In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  They were mad, the lot of them. “Daft as ale-addled gits.”

  Then again, they were English, all three of them, Scrope included. Presumably that explained it.

  The laird swore and strode on through the gorse as fast as he could. Scrope was between him, and Eliza and her gentleman. Worse, contrary to his every expectation, Scrope was willing to shoot, presumably to kill.

  Admittedly, when he’d first seen Scrope waving a pistol while bailing up their fleeing pair north of St. Boswells, he’d had that odd premonition about having to stand by and watch Scrope shoot Eliza’s gentleman. Later, however, he’d convinced himself that that thought had been irrationally fanciful — Scrope was a professional; he would know better than to kill a man he hadn’t been hired to kill. He’d concluded Scrope had intended merely to use the pistol to intimidate.

  But today Scrope had shot at his quarry. Twice. He hadn’t shot into the air to frighten; he’d shot directly at them. He’d hit the gig on both occasions, confirming the laird’s opinion of Scrope’s prowess once outside a town. Shooting a pistol at close quarters in an alley the man might manage, but in the country on horseback he was out of his element.

  What worried the laird to the depth of his soul was that on both occasions Scrope could just as well have hit the girl as the man.

  Which didn’t bear thinking about.

  Neither outcome bore thinking about.

  He had to catch Scrope and put a permanent end to the man’s obsession with Eliza and her gentleman.

  And it certainly appeared to be an obsession.

  He’d been watching Scrope near the bridge over the Jed Water, waiting to step in if Scrope halted the pair. The pistol itself he’d expected; Scrope’s use of it he had not.

  Unfortunately, he’d been too far away to immediately intervene, and so he’d found himself chasing Scrope — who proved to have found himself a decent horse.

  Hercules was a Trojan, but he wasn’t built for speed, and with the laird on his back he was no match for Scrope’s gray. Frustrated, furious — and fearing he wouldn’t reach Scrope in time to stop the man putting a ball into someone — the laird had ridden as hard as he could after Scrope.

  Once they’d hit the hills, however, the terrain had changed, and the laird had steadily closed the distance.

  He’d been out of earshot — and he carried no pistol — when he’d seen Scrope riding hard toward Eliza and her gentleman as they’d scrambled on. He’d seen the gentleman send Eliza ahead and turn to face Scrope.

  Luckily for the gentleman, the laird had a fine arm and excellent aim. He’d vaulted from the saddle, scooped up some flinty gravel, and sent a few sharp shards flying at Scrope’s horse. The stones wouldn’t have hurt the horse so much as stung it, which had proved enough to unseat Scrope.

  An outcrop of rock had hidden him from the fleeing pair as they’d raced on. Scrope, for his part, had stared after his spooked horse, sworn, then swung around and rushed after his quarry; he’d never looked back, so he hadn’t seen the laird.

  The laird had had to take the time to tether Hercules before resuming the chase on foot. Now he forged on, pressing on as fast as he could.

  He was closing on Scrope, yard by yard, but at the same time, Scrope was closing on Eliza and her protector.

  And the laird was seriously questioning whether, in the matter of Eliza Cynster and her rescuer, Scrope was entirely sane.

  Under his breath, the laird muttered a prayer that he would catch Scrope before Scrope caught them.

  He couldn’t stand by and watch them die.

  Jeremy’s hand on her back was all that got Eliza to the top of the next narrow ridge. She stepped away from the edge and slumped over, hands braced on her knees as she dragged air into her lungs. Bent over, all but wheezing, she looked ahead.

  Directly in their faces rose a solid wall of rock, too high to climb. To their left, the ridge ran on, a long fold in the earth’s crust, a sheep track leading along the windswept crest. Further on, the rock wall ended, but she couldn’t see what lay around it.

  “Follow the track.” Jeremy, also breathing hard, came up behind her. “It’s not that much further.”

  Thank God! Eliza didn’t waste breath saying the words, but straightened and got her feet moving. At a shambling run, they followed the narrow track on along the ridge.

