In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Looking at the map, he traced a route. “If we drive on along this road, we’ll get to Gorebridge, then we’ll need to turn south and drive like mad through Stow to Galashiels, then across via Melrose to St. Boswells on the Jedburgh Road. From there, it’s not far to the border.”

  Gaze on the map, she stated the obvious. “They’ll come up with us long before Jedburgh.”

  Lips setting grimly, he nodded. “I agree.”

  She could see only one alternative and knew why he wasn’t suggesting it; he was leaving the decision to her. So be it. Jaw firming, she looked up and met his eyes. “Can we make them think we’ve driven on, even if we don’t?”

  His quick grin of approbation felt like sunshine beaming through clouds.

  He tipped his head toward the farmhouse around the bend. “We’ll drive on, but only as far as that farm. We can leave the gig there, and I’ll pay them to keep it out of sight and return it to Penicuik tomorrow. If we make sure there’s no tracks leading into the farm yard, there’s every possibility our pursuers won’t know they’ve lost us until Gorebridge or even later, and once they do realize, there won’t be anything to tell them which way we’ve gone. For all they know, we might have decided to circle back to Edinburgh.”

  She nodded. “Good. So with them confounded and out of the way, we walk on.” She traced a route on the map, then raised her arm and pointed east. “Over the damn hills and all the way to Stow.”

  Their gazes met, locked, held. After a moment of searching her eyes, her face, he asked, “Are you sure?”

  She knew precisely what he was asking. He was alluding to the subject that hung over their heads like Damocles’ sword; patently he saw it as clearly as she. They’d already spent one night together alone; perhaps that might have been accounted for somehow, but by accepting the certainty of another night spent in some woodcutter’s cottage or the like, alone with him, rather than fleeing in a curricle down country roads at night … perversely society might accept the latter idiocy, while condemning them for taking the former, infinitely safer option. With a little nod, she pushed to her feet. “I’m sure.”

  Dusting down her breeches, she found a smile. “I’m getting quite fond of these.” She held out a booted foot. “And my boots. They’re so much less restricting than skirts.”

  Jeremy was folding the map preparatory to stowing it in one of the saddlebags. Picking up the other, she headed for the gig. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find some cottage or the like. Somewhere sufficient to sleep for the night.”

  A frisson of expectation ran through her at the thought. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on that kiss. That eye-opening, fascinating, absorbing kiss. If she did, she’d start to think of other things, subsequent things, and then she’d blush …

  Setting her saddlebag in the gig, she went to the horse’s head. Keep your mind on the matter at hand. “Perhaps we should walk him around to the farm yard — without our weight in the gig, the tracks will be even less.”

  Jeremy set his saddlebag in the gig alongside hers. “We want to leave tracks here, to show we left. Get in and we’ll drive around the bend to the farm gate, then we’ll get out and I’ll lead him in. You can check and obliterate any tracks.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with the horse and gig safely hidden away in the barn and the helpful farmer sufficiently satisfied with the largesse Jeremy had offered to assure anyone who inquired that he’d seen them drive on, they left the farm gate and crossed the road, careful to leave no telltale boot prints.

  “The laird had to have tracked us from Currie.” Shouldering one saddlebag, Jeremy followed Eliza as she struck out across a field to the rise of the first hill. “There’s no other likely explanation for him finding us. If he’s a highlander, as your family think he is, then most likely he hunts game, and so might be especially experienced at tracking.”

  She humphed. “I defy him to find any tracks back there. I made sure the ground inside and outside the farm gate was pristine.”

  He tapped her shoulder, then pointed to a sheep track that led more directly up and over the first hill. “Let’s get over the first rise as fast as we can. I’ll check from the crest to see if there’s any sign of our pursuers, then we can forge on with greater confidence. Once we’re over the first hill, we’ll be largely out of sight.”

  They did precisely that. From the first crest Jeremy scanned the road but could find no trace of pursuit. Lowering the spyglass, he shut it. “Nothing yet.”

  Neither of them doubted the laird at least would come. But dipping down into, then crossing, the next shallow valley, they strode steadily on, secure and largely relaxed, knowing no one could spot them from the road.

  They exercised greater caution slogging up the next hill, but on looking back they discovered the first hill blocked their view of the road; they couldn’t see the farm where they’d left the gig. Which meant no one along that part of the road could see them.

  With increasing confidence, they pushed on, tramping along sheep paths between banks of heather, splashing across a stream. The afternoon remained fine, the air fresh and clear as they climbed.

  Landmarks were scarce. Jeremy kept them on a southeasterly course using the arc transcribed by the sun, and the position of far distant peaks.

  They found their way over a larger stream and headed on, keeping the glinting waters of a big lake to their right. The line of the Moorfoot Hills themselves still lay ahead of them; they were presently traversing the slowly rising land, the foothills of the hills, as it were.

  Eliza strode along, feeling intensely, and utterly unexpectedly, light of heart. That was the only way she could describe the inner sense of buoyancy, the near effervescence that showed in the brisk spring in her step. She looked about as she walked, drinking in the wide vistas that every now and again opened up between the enclosing low hills. Even the air seemed to taste fresher and better up there.

