The laird reached the woodcutter’s cottage in midmorning.
He’d left Ainville just after dawn and had enjoyed himself galloping back up the road to where he’d had his last reported sighting of his fleeing pair in Currie. He’d stood on the road before the small inn at which they’d stopped, and, putting himself in his quarry’s boots, had looked around.
The church tower had caught his eye.
In the lane before the lych-gate he’d found boot prints, one pair large, one much smaller, both heading into the churchyard.
The paved paths and stone flags of the church wouldn’t have held any telltale clues, so he’d walked the perimeter of the churchyard and had found more boot prints from the same two pairs of boots laying a distinctive but hurried trail eastward along the lane.
Away from the highway, toward the Pentland Hills.
Remounting Hercules, he’d glanced back at the church tower. He had a strong suspicion the pair had seen him — and had known enough to recognize him as the man behind the kidnappings. He should, he supposed, have taken greater care to remain hidden while following Heather Cynster and Breckenridge weeks before, but that was water under the bridge. The relevant point was that Eliza and her gentleman would run if they saw him; if he wished to locate and then observe them, he would need to stay concealed.
From the churchyard on, he hadn’t lost their trail, not even through the banks of heather. Rocky ground was little impediment to him; out in the wilds of Scotland, any wilds of Scotland, he was in his element.
He drew rein just outside the copse.
The rude cottage sat nestled among the trees. All was silent, quiet; no smoke curled from the squat chimney. Dismounting, he tethered Hercules to a low-hanging branch, then, making no effort at stealth, walked beneath the trees and into the clearing. He knocked at the door. When no answer came, he opened it and went in.
It took him mere minutes to read the signs and extract all he could from them. Someone, certainly, had spent the night at the cottage — two someones, to be precise. The pitcher still had water in it, and two glasses were free of all dust. The surface of the wooden table had also had things placed on it, spread upon it, disturbing the fine layer of dust that had previously covered it.
He eyed the neatly made pallet, then crossed to it and drew back the coarse blankets. Some attempt had been made to even the straw, but it was still possible to see that the man — the heavier, larger body — had lain on the side closer to the door, and the slighter figure had for the most part lain curled by his side.
The laird frowned. The evidence could be interpreted as suggesting some degree of intimacy, but on the other hand, the relationship between the pair could just as easily have been that of close friends. Compatriots forced by circumstance to share a bed and warmth.
He couldn’t — shouldn’t — make too much of it.
Replacing the blankets, he cast one last comprehensive glance around the sparsely furnished abode, then walked back out into the weak sunshine. Closing the door, he noted the route by which the pair had left the clearing, then returned to Hercules, mounted, and circled the copse to pick up their trail.
He followed it down to a stream.
As he sent Hercules splashing across, he wrestled with the question that had plagued him since the day before. Why were they traveling by such slow means? Could Eliza Cynster truly not ride?
With every passing hour they were in greater danger of being caught; for all they knew, Scrope was hot on their heels. Yet he’d gained sufficient respect for whoever had rescued Eliza Cynster from her basement cell and whisked her out of Edinburgh, confounding the expert and until-then-unchallenged Scrope, to accept that this cross-country trek might well be the best they could do.
Although the lowlands was not his territory, he knew the area well enough not to need a map to guess where his quarry was heading.
He leaned forward to pat Hercules’s sleek neck as the big chestnut picked his way down to the valley floor and the larger stream that bisected it. “Penicuik — that’s where they’ll make for.” He narrowed his eyes. “They should be able to hire a gig there, and then drive for Peebles, then across … yes.” He smiled, and with his heels nudged Hercules to a faster pace. “That’s what they’ll do, and that’s where we’ll find them. Come on, my lad — let’s hie ourselves to Penicuik.”
Hidden among the trees, Scrope sat his horse and watched McKinsey ride up the next ridge.
He stayed where he was, biding his time. There was no cover to be had once he left the trees, and the last thing he wished was for McKinsey to see him.
