In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Jeremy clamped his lips over hers and drank in the sound. Savored each evocative whimper of her surrender even as he savored the evocative clutch and release of her slick sheath contracting about his erection.

  Eyes closed, jaw clenched, he waited, clinging to the sensations, clinging not to control but to the pleasure of the moment …

  As it faded he turned to the bed; withdrawing from the snug haven of her body, he toppled her onto the covers.

  She sprawled on her back, her richly golden hair spread in mussed glory, her breasts, flushed and swollen, rising and falling, her arms, her hands, lying weak at her sides. He gave himself a moment to enjoy the sight, then, driven by his own brutally aroused need, he grasped her thighs, spread them wide, bent his head and set his mouth to her lush softness.

  The scream she uttered was too breathless to carry beyond the room.

  He feasted and she writhed. Reaching down, she clutched his head, locked her fingers in his hair.

  Sobbed and moaned as he drove her on.

  The sounds of her pleasure were as music to his ears; he gloried in all he drew from her. Gloried even more in her abandon; after that moment of initial shock, she gave herself over to the intimate play, surrendered and let him have his way.

  Let him love her as he wished. Intimately. Explicitly.

  When, with a keening cry, she shattered again, he hesitated for only a heartbeat, then rolled her onto her stomach, climbed onto the bed, gripped and raised her hips. Lifting her to her knees before him, he positioned himself, then thrust hard and deep into her. Into the scalding slickness of her sheath.

  Into the pleasured haven of her body.

  Into the maelstrom of need and hunger, passion and desire, of a desperate yearning for even greater intimacy that whirled about them, closed around them, and drove them on.

  And she strove with him. She pushed back and took him deeper, braced and urged him on. Her gasps, her sobbing pants, mingled with his own exhalations as, chest heaving, muscles corded and straining, he plundered her body searching for release.

  As she claimed him, and held him, pleasured him, and drove him ever on.

  His need was a fury, a lashing whip. Desire grew spurs and sank them deep.

  Passion rose like a raging sea and swept him on.

  And her need was an equally potent force, equally powerful, a sirenlike call of command and demand that wrapped about his senses, that combined with his own wanting to bind him, subdue him, seize, and then consume him.

  Passion had its way with them, turned and savaged them, then, on their last desperate gasps, ripped them both from the world.

  Tossed them high.

  Higher.

  Then let them fall.

  He collapsed upon her, managed to roll to the side so he didn’t crush her.

  His limbs no longer functioned, not at all.

  He lay there, heart thundering, racked and helpless as he’d never been before, and some part of him marveled at the power, at the pinnacle of glory they’d reached.

  At the depth of the satiation that now rolled like a warm sea over him, submerging his senses.

  As he lay there, conquered, and surrendered his heart, unable, it seemed, to do anything else.

  He felt her hand reaching weakly, blindly. Managed to catch it in one of his. Fingers twining, they lay side by side, trying to find the way back to normal.

  Eventually, they stirred, and managed, via inarticulate murmurs and passion-weakened limbs, to wrestle back the covers, climb beneath, and settle themselves in the bed. He reached over her and snuffed out the candle on her side, then slumped back and did the same with the candle nearer him.

  The night closed around them, wrapped them in dark arms, yet the rush of water churning and racing outside the window was a reminder of irresistible change, of tomorrow and what it would bring.

  Drifting on the cusp of sleep, his mind ranged ahead. There was no question over what their relationship would be once they crossed the Cheviots. Marriage was their only option; he knew that as well as she. Accepted it, too, as she did. Yet the tone of their marriage … that still lay in their hands, theirs to determine, theirs to declare.

  To decide.

  But that was for later. For tomorrow, as she’d said.

  For tonight … he drew her deeper into his arms. Settled his cheek on her hair and closed his eyes. Sighed, content, as she shifted and sank against him, her pendant trapped between them, over his heart.

  In a welter of tangled limbs, they slept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  hey drove out of Bonchester into the rising sun. Eliza was very conscious of the tension afflicting them; she felt as tight as a piano wire and knew without asking that Jeremy felt the same.

  Up in the room in the predawn light, they’d discussed whether she should revert to her male disguise, but they’d agreed that the likely instant of confusion when Scrope or the laird — both of whom had last seen her dressed as a youth — first set eyes on her once again in a gown might prove vital.

  Might prove the key to them racing past their pursuer or pursuers and getting far enough ahead to elude them. Or at least to cross the border into more friendly territory before said pursuers caught up with them.

  Both Jeremy and she were unhappily convinced that somewhere before the border they would encounter either the laird or Scrope. Possibly both. At the same time. Clutching the side of the gig as Jeremy drove the roan as fast as he dared down the lane toward Langlee, she saw no reason not to pray.

  The locals had steered them well; both bridges between Bonchester and Langlee were still standing, although at the second they took the precaution of descending from the gig and walking carefully across, Eliza first, with Jeremy leading the horse over the planks.

  Reaching the other side, they exchanged a glance, climbed back into the gig, and rattled on.

  Just over an hour later, they reached Langlee. The village sprawled to the west of the highway about five miles south of Jedburgh.