  She never would have imagined she would enjoy striding about the heather. Let alone with a villain like Scrope in pursuit, much less the even more frightening unknown of the laird. Yet she was confident they’d lost their pursuers, at least as far as today was concerned, so she felt entitled to enjoy the moment; the wonder of it was that she could.

  Walking had never been high on her list of exciting things to do, but striding along freely in breeches and boots, with the world wide about her and Jeremy Carling pacing alongside seemed somehow, in that moment, a tiny slice of heaven.

  She would enjoy it while she could.

  The thought brought to mind something else she’d enjoyed. That kiss. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, which fact alone set it apart from any other kiss she’d ever experienced. Of course, it was true that they were both, in a fashion, out of their accustomed world, set adrift for the moment in a world of high adventure, and kisses — kisses that ordinarily could never have been — could be, could happen, could exist in this temporary world they were striding through.

  But she wanted more. She knew she did; she was already thinking of how to bring a repeat engagement about. How else could she learn what it was that was so different, what it was in his kiss — Jeremy Carling the bookworm’s kiss — that had so easily captured and fixed her senses?

  If she was truthful, it was more than her curiosity that had sparked. But whoever would have thought a bookworm could kiss like that? Beguiling and tempting — tempting in a way she suspected she might find very difficult to resist.

  Resist enough to turn her back and walk away.

  Which was why she’d decided there was no point whatever worrying about what would happen when they reached civilization, and tonnish society, again. Yes, there might well be pressure brought to bear, in various guises and forms, for them to marry — but what if she and he actually wanted to of their own accord?

  Such a felicitous outcome was possible. Heather and Breckenridge had found their way to the altar, and no matter the circumstances, there had been no coercion involved.

 
She glanced sidelong at Jeremy, pacing beside her. Every now and then, he would glance back and around, keeping watch. It was comforting to know he was so alert while she enjoyed the view.

  And that view … she let her gaze briefly fall, skimming over his long frame, then determinedly looked ahead. The scholarly bookworm image had faded, replaced with a reality that was significantly more potent. Distinctly more alluring.

  Even more intriguing was the man behind the mask. There was so much about him, so many quirks of character and nuance that she’d never imagined might be there.

  His protectiveness, for one; she’d recognized it instantly — with brothers and cousins like hers, she was an expert on that trait. Yet his protectiveness was … softened wasn’t really the word for it — informed might be nearer the mark — by an unexpected understanding and acceptance that she was an adult, too, that she had a mind of her own and might have views of her own regarding what she, and they, should do.

  He’d consulted her rather than simply decreed; that was what was different.

  His protectiveness she could accommodate, unlike that of her brothers and cousins.

  There was also a certain hint of chivalry, old-fashioned perhaps, but attractive nonetheless.

  And, of course, there was his exceedingly sharp mind, something she hadn’t before considered a requirement in a man, but there was definitely something to be said for not having to explain her own thinking — and for his converse assumption that she could think her way through things, too.

  She glanced his way again, then looked ahead, smiling softly to herself. She wasn’t all that bothered over spending another night alone with him, because she’d set her mind on learning more about him, and indulging in at least one more kiss.

  Another twenty yards brought them to the base of the main line of hills. They scouted around and found a rocky path leading up and over the summit. Without a word, Eliza started up it.

  Jeremy glanced back and around one last time, then followed in her wake.

  The going was considerably harder, the slope much greater than the ground they’d already traversed. The westering sun warmed their backs as they climbed; in places the rocks were more like huge steps, slowing them considerably.

  He kept expecting Eliza to complain, but instead she toiled steadily upward. He was, heaven knew, no expert on the subject of tonnish ladies. He might have had several mistresses in years past, but for the current crop of younger ladies he had no real guidelines for behavior, at least not under stress.

  The next time he could, he glanced at her face. Despite the effort of the climb, her lips were lightly curved, her features relaxed. She didn’t seem to be worrying … about anything.

  Not about them — him and her — spending yet another night alone. Not about that kiss.

  A kiss that had left him … not wary so much as uncertain.

  He was a scientist of sorts; he didn’t like uncertainty.

  But when it came to that kiss, he simply did not know what to make of it. As he’d read it, she’d initially kissed him unintentionally, driven by an excess of exuberance, but then she’d realized … and instead of pulling away, she’d kissed him again.

  How was he supposed to interpret that?

  Would she like it, allow it, if he kissed her? Again. She’d seemed to approve when he’d returned her kiss, but was that the same?

  He was going to give himself a headache if he kept thinking about it.

  Lips thinning, climbing doggedly in her wake, equally doggedly keeping his gaze from the enticing view just ahead and slightly above him, he told himself he should simply admit — to himself — that he was confused but interested, and that that interest, the fact he felt it so strongly, was a puzzlement all its own.

  The last lady he would ever have imagined capturing his interest to this degree would have been Eliza Cynster. From the one occasion on which they’d met, he’d come away believing she hadn’t liked, or perhaps hadn’t approved of, him. What it was about him she’d taken against he’d had no idea, but that had been his clear impression.

