He shifted, then stretched out full length on his back.
She wriggled, then he sensed her turn onto her side, facing the wall. She twitched the folds of her cloak closer, then, on a soft sigh, relaxed.
He couldn’t imagine getting much sleep with her within arm’s reach, but that hadn’t been an issue he’d wanted to discuss, especially not with her. Falling in with her wishes had seemed the easiest way; as she’d pointed out, the bed was wide enough. Nothing inappropriate was likely to occur.
Not, of course, that it needed to; them being alone, together, in such isolation, was inappropriate enough.
Arms at his sides, he dragged in a deep breath, closed his eyes as he exhaled. Cast about in his mind but couldn’t summon reason enough, let alone will enough, to pursue the question of where, given this night, they now stood vis-à-vis each other.
She was worn out; so was he. He could hear her breathing, already even and slow. She was already asleep … and so was he, so close to the edge that just the thought was enough to send him tumbling over, into oblivion.
Scrope waited until it was nearly midnight and the landlord of the inn at Ainville had started his rounds, checking the windows before he locked up for the night. Only then did Scrope emerge from the darkness of the copse twenty yards up the road and walk his horse to the inn’s tiny yard.
The innkeeper was ready enough to hire him a room and send a sleepy boy out to see to his horse.
Scrope kept his voice low; all the other guests, including McKinsey, had retired more than an hour before, but there was no sense taking chances. “If at all possible, I’d like a room at the front of the inn.” From where, in the morning, he could watch McKinsey leave.
The innkeeper grunted. “One left, as it happens.” Turning, he lifted a heavy key from a board, then handed it to Scrope. “Room on the left at the top of the stairs.”
Scrope accepted the key. “Seeing I’m so late getting in, I won’t be leaving early. I’ll come down for breakfast eventually.”
“As you wish, sir. We can do breakfast for you anytime.”
Scrope took the candle the man offered and started up the stairs, growing increasingly cautious as he ascended. He’d wager McKinsey was in the inn’s best room, most likely another room overlooking the inn’s forecourt. Very possibly the room next to his.
He’d followed his erstwhile employer from Edinburgh, hanging back as far as he’d dared. He wasn’t about to underestimate McKinsey, but by the same token, just by being the sort of man he was, the laird himself had weaknesses. Scrope was counting on McKinsey being so accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without question that it wouldn’t occur to him that Scrope might ignore his order to let the girl be.
Reaching his door, Scrope inserted the key and, as quietly as he could, unlocked the door, opened it, went inside, then, setting down his saddlebag, locked the door again.
He crept about the room, then undressed and got into the bed.
For a moment he lay on his back staring upward, reviewing his actions of the day, and planning, as well as he could, those of the next.
To his mind there was no question about his right to follow and capture Eliza Cynster. He was Victor Scrope; once put on the scent of a particular prey, he never failed. McKinsey had hired him precisely because of that reputation, so now McKinsey would simply have to bear with the natural outcome.
Closing his eyes, Scrope grimly smiled. He would succeed in this, as he always had before; that was written in his cards. This was merely a new challenge — a novel and unexpected hurdle — and in ultimately triumphing in spite of it, he would raise his professional standing to new heights.
He would seize Eliza Cynster, then hand her over as agreed to McKinsey.
In doing so he would claim his bonus and salvage his pride, but most importantly he would shore up, and possibly even increase, the professional standing of Victor Scrope, a standing this episode had threatened to undermine.
Of all the issues involved, that was the most important.
His reputation was all. It was him. It defined him.
Without it, he was nothing.
Without it, he’d be lost.
No one had any right to attack or damage it. And no one would.
At the end of this tale, the name of Victor Scrope would shine among those in his singular profession. No other would have overcome such hurdles; no other would be seen as so powerful. As so omnipotent in his field.
As sleep drifted nearer, Scrope’s grim determination solidified.
He would do whatever was necessary to protect his reputation; that was his inalienable right — one he would exercise without compunction.
Jeremy came gradually, slowly, awake, lured to awareness by the sensation of his nose being lightly tickled.
As the fogs of sleep lifted, his senses reported the warm weight of a woman in his arms. Soft, alluring curves fitted snugly against his side, cradled his hip, caressed his thigh.
Which was beyond pleasant, but how could that be? He never fell asleep in any woman’s bed, and he couldn’t recall inviting any woman into his …
He came fully awake with a start. Eyes flying open, without moving his head or any other limb, he looked down.
Felt triumphant, if utterly misplaced, satisfaction course through him at the sight of Eliza snuggled comfortably in his arms.
Even as, delightedly stunned, he gazed wonderingly at her, she stirred.
Before he could decide whether to release her with all speed, plead his innocence and apologize profusely, or adopt a man-of-the-world sophistication, she froze, then on a small gasp pulled back and away.
Wide hazel eyes found his. For a split second she stared, then gushed, “I’m so sorry!”
Pushing up to sit in the shifting straw, Eliza glanced at the bed behind her, confirming that she was the one at fault. “I … ah …” Horrified, but not at all in the way she’d expected, she felt color mount in her cheeks. Looking back at Jeremy, she found his rich caramel eyes reassuringly warm and not at all shocked or embarrassed.
