He held his tongue while they gave Annan a wide berth. For a while they walked along the firth’s shores. When the road angled more northwest, enough to allow them back into the fields while maintaining their distance from it, he glanced at her more intently, studied her face. “We could stop at one of the smaller villages and see if we can get something to eat.”
She almost smiled. His tone made it clear that he didn’t want to risk it but felt he had to make the offer. “We could, but should we?” Halting in the lee of a hedge, beside a stile over which they’d need to climb, she met his hazel gaze. “It’ll be much easier, and much safer, for us to slip into and then out of a large town like Dumfries. Any village we stop at . . . even if the people there don’t try to capture and hold us, they’ll certainly remember us and tell the next constable who rides past.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Breckenridge held her gaze. “True, but at the same time, I’d rather you didn’t faint. Me carrying you into Dumfries isn’t going to make us less noticeable.”
Her lips tightened. “I promise I won’t faint. I can make it to Dumfries without food, and there’s plenty of fresh water, at least.”
They’d crossed numerous small streams; the area was riddled with them, and in this season most were in full spate. “If you’re sure . . .” He waved her to the stile.
“I am.” She reached up and grasped one of the rungs; the stile was a high one, the top higher than his head. She started to pull herself up, but her feet, still clad in her leather-soled dancing slippers, slid on the wet grass.
He caught her about the waist, steadied her.
“Damn!” She huffed, blowing errant strands of hair off her forehead. “You’ll have to help me up.”
Mentally gritting his teeth, he didn’t let himself think, just slid his hands to her hips, gripped, and hoisted her up.
She stifled a gasp, seized the stile’s highest bar, and quickly clambered up.
But then she stopped. On the top step of the stile, looking down the other side. After a moment, she said, “The ground’s further down on this side than on that.”
“Wait there.” He climbed up, then swung around her, his long legs making the maneuver easy enough. He climbed down, dropped down to the ground on the other side, glanced quickly around, then turned to her and beckoned. “Come on.”
She started climbing down. When she reached the last step, still too far from the ground for her to jump down, he gripped her hips again, lifted her clear, and set her down.
When he released her, she wobbled.
He caught her waist, steadied her. Glanced at her face. “All right?”
Her cheeks were a trifle pink, but whether from the exertion or something else he couldn’t tell.
She nodded as he released her. “Yes, thank you.” Raising her head, she faced forward, drew breath, then exhaled. “Come on.”
Straightening his lips before she saw them twitching, he dutifully fell in beside her.
Halfway across the field, he said, “The reason I wondered whether you would faint is because my sisters would have. When they were your age they used to starve themselves. If they didn’t eat something of a morning, they’d be sure to fall limp before luncheon.”
She met his eyes. “Your sisters are significantly older than you. Which makes them very much older than me.” She faced forward again, nose elevating. “Fashions change.”
“I know.” He hesitated, then said, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t imagine you would faint because I think you’re weak.”
She looked almost as surprised by the explanation as he was. She recovered first, crisply nodded. “Duly noted.”
And continued walking.
He kept pace, wondering at himself—wondering why he’d wanted to reassure her. He told himself it was because his sole aim that day was to keep her safe, and that would be much easier if she was speaking to him.
Despite their tonnish lives, both of them spent at least some time each year in the country; it showed as they strode along, both relatively long-legged, their pace an easy, swinging stride that ate the miles to Dumfries.
While they walked, he had plenty of time to dwell on the irony in the situation. A situation that now left him truly appreciative of the very aspects of her nature that had previously irritated him to a near-insufferable degree. Her inner strength of purpose, of will, her independence of thought, and the confidence that showed in her ability to think and act. Previously he’d found those qualities not so much challenging as abrasive.
He was thankful for them now. If she’d been a different sort of female, the sort he might previously have wished her to be, their situation now would have been infinitely worse.
Then again, if she’d been that other, meeker, milder sort of female, she’d have allowed him to haul her out of the inn at Knebworth and take her straight home.