  They’d reached an elevation where the views back into Scotland were spectacular, but she had no mind left to register the sight. Just how high they were was emphasized when the left side of the ridge fell away in a cliff, increasingly precipitous the further along they went. She slowed and glanced over.

  At her shoulder, Jeremy did the same, then urged her on. “Quite a way down.”

  It had to be hundreds of feet. “Did you see the rocks at the bottom?”

  “Yes. Luckily, we’re not going that way.” Jeremy turned her from the precipice. The rock wall had ended; he pointed across a steep, narrow valley, almost a ravine, to the next ridge. A sheep — or at this height was it a goat?— track zigzagged down, then up the other side. “We have to climb up there, and get through that gap.” He pointed to the top of the next ridge, to a narrow cleft between two huge boulders. “Then it’s down the other side to Clennell Street.”

  Windy Gyle towered before them, directly ahead. The ridge that lay before them was the last before they reached the peak itself, hence Clennell Street should lie exactly where Jeremy had said — in the upland valley beyond the next ridge.

  With that prospect before her, Eliza drew in a deep breath and set off down the track as fast as she could. She’d kilted her skirts and petticoat some time ago, leaving her booted feet freer, her strides less hampered. Still, she was tired and had to watch her feet.

  When she reached the bottom of the dip, she called over her shoulder, “Scrope?”

  “Still behind us,” came the grim reply.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Not that I can see, but given our direction, I can’t see how the laird might have outflanked us. If he’s around, he’s at least as far back as Scrope.” Who, Jeremy didn’t bother mentioning, had put on a burst of speed and was gaining on them.

  As they started up the other side of the narrow valley, he glanced back to the ridge they’d left, then, unwelcome premonition prickling once more, looked to the top of the rise they were climbing … and inwardly swore. He hadn’t noticed earlier how very close the two ridges actually were, but from the bottom of the ravine, the direct distance, or lack thereof, was evident.

  Placing a hand on Eliza’s back to steady her, he leaned nearer and said, “We need to push hard to get through the gap between the boulders.” Hearing the sudden desperation in his voice, and guessing she would too, he added, “Until we do, we’ll be within pistol range of the last ridge.”

  Eliza shot him a glance over her shoulder, looked back and up at the last ridge, then turned and scrambled on faster.

  But they could only go so fast. The track, such as it was, was rocky and gravelly; any unwisely placed boot could slip and slide. He was panting, and Eliza was gasping and pressing a hand to her side, when they finally scrambled onto a rocky slope, a reasonably gentle incline that led upward to the twin boulders and the gap between.

  Straightening, Eliza took a step and staggered.

  Wrapping an arm about her waist, he pulled her up and on.

  Their feet seemed heavy as they covered the last yards. “Once we’re through and can get going down the other side,” he told her, “we should reach Clennell Street and be heading down into England before Scrope —”

  “Halt! Stop!”

  They swung around. On the ridge they’d left, Scrope stood, feet spread wide, swaying a little as he fought to train a pistol on them.

  Slowly, Jeremy and Eliza straightened. The options they had left to them flashed across Jeremy’s brain.

  Surreptitiously, he nudged Eliza. Without taking his eyes from Scrope, he murmured, “Keep edging toward the gap. Slowly.”
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br />   They stared at Scrope, and Scrope, chest heaving, stared wild-eyed at them.

  Sliding her boot sideways, Eliza edged half a step along the incline.

  Beside her, Jeremy edged the opposite way; the space between them widened.

  Scrope snarled, “Stop! I told you to stop!”

  Jeremy took another step away from Eliza, away from the safety of the gap between the boulders.

  Scrope swung his pistol back and forth between them. They were near enough to see the burning intent that distorted his features, the maniacal gleam in his eyes. The indecision as he struggled to decide whom to shoot.

  Jeremy had assumed the answer would be him. He tensed to spring to his left, further away from Eliza, hoped she would know to run for her life when the pistol discharged —

  Scrope’s lips lifted in a soundless snarl and he swung the barrel toward Eliza and steadied.

  “No!” Changing direction, Jeremy flung himself at Eliza.

