In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Shifting, he broke the kiss and drew her into his embrace, swinging her down across his hard thighs, his lips following hers to engage again.

  To capture, sup, and savor again.

  Drawing her back, drawing her on, into the steadily deepening caress.

  The moments spun out in giddy delight, in gentle if illicit pleasure. They traded caresses, the reins shifting between them so that first one commanded, demanded, made their wishes clear, leaving the other to respond before stating their own agenda.

  The firmness of his lips, the heated stroking of his tongue, the roughness of his stubble against her palm, the silk of his hair as her fingers explored, wreathed through her senses and filled her mind.

  She kissed him back, increasingly boldly, increasingly confident that, as he’d stated, they should simply flow with this tide —

  Whoot. Too-whoot.

  They broke from the kiss, both looked about, then their senses caught up.

  “Owl.” Jeremy looked back at her, at rosy red lips, at hazel eyes in which pleasure was alive … the thought of what should come next welled and filled his mind. But … it was too dangerous out here, in the middle of nowhere.

  Before them, the fire had all but died.

  She blinked. He saw no regret in her eyes, not even any awkwardness, yet …

  He steeled himself. “We should go inside. We’ve a long way to walk tomorrow.”

  She looked at him, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right.” Her voice was husky and low.

  She moved to rise. He helped her to her feet, then got to his.

  He glanced at the spit, still hot, at their plates set to one side. “We can clear this up in the morning, when we can see well enough not to fall in the stream.”

  She laughed softly and turned to the cottage door. “A pertinent consideration.”

  Returning with the candlestick, she let him take it and kindle the wick on the last of the embers. He handed the candlestick back to her. While she slipped into the bushes, he considered one of Charles St. Austell’s stories about spending the night in some isolated spot in enemy territory.

  Last night, despite the bolted door, they’d been vulnerable while they’d slept.

  When Eliza returned, he waved her inside, waited until she lighted a second candle, then took the first and circled the cottage several yards out, laying dry brittle sticks in any spot where a man could tread.

  Finally satisfied that he’d done all he could to ensure her safety, he entered the cottage and bolted the door.

  Two minutes later, with him stretched out on the larger bed and her on the smaller, within arm’s reach, he blew out his candle, closed his eyes, and lectured his unruly body not to get ahead of him.

  There was no need to overwhelm themselves all at once.

  He needed not to think but to assimilate. To absorb.

  Before they moved on.

  Following the dice she had, with full intent, started rolling.

  One step at a time.

  The next morning they started out bright and early to walk through and out of the hills. According to the map, they had most of the Moorfoots still to conquer, at the very least a good morning’s walk before they reached Stow.

  Although the sun shone, the air was bracing. The lighter saddlebag over her shoulder, Eliza tramped in Jeremy’s wake. The Moorfoots seemed to be a series of knobbly folds; they climbed up and down constantly, tacking first to follow the flank of one largely barren, moorlike hill, before turning to skirt the next.

  The walking wasn’t so much hard as demanding. They had to negotiate fern fields and leap countless little burns. They passed a small shooting lodge tucked into a narrow valley between two hills; at one point they walked through a stretch of forest where the shadows were so dense she shivered.

  There was more than enough to see and do, to keep her mind occupied simply with getting on, to avoid thinking about the events of the evening, yet time and again her mind slid away to do just that. To consider, circle, poke, and prod at whatever this was that was happening between them.

  This — being with a gentleman like this, entirely cut off from their normal world, only to discover a connection neither she nor he had thought likely — was beyond any situation she’d expected, anticipated, or even dreamed of.

  In this, she had very little in the way of experience, her own or any of her mentors’, to guide her.

  Eyes on the ground, she followed in Jeremy’s tracks. That morning, when they’d woken, availed themselves of the nearby stream to wash, then, working side by side, had quickly cleaned, straightened, and neatened the cottage, she’d kept expecting some moment of awkwardness, some sudden attack of self-consciousness on her or his part.