His lips curved, again reassuringly, not as if he was laughing at her, and he raised his shoulders in a light shrug. “It’s all right. We probably both slept better being closer, sharing our body heat. It was probably that that lured you nearer in your sleep.”
She wasn’t at all sure that was true, but he was gallantly giving her an easy way out of the embarrassing situation, and she wasn’t too proud to take it. “Yes, well.” Sitting fully upright, she pushed back her hair, which had slipped loose from her pins and was now tumbling everywhere. “I didn’t think of that. But then I don’t normally sleep with anyone else in my bed.”
He pressed his lips tight and nodded. “Naturally not.”
She narrowed her eyes on his dancing ones, but she, too, was fighting a grin. After an instant of staring into those lovely brown eyes, she said, “I can’t believe I said that. Stated such an inanely obvious thing.”
He grinned. “Don’t take it back on my account.”
She simply looked at him, amazed and fascinated — by him, and herself, by his reaction to her, and hers to him.
Another second passed, then he glanced toward the front of the cottage. “Looks like we might have overslept. It’s full daylight outside.”
Swinging his long legs from the bed — and leaving her legs feeling suddenly abandoned and the strange, oddly intimate moment broken — he sat up and ran his hands through his hair.
She fisted her hands against the urge to reach out and ruffle the thick locks herself, then comb them down.
He, of course, left his hair sticking up in every direction. Rising, he headed for the door. “Let me check outside first. Don’t come out until I get back.”
Now he sounded like a lot of the males she knew.
Unbolting the door, he lifted the latch, opened the door halfway and checked, then pulled it wide and walked out.
By expending considerable willpower, Jeremy cleared his mind of the distraction of
all that had just happened. He stood just outside the door and searched the surrounds, both with his eyes and his senses.
Tristan and Charles St. Austell had taught him how to be silent and just listen, to every rustle, every twig, every chirp.
A minute passed, and he heard not a single note out of place. Reasonably confident there was no one nearby, he nevertheless circled the cottage, climbing up through the trees to pass over the bank behind it, then down across the path they’d walked the previous evening.
He returned to the cottage to find Eliza in the doorway; she’d pinned up her hair again and had crammed her hat over the golden locks. “I didn’t see anyone. We appear to be safe.”
She nodded. “I’ve made the bed and tidied, and repacked the saddlebags. I left out the two apples for our breakfast, and we still had water in the pitcher, so I’ve poured two mugs.” She peered into the trees. “And now I’m going out.”
He pointed to the side. “There’s reasonable cover around that way.”
“Thank you.” She strode out and headed around the cottage.
Shaking his head, he went inside. She continued to puzzle him. What he’d gathered of her before, what he knew of her reputation, had suggested a pampered princess, if anything one more delicate than her sisters.
Her lack of equestrian ability had seemed to confirm that, yet beyond that she’d given him no cause to think her weak, wilting, or in any way unable. As in any way less than his sister, Leonora, who had been and continued to be a strong female force in his life.
He knew a lot of strong, willful, independent ladies; he hadn’t expected Eliza Cynster to figure among that choir, yet he was starting to suspect she did. She’d already adjusted to a situation that would have reduced the average ton miss to tears and unreasoning fright, which would have made his task as her rescuer that much harder.
Other than riding — and even there she’d tried — she’d risen to every challenge that being kidnapped had flung her way.
As for that morning …
He heard her footsteps briskly returning, realized he’d been standing by the table staring at the newly made bed for uncounted minutes.
Rapidly thrusting his thoughts aside before he blushed and gave himself away, he seized one apple and took a sizeable bite, then dragged the map to him and spread it open.
When she stepped through the doorway, he was frowning down at the map, finally doing what he’d meant to, considering their onward route.
“I can’t see any way around it — we’ll need to cross two streams at least before we start to climb the next ridge. The larger stream connects two small lakes — lochs, I suppose I should say. We could go all the way around the northern loch, but quite aside from taking us too far out of our way, there’s an old hill fort near the northern tip, and just at the moment I’d prefer to avoid being seen by anyone in authority — meaning anyone who might have the authority to hold us.”
She’d drawn near, bringing a light scent he now recognized as her. She pored over the map, then nodded. “I agree. The streams it needs to be.”
He waited until she straightened, then met her gaze. “I don’t want to lose you if you stumble. Can you swim?”
She smiled intently. “Yes, I can. Quite well, as it happens. It’s only horses I’m hopeless with.”
He inclined his head and refolded the map. “Right, then.” Slipping the map into one saddlebag, he reached for the other, but she was before him.
“No — let me carry this one, at least to begin with. Now we’ve eaten the food, it’s much lighter.”
He caught the look she sent him, as if expecting him to fuss over her being a female and too weak to carry the bag. Instead, he nodded and said, “Give it to me if it gets too heavy.”
She beamed at him. Swinging the saddlebag to her shoulder, she swiped up her apple and turned to the door. “Right. Let’s get going.”