  He hit her as the pistol discharged — felt the rake of hot coals, a searing heat, across the back of his upper left arm — then he and she landed on the rocky ground.

  They both lost their breath.

  The sudden pain of the wound momentarily stunned him.

  “You’re hit! You’re wounded! Damn it, you’re bleeding!” Eliza felt close to hysterical, but with a form of fury, rather than fear. Instead of freezing her, it infused and inflamed her, and gave her a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

  She wrestled Jeremy back, pushing until she could wriggle from under him and ease him back into a slump on the ground.

  He caught her hands before she could examine his wound. “No — we need to run. Now.” He started to struggle up.

  “Don’t be stupid — one pistol, one shot.” But his jaw clenched with pain, he insisted on getting to his feet. She found herself helping to haul him up. “Oh, all right. Be my hero, then.” Her mouth was running on without her mind; she didn’t care. “If it’ll keep you happy, we’ll go through the gap, down Clennell Street, and on into safety, and then —”

  “No, you won’t.”

  The undiluted vitriol dripping from Scrope’s tones had Eliza turning.

  As she’d expected, Scrope had flung his now useless pistol aside, but contrary to her assumptions, he hadn’t started after them. He still stood on the other ridge, facing them — with another, smaller, but deadlier-looking pistol in his hand.

  “I told you,” he snarled, “you won’t get away. You can’t get away. Victor Scrope doesn’t lose his targets.”

  His arm rose a fraction higher as he took careful aim.

  A bloodcurdling roar erupted out of nowhere, all but drowning Jeremy’s desperate, “Eliza!”

  He grabbed her and pulled her back down to the ground — as on the other ridge a massive figure charged from behind the rock wall directly at Scrope.

  The roar had made Scrope hesitate. Seeing the figure rushing toward him, he started to turn to bring the pistol to bear on … the laird?

  The laird reached Scrope in a furious rush. Grabbing Scrope’s pistol hand, he forced it up, pointing the barrel at the sky.

  The pistol discharged harmlessly upward, the report ricocheting between the hills.

  Eliza resisted Jeremy’s efforts to shove her behind him. “No — look!” Eyes glued to the swaying figures grappling on the opposite ridge, she gripped Jeremy’s hand. “He — the laird — stopped Scrope from shooting us.”

  Shifting to sit up — putting her more or less in his lap — Jeremy stared over her shoulder and felt the utter bemusement that had laced her words infect him.

  Beyond stunned, they both watched the titanic struggle. Scrope wasn’t a small man, but the laird was half a head or more taller. And definitely larger, heavier. The advantage clearly lay with the laird, but he was, transparently, trying to subdue Scrope, while Scrope … had transformed into a rabid, raging monster intent only on getting free and coming after his “target.”

  Locked together, the men wrestled back and forth, boots scuffling on rock and coarse grass. Scrope struck at the laird whenever he could, but the laird merely blocked and caught Scrope’s arms again.

  To Jeremy, it seemed clear the laird was intent on wearing Scrope out, then securing him. Given the size of the laird’s fists, apparent even from Jeremy and Eliza’s position, one good blow might crack Scrope’s skull. The laird fought like a man very aware of his own strength.

  After that first bloodcurdling bellow, the laird had fought in grim silence, but Scrope was increasingly vocal. Finally, literally howling in fury, he broke free far enough to knee the laird — who shifted and caught the blow on his thigh.

  In doing so, to keep his balance, the laird swung Scrope toward the edge of the ridge, to the edge of the cliff.

  Scrope chose that moment to fling himself back, trying to break the laird’s grip.

  Scrope succeeded.

  On a triumphant bellow, he stepped back.

  Off the edge of the cliff into thin air.

  The look on his face as he realized was painful to see.

  Desperate, he lunged, caught the laird’s sleeve, fell — and took the laird with him.

  The big man toppled over the cliff and was gone.

  “My God!” Pressing her hands to her lips, Eliza stared at the empty space where seconds ago both the laird and Scrope had stood.

  A wailing scream — a bellow and scream combined — trailed away, then was abruptly cut off.

