Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (18 page)

They drained their mugs. Crumbs were all that was left of the scones.

The girl came to take their payment.

“Which is the road to Glasgow?” Breckenridge asked.

The girl pointed right. “Go straight along the street, across the bridge over the river, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”

Breckenridge thanked her and left a small tip—the sort an unemployed solicitor’s clerk might leave.

The girl bobbed and, smiling, showed them out.

Stepping into the street, Breckenridge saw two constables walking the pavement, but by fate’s blessing they had their backs to them and were walking away from them, away from the bridge over the river. “Come on.” He’d already taken Heather’s hand. He glanced at her head, at the shawl she had slung about her shoulders. “Can you wind the shawl about your hair? It’ll make you a trifle less recognizable.”

She drew her hand from his and complied.

Then she reached for his hand again, just as he reached for hers.

Together, hand in hand, side by side, they walked steadily, resisting a very real urge to hurry, along the street, across the bridge, and out of Dumfries.

T
he highlander calling himself McKinsey rode into Dumfries an hour later. The first thing he noted as he walked Hercules along, heading toward High Street, was a number of constables either watching the main road or patrolling the pavements on foot.

The constables were searching for a girl. He, however, was searching for a couple.

He’d found their tracks in the fields immediately southeast of the town, had seen where they’d veered to join the road leading into the town proper. He debated sharing his insight with the constables but decided against it. The constables here most likely wouldn’t know that it was he who had instigated their search, which would necessitate detailed explanations, but more importantly, should he find the girl and the bounder she was with, he wanted to be free to deal with the man in his own way—silently and anonymously.

Turning off the main street into the yard of the Globe Inn, he left Hercules safe in the stable and headed on foot into the warren of streets that formed the center of the town.

He was Scottish; he could ask questions and, by and large, people would happily answer. All he needed to do was allow a touch of his native brogue to slide into his voice.

He’d found the barn where the fugitive pair had spent the night. He’d tracked them steadily on; somewhat to his surprise they hadn’t stopped at any village, not even in Annan, to eat. From what he’d understood of how they’d left the inn at Gretna Green, they shouldn’t have had any food with them. Which meant that by now, they should be dizzy with hunger.

Eating would be at the top of their list of things to do in Dumfries. As it was market day, the town would have been crowded throughout the day; they would have had excellent cover. More than enough to avoid the notice of the constables patrolling the streets.

From their tracks, he estimated that the pair had entered the town at least three, possibly four hours ahead of him. Starting at the lower end of High Street, he stopped at every eatery and asked after his brother and his lass, explaining that he’d missed them and was trying to catch them up; from what he’d learned of Timms, the relationship would pass well enough.

He struck gold early at the Old Wall Tavern just off High Street. The serving girl couldn’t tell him anything about the pair’s eventual direction, but she sent him to the cobbler a little further north along the main street. There, he learned of their purchase. Remembering the girl’s slippers, he wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t decide whether the purchase of walking boots specifically implied anything.

The cobbler, when applied to, shrugged. “Only pair I had in her size, so it could have just been that that made her choose them.” A second later, the old man grinned. “Mind you, you should warn your brother—he’s been living in Lunnon too long. Charged ’im the full Lunnon price, I did, and he didn’t turn a hair. Just pulled out the coins and handed them over. Not short of the ready, is he?”

He tipped his head, smiling as if in amused agreement. “No.” Pushing away from the counter, he walked to the door. “I’ll be sure to remind him. He’s been away too long.”

Stepping out of the shop, he closed the door—and let his easy expression fall away. Plenty of money, and neither the serving girl nor the cobbler, both of whom had seen both him and Timms up close, had batted a lash at the notion that they were brothers.

Timms, the bounder, the supposed unemployed solicitor’s clerk, was taking on new dimensions.

Lips setting even more grimly, he turned and continued up the street. The cobbler had had no insight into which road the pair had been making for, but he’d noticed that they’d headed north from his door.

More than an hour later, after he’d exhausted every possible place they might have stopped at, or been spotted from, all along High Street and then west out along the road to Edinburgh, he stalked back toward the center of the town. Could they have decided they were safe enough to stop in Dumfries for the night?

Given the number of constables about, given how careful the pair had thus far been, he seriously doubted it.

Halting at the top of High Street, he looked west into the setting sun, down the length of Buccleuch Street to the bridge over the Nith. And remembered Fletcher saying that Timms had been on his way to Glasgow. Of course Fletcher had also believed Timms was an unemployed solicitor’s clerk, but . . . what if, whoever Timms was, he really had been heading for Glasgow before becoming distracted by the Cynster chit?