  Jeremy drew the horse to a halt before the first cottage, where the rest of the village buildings screened them from anyone on the highway. His face grim, he glanced at Eliza. “Once we turn onto the highway, I’m going to drive on hell-for-leather, as fast as I possibly can. The border’s about twelve miles on — an hour, perhaps a little more, at our best speed. We can’t risk stopping — not intentionally.” He held her gaze. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “Yes. That’s our best chance for reaching the border safely, so …” She looked at the highway, drew breath, then, chin firming, met his eyes again. “Let’s go.”

  He started to lift the reins, then swore beneath his breath. Transferring the reins to one hand, he turned to her, with his other hand captured her chin, tipped her face to his, and kissed her.

  Long, deep. A promise.

  A statement.

  Hands rising to his cheeks, she kissed him back, equally emphatic. Equally sure.

  The horse tossed its head, tugging the reins, jerking the gig.

  They broke from the kiss.

  Jeremy looked into her eyes, saw her confidence in him, her trust, and her courage, sensed her unwavering support.

  He nodded. “Right. Let’s go.”

  Facing forward, he flicked the reins and sent the roan pacing on.

  They turned right onto the highway and he dropped his hands. The horse stretched out, legs extending in a racing stride.

  There was little traffic that early, and what there was of it was heading the other way. The macadam was wide enough to allow the gig to whisk past coaches without Jeremy having to check its pace.

  When they swept past a tiny lane signposted as leading to Bairnkine, a cluster of three cottages in the fields to their right, Eliza raised her voice over the sound of the roan’s drumming hooves. “Do you have any idea where the laird or Scrope might think to waylay us?”

  She should have thought to ask earlier, but Jeremy shook his head. Without taking his eyes from the road, he cal
led back, “There’s not a lot of towns along here, so there’s long stretches of road where they can be reasonably sure of staying out of anyone else’s sight. The only reason they might hold back is if there’s a carriage coming the other way.” Lips grim, he added, “I’m hoping the closer we get to the border we’ll strike more carriages heading north.”

  It had to be after nine o’clock, yet there wasn’t much traffic on the road. Then again, the Jedburgh Road wasn’t the usual route coaches took from England to Edinburgh. Although on the map the road looked reasonably straight, in reality it was straight only for short stretches, frequently curving this way, then that, and always going up and down, dipping and rising, through areas of open fields one moment, through dense fir forests the next.

  It was impossible to see very far in any direction.

  Maintaining a tight grip on the gig’s side, Eliza looked ahead, searching both sides of the road as far forward as she could see, hoping that if Scrope or the laird were lying in wait she might spot them before she and Jeremy reached them.

  A line of denser trees winding across the occasional open field to their left suggested a river ran near.

  “That’ll be the Jed Water,” Jeremy said. “It eventually joins the Tweed.”

  “Do we have to cross it?” she yelled back, the rushing wind of their passage whipping her words away. They hadn’t had to cross any river since they’d turned onto the highway.

  Jeremy hesitated, then replied, “I’m not sure. Check the map and see.”

  Reaching down to the bags stowed between their feet, Eliza found the map. With the rocking of the gig, unfolding it required patience, but she eventually had it open and refolded to allow her to hold it in one hand and study the right section, while resuming her bracing grip on the gig’s side.

  “We should pass a turnoff to the right, to a place called Mervinslaw, soon. A little way past that, around a curve, we’ll come to a bridge over the river. There’s a village on the left just there — it looks to be mostly on the opposite bank, so hopefully there’ll be a decent bridge.”

  Jeremy was frowning. “There must be. I can’t remember crossing any fords or even rickety wooden bridges when I drove along this stretch following you to Edinburgh.” After a moment, he continued, “In fact, as far as I can recall we shouldn’t run into difficulties, even if it’s been pouring over the Cheviots.”

  “Good.” Lowering the map to her lap, Eliza looked ahead, searching for a signpost to Mervinslaw. Without a signpost, minor lanes and the driveways to farms set back from the road weren’t easy to distinguish.

  “There it is.” She pointed with the map. “Mervinslaw.” Checking the map gave her some idea of how fast they were traveling, of the distance they had to go. “We’re almost halfway down the stretch of the highway to the border.”

  “And we still haven’t sighted Scrope or the laird.” Jeremy straightened his spine, eased his shoulders, then settled in his seat again. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

  “We should look on the bright side,” Eliza called back.

  “Perhaps.” It was tempting to join her in her enthusiasm and confidence; at their present rate of travel, another hour would see them over the border and well into England. But he couldn’t shake the feeling — more than a premonition, more like a statistical certainty — that they wouldn’t get away so easily. That Scrope and the laird wouldn’t allow them to.

  They rattled on around a wide, rising curve; the denseness of the stands of firs bordering both sides of the road made Jeremy nervous. Anyone could be hidden by the thick boughs, watching, and he and Eliza wouldn’t know, not until the watcher showed himself.

  The tension gripping him racked a notch tighter, but then they crested the rise and the trees fell away, a narrow river valley opening to their left, the line of trees continuing less dense and thick on the right.

