In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Before he could ask, Eliza said, “When we reach the intersection with the other lane, we have to turn right, back toward the highway. Left will take us further along the Cheviots, and straight on will come to a dead end just a little way on into the hills.”

  He nodded. “All right. Just pray Scrope is somewhere behind us, and remember what I said.”

  They were nearing the crest. From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, saw her lower the map and take a tighter grip on the gig’s seat; she, too, was looking ahead.

  The horse crested the rise at speed, and then they were over and flying down the other side. They could hear the burbling of the stream to their right. And sure enough, just ahead, the trees fell back on either side where the lane they wanted to take cut across the lane they were on.

  He had to slow the horse to take the turn. Both he and Eliza searched the thinning trees to their right. Then the trees ended and the first hundred or so yards of the other lane came fully into view. They could see a narrow wooden bridge carrying the lane across the stream; thicker bushes crowded the stream’s banks and extended back along the lane toward the intersection.

  Slowing almost to a walk, Jeremy turned the horse’s head.

  “No!” Eliza pointed down the lane. “There!”

  Jeremy didn’t even look. The terror in her voice had him hauling hard on the reins and turning the horse …

  He remembered her warning about the dead end ahead, wrestled and heaved and forced the roan to swing fully the other way.

  Crack-ping!

  Another shot, one that hit the metal back of the gig’s seat.

  The horse panicked. Jeremy let the reins flow and let him fly. “Get down!”

  Eliza scrambled and crouched down, but a few seconds later she raised her head and peered over the back of the gig’s seat.

  Jeremy swore at her, but she ignored him. He couldn’t spare a hand to push her back down. As he fought to reassert control over the panicked horse, he ground out, “Who was it?”

  “Scrope. He was waiting in the bushes nearer the bridge — when he shifted, I saw him.” She paused, then added, “If he hadn’t moved, I wouldn’t have seen him.”

  “Thankfully, you did.” He didn’t like the tone of her voice; he couldn’t allow her to freeze with shock. “I assume he’s following us?”

  “After shooting at us, he ran back — I presume to get his horse.”

  Jeremy cast about in his mind. “Look at the map — which is the best way to go?” He couldn’t look himself, but he trusted her to choose as wisely as possible given what little they knew.

  “He’s not in sight.” Easing back onto the seat, she smoothed out the crumpled map and studied it. After a moment, she said, “There’s no way back to the Jedburgh Road, not from here. The best we can do now is to keep turning left on this lane. It’ll curve north again, and eventually we’ll reach another road which will take us over the border … but it’s a long way out of our way, and even once we cross into England, we’ll be much further from Wolverstone than we are now.”

  Jeremy had never had to assess such weighty options under such pressure, but … “We need to get over the border as fast as we can, in whatever way we can. Given Scrope has shot at us twice, we can claim protection from anyone in authority on either side of the border, but in this area the nearest outposts of authority are in England.”

  Examining the map, Eliza gauged the distances to the nearest major towns, sighed. “Given Scrope is behind us, we can’t turn back to Jedburgh, so the nearest town of any size is indeed across the border.”

  The lane they were now on was similar to the other; if anything, it twisted, turned, dipped, and rose even more dramatically through what was essentially the foothills of the Cheviots.

  Jeremy had managed to ease the roan back into its proper pacing stride, but even to her non-horsewoman eyes the beast was tiring.

  “What’s ahead?” Jeremy asked.

  She glanced at the map. “There’s a fork just ahead. We need to go left.”

  They rocketed along a straight, rising stretch. She looked back and frowned. “Scrope hasn’t appeared.”

  “He’s probably trying to outflank us.” After a moment, Jeremy went on, “If I was him, I’d stay on our right, forcing us to turn away from the border. Once we do, he can come up on either side, but for now keep looking for him on our right.”