Stifling a sigh, he started down Buccleuch Street, stopping at every shop, asking after his errant sibling and his lass.

The girl in the coffeehouse remembered them.

He could barely believe his luck. Not only had she in passing overheard them agreeing to go on by foot, but later they’d asked her for directions to the Glasgow Road.

Thanking the girl with his most charming smile as well as a couple of coins, he sat down and ordered coffee and a large slice of ginger cake.

While he drank and ate, he weighed his options. It was already dusk; night would soon close in. Setting out now . . . he would run the risk of missing his quarry, passing them all unknowing in the dark. If the pair followed their previous night’s pattern, they would find some barn or perhaps a farmer’s cottage in which to spend the night, then be out on the road again early in the morning.

He knew the Glasgow Road. Knew the long, open stretches that lay between Dumfries and Thornhill. Mounted on Hercules, catching up with the pair tomorrow, arranging to come up with them on one of those long, lonely stretches, would be simple, easy, and certain. He’d have plenty of opportunity to watch them from a distance, to gauge what was between them, and then decide what to do.

And then do it.

Meanwhile . . . better that he and Hercules spend a comfortable night, then set out refreshed in the morning.

Decision made, cake consumed, and coffee drained, he rose, dropped payment and a sizeable tip on the table, then headed back to the Globe Inn.

Chapter Ten

T
he light had faded from the western sky, leaving a sunset of swirling purples and blues, when Heather and Breckenridge walked into the tiny hamlet of Gribton.

They’d turned off the main road to Glasgow about two miles north of the bridge in Dumfries, onto the lane they’d chosen to follow across and over the hills. A stone circle sitting in a field bordering the lane had caught their interest, but they hadn’t dallied. Breckenridge’s map was reasonably detailed; they’d felt confident enough of finding their way, but had wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Dumfries before seeking shelter for the night.

The lane would take them through a series of passes between various peaks. With luck, they would reach the main pass tomorrow, and might even reach the Vale, but for tonight they had to find some resting place.

Which had led them to Gribton. As they’d walked further inland, the landscape had changed from flat near the firth to rolling pastures, with denser hedgerows and taller trees. They’d spotted the roofs of Gribton as the sun had started to dip beneath the horizon. Rather than risk continuing on to the next village along the country lane, they’d turned off it down a track that had led to the five cottages clustered around a country crossroads.

Breckenridge halted in the middle of the track, in the middle of the cottages. “Which one?”

Her hand still in his, Heather surveyed their choices. “Let’s try the middle one.” Neat, whitewashed, with a sound slate roof, the cottage nestled between two trees just off the track. It appeared the most prosperous of the five abodes.

With her beside him, Breckenridge halted on the stoop and knocked on the green painted door.

The woman who opened it wore a harassed expression, instantly explained by the bevy of children who came racing up to crowd behind her. Ineffectually pushing them back, she looked at Breckenridge, then at Heather. “Yes?”

Breckenridge nodded politely. “We were wondering, ma’am, if you could put us up for the night. We’re on our way up into the hills. We’d be happy to pay for a room if you have one.”

The woman looked torn, but then glanced at the brood clustering behind her and sighed. “I can’t. But”—looking back at them, she waved further down the track—“if you ask at the last cottage, the old couple who lives there, the Cartwrights, could most likely put you up. Their son and his wife moved up to Glasgow a couple of months back, so they’ve the room and could use the coin, too.”

Breckenridge smiled; Heather did, too. “Thank you.”

With nods all around, they retreated, leaving the woman to shoo the children back and shut the door.

Returning to the track, they headed for the last roof they could see, that of a cottage sunk within a small plot of garden. Before they reached its boundary, Breckenridge halted.

When Heather stopped, too, he drew her to face him. “We can’t expect to get more than one room, and to get that room, they’ll need to believe that we’re man and wife.”

Even if he could get another room at one of the other cottages, there was no way he could leave her alone in a separate building, not with the mysterious laird possibly following them.

Somewhat to his relief, she merely shrugged. “So we’ll let them believe we’re married, and if they ask outright, we lie.”

Releasing her, he tugged the signet ring off his little finger, then reached for her hand. “And you wear this”—he slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand—“so with any luck they won’t even think to ask.”

She held up the hand as if admiring the ring, then swung the seal around so only the band showed and nodded. “All right.”

It wasn’t quite the way he’d imagined putting a ring on her finger, but . . .

Retaking her hand, he led her on to the gate in the low hedge before the cottage, and through it to the front door.