He considered that, weighed it against the outcome of the path they’d taken instead . . . despite all, he couldn’t find it in him to disapprove of her stance. Her insistence that she needed to learn all she could of the laird who had sent men to kidnap her or one of her family.
That sort of loyalty, of family protectiveness, was bred in the bone—in him and in her. He could hardly disapprove of something he himself considered sacrosanct.
He glanced at her. Wondered when she would realize what the outcome of this adventure of theirs would be. There was no alternative, none at all. Would she accept it? Or would she try to fight it?
Or would she, as he had, realize that there were far worse fates?
His lips kicked up briefly. Looking ahead, he saw another hedge, another stile.
This one was lower. When they reached it, he climbed over first, then took her hand to help her over.
Didn’t release it when she joined him on the ground, instead sliding his fingers fully around hers before turning and walking on.
She shot him a glance, but then settled her fingers in his.
Hand in hand, they walked on to Dumfries.
Fletcher and Cobbins were sitting on rude bunks in a stone-walled cell at the rear of the Customs and Revenue Office in Gretna, slumped, resigned, and praying for deliverance, when the sound of a deep voice, cultured and even-toned, reached them.
Their heads rose. They straightened, straining to hear, to make out words, but the thick stone walls defeated them.
Cobbins met Fletcher’s gaze. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Slowly, still listening to the distant rumble, Fletcher nodded. “Yes. Thank God.” After a moment, he added, “Let’s hope he sees his way to getting us out of this.”
On the words, a groaning grating told them the heavy door leading to the cells was being opened. As the sound died, they heard, “Thank you. This won’t take long.”
Someone mumbled something in reply, and the door groaned shut again.
Both Fletcher and Cobbins got to their feet. Both straightened their jackets, smoothed down their hair, rubbed their palms on their thighs.
Relaxed footsteps with a long, easy stride came down the flagged corridor. A second later, the man they knew as McKinsey appeared on the other side of the iron bars that formed the front of the cell.
He appeared even more powerful than they remembered him—as tall, broad-shouldered, as impressively strong, with a face hewn from granite, all harsh planes and sharp cheekbones, and pale, wintry, icy eyes. He was dressed for riding in boots and corduroy breeches, a well-tailored coat hugging his heavy shoulders.
After surveying them for a moment, he arched his winged black brows. “Well, gentlemen? Where’s my package?”
Fletcher swallowed. “At the inn—the Nutberry Moss, like you told us.”
McKinsey shook his head. “No, not so. I’ve already been there.”
“She’s gone?” Cobbins’s shock was too genui
ne to mistake.
McKinsey noted it, then nodded. “She hasn’t been seen since before your unfortunate arrest.” He transferred his cold gaze to Fletcher. “Incidentally, how did that come about?”
“We don’t know.” Fletcher knew beyond doubt that their only hope lay in convincing McKinsey of their innocence. “We didn’t steal the wretched candlesticks—why would we?” He snorted. “Let alone hide the blessed things in our room.”
McKinsey considered him for a moment, then glanced at Cobbins. Then he nodded. “I believe you. I did a reasonably thorough check into your pasts before hiring you, and you’ve never before shown any inclincation to rank stupidity.”
“Exactly.” Fletcher let his irritation—something close to offense at being taken for a simple thief—show. “Someone must have put the damned things there.”
“Indeed,” McKinsey said. “The question is who, and even more importantly, why.”
Fletcher dared to meet his eyes. “The police?”
“No. I spoke with the innkeeper. The sergeant found the candlesticks where he claimed—in your bags in your room. And the innkeeper isn’t aware of anyone else going upstairs that morning. His staff know nothing.”
“What about Martha?” Cobbins looked at McKinsey. “The maid we hired, like you asked.”
“Ah, yes—she, too, appears to have vanished.”