  Of course, he had come to her rescue, so she was honor-bound, so to speak, to smile at him now. But he honestly didn’t think lukewarm gratitude would be enough to make her kiss him.

  Perhaps she just hadn’t known him well enough, and courtesy of their adventure, that lack was being rectified?

  The crest loomed ahead. He banished all thoughts of her and him, and followed her onto a small plateau at the top of the gently rounded peak.

  Halting, then sinking onto a rock, she swung her saddlebag to the ground and pulled out her water bottle.

  Still standing, he pulled his own bottle out, took a long gulp, then, stowing the bottle, drew out the spyglass.

  He searched and finally found the farm at which they’d left the gig. From this elevation, they could see most of the ground they’d covered since leaving the road.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head. “I can see as far back as the stretch of road just before the bend, and I can’t see any sign of them.”

  “So they’ve either gone past and continued northeast on the road, or not yet reached the bend. Either way, we’re well away from them.”

  Lowering the spyglass, he looked west. The sun was hidden behind clouds, but it was already sliding beneath the horizon. “The light will be gone soon. We should get on.”

  He turned as she rose, lifting her saddlebag from the ground. He held out a hand. “Here — let me take that.” Before she could argue, he added, “It’s downhill from here.”

  She inclined her head in thanks and handed the bag over. “Once the light goes, they won’t be able to track us.”

  “No, they won’t.” Greatly daring, Jeremy reached out and took her hand. Without meeting her eyes, he walked to the eastern edge of the small plateau. He looked down, into the deepening shadows that now cloaked the east-facing flank of the hill. “For tonight, we’re safe, but”— glancing at her, he finally met her eyes —“we need to find shelter before night falls.”

  She nodded and waved him on. He led the way down, holding her hand to steady her over the steeper sections, walking by her side when the going was easier.

  They descended into a high, shallow valley.

  “The Scottish hills seem to be very deserted,” she said. “All I can see is heather, rocks, and sheep.”

  He nodded. “There’s a road of sorts down there, in the bottom of the valley, but I can’t see any settlements along it.”

  They continued walking for some time, then Eliza shivered.

  A compulsion gripped him, an urge unlike any he’d felt before, as if it was imperative he find shelter for her … he gave up trying to understand it, or fight it. Glancing around, he saw a rocky outcrop hugging the side of the hill twenty yards away. Releasing her hand, he shrugged off the saddlebags and hunted in them for the spyglass. “Wait here.” With his head he indicated the pile of rock. “I’m going to climb up there and see what I can find.”

  She nodded. Pulling her cloak closer, she waited, watched.

  It took him a few minutes to scramble up to the top of the conglomerate of rock. Reaching the pinnacle, he balanced atop it and put the spyglass to his eye. The light was fading increasingly rapidly; urgency gripped him as he scanned … there!

  Lowering the spyglass, he looked, squinted, then checked through the spyglass again, looked again.

  The tiny hut was barely visible in the gloom, but it was there.

  He scrambled down.

  Eliza was waiting with the saddlebags at the outcrop’s base when he dropped to the ground. “Something?”

  “A hut — probably a shepherd’s hut.” He lifted the bags and slung them over his shoulder. “I saw no smoke from the chimney, and God knows what state it’s in, but at least we’ll have a roof over our heads.”

  She smiled and reached for his hand. “In our present straits, that sounds perfect.”

  Returning her smile, he closed his fingers aro
und hers. “It’s over there.” He pointed as they started off. “Just around past those trees.”

  Daylight was waning when the laird reached the spot just before the sharp bend in the lane where the fleeing pair had clearly sat for sometime; the grass was flattened, and boot prints abounded in the soft dirt bordering the verge.

  He’d been forced to waste time checking both north and south along two crossroads, just to make sure he didn’t miss the clever pair again. The last days had been fine and the road itself was mostly dry, so finding tracks along it wasn’t a simple matter.

  In both instances, Scrope had hung well back, watching from cover, then had followed him on when, satisfied he was on the right track, he’d urged Hercules on along the southeast lane.

  “So, they reached here.” He glanced around. “It’s possible they didn’t realize their predicament until they got here. Once they did, what did they do?”

  Hercules bobbed his head, as if indicating the hills to the east.

  “Yes,” the laird murmured, “I think so, too. But where’s the gig?” He eyed the nearby farmhouse. “Very likely there, but before we investigate and confirm, what am I going to do about Scrope?”

  While he’d been riding he’d had time to consider the pertinent facts. That Scrope was following in his wake and making no attempt to get in front of him, closer to their mutual quarry, combined with Scrope’s giving every indication of being city-bred, suggested that Scrope had no real ability to track and needed him to point the way.

  Taught to track game of various sorts from the time he could walk, McKinsey rarely failed to find a trail through any country. If Eliza Cynster and her gentleman-rescuer had headed into the Moorfoot Hills, he would find them easily, but if he did, Scrope would follow, and the hills were distressingly isolated, largely devoid of habitation or humans. Leading Scrope to the pair in such a landscape didn’t seem at all wise.

  He trusted Scrope rather less far than he could throw him.