. She had conversed, argued, laughed, and played comfortably with all of them—except him. She’d never been comfortable with Stratford. When he walked into a room, the hair on the back of her arms stood up. She seemed to sense him even before she knew he was there. For his part, he seemed not to notice her at all. He didn’t ignore her, but neither did he make any effort to speak to or engage her. They never had a conversation alone until the first time he escorted her to a ball and was obliged to ask her to dance. And then she’d been so nervous that she couldn’t remember what she’d said or if it had been anything more than one- or two-word phrases.

  She’d become more used to him, of course. He’d escorted her to many social events, and she’d developed a sort of careless persona with him. She acted as though she barely noticed him, which was how he had always behaved with her. Except he was actually a very good escort. Stratford was attentive but not so attentive as to chase away any potential prospects—not that she had any. On occasion a less than honorable man would approach her, and Stratford was excellent at intercepting the objectionable man and steering him away.

  And then of course it had been Stratford who had come after her. How she wished it had been any of his brothers or his father. She could have easily run away from them. She’d had a dozen chances to run from Stratford. She told herself she did not take advantage of the opportunities because it was not safe for a woman to travel alone. But if she’d wanted to be safe, she would never have run in the first place. The problem was she did not want to leave Stratford. She enjoyed his company. She enjoyed sparring with him. She enjoyed seeing his frustration when she insisted on taking Loftus with them. Sometimes she thought she behaved in certain ways just so he would have to notice her.