  “Here’s the bridge.” It was an arched bridge of brick and stone, carrying the highway across the river, spanning it at a safe height and as wide as the highway itself. He let the horse take the upward rise of the bridge in its still rapid stride, then steadied the roan down the other side.

  Crack!

  Splinters flew from the side of the gig beside his hip. Jeremy flung himself sideways, across Eliza, even as he looked toward the trees … ahead, to the right, he saw light glint off a pistol barrel, then Scrope burst out of hiding, mounted on a heavy gray.

  “Halt!” Scrope thundered toward them, waving the pistol.

  Jeremy swore. His hands full holding in the plunging roan, he kept his body angled across Eliza’s —

  He saw the mouth of a narrow lane to the left at the end of the bridge.

  Hauling on the reins, he wrestled the panicking roan around, swung the horse’s head down the lane, then let the reins run free. “Hang on!”

  The roan all but bolted.

  Stretching out in a flat gallop, it flew down the lane, the gig bouncing and jouncing behind it.

  Still on the road, Scrope cursed.

  Jeremy flicked a glance at Eliza, relieved to see she had a white-knuckled grip on the gig’s side and on the seat between them. She still held the map, crushed between the fingers gripping the seat. Her gaze was locked on the lane ahead.

  It twisted and turned much more frequently than the highway, going up small hills, then plunging down. They whipped past a thick forest, then the lane curved away from the river and arched over a rise in a wide sweeping turn.

  Reining in his own shock, Jeremy worked with the horse until it was pacing again, then took stock. “Scrope will chase us, but that forest back there will slow him down, and this landscape will help hide us from his sight.” He grimaced. “But we’re on a lane, so if he knows where it leads …” He glanced at Eliza. “Where will this lane take us?”

  Eliza had already drawn a steadying breath, eased her hold on the seat, and raised the map to look.

  She tried to calm her pounding heart enough to function, to subdue her panic enough to think. Jeremy had been driving fast before; even though the horse was pacing again, the gig was now rocketing along. She studied the map, then frowningly looked ahead, comparing what she could see on the map with the countryside ….

  “There’s an intersection coming up ahead — almost a crossroads,” Jeremy said. “There’s a lane leading south —”

  “Don’t take it.” She’d found the spot on the map. “It only goes a little way along, then stops at a village called Falla. There’s not even a track that leads on from there.”

  “Right. Not Falla. So which way? Is there any route that will take us back to the highway?”

  She searched the map. “Straight on. Or what passes for that.” After a moment, she added, “We’re going to have to go around a bit — we’ll end up heading north instead of south for a little way, before we can turn and head around down a lane to a place called Swinside. After Swinside, that lane turns south. It’ll eventually join up with another lane that will take us back to the highway … about five miles from the border.”

  Grim-faced, Jeremy nodded. “I have no notion what Scrope’s thinking, but we have to assume he’s going to try to keep us away from the border. I checked before — none of these minor lanes lead into England. The only way for us to cross the border is to get back on the Jedburgh Road, or head much further north to one of the other major roads.”

  Having confirmed as much from her study of the map, Eliza nodded. “We have to take that lane back to the highway — it’s our only reasonable option.”

  “Pray Scrope is following us rather than using his head and working out where we’ll go. If he’s chasing us in the hope he’ll catch us up — which, all things being equal, he eventually would — we might have a chance.”

  Eliza looked at the horse. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s not fresh, but he’s strong and willing. He’s got a good few miles in him yet, even at this pace.” After a moment, Jeremy added, “I’d like to ease back and let him get his
wind, but I simply don’t dare. We have to get past Swinside and around into the lane back to the highway before Scrope realizes our direction.”

  He didn’t like their chances. Scrope had shown himself to be clever; he would have studied maps ahead of time. He would know the lanes.

  But they no longer had a choice over which route to take.

  “If we see Scrope again, duck down in front of the seat. It would help if I knew you were as safe as possible so I can concentrate on doing whatever I can to avoid Scrope.”

  He felt Eliza’s gaze touch his face, then she nodded. “All right.”

  He kept the roan at a racing pace, up hill and down, then they reached the lane to Swinside and slowed for the sharp right turn; once around it, he let the ribbons run free and the horse raced on.

  They flashed past the tiny hamlet of Swinside and rocketed on. The lane at last curved fully south once more, following the banks of another uplands stream.

  Eliza eyed the stream. “At least it hasn’t been raining so hard around here.”

  “No. We shouldn’t have to worry about washed-out bridges in this area.”

  The lane diverged around another small hill; coming out of its screening shadow, they saw a stretch of dense forest ahead, closing around the lane from either side.

  Consulting the map again, Eliza said, “I don’t know how far the forest stretches, but the lane we want should be cutting across this one somewhere past that next rise.”

  They could see that some way into the forest, the lane reached a crest, then disappeared over it.

  There was no way to tell what lay beyond, not until they were over the crest and within sight of anyone on the other side.

  Jeremy could see no logical reason why he should suddenly feel sure that someone — Scrope or the laird — would indeed be waiting, but his instincts were pricking, sharply, and Trentham and his Bastion Club colleagues had always cautioned him to trust his instincts.

  Instincts of this sort he’d never truly felt before, never quite believed he had, but …