  It hadn’t happened. Instead, she’d been aware that he’d been watching her with the same expectation. Again and again their eyes had met, and they’d waited … the entire morning had passed off without one hint of real awkwardness between them.

  Before they’d left, Jeremy had laid a gold sovereign on the deal table. He’d looked at her in query. She’d nodded her approbation, then had led him from the cottage and they’d set off.

  She couldn’t quite understand why, with him, she could behave as she was, and he could behave as he was, and somehow it seemed right. They were working together in a manner she would never have imagined might be between a tonnish gentleman — and no matter his scholarly reticence, Jeremy Carling was definitely that — and a distinctly tonnish lady.

  They’d reached a difficult-to-negotiate rocky rise. She grimaced. Without any discussion, she halted, waited while Jeremy scrambled up, then held up her hands. He grasped them and pulled her up.

  In perfect harmony without needing any words, they fell back into line and continued on.

  She was starting to think that she and her family ought to thank the mysterious laird. If he hadn’t sent Scrope to seize her and whisk her all the way into Scotland, she wouldn’t now be walking the Moorfoot Hills alone with Jeremy Carling, enjoying herself hugely and learning far more about herself and him than she’d had any idea existed to be learned.

  Their exchange before the fire pit had been enough to confirm that, amazing though it seemed, he and she were thinking along similar lines. That neither was yet sure what the outcome of their deliberations would be, what the destination of the road they were currently metaphorically walking down, together, hand in hand, would be.

  To her mind, that slow, deliberate progress was perfectly acceptable; she wasn’t the brave, adventurous sort like her sisters — she needed to feel her way through things.

  To discover that he felt the same, that he saw such an understated, undramatic, stage-by-stage assessment as their most sensible way forward, was not just a relief — it was a revelation.

  Her gaze rested on the windblown locks of his dark hair, then skated over the breadth of his shoulders. She wasn’t the least bit bothered that, given their present trek through the morning, it was highly unlikely they would reach the border that evening, and would therefore have to spend another night, together alone, somewhere along the way.

  Walking steadily on, she turned her mind to what the evening, and the night, might hold.

  They emerged from a cleft between two hills and halted.

  They were still high on the flank of the range, but the ground before them fell gently away across a wide valley, silver burns wending their way around progressively lower gentle hills to join the thickly treed line of a river. The river lay on the other side of the valley floor, closer to the rise of the next range of hills.

  Having unfolded and consulted the map, Jeremy squinted across the valley. “The river’s the Gala Water, and that”— he pointed —“is our destination. Stow.” He refolded the map. “We should be able to hire another gig there and head south at a better pace.”

  At various high points along their route, he’d paused and looked back, scanning the hills behind them for any sign of pursuit.

  Eliza glanced at him. “Th
e laird isn’t following us anymore, is he?”

  He met her eyes. “Difficult to be sure — we can’t look back far in this terrain. But if he was still on our trail, I would have expected him to catch up with us before now.”

  Resettling her saddlebag, she looked down across the valley. “Let’s assume we’ve lost both him and Scrope.” She glanced at him. “Which way now?”

  He nodded to a shimmer of silver not far ahead. “The easiest route will be alongside the burns. Every little streamlet will join a bigger one, and eventually they all run into the Gala Water. According to the map, the largest tributary, the one this little stream will eventually join, flows into the main river near the bridge we want — the one near Stow.”

  “Right, then.” Stepping out, she headed for the stream. “Let’s get to it.”

  Hiding a grin, he followed. He’d only known her like this, out of society, for a handful of days, yet in that time she’d transformed, changed … or, as he was more inclined to believe, the demands of her escape and their flight had drawn another side of her, a different set of skills, a deeper, more innate strength, to the fore.

