Chapter Thirteen
t was late afternoon when Jeremy and Eliza walked over a rise and saw the roofs of Selkirk before them. The ribbon of a major road snaked out of the town, then ran along the nearer edge of the settlement, right to left, leading south to Hawick.
Halting, Jeremy drew out the map and studied it. “Hawick’s more than twelve miles from Selkirk.” He grimaced. “It’s a bit late, but we have two options. We could walk into Selkirk, hire a gig, drive to Hawick, then find some place there to spend the night, or”— raising his head, he looked toward Selkirk —“we could stay somewhere in Selkirk, then set off tomorrow.”
Eliza didn’t need to ponder her choice; what with fleeing Scrope, avoiding the laird, and the last few hours’ brisk walking, she was starting to flag. “Selkirk and tomorrow have my vote.”
Jeremy nodded. “Mine, too.” Refolding the map, he tucked it away. “We seem to have successfully lost our pursuers, and whether tomorrow we start our run for the border from Selkirk or Hawick will make no real difference — we’ll still reach the border by tomorrow afternoon. There’s no real advantage in pushing on today.” He met Eliza’s eyes, smiled and waved her on. “Selkirk, it is.”
They strode down the last stretch of the lane, debated, then crossed the main road and continued down a lane that promised to lead more directly into Selkirk proper.
Their judgment proved sound; the lane led them to the high street, which in turn opened into the marketplace. Once again they’d entered a town on market day; there were dozens of small stalls and booths clogging the irregularly shaped space at the center of the town. The crowds still thronging the area allowed them to stand back and take stock of the two inns at either end of the marketplace, and the tavern along one side, without attracting undue attention.
“I don’t think the tavern qualifies for our list of possible places to find a room, but”— Jeremy grimaced —“with all the people in town for the market, the inns might well be full.”
“Hmm.” The sight of a stall selling clothes had brought a thought that had been lurking in the back of Eliza’s mind to the fore. “I wonder …” Catching Jeremy’s eyes, she directed his gaze to the clothing stall. When he looked, then glanced back at her, she arched her brows. “Perhaps we should buy a nice plain gown for my twin sister? As a present. Then we might walk back to the church just back there, which is sure to be deserted at this hour, and then … well, if Scrope or the laird come searching this way, they’re going to ask about a gentleman and a youth, aren’t they?”
Jeremy’s slow smile warmed her. “That’s a brilliant idea.”
“Well, then.” Smiling herself, she started across the cobbles toward the clothing stall. “Let’s see what we can find that might fit my sister.”
They bought a simple petticoat and a plain cambric gown in a shade of brown that would, Eliza informed Jeremy as they walked back to the church, make her blend into any crowd. Personally, he doubted it; without the hat she’d been wearing as part of her disguise, her gleaming hair would catch anyone’s eye, as would her fine features, features that would make it difficult for her to pass as anything other than the well-bred young lady she was.
Keeping watch in the nave while she changed in the vestry, he considered that point. When she finally emerged, retransformed into a woman, he pushed away from the wall against which he’d been leaning — and stared.
The gown fitted her well, its simplicity only emphasizing her height, her sleek curves, the regalness of her posture. Rather than dim the brightness of her hair, the plain brown of the gown made the heavy waves appear a richer, deeper shade of honey-gold, made her hazel eyes appear more vivid.
It wasn’t that he’d forgotten what she looked like in skirts so much as he’d forgotten what the impact she had on him in that guise felt like.
Like he’d been clouted over the head.
He shook his brains back into place as she came toward him, still, he noticed, striding quite freely.
She saw his gaze slide down to her feet and grinned. “I know. I’ve still got my boots on, of course, but I’m going to have to remind myself to glide like a lady and not swagger like a youth anymore.”
He merely nodded and reached for the saddlebag she’d taken into the vestry with her. It now bulged with the clothes and hat she’d stuffed into it. “I’d better take that.”
She handed the bag over, then, with a happy little sigh, swung the cloak she’d carried over one arm about her shoulders. “I feel so much … well, lighter, now I can breathe freely again.”
He remembered the silk band she’d had him help her retie about her breasts that morning, thought of her unraveling it, recalled what she looked like without it …
Hauling breath into lungs distinctly constricted even without any binding, he dragged his gaze upward from the relevant part of her anatomy and fixed it on her face. “Now you’re a lady again, when we get a room —”
“We’ll need to pretend to be man and wife.” She nodded and reached for his arm. “But that should only make our new guise even less conspicuous, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” He walked with her to the head of the aisle but halted there. “Which is why I think you should wear this.” He held out his hand, the signet ring he normally wore on his little finger resting on his palm. “It’ll make matters easier and bolster our disguise.”
Without the slightest hesitation, she picked up the ring. She slid it onto the appropriate finger, held it up, then showed him. “It fits.”
He glanced at the ring — one that had belonged to his late father, which he thought of as very much his own — now circling her finger, then looked at her. Met her gaze.
Her lips curved, just a little, as if she knew what he was thinking. “Thank you.”
He hesitated, words crowding his mind, but now was not the time. He tipped his head toward the town. “We’d better get on and find somewhere to stay.”