  Gripping the side of the swaying gig, she shifted to look past Jeremy, scanning the trees, bushes, and fields. They burst from a stretch of forest to find a patch of open fields surrounding the fork. Jeremy checked the roan only just enough to take the turn; as they swung onto the left arm, Eliza swiveled and looked back — and saw a horseman, mounted on a heavy gray, charge across the field behind them. “Scrope — but he’s not coming directly for us.”

  Jeremy urged the roan on. “How far away?”

  “One hundred and fifty … two hundred yards?”

  “Damn — what’s he doing?” After a moment, Jeremy said, “Look at the map — from the fork to the next place we have to turn, who has the shortest route? Us via the road, or Scrope riding in a direct line?”

  “Scrope.” A glance at the map confirmed it.

  Jeremy’s jaw set. “We’ve got to reach that turn before him. Hang on.” Raising the long whip he hadn’t until then used, he sent it snaking out over the horse to crack just beside the roan’s ear.

  If she hadn’t been so terrified, Eliza would have spared more of her mind to being impressed. Instead, as the horse responded, she clutched the gig’s side and seat and hung on for dear life.

  They raced along at a pace far beyond reckless. How Jeremy kept them on the dipping, winding lane she did not know; she prayed they encountered no potholes or unexpected ruts.

  “It can’t be much further,” she yelled over the rattling wheels.

  Grim-faced, Jeremy nodded ahead. “There it is.”

  They flashed into open country again, pushing hard for the crossroads ahead. Another stream crossed their path, another narrow wooden bridge spanning it. “Can you see Scrope?” Jeremy called.

  “No — not yet.” Eliza raked the country to their right. Scrope had to be coming that way.

  The horse’s hooves thudded on the wood of the bridge. The gig bumped, rocked … then righted as the flagging roan lunged on. The crossroads lay a hundred yards ahead.

  Eliza caught a flash of movement through the trees screening the intersecting lane. The roan’s next stride drew them to where she could see — “On the lane to the right!” She stared as Scrope came surging on, flogging his gray in a desperate gallop. “My God! He’s trying to run us down!”

  Time slowed. Jeremy saw the potential outcomes like a kaleidoscope in his mind. He drew the roan in as if slowing for the turn. Eyes on Scrope and the gray, he gauged the distance, the gray’s all but uncontrolled speed … Scrope saw them and straightened, reaching for the holster in the saddle to his right, then realized the gray wasn’t about to halt. Scrope swore and yanked hard on the reins.

  The gray reared.

  Jeremy dropped his hands, flicked the whip, and sent the roan plunging on.

  Straight ahead.

  He couldn’t have slowed and made the left turn they’d wanted to make; that would have given Scrope their backs, and he hadn’t been, still wasn’t, prepared to risk that.

  As it was, Scrope was fully occupied in controlling the gray, and even if he tried a shot now, Jeremy was between him and Eliza.

  White-faced, Eliza glanced back, then looked at him. “This leads to a dead end.”

  Jeremy’s jaw couldn’t get any tighter. “I know. We didn’t have a choice.”

  “He’s coming after us.”

  “How far?”

  “Three hundred yards or so.”

  It would have to be enough. The lane — increasingly badly surfaced, but that would slow Scrope as much as the gig — swung around another low hill, temporarily cutting them off from Scrope.

  The
turmoil in Jeremy’s mind cleared; out of all the options they’d had, one remained. “How far before the end of this lane?”

  “Not far.” Eliza swiveled to look ahead, then pointed. “I think it must end just around that next bend.”

  “All right.” The pieces of a plan fell into place in his mind. “Look at the map. Put one finger on the end of the lane, then look for a place called Windy Gyle — it should be somewhere to our east, in the middle of the Cheviots. It’s on the main ridge. Put another finger there, then hold up the map and show me.”

  Head down, she scoured the map, then gripped it with both hands, held it up so he could see.

  He glanced at it, then looked forward again. “What’s the distance?”

  She looked. “About eight miles.”

  He nodded. “We’re going to take this gig as far as we can — get as deep into the hills as we can. Then we’re going to leave it and make a dash for Windy Gyle.”

  “Why there?”