This time an old man, long and lanky once, but stooped now, answered his knock. When Breckenridge inquired about a room, the old man turned and called, “Emma?”

The old woman who bustled to the door was as short and round as the old man was tall and thin. When she heard of their request, she smiled sweetly. “Yes, of course. Come you in.”

The old man stood back and waved them inside. Breckenridge ushered Heather in, then followed, stepping into a neat parlor.

“This way.” The old woman beckoned. “I’m Mrs. Cartwright, and that”—she waved back at the old man—“is Mr. Cartwright, of course.”

Heather was grateful Breckenridge had thought of giving her his ring. It felt warm and strangely heavy on her finger. They followed Mrs. Cartwright through the tiny kitchen to a door in the rear wall.

Opening the door, Mrs. Cartwright set it swinging and stepped back to let them past her. “We added this room on when our son married. I’ll just get a candle so you can see to set down your bags.”

Heather stepped into the small, spare room. There was only one window, in the end wall, but it was heavily curtained. Most of the floor space was claimed by the bed, one wide enough for two, pushed into the far corner. A tiny cabinet stood in the nearer corner, leaving only a narrow walk space at the foot of the bed and along one side.

“Here.” Mrs. Cartwright returned, shielding a candle flame.

Heather took the candlestick. “Thank you.” She moved to set it on the corner cabinet.

Breckenridge, who’d halted at the foot of the bed, shrugged off the two satchels he carried and set them down, then removed his cloak.

Setting down her satchel beside the cabinet, Heather unwound her shawl, then slipped off her cloak. She turned as Mrs. Cartwright said, “You’ll find the sheets aired, and there’s two blankets on. I always keep the room ready in case our son and his wife come for a visit.”

“Thank you—I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable.” Much more comfortable than in a hayloft. Heather smiled. “We’ve been traveling for a few days. We’re grateful you could put us up.”

“Oh, nonsense. We’re glad to be able to. Now.” Mrs. Cartwright fixed her surprisingly bright blue eyes on Breckenridge. “Have you eaten? Mr. Cartwright and I have already had our tea, but there’s some soup and bread, if you’d like it?”

“Thank you,” Breckenridge said. “That would be very welcome. We had lunch in Dumfries, but that was a while ago.”

“Oh, I know how you lads eat, never fear.” Mrs. Cartwright patted Breckenridge’s arm, then bustled out. “I’ll just set the soup pot back on the fire.”

Heather pressed her lips tight, holding back a laugh as she bent to blow out the candle. Breckenridge looked faintly stunned at being called a “lad.” But he followed Mrs. Cartwright back into the kitchen, stepping in to relieve her of the heavy soup pot and lift it onto the hook over the kitchen fire.

Without being asked, he crouched and tended the blaze.

Mrs. Cartwright smiled down at him approvingly, then looked at Heather. “Come along, dear, and I’ll show you the necessaries.”

The “necessaries” proved to be a small bathing chamber-cum-washhouse giving off a tiny back porch, and an outhouse beyond. The main chamber contained a pump, which Mrs. Cartwright said came off the outside well.

“Plenty of water, bracing cold though it may be.” Mrs. Cartwright pulled a clean towel from a shelf. “I’ll just leave this towel here for you, dear.” Setting the towel on the washstand, she glanced around. “My son built this for us when he and his wife were living here.”

“You must miss them,” Heather said.

Mrs. Cartwright sighed. “Aye, we do, but you can’t keep young people from living their lives, now, can you? Wouldn’t be right.”

She led the way back into the kitchen. Heather followed her in, then excused herself to return and make use of the “necessaries.” After washing her face and hands, she felt considerably more presentable. A tiny mirror hanging above the basin allowed her to neaten her thoroughly disarranged coiffure. If her London maid could see her, she’d faint.

Feeling considerably more the thing, she rejoined Breckenridge and Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright in the kitchen. Breckenridge and Mr. Cartwright had settled to discussing the land around about and local farming.

Mrs. Cartwright ladled out two steaming bowls of soup and set half a loaf of bread and two pats of butter on the table, then directed Breckenridge and Heather to “eat up.”

They sat and did, while Mr. Cartwright produced a pipe and quietly puffed, and Mrs. Cartwright filled their ears with a catalogue of little things—like the harvest she hoped to get this year from her prize damsons, and speculation that their son and his wife would return for a few days at Easter.

It was a curiously soothing half hour, a reminder that, despite their flight and the potential threat posed by the mysterious laird, life still went on in myriad calm and quiet ways.