  From what she’d let fall the previous evening, he gathered she viewed herself as somehow less than her sisters. Less an outgoing, willful, impatient, and unwilling-to-be-denied sort of young lady. In society’s and even in her family’s terms, that might be true, but there was a great deal more to her than that, she had a great deal more to offer than that, and, to his mind, what she lacked was more a blessing than a curse.

  They halted near the stream and finished off the nuts, then continued walking while munching their last two apples. The sun beamed down as they crossed the valley, following one stream to the next, steadily descending toward their goal.

  The way was easier than their morning’s hike. Jeremy remained behind Eliza, following her through the increasingly lush, if narrow, water-meadows bordering the river’s tributaries.

  He drew level when they finally stepped onto the lane leading to the bridge over the river. He had to quell the impulse to take her hand. Instead, side by side, they strode across the bridge.

  He tipped his head toward the buildings gathered about a church tower a little way to their right on the opposite shore. “That’s Stow.”

  She nodded.

  He’d noticed she limited speaking whenever possible while they were in public — while she was masquerading as a youth. Which was unquestionably wise. Her normal voice was light, musical, enchantingly feminine, and didn’t readily convert to anything male. She covered by speaking gruffly, generally incomprehensibly.

  Stow held no unpleasant surprises. The tidy little town boasted several inns. Jeremy and Eliza chose one, arranged for a gig and horse, then went inside.

  The taproom was reasonably crowded. Jogging Eliza’s elbow, Jeremy pointed to a table by the wall near one window. She nodded and led the way to it. Sliding the saddlebags from their shoulders, they sat.

  A buxom serving girl materialized all but immediately. “Right then, sirs — what’ll you have? There’s a good mutton pie, or if you’ve a mind to it, there’s game pie, too.”

  “Game pie,” Eliza mumbled, head down.

  Fighting a grin, Jeremy nodded. “The same. And an ale for me.” He glanced at Eliza.

  “Water,” she grumbled.

  “Watered ale for the young sir, is it?” The serving girl made a note on her slate.

  Jeremy arched a brow at Eliza.

  Her eyes had widened, but after a fractional hesitation, she nodded.

  He looked up at the serving girl. “That will do nicely.”

  The girl beamed. “I’ll be no more’n a few minutes, sirs. Make yerselves comfy.” She bustled off.

  Jeremy grinned at Eliza. “Watered ale?”

  She shrugged and kept her voice gruffly low. “Why not? I’ve never had watered ale before — Heather said she had some when she was off with Breckenridge. I suspect I should try it.”

  The serving girl returned as quickly as she’d said, sliding plates of pie and gravy before them. Jeremy asked for the reckoning and paid.

  “Just in case we need to make a rapid exit,” he murmured in reply to Eliza’s questioning look.

  The pie proved to be excellent, and the ale refreshing, if a trifle bitter.

  Their exertions of the morning had sharpened Eliza’s appetite. Somewhat to her surprise, she cleaned her plate and drained her mug.

  Jeremy had already finished eating and had pulled out their map. He’d been frowning down at it in a considering way. When she pushed her plate aside, he glanced at her, then shifted the map so they could both study it.

  “Here’s Stow.” He pointed. “There’s Jedburgh, and the border beyond. Wolverstone’s here — we can reach it by these lanes. That’s the way I left.”

  She nodded. “The way that put you on the Jedburgh Road when the carriage came past with me.”

  “Yes — so that’s our route to safety. It’s already afternoon, so we can’t expect to reach even Jedburgh by tonight, and if it’s all the same to you I’d rather not hit the Jedburgh Road itself until we’re ready to race straight over the border.”

  “In case Scrope or the laird, having lost our trail, decide to wait along the road to see if we go past?”

  “Exactly.” Starting at Stow, he traced the road on, then tapped the map. “We can get a good way on today — past Galashiels and through to Melrose. But I think we should stop there, or somewhere near there, while we’re still off the Jedburgh Road, but close to it, with nothing but good, well-surfaced road between us and the border.”

  She nodded again. “So we find ourselves somewhere to stay near Melrose, then tomorrow morning we make our run for the border.”