  She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or if she truly heard the thump of the bodies hitting the jagged rocks far below.

  Together with Jeremy she sat and stared as around them the silence of the mountains returned, then darker clouds washed across the waning sun, casting a deeper pall over the opposite ridge and the ravine.

  “Come on.” Jeremy urged her up.

  Slowly, she scrambled to her feet. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” Jeremy stood, twisting to look over his left shoulder at the gouge the pistol ball had scored across his upper arm. It had bled profusely, but the flow had slowed to sluggish. “But I think we need to get out of the hills to some place of reasonable safety before we stop and try to work it out.”

  Despite his wish, Eliza insisted on binding up his arm with strips torn from her petticoat. “I always wanted to have a reason to do that,” she said, smiling and willing him to let her have her way.

  So he did. But as soon as she’d secured her impromptu bandage, he caught her hand, tugged her to him, and kissed her. Ravenous, relieved, and so very thankful.

  Overwhelmingly grateful.

  And she met him, his roiling feelings mirrored in her kiss, in the barely overcome desperation and the soaring relief that had superseded it.

  Drawing back, he rested his forehead on hers. “I thought, for a moment, that I would lose you.”

  She clung, one hand tracing his cheek. “I …” Her voice shook, but she strengthened it and went on, “I felt so angry with you for being shot. I know you did it to save me, but …” She shrugged, looked up and met his eyes. “If you hadn’t been hurt, I think I would have hit you.”

  He smiled, then a laugh escaped. He put his good arm around her shoulders, lightly hugged. “Well, we’re a pair, it seems, for I wasn’t feeling particularly happy with you at one point in the proceedings, either.” Glancing at the other ridge, he shook his head. “But we’re here, still alive, and they’re dead. We survived.”

  He turned toward the boulders and the gap between.

  She hung back, met his gaze when he looked inquiringly at her. She tipped her head at the other ridge. “Should we go and look?”

  He held her gaze. “You saw the drop. There’s no way any man could survive that fall.”

  “But … we’ll never know who he was — the laird — and he did save us at the end.”

  “True, but that we needed to be saved was his fault in the first place, so …” Jeremy blew out a breath. “You could say he ju
st put right what he had originally caused to go wrong. Regardless, we can’t dally here. We’ve only a few hours before it’ll get too dark to risk walking on — we need to find safe shelter before then.”

  Her gaze went to his bandaged arm, and she nodded. “Yes. You’re right. They’re dead, and there’s nothing we can do to help them. And thanks to them both, we need to help ourselves.”

  Leaving his good arm around her shoulders, she slid her arm around his waist and looked ahead. “Come on, then. On home to England.”

  They reached the spot beside Windy Gyle where Clennell Street commenced its sharp descent over and down the escarpment. Leaning just a little on Eliza, Jeremy pointed. “The border itself lies just down there, more or less following the base of the escarpment. From here, the hills fall in a series of ridges down to the moorland.”

  “Just like the ridges we came up.”

  He drew breath, felt the faintly woozy feeling he’d been fighting for the last hundred yards wreathe through his brain again. Before he could stop himself, he confessed in a rush, “I can’t make it down.”

  Eliza looked at him, concern filling her eyes. “Your wound —”

  “It’s not so much the wound itself as the blood loss, I imagine. I can walk on reasonably well for a while, but going down that track …” He eyed the descent made for horsemen and cattle, not pedestrians, then shook his head. “Me attempting it would be a recipe for disaster.”

  She’d been studying his face. She blinked, nodded. Crisply said, “At least you’re man enough to say so. Most wouldn’t, and then we’d start down, and you’d end up collapsing on me, and then where would we be?”

  Lips thinning, he muttered, “Precisely why I mentioned it.”

  “So”— she looked around —“I suppose we should look for somewhere to spend the night.”

  He almost grinned. Where had the tonnish young lady who didn’t like being out in the countryside gone? She was still there, he suspected, just making the best of things. “We don’t have to do that.” When she arched a brow at him, he explained, “I told you I rode up here a few weeks ago with Royce.”