Smiling more definitely, she slid her arm into his and waited until he settled the saddlebags on his other shoulder, then they walked out of the church and back along the high street.
They stopped at the first inn. Jeremy arranged for a gig to be waiting for them the next morning, but when he glanced into the inn itself, he drew back. “Too many people.” Too many rough-looking men. He steered Eliza back into the inn yard.
His gaze fell on one of the ostlers, a middle-aged man, waiting by the entrance to the stable. “Hmm.” He guided Eliza toward the man; she’d put up her hood, hiding her hair. “Try to look timid and shy.”
She duly dipped her head and hung back a trifle, as if slipping into his shadow.
Drawing nearer the ostler, he nodded to the man. “Can you recommend anywhere, other than the inns and tavern, where my wife and I might find a quiet bed for the night?”
The ostler returned his nod politely and directed them to a lodging house across the marketplace. “Mrs. Wallace is a widder — keeps her rooms neat and clean, and she’ll do you a good dinner, too. Good cook, she is, and a nice woman, too. You’ll find her sign up on the corner of yon lane there — she’s three doors down on the right.”
“Thank you.” Jeremy tossed the man a coin, then turned and escorted Eliza across the cobbles and into the lane.
Mrs. Wallace and her lodging house proved to be as excellent as advertised. The room the widow showed them to was small, but airy and cheerful, with chintz curtains at the window and a matching counterpane on the brass-framed bed. After supplying them with towels and an ewer of warm water, Mrs. Wallace left them to make themselves comfortable. “Dinner will be less than half an hour, my dears,” she warned as she turned back to the stairs. “I ring a bell so all my lodgers know.”
“We’ll come down as soon as we hear it.” With a grateful smile, Eliza shut the door, then turned to survey the room. Jeremy carried the heavy ewer to the dressing table; he’d earlier slung their bags on the end of the bed.
Crossing to the bed, she set the towels down beside
the bags, then sat and bounced lightly. The mattress was thick, the quilt beneath the counterpane stuffed full of feathers. Her gaze fell on her left hand. She stared for a moment, then raised her hand and studied the ring on her finger.
“It worked,” Jeremy said.
She looked across to see him turn from placing the ewer in its matching basin.
He met her eyes. “Mrs. Wallace looked for the ring. Once she saw it, she was happy.”
Eliza nodded. “She believes we’re a married couple — she didn’t question that at all.” Returning her gaze to the ring, she murmured, “It’s almost like we’re … practicing.”
Sliding his hands into his pockets, Jeremy halted at the end of the bed. He studied her for a moment, then said, “We’re not going to think too much, remember?”
She looked up, met his gaze. “Yes, I know.” She paused, then went on, “And I think you’re right — we need to … just be. Just let ourselves be as we would be, without considering the expectations of society. We seem to be doing perfectly well without …” She gestured.
“Without bringing society’s notions and demands, or those of anyone else, into our equation?”
“Yes. Precisely.” She searched his eyes. “We don’t need interference from anyone else. We’re working things out between ourselves …” She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “Aren’t we?”
Ruthlessly suppressing the unease that curled through him whenever he thought of what was evolving between them, of just where his brilliant notion of simply letting what would be, be, was leading them, he nodded. “We are.”
She smiled; in contrast to him, she seemed entirely at ease. “Good. So we’ll just continue as we have been — and then see where we’ve got to once we reach Wolverstone.” Rising, she headed for the dressing table. “I suppose I’d better make use of that water while it’s still warm.”
Lips lifting, he waved her on. “Ladies first.” As she passed him, and his eyes took in her honey-gold hair, his senses teased by the faint scent he now recognized as hers, he turned, following her with his eyes, and amended, “At least when there’s no danger involved.”
She laughed and continued to the dressing table.
Inwardly wondering just what would eventually be born of this curious wooing, this courtship of circumstance — perhaps, given they were in Scotland, the whole business might more correctly be viewed as a handfasting?— he sat on the bed to wait his turn.
Dinner was an event that focused their minds. When asked from where they hailed, and where they were headed, Eliza glanced at Jeremy; he stepped in and spun a tale about them living on the outskirts of Edinburgh, having moved there for the work, but having to return to England in a rush to visit Eliza’s mother, who was poorly.
But the rabbit pie was excellent, and their fellow lodgers an unthreatening group — two clerks from nearby legal offices, and one of the town’s watchmen. The conversation remained general, largely centering around happenings in the town, until Mrs. Wallace removed the last scraps of her apple crumble and shooed them all out of her dining room.
The watchman set out to visit the tavern. The two clerks ducked their heads politely to Eliza and Jeremy and headed for the inn.
Jeremy arched a brow at Eliza.
She met his gaze, then smiled, slid her arm in his, and turned toward the stairs. “We should get as early a start as possible, shouldn’t we?”
Climbing the stairs, he smiled. Reaching their door, he opened it and held it for her; he waited until he’d shut it to say, “The earlier in the day that we reach Carter Bar and cross into England, the happier I’ll be.”
She glanced at him. “I thought you said Scrope wouldn’t be at the border itself?”