By the time she mopped out her soup bowl with a piece of bread, Heather felt a lot more inwardly settled and satisfied than the soup alone could account for.

This was the country. The Cartwrights, like all country folk, retired early. They bade Breckenridge and Heather a good night, and left them seated about the kitchen table, a single lighted candle between them.

Heather studied the flickering flame, then sighed. “We should get to bed, but I’m going to seize the chance to have a proper wash first.”

Breckenridge pushed the candlestick toward her. “Go ahead.”

Heather rose, and with the candle retreated first to their little room to fetch her cloak and shawl, then out to the bathing chamber. There she set her teeth, stripped to the skin, washed, dried herself, then, teeth close to chattering, hurriedly redonned her chemise, wound the shawl about her torso, then enveloped herself in her cloak. Slipping her feet, now clean, back into her new walking boots, swiping up her gown, she rushed back into the kitchen and straight through into their little room, saying as she passed, “I’ve left the candle in there for you. There’s another one in here. I’ll light it in a moment.”

Breckenridge watched her streak past. Any impulse to laugh was slain by the thought that she almost certainly wasn’t wearing much beneath her cloak.

Which wasn’t going to make the night any easier for him, trying to find sleep while in the same room as temptation incarnate.

Why
she
now figured as temptation incarnate to his lustful mind wasn’t a question he wished to dwell on.

Rising, he retreated to the bathing chamber and made use of the facilities, taking his time in the hope—almost certainly vain—that she would fall asleep before he returned to the room. He examined his beard, now grown in and thickening, and made a mental note to hunt out his shaving kit in the morning. And washing and combing out his rumpled hair wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

Eventually acknowledging that there was a limit to how long he could put off the inevitable, he picked up the candle and headed back to the kitchen. He checked that the fire was nicely banked, then pushed open the door to their room . . . to see Heather snuggled down in the bed, closer to the wall, leaving more than half the bed vacant.

She was lying on her side, the covers outlining the quintessentially feminine curves of her hip and shoulder. Her hair was down. She’d brushed it; gleaming strands of gold laced the ivory pillows.

She’d left the candle burning on the cabinet beside the bed. Shifting her head, she looked at him as he paused in the doorway.

Her expectation couldn’t have been clearer.

Moving slowly, thinking furiously, he stepped into the room and shut the door. He hadn’t got much sleep in the barn the previous night; if at all possible, he’d like to sleep tonight. Blowing out his candle, he crossed to place it with the other still burning on the cabinet. Keeping his eyes from Heather’s, he moved back to the end of the bed, sat, and pulled off his boots. Setting them by the door, he straightened, glanced around at the available floor, then bent to pick up his cloak.

“What are you doing?”

Without looking her way, he flicked out his cloak, let it fall. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her jerk upright. Fleetingly—instinctively—he closed his eyes, then peeked sideways through his lashes. She’d clasped the covers over her breasts as she’d sat up—thank Heaven; beneath the sheet, all she appeared to have on was her flimsy chemise.

The candlelight flashed off the gold band on her finger. His ring. The sight momentarily transfixed him. He shook off the effect, told himself he might as well get used to it; that band and all it proclaimed would be real soon enough.

Predictably, she frowned at him. “Don’t be ridiculous!” The words were a forceful whisper. She hesitated, then said, “I know a bed is—stupidly in my view and very likely yours, too—considered to be a somewhat different proposition than a pile of hay in a barn. But I’m no princess, and you’re no lowly knight. We’re in this together, and there’s no reason we can’t share this bed.”

Oh, yes there is.
He was tempted to tell her why, graphically, but stating such facts aloud might not help.

Stating, for instance, that he no longer trusted himself to keep a proper distance—not after last night, not after the events of the day. A thousand little things had abraded his control; he didn’t need it stretched further, put under more strain.

And on top of his own compulsive desires, there were hers to manage as well. She was attracted to him; most women, most ladies, were. And young unmarried ladies—like her—were the worst; as a rule, they glorified him, more or less casting him as some sexual god. That was simply a fact—one he’d grappled with all his adult life—and as he knew to his cost, in a deeper sense that type of adulation meant nothing at all.

In this, he trusted her even less than he trusted himself.

And while not being able to trust himself to keep her at arm’s length—even though she was virginal, totally inexperienced, enthusiastic rather than accomplished, in uncounted ways the antithesis of the sophisticated ladies whose beds he occasionally deigned to grace—was of itself distinctly odd, that was another issue he didn’t want to dwell on.

Not now. Certainly not here.