Admittedly, the man had thus far lived up to Scrope’s expectations. It hadn’t occurred to the laird that Scrope might disobey his orders and follow; not once had he glanced back. Yet Scrope wasn’t prepared to take the risk that this time, on reaching the top of the next ridge, McKinsey might rein in for a moment, idly glance back, and spot him; he would wait until his erstwhile employer disappeared over the ridge before venturing forth and following.
Scrope was keen to let McKinsey continue in ignorance of his pursuit. The present arrangement, albeit unwitting on McKinsey’s part, was simply too good to risk losing. As matters stood, McKinsey was performing as an expert tracker for Scrope. The ease with which McKinsey had found the pair’s trail, then followed it so unerringly, spoke volumes as to the man’s skill. Scrope was professional enough to accord such talents due respect.
“A damned shame he’s not someone I can hire.”
Scrope glanced behind him, through the trees to the woodcutter’s cottage. He debated using the enforced sojourn to search it, but McKinsey would have taken note of any useful signs.
Facing forward again, he saw that McKinsey had surged up the ridge and was disappearing over it.
Scrope lifted his reins, waited until McKinsey’s dark head finally dropped out of sight altogether, then spurred his horse out of the trees and on.
He needed to cross the valley and reach the top of the ridge while McKinsey was still in clear sight.
He wanted Eliza Cynster, and McKinsey was his sure and certain route to locating her.
Chapter Nine
ater that morning, once more firmly in their assumed roles of tutor and charge, Jeremy and Eliza walked into Penicuik and discovered it was market day.
There was no market square as such, but the road they’d followed into the small town widened considerably, allowing horses, carriages, and carts to pass in two opposing streams to the right, while a hotchpotch of market stalls filled the extra space to the left.
Pausing alongside Jeremy, Eliza surveyed the colorful, bustling, pleasantly noisy sight.
“There’s an inn further on.” Jeremy nodded to a swinging sign hanging from a gable beyond the stalls. “Let’s see if they have a gig and horse for hire.”
Eliza nodded and fell in by his side. The easiest way to preserve her disguise was to speak as little as possible. Dropping her voice to a deep enough, gruff enough register was a last resort; she’d discovered it took constant effort to keep such an assumed tone even and believable.
Reaching the inn, The Royal, situated on a curve in the road, they continued on around the building’s side in search of the stable yard and found even more market stalls sprawled beside the road on that side of the inn.
A second, large posting inn lay beyond the stalls, further up the gently rising road.
Jeremy tipped his head toward the other inn. “If they can’t help us here, we’ll try there.”
But when appealed to, The Royal’s stableman said the words they’d hoped to hear. “Aye — I’ve got a nice gig should suit you.”
Eliza met Jeremy’s eyes, then turned to idly view the market stalls, cloaking her relief behind a show of adolescent male disinterest, leaving Jeremy to negotiate over gig and horse.
Many of the stalls before her sold fresh fruit. Some sold pastries and pies, while others sold nuts, or cheeses and hams. One stall sold freshly baked bread rolls.
Her mout
h was watering just from looking.
The sight of a public water pump reminded her that the pottery water bottles in their saddlebags were almost empty again. Of course, they would be leaving in the gig, and presumably would reach Wolverstone tonight, yet …
Jeremy joined her, a satisfied look on his face.
She waved at the stalls. “Perhaps we should replenish our saddlebags, just in case.”
He nodded. “It’ll take the ostlers fifteen minutes or so to have the gig ready. I said we’d wander around the stalls and come back.” Drawing out his fob-watch, he consulted it, then said, “It’s early yet. If we bought some supplies, we could get underway, then stop for lunch along the road.”
“An excellent idea.” Eliza felt his fingers brush her elbow, but then he remembered and his hand fell away.
He gestured at the stalls. “Lead the way.” Dipping his head, he spoke more softly, “You’ll have to direct me in what to buy.”