  “Clennell Street, one of the main drover’s roads, runs down into England in the shadow of Windy Gyle. And Clennell Street leads more or less straight down to the gates of Wolverstone Castle. I rode up to Windy Gyle with Royce a few weeks ago — it’s about ten miles from the castle.”

  “Can we reach it, do you think, with Scrope mounted and close behind us?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s our best option.” He grimaced and urged the poor roan on. “We don’t really have any other.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from her, but her chin went up and she nodded. “Windy Gyle it is, then.” She glanced down. “What about our bags?”

  “Get out anything you can’t leave behind. There’s a knife in the bottom of my bag — get it out for me. I don’t need anything else in there.”

  She dragged his bag onto her lap. “I don’t need anything at all.”

  “The water bottles — take them. And your cloak, too.”

  She didn’t waste time answering, just gathered the items, bundling the water bottles in her cloak and holding his second knife. Then she glanced back. “Scrope just came around that last bend. He’s getting closer.”

  They rounded the next curve; as Eliza had guessed, the lane ended just ahead. Their progress slowed considerably as both horse and lane failed.

  Even when the lane petered out, Jeremy kept driving as long as he could, turning upward, into the rising hills. “There’s a cottage over there — they’ll find the horse.” A thin stream of smoke rose into the sky from a distant crofter’s hut.

  Jeremy finally spotted what they needed, then glanced behind them. Scrope was still out of sight, hidden by the last curve. He hauled on the reins. “Come on. Out and up that sheep track.”

  Eliza jumped down as the gig rocked to a halt. She raced for the track.

  After looping the reins loosely enough to let the horse wander, Jeremy raced after her.

  They pelted into the shadows of a cleft between two hills. Ferns grew thickly. Taking the knife and stowing it in his pocket, Jeremy lifted the bundled bottles from Eliza’s arms, then urged her on. They started to climb.

  To scramble and haul themselves up the increasingly steep sides of the hill.

  “He won’t be able to ride up this,” Eliza said without turning around.

  Jeremy grunted. “That’s why I chose this way.”

  They reached the top of the hill, crossed the windswept expanse of the crown at a run, then rushed wildly down into the dip beyond.

  And started to climb the next slope.

  But Scrope wasn’t to be so easily denied.

  Twenty minutes of mad scrambling later, they were crossing a wide, almost flat valley between two folds in the hills when they heard the thud of horse’s hooves. Looking along the valley, they saw Scrope thundering toward them, pistol in hand, his gaze locked on them as he urged his horse on.

  Jeremy swore. “Go!” He pushed Eliza on along the slowly rising sheep track they’d been following. Clumps of gorse surrounded them, thigh-high, occasionally snagging their clothes.

  Scrope must have circled and come up to the higher valley by another route. He was racing up along the ribbon of grassy meadowland along the valley floor.

  They reached the first rocks and the track became grittier, more stone and rubble as they started on the next steep upward climb. Looking ahead, Jeremy saw another cleft up ahead. If they could make it that far, and rush further into the shadows, Scrope would have to get off his horse to follow … could they get far enough ahead to be out of pistol range?

  Slowing, starting to feel the effort of so much rushing and running — and if he was, how was Eliza faring?— Jeremy called to her, “Keep going. Fast as you can.” He made sure she was climbing and scrambling as best as she could, then he paused, turned, and looked back.

  Scrope wasn’t far, still in the saddle, arms flapping as he forced the gray through the gorse. He was still out of pistol range but closing.

  A knife against a pistol wasn’t good odds, but if Scrope missed his shot …

  Jeremy vacillated — make a stand, or —

  The gray jerked, then reared, letting out a low scream.

  Taken unawares, Scrope flailed wildly, then toppled from the saddle. The gray bolted.

  For an instant, Jeremy stared, then he turned and raced after Eliza.

  Only to see that she’d stopped higher up, not that much further on, and turned back to see … he waved her on. “Go — go!”

  This was their chance to get far enough away from Scrope that he would lose their trail. They reached the cleft and climbed frantically on.