“I don’t think he will be, but …” He grimaced as he joined her at the side of the bed. “The damned man has forced us to detour enough to lose a day — we should have been at Wolverstone tonight at the latest.”
Her eyes on his, she said, “But there have been consolations.”
“Perhaps. Or, more accurately, we’ve taken advantage of the opportunities”— he watched her step closer, grip his lapels and rise up on her toes —“his actions have presented us with.”
From close range, from beneath lids already lowered, she captured his gaze, then breathed, her words a tantalizing waft of heat over his lips, “We’re not thinking, remember?”
Then she kissed him, delicately, evocatively, cindering any doubt he might have entertained that she wouldn’t be intent on seizing their unexpected extra night together to further advance her understanding.
To further explore the passion that rose so readily to her call.
In him, and in herself.
Eliza was fascinated, utterly enthralled by the appetite she sensed behind his so-contained, so-correct scholarly mien. Last night, she’d been so caught up in the experience, in the sensations and revelations, that she hadn’t had any part of her awareness to spare for him. To gain any real idea of how the moment had affected him, whether the satiation, the satisfaction, the simple pleasure that had spread so completely through her had been equally deep, equally pervasive, for him.
She wanted to find out. To use the unexpected opportunity, this unexpected extra night, to explore that, gauge that. To learn the truth of what might be between them, from his perspective as well as hers.
So she had no hesitation in stating her need and inviting him to fulfill it. To let desire rise up through her body, let it spread beneath her skin and resonate with her heartbeat as she pressed her lips to his.
And tempted.
Beckoned and lured.
Then he accepted her invitation, closed his hands about her breasts, and she suddenly had to break from the kiss and let her head fall back on a gasp.
As she rode the crest of rising pleasure.
A pleasure that welled, swelled, and swept her on.
She let it, went with it, ready and eager to see where he would lead her, what he would show her tonight, yet some small sliver of her mind remained attuned to him, watched and catalogued all the little signs.
Like the tension that invested his features, the hard edge rising passion lent the austere planes, the passionate plundering of his lips and tongue as he, button by button, garment by garment, stripped her. Bared her.
To the moonlight spearing through the uncurtained window.
The silvery glow bathed her body in pearlescent light, limning limbs impossibly graceful, gilding her lush curves and erotically shading her hollows; Jeremy could barely breathe, lungs tight, constricted, as with his eyes he drank in her beauty. As with his hands he sculpted and paid homage, as with his lips he traced and savored, and devotion, heavy and real, grew and burgeoned within him.
Anchored him. In the here and now, in the whirling maelstrom of their passions.
His intent was clear in his mind; to give her all she wished, all she wanted — fulfill every desire she had — but to rein himself back and keep himself from falling into the seething cauldron of ravenous desire that surged and swelled between them.
As he hadn’t been able to last night.
It wasn’t that he imagined she had any real desire to rip his wits away, not even any true conception that she might. His wish to remain wholly captain of his own will tonight was driven more by the need to reassure himself that he could — that he could engage with her, fulfill her hunger, bring her to completion and find his own in her, and still be in control.
As he usually was.
As he always had been with all his previous lovers.
But they had never touched him and made him burn, had never taken him into their arms and made him lose touch with reason.
He was a scholar, a man of rational thought and cautious, intelligent action. Last night, for long moments he’d been beyond the reach of will and mind, suborned by, submerged in, a different reality, but that had to have been because the situation in its entirety had been new to him. Novel and distracting.
Last night, h
e’d been distracted. Tonight, he intended to remain fully in command, and that, he reasoned, would set the tone for their future engagements.
And then he’d be safe. All would be well.
That had been his conclusion, but he’d reasoned without her.
Without the sudden boldness with which she, naked and feylike in the silvery moonlight, gripped his jacket and peeled it from him.
Without the sultry demand with which she opened his shirt, then, eyes on his face, spread her hands and devoured.
Devoured by touch, and then by taste.
Razed his control with sensation.
Head falling back, he fought to hold on to some semblance of restraint as she undressed him, freely caressing, exploring, learning … every little touch that made him shudder.
Until he stood in the moonlight, as naked as she, while her hands drifted, increasingly bold …
Dragging in a breath, desperate to create some mental distance for long enough to find his mind, he grasped her shoulders and tipped, tumbling them both onto the bed.
She laughed and rolled with him, but when he would have rolled her beneath him and filched the reins, she wrestled and insisted, and the lead passed back and forth, with first him, then her, in the ascendancy, madly pushing the other on …
Flames erupted and raced over them, until they were panting, skins damp, gasping, grasping, desperate and urgent, and far beyond thought.
She parted her thighs in wordless, mindless, abandoned invitation. With one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself in her — and the conflagration roared.
And vaporized all intentions, cindered all caution, razed all reservations.
Whipped on by unrelenting passion, he rode her hard, and she clung and urged him on. Openly demanding, writhing beneath him.
As if in shedding her youth’s attire, she’d converted into a woman in a far deeper sense than simply in appearance.
As if in exchanging breeches for skirts, she’d released, unleashed, a vibrant, sensual woman — one she was determined to let have her way.
In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster Page 29