She nodded and proceeded to pause before various stalls, artfully making the sort of suggestions a hungry youth might.
For his part, Jeremy played the resigned tutor, and with just the right show of reluctance, bought all she wished for.
There was so much to choose from that inevitably they bought more than they would need, but, Jeremy decided, it was better they have too much than too little, and as they now had a gig, they wouldn’t be lugging the increasingly bulky saddlebags themselves.
The thought sent his mind ranging ahead, to the road they would follow, to how long it might take to reach the border. To the possibility that they might have to spend another night together, alone.
Not that spending a second night together, alone, would materially alter their situation, a situation that, he assumed, had already been decided by their first night together, alone. In the ton’s eyes, one night was enough; subsequent nights were neither here nor there.
The tangle of social expectations was something over which he always felt at a loss; he knew the strictures existed, and that some were absolute, absolute enough to bind both him and Eliza irrevocably, but there were always exceptions, and he had no firm idea just how their circumstances translated … pushing such useless meanderings from his mind, he concentrated instead on what his brother-in-law and Tristan’s ex-brothers-in-arms would counsel him to do.
Weapons. If they ran into the opposition, a weapon or two wouldn’t hurt. He was an excellent shot, but he seriously doubted the small town boasted even a general gunsmith, let alone a pistolmaker; there were certainly no guns of any sort on the stalls.
There was, however, a gypsy stall selling some nicely balanced knives. The small knives Meggin had put in the saddlebags would do to attack fruit, and possibly cheese, but not much else.
He paused before the stall, reaching out to tug Eliza’s sleeve as she ambled on, oblivious.
She turned, saw what he was looking at, then reluctantly returned to stand alongside him.
One glance at her face showed she was frowning in a disapproving way. Surreptitiously, he tapped her boot with his and held up a knife. “Nice knives.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her blink, then she realized and made a show of youthful male interest, picking up various knives and weighing them in her small hands.
Jeremy quickly engaged the stallholder, praying the man wouldn’t notice those too-delicate hands.
The gypsy was more interested in driving a hard bargain.
They’d reached agreement when Eliza cleared her throat and rather gruffly said, “I wouldn’t mind this one.”
Jeremy looked at the knife she held — one with a short, tapered blade, one she could carry reasonably safely in the small leather sheath that came with it. Briefly meeting her eyes, he took the knife from her and set it alongside the two he’d chosen. “Very well.” He captured the stallholder’s gaze. “Throw that in as well.”
They haggled again, then, price decided, Jeremy paid, handed Eliza her knife in its sheath, and tucked his two into his belt.
Moving away from the stall, back into the thickening stream of pedestrians passing between the stalls, he ducked his head and murmured, “Keep the knife hidden. You never want to advertise that you have a weapon on you — it’s best kept as a surprise.”
She shot him a grin, nodded.
He didn’t know where, exactly, she’d put the knife; it had disappeared somewhere beneath the cloak she wore over her male attire.
“Water.” She pointed to the pump, and they took their turn filling their water bottles. They paused in the shadows by a wall while he stowed the bottles back in the saddlebags and settled their other purchases.
She glanced around. “I think that’s all we need.”
Straightening, he swung the heavier saddlebag across his shoulder. “We’ve been longer than I’d expected — they should have our gig ready and waiting.”
His gaze rose to her face — he froze. “What is it?”
Her gaze was locked over his left shoulder; she was staring up the street, toward the other inn.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Eyes wide, she whispered, “Don’t move — don’t turn around. It’s the laird. He’s just ridden in and halted, and now he’s sitting his huge horse and looking over the stalls.”
“Can he see us clearly?”
“Not clearly. There’s half the market between us — he’s at the other end.”
Resisting the urgent compulsion to glance over his shoulder, he grasped her arm, intending to turn her and walk evenly back to the inn’s stable.