  Across the map, he met her eyes. “You’re agreeable to that?”

  He was asking whether she was happy about spending another night on the road — together alone. She smiled. “Yes. Perfectly content.” And she was.

  Tonight … she was increasingly certain it would behoove her to push for rather more exploration. Especially if it was to be their last night, together alone, before they returned to society’s arms.

  Envisaging the evening, she frowned. He was refolding and stowing the map. She glanced to either side, confirming that no one was near enough to hear, then leaned forward and caught his eye as he looked up. “How are we managing for funds?”

  She hadn’t given the matter the slightest thought, but she should have. They’d already hired horses, two gigs, and had paid for meals at various places.

  His lips kicked up. “Remember I told you I worked for a while in Edinburgh?”

  She nodded. “That’s how you came to know Cobby and Hugo.”

  “Yes, well.” He swung his saddlebag over his shoulder. “Consequently the bank in Edinburgh knows me quite well. I called there before we rescued you. As I didn’t know what might happen, what charges we might have to meet, I drew out a sizeable amount.” He grinned as he eased his chair back. “I tend to overestimate in practical matters. We’ve more than enough coin to get us to London in a private chaise if need be.”

  She relaxed. “Good.” Ducking her head, her saddlebag in hand, she slipped out from behind the table and followed him as he headed for the door. As they crossed the inn’s front hall, she murmured, “I had a sudden vision of having to mop floors and wash dishes to pay for our next stay.”

  He chuckled as he opened the door and stepped out. When she joined him on the pavement, he glanced down at her. “It won’t come to that, but even if it did, we’d manage, you and I.”

  She looked into his eyes, saw the easy acceptance and the warmth therein, and returned his smile in full measure. Then, nose rising, she stepped down from the stoop and led the way into the inn yard. “Onward once again. Let’s see how far we can get today, and where we can find to spend our last night.”

  The horse harnessed to the gig was a raw chestnut, dancing on his feet and ready to run. After stowing the bags, Jeremy joined
Eliza on the seat, took up the reins, and tooled the beast out onto the main road.

  As they rattled out of the town, he flicked the reins and coaxed the young horse into a ground-eating trot. They whisked along, Eliza holding onto her hat and swaying with every turn, her shoulder brushing Jeremy’s.

  The well-surfaced road twisted and turned, following the curves of the river, still the Gala Water, as it wended its way south. They were rarely out of sight of the well-treed banks, and the birds that swooped and dipped above the rippling waters and flitted about the surrounding meadows.

  The drive was ridiculously pleasant. It was easy to forget that they were fleeing pursuit by a villainous kidnapper and a powerful laird whose motives remained a mystery. With the sun beaming down and the breeze whipping past, with the scents and sounds of the countryside filling their senses, they grinned with delight and rolled smoothly along.

  As they swept past the turnoff to Buckholm, Eliza started singing.

  A few verses on, Jeremy joined in. While her voice was a light soprano, his proved to be a baritone; their voices blended and harmonized as they sang their way through several country songs.

  Both river and road swung east and they followed, bowling into the larger town of Galashiels. They slowed as they entered the center of the town. “Keep a sharp lookout,” Jeremy warned, “just in case.”

  But there was no danger lurking. They rattled on through the town without incident, following signposts that directed them straight on toward Melrose. The Melrose road ran directly east; it initially followed the course of the Gala Water, but the distance between road and river gradually widened. Eventually, they lost sight of the river altogether.

  Eliza sat back, then blinked and peered ahead. She pointed. “That’s not the same river, is it? That’s much larger.”

  Jeremy looked. “That’s the Tweed. We’ll cross it a little way along.”

  Soon, the Tweed curved up to run alongside the road.

  “We go through a wood.” Jeremy nodded at the thick stands of trees flanking the road ahead. “That looks like it. Just past that the road should curve south, and there’s supposed to be a bridge.”