“It wouldn’t have been her got the candlesticks,” Fletcher said. “Not her style either, and the idea of her finding the magistrate’s house and creeping in of a night . . .” He made a scoffing sound. “That’s nonsense.”
Cobbins nodded. “She’s not one for going out at the best of times.”
McKinsey studied them, then murmured, “The choice of the magistrate as the victim of the burglary is, I suspect, revealing. Had it been anyone else, the constables would have been much less likely to leap into action as they did. In terms of getting you two out of the way—I am, of course, assuming that that was the purpose of the candlesticks, to remove you both so that the package you were holding for me could be spirited away—the ploy was carefully and very cleverly thought out. So . . . who knew about the girl and was clever enough to devise and effect such a scheme?”
A moment passed, then Cobbins looked at Fletcher. “Timms?”
McKinsey’s brows rose. “Who is Timms?”
Fletcher was frowning. “An unemployed solicitor’s clerk. Said he was on his way to Glasgow and stopped at the inn—he came in a few hours after us, I think.”
“And he stayed?”
Fletcher nodded. “Seems he had a wound—war wound possibly—that was playing up.”
“He said because of driving so far in his rattly old pony trap,” Cobbins said. “And that was true enough. His trap was ancient.”
“So he arrived after you, and was still at the inn when you were arrested?” McKinsey asked.
“Not sure if he was still there.” Fletcher exchanged a glance with Cobbins. “He said he was getting ready to leave and drive on to Glasgow in easy stages. He’d waited around long enough.”
“What does this man look like?”
“Not as tall as you,” Fletcher said. “Not as big. A bit slighter all around. Brown eyes.”
“Hazel,” Cobbins corrected. “And dark hair—very dark brown. Dressed like a clerk, dark clothes, ordinary stuff. Always appeared a bit scruffy—like he needed a new razor and had lost his hairbrush.”
Fletcher nodded agreement.
“How did he speak?” McKinsey asked.
Fletcher shrugged. “Well spoken enough, like you’d expect a London solicitor’s clerk to speak.” He frowned, and looked at McKinsey. “No real accent, now I think on it. A bit like . . .”
McKinsey smiled chillingly. “A bit like me?” After a moment, he murmured, softly, to himself, “I sincerely hope not.” More loudly he asked, “Did Timms get to know the girl?”
Fletcher pulled a face, shook his head. “Not that I saw. He nodded to her—knew she was with us—but he swallowed our story and kept his distance.” He glanced at Cobbins.
“Saw him stop beside her and speak with her . . .” Cobbins screwed up his face in thought. “Day before yesterday, it’d be—when she and Martha went for a short walk. We kept watch—one of us—from the inn. Timms was out walking. He stopped beside the girl and sat down—not close—to look at his map. But Martha was right there, next to them, the whole time.”
“What about at night?”
“Martha’s good at what she does,” Fletcher said. “She always took all their clothes, hers and the girl’s, and slept on them, so if the girl tried to escape, she’d have to do so all but naked. And they always shared a room.”
“Hmm.” After a moment, McKinsey nodded. “All right. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll speak to the magistrate and explain that you’d been south to collect a package for me, that you had it at the inn, but then someone—we have no idea who—stole his candlesticks, put them in your room, and alerted the constables. Once you were taken up, my package disappeared.” His wintry eyes met Fletcher’s. “I’m confident the magistrate will understand—especially as he has his candlesticks back, and no real evidence to say you two actually took them and it didn’t instead happen as I’ll claim. Indeed, my missing package can be taken as proof of your innocence of the theft.”
Fletcher and Cobbins both nodded. Neither ventured any comment.
McKinsey smiled coldly. “Indeed. In return for my assistance in gaining your release, gentlemen, and for the payment I’ll leave waiting for you at the inn—not, sadly, the payment you would have received had you handed over my package as arranged, but enough to satisfy you in the circumstances—in return for both those things, you will oblige me by leaving Gretna and heading back over the border, and forgetting all you ever knew about this episode. Forgetfulness would definitely be in your best interests. I don’t care which town you make for, but I do ask that you remain out of Scotland for . . . shall we say the next year?”