“Wait.” She resisted his tug. A second later, relief flooded her. “He’s turning away.” She glanced at Jeremy’s face, then, easing her arm from his hold, she turned toward the stable, quietly adding as she walked by his side, “He was just looking generally over the place — he didn’t tense but just turned and walked his horse into the other inn’s stable yard.”
Jeremy lengthened his stride. “We need to get our gig and get out of here now.”
They reached the inn’s stable yard. It was difficult to banish the grimness from his expression, to keep his face set in easygoing lines, and not race to sling their saddlebags into the gig, clamber up to the box, and snatch the reins.
Once the reins were in his hands and Eliza was settled beside him, he guided the bay gelding he’d chosen out of the stable yard and into the street as fast as he dared.
Given the traffic, that wasn’t all that fast. As they finally rounded the curve in the road, he glanced back up the street —
And saw the laird, large as life, standing, hands on lean hips, staring down the road at them.
“Damn!” He urged the horse on as fast as he dared.
“What?” Eliza shot him a scared look. “Did he see?”
Jeremy hesitated, but then nodded. “Just our luck the traffic thinned along the road behind us just at that moment.”
Eliza made a snorty, disapproving sound — then the sound all but strangled in her throat.
She gripped his arm, started to point and stopped herself, but her gaze was fixed ahead. “Scrope. He’s riding behind that coach-and-four coming toward us.”
They were heading back out along the road they’d come in on, but the road they needed to take them south, away from the town, lay just ahead. Jeremy weaved, ducked, peered, and glimpsed the legs of a horse following close behind the heavy carriage lumbering slowly toward them. He glanced ahead, measuring distances, estimating angles. “Pray,” he advised. “If we time this just right …”
He adjusted the gelding’s stride, held the horse back while the carriage drew nearer, then turned sharp left into the road south, using the carriage as cover so Scrope wouldn’t see them until he was looking directly at their backs. “For God’s sake, don’t look back.”
“I won’t.” Beside him, Eliza sat bolt upright, trying to appear taller than she was. Her heart was thudding high in her throat. “The laird and Scrope both — they must be searching together.”
She glanc
ed at Jeremy; his expression was set and unrelievedly grim. With a flick of the whip, he sent the horse trotting on, increasingly swiftly.
A stone bridge spanned the river south of the town. They clattered over it. The way south opened before them.
There’d been no shouts, no sound of thundering hooves behind them.
“Scrope didn’t see us, did he?” she asked.
“He might have, but I don’t think he realized it was us.”
Before she could even start to relax, Jeremy abruptly swung the horse left, down a narrower road leading away from the main road. She gasped as they plunged down a short dip; the low-lying road wended this way and that between stands of birch. Jeremy whipped up the horse and they rocketed along. The gig rocked; the wheels rattled, flicking loose stones in their wake.
“I thought we were going south to Peebles.” Clutching the gig’s side, she flung him a glance.
“We were.” His face and tone remained beyond grim. “But now he’s seen us, that’s exactly where the laird will assume we’re going. And assuming Scrope saw us — two people in a gig — driving out of town, Scrope will confirm our route. They’ll be after us as soon as the laird mounts up.”
“Ah.” Maintaining her white-knuckled grip on the gig’s side, she looked ahead. “So we’ll leave them to ride to Peebles and search for us there.” After a moment, she drew breath, asked, “So, where are we going?”
“This road straightens out soon and runs more or less east.” Jeremy paused, then added, “If we keep going east, we’ll eventually hit the road we want, the one through Jedburgh.”
He hadn’t studied the map far enough ahead, hadn’t explored the alternative routes in this direction. Another lesson learned the hard way. “We’ll stop further along and work out the best way to go, but first …”
The road they were following had risen again. Cresting a rise, he drew on the reins, slowed the horse to a trot, then halted it alongside a high stile. Applying the brake, he tied off the reins, then reached to their feet and pulled up the saddlebags, letting her take one. “The spyglass.”
In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster Page 19