  Finally gaining the top of that rise, they both paused and glanced back. Scrope’s horse was clearly visible, galloping madly away down the valley. Scrope … it took them a few moments to locate him. He was coming on still, wading through the gorse, dogged and determined, the pistol he’d been waving still in his hand.

  Jeremy gripped Eliza’s elbow. “Come on.”

  Hauling in a breath, she nodded and they turned to the next rising slope. Jeremy scanned it, then spotted the opening of a narrow valley between two rocky humps. “That way. We need to get out of his sight.”

  They ran as fast as they could.

  As they passed into the narrow valley, Jeremy glanced back. He couldn’t see Scrope, but he had no firm conviction that Scrope couldn’t see him.

  Noon came and went as they climbed. They had to start pacing themselves, walking when they felt sufficiently screened. Their scrambling up shaded clefts grew slower, but they forged on. The next hours passed in tense endurance; they couldn’t risk halting, didn’t know if Scrope was still on their trail, or if he was close. Close enough to threaten them.

  All they could do was labor on.

  Eliza had long since forbidden herself to ask even herself the question of whether or not they would ever make it safely over the border; she had to believe they would.

  They climbed and climbed, then climbed and walked some more, over a landscape that appeared to have been created by a giant’s hand pushing the earth aside so that it crumpled in a series of ever-rising folds, like a tablecloth shoved roughly to one side. She was beyond thankful that of necessity she was still wearing her youth’s riding boots beneath her gown. By Jeremy’s side, she sloshed through numerous small burns and skirted a narrow lake. The ground was drier up there, possibly because it was rockier. The air was fresh and clear, and carried the tang of the wild, but it grew increasingly cold as slate-gray clouds blew up from the west, roiling and swelling to take over the sky, then rolling steadily toward them.

  Even though it was still midafternoon, the light was waning.

  The sun had disappeared early in their climb, but enough of its light shone from behind the clouds to guide them. Jeremy had again and again checked their direction and kept them heading steadily east.

  Finally they reached the crest of a ridge that appeared nearly as high as the next ridge along, which itself wasn’t that far away … and beyond that nex
t ridge lay a view over fields and forests that seemed to stretch to infinity.

  “England.” Jeremy stared at the panorama. “But we can’t get down the escarpment except at certain places.”

  “Like Windy Gyle?”

  He nodded. They were both breathing hard.

  Eliza was frankly amazed she’d made it this far; walking had never been high on her list of favored activities, but apparently the striding across country she’d been doing with Jeremy over recent days had built up some degree of stamina. She glanced at him, saw him looking along the escarpment, following it further east. “So where is it?”

  Raising a hand, he pointed. “There. That peak.”

  She turned and looked. Moved closer to make sure the rounded peak she could see was the one he was pointing at.

  “Clennell Street goes down the escarpment just this side of Windy Gyle.”

  Measuring the distance, deciding there was still an hour or more walking to go, she blew out a breath. “Well, at least we don’t have to go around it.”

  With that, she looked down and started walking. Trudging along, one foot in front of the other.

  Jeremy turned to follow her, but then stopped and turned back. Retracing the few paces to the edge of the steep slope they’d just climbed, he looked down, back along their track … softly swore.

  Scrope was still there, still coming on.

  Turning, Jeremy joined Eliza, who’d halted a little way along.

  “Scrope?”

  Jeremy nodded. “But he’s quite a way back. With luck, now we’re out of his sight he’ll lose us completely somewhere along the way.”

  He waved her on and she turned and went.

  Tramping in her wake, he hoped he was right in thinking Scrope was no great tracker. Both he and Eliza were flagging, but from what he could see, so was Scrope. As long as they stayed out of pistol range, they should be safe.

  Should be. He would have felt a great deal more confident over their situation had it not been for the question niggling at the back of his mind.

  Where is the laird?

  Looking ahead, he told himself it was pointless speculating. All they could do was flee as fast as they could and pray they reached one of Royce’s holdings before either Scrope, or his employer, caught up with them.