There was enough refined menace in McKinsey’s eyes to have both Fletcher and Cobbins nodding. Fletcher cleared his throat. “Seems fair.”
“Indeed—it is. Eminently fair.”
“But what about the package—the girl?”
McKinsey’s icy gaze fixed on Fletcher. A heartbeat ticked past, then McKinsey softly said, “I will hunt down my package. I don’t believe I will require any help.”
Fletcher swallowed, nodded. “Right. Of course.”
McKinsey held his gaze for an instant more, then turned away. “I bid you farewell, gentlemen. I’ll arrange for your freedom, but it won’t happen immediately. Sit quiet, say nothing, and you’ll be free by this evening.”
Fletcher and Cobbins listened to his footsteps retreat, heard the door to the cells groan open, then shut again.
When silence returned, Fletcher glanced at Cobbins. “That’s one scary bugger.”
Cobbins nodded and sank back on the bunk. “Don’t know about you, but I’m glad we won’t be meeting him again.”
The man who Fletcher and Cobbins knew as McKinsey was very glad he’d decided to use an alias.
After speaking with the magistrate, who, while he might not be able to place him, had recognized his true station well enough to readily acquiesce to his request that his hirelings be released without charge, McKinsey returned to “reward” the constables, then recruit them in searching for his missing package, and arrange for Fletcher and Cobbins to be held until evening before being released.
By then he would be on his way, whichever way that was.
Mounted on his favorite chestnut gelding, he rode back up the highway to Gretna Green, and the Nutberry Moss Inn. The constables, vocal cords loosened by the largesse he’d distributed, had volunteered that the older woman they’d assumed to be one of Fletcher and Cobbins’s accomplices had fled back over the border into England the p
revious evening; they hadn’t bothered giving further chase. Of the girl, however, they’d had no sign.
That the girl must have fled, either alone or, more likely and very possibly worse, in the company of some bounder passing himself off as a solicitor’s clerk, preyed on his mind. That definitely wasn’t how his plan was supposed to have played out.
But he’d long ago learned the need to flow with fate, to take whatever clouts she sent him and survive. Manage and make the best of things had long been his creed.
In this case, that meant learning where the girl had gone, then following her and rescuing her. Getting his plan back on track and making restitution in whatever way he could, to her at least. Her family would be something else again, but that was too far in the future for him to worry about now.
First, find the girl. Second, get rid of the bounder.
Drawing rein in the Nutberry Moss forecourt, he smiled easily at the young lad who came running to take his horse. He dismounted and handed over the reins. “I’ll be maybe an hour, no more. Just walk him a little, then rest him.”
Eyes round with awe, the lad tugged his forelock, and reverently led Hercules away. The big gelding had come by the name through having to carry the weight of him on his back.
He walked into the inn. Fletcher and Cobbins would have been surprised to witness the persona he deployed with the innkeeper. He didn’t need to frighten the man, so he didn’t.
“Timms?” The innkeeper consulted his register. “Aye, m’ lord. He came in later on the day your men arrived.”
“And when did he leave?”
The innkeeper scratched his ear. “Can’t rightly say that he has left, m’lord. His bags and clothes are gone, the girls tell me—all his personal things—but his writing desk is still there, and his trap and his horse are still in the stable. He didn’t say anything to me about moving on just yet—said his wound was still playing up. He’s paid up for another two nights.”
“I see.” He thought, then said, “Fletcher and Cobbins will be released later today—they’ll be back to claim their luggage.” He withdrew a sealed packet from his inside pocket. “I told them I’d leave this for them—if you could make sure they receive it?” The innkeeper nodded and took the packet, stowing it under the counter. “In the meantime, however, if I could see their rooms—the two Fletcher hired, and if I could just look into Timms’s room. No harm if there’s nothing personal in there.”
Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 16