Shaking his head to dispel the paralyzing effect of that brilliant smile, he followed her out into the weak sunshine.
They continued descending through the trees, keeping to the cover as long as they could, but eventually they had to walk out into more open, rock-strewn country. He glanced around frequently but saw no one, most especially no one following them.
The first stream was a minor one; they found a shallower part and splashed their way across.
The second stream would have caused them serious trouble, but some kind souls had swung a long log across from bank to bank. He went first. He nearly landed in the swiftly moving water; with wild flailings and much cursing, he managed to keep his footing long enough to leap for the bank, where he landed in a sprawl.
To the sound of tinkling, chimelike laughter.
He’d never heard her laugh before, not like that, unrestrained and uninhibited. Turning over, he was about to send her a mock scowl. Instead, he lay on his back and watched in abject appreciation as, balancing the saddlebag so one pocket hung over each shoulder, she all but danced across the log, landing lightly on her feet beside him.
She looked down at him in princessly triumph, then grinned and tipped her head toward the ridge. “Come on, lazy bones — we’ve another ridge to climb.”
He groaned and got to his feet.
She laughed again, as he’d hoped she would, then she set off, striding along in her man’s boots, and he fell in alongside.
They went up the second ridge with confidence and speed.
Once over the crest, they halted to pull out the map, match the markings with what they could see, and confirm their route.
A middling-sized road ran along the bottom of the valley below them. He pointed to a cluster of roofs a little way along. “That will be Silverburn.” He consulted the map. “According to this, it’s about two miles on.” He looked up and pointed directly east. “And that’s Penicuik, about five miles away.” He glanced at her. “We can make straight for Penicuik, or go to Silverburn first. Via Silverburn will be a little bit longer, but we could most likely get a bite to eat in the village.”
Eliza considered, not just for herself but for him as well. Despite her earlier view of him, he wasn’t a small man, being neither skinny nor short. She was fairly certain she could march to Penicuik without further sustenance, but she had two large brothers and knew how they ate.
And she was under no illusions about who would need to save them if danger threatened. She might help, but she would be following his lead.
“Silverburn,” she declared. “We need food, and we have no idea what the rest of the day will bring. This might be our best chance to eat all day.”
“True.” Slipping the map away, he tipped his head down the slope toward the village. “Let’s go.”
Less than an hour later, they were seated in a rear corner of the Merry Widow’s taproom, addressing plates of ham, eggs, kedgeree, and sausages. Eliza did her best, then, when the barman was looking the other way, swapped Jeremy’s empty plate for hers.
When he looked his question, she murmured, “No youth would leave a breakfast half eaten.”
His lips twitched, then he applied himself to cleaning her plate, too.
They were on their way shortly after. While in the inn, Eliza had had to remind herself that she was supposedly male; she’d remained largely mute, responding with grunts or snorts whenever she’d been forced to give some response. Once they were out of sight of the village and striding through open country again, she felt as if a weight slid from her shoulders and she could be herself again.
A hill rose ahead of them, some way off.
Jeremy pointed. “Penicuik’s on the other side, but approaching from this direction, we can go around the southern tip of the hill.”
“Good.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “I don’t mind walking, but avoiding hills is appreciated.”
He grinned and looked forward. “Not just by you.”
They came to another stream. Not that wide or deep, but too wide to leap and too deep to splash through. They followed the bank
along and finally found a set of stones that would serve their purpose, but when Jeremy tried them, some wobbled, and others were slippery with slime.
He started to slip and launched himself across, landing safely on the opposite bank. Turning to her, he beckoned. “Come halfway, then take my hand.”
She readily complied, clutching his offered fingers before stepping onto the difficult rocks. Like him, she started to slip from the slimy one, but with a yank, he pulled her on, up, and to him; she swallowed a very unmalelike yelp.
Her senses flared in anticipation, but just before she slammed into his chest, he caught her about her waist and halted her.
To her surprise, her unruly senses gnashed their teeth. She blinked.
“There.” With a satisfied smile, he released her, clearly oblivious to the distinctly risqué impulses surging through her. “Come on.”
He turned and led the way up the bank.
But he didn’t let go of her hand.
She told herself that he was only keeping hold of her fingers so he could help her up the slippery bank.
But once they were back on level ground, he set off over the field, her fingers still firmly clasped in his.
Striding beside him, enjoying the freedom of breeches and boots that allowed her to do so, she wondered if he’d forgotten that he held her hand, but she decided he wasn’t nearly as absentminded as she’d earlier — long ago — assumed.
Which meant he was holding her hand on purpose. Because he wanted to.
She thought about that and decided she wasn’t going to mention the liberty. Much less protest. She liked feeling his strong, hard fingers clasped about hers. The distinctly male touch conveyed a sense of reassurance, of comfort and protection.
A sense of being together in this, in their dangerous flight from dangerous men.
Feeling her lips spontaneously curving, she tipped her face up to the weak sun and reminded herself to make sure he let her go before they came within sight of the road, or any habitation, or anyone who might wonder why a gentleman was holding the hand of a youth.