In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  “What?”

  She looked up at the question, met Jeremy’s eyes. Saw his interest in her answer shining there. She hesitated, searching for her true meaning as well as the words, then said, “I was just thinking … despite the trials and tribulations, despite having to run and scramble from Scrope, despite living in fear of being captured by the laird, I’ve … enjoyed isn’t the right word, but …” She held his gaze. “I can see — I feel — that I’ve benefited from the last days. I’ve grown.” She straightened her shoulders. “I suppose you might say I’ve matured — I certainly feel different, more settled, clearer in my mind about … a whole host of things. But most importantly, I’m more certain about me.” She tilted her head. “And for that I thank you — you’ve helped me through it all, the rescue, the escape, and you’ve helped me see things, understand things, too.”

  His expression had grown serious; he held her gaze, then quietly said, “I feel much the same. While I’ll be happy to see Wolverstone, I can’t say that I’ve regretted the last days — quite the opposite. I think in years to come I’ll look back upon them fondly.”

  “Exactly.” Reaching out, she closed her hand over one of his, lightly squeezed. “While I’ll be happy to know we’re safe, as long as Scrope and the laird aren’t breathing down our necks I feel no sense of desperation over reaching Wolverstone, over bringing this journey to an end.”

  Turning his hand, he gripped hers, lightly squeezed in reply.

  Approaching footsteps pattered across the floor. They both looked up to see the serving girl hefting a piled tray. Jeremy whipped aside the map. While he refolded it and stowed it away, Eliza helped the girl set out their plates and mugs.

  When the girl retreated, leaving them to their luncheon, Jeremy raised his mug to Eliza. “To getting back to our real lives — they won’t be the same as they were, but the challenge will lie in making the most of the changes and opportunities this journey has brought us.”

  “Hear, hear.” Clinking her mug to his, Eliza smiled, sipped, then wrinkled her nose at the taste, making him laugh.

  Then they turned their attention to the excellent venison pie.

  Half an hour later, they climbed back into the gig. Juggling the reins, Jeremy consulted his fob-watch. “It’s not even one o’clock. We should make Wolverstone in good time.” He glanced at Eliza. “Ready?”

  She waved dramatically. “Onward to the border — and don’t spare the horse!”

  Grinning, Jeremy flicked the reins, sent the roan trotting out of the inn yard, then turned east, away from the major road they’d followed from Selkirk, which led onward to Carlisle.

  With the sun gently warming their backs, they drove out of the town and on down a narrow country lane.

  The day remained fine and the lane sufficiently well surfaced for them to make good time.

  They rattled through several tiny hamlets. The lane twisted and turned but overall kept them on a southeasterly course. Then a gushing stream swung close on one side, the pale water racing past, tumbling and churning.

  The further they drove the darker the sky grew, becoming more overcast, the atmosphere more oppressive and threatening. With every half mile, they saw increasing evidence of recent heavy rains over the Cheviots, the line of moorland hills that marched along the border.

  “I just hope we don’t run into any quagmires,” Jeremy said. Thus far the lane had been well drained, with deep ditches to either side carrying the rainwater away.

  Eliza was peering over the gig’s side. “These ditches look half full.” She glanced ahead to where dark gray clouds hung low, obscuring the horizon. “There must have been a storm.”

  Jeremy didn’t like the look of those clouds. “I just hope our luck holds.”

  It did, until they reached Bonchester Bridge.

  They trotted around a curve and swung into the village, then Jeremy swore and hauled on the reins, drawing the horse to a dead halt.

  Several men had come running, waving and shouting for them to stop.

  Jeremy and Eliza ignored them, their gazes transfixed by what lay beyond.

  Or rather, what didn’t.

  Staring at the spot where the road simply ended, to start again on the far side of a chasm currently gushing clouds of spray, Jeremy said, “It seems my comment about having a clear run to the border was premature.”

  Over the following hours, Jeremy evaluated every possible avenue to get them over the border. The Bonchester bridge itself was no more, washed away by a torrent the previous night. The townsfolk were stoic, but the disaster had effectively cut the town in two; the questions Jeremy asked regarding the state of the road further on necessitated a great deal of yelling across the chasm, over the raging tumult below.

  Eliza pored over the map and made suggestions, but she seemed more resigned than he, or perhaps she was simply more accepting of fate.

  Regardless …

  “There’s no way forward.” Grim-faced, he finally slumped into the chair opposite hers in the Bonchester Inn’s parlor. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he ran his hands over his face. Looking up, he met Eliza’s hazel gaze. “There’s no chance of getting across the spate in a rowboat, and even if we did manage to find a way across, there’s no gig or similar conveyance available for hire on the other side. Your suggestion of taking that minor lane south and tacking around via Hobkirk won’t work, because the bridge at Hobkirk is out, too.

  “And although everyone agrees we might be able to go east and then around via Abbotrule to pick up our original route at Chesters — mind you, that’s assuming the two bridges along that roundabout route are still standing — according to all reports from the other side”— he tipped his head toward the southern half of the town —“there’s another bridge just north of Southdean that’s been wrecked, too.”

  Holding her gaze, he shook his head. “We can’t get to Carter Bar along that road — the lane we wanted to take.”

  The one that would have allowed them to avoid any chance of running into Scrope or the laird.

  She studied him for a moment, then said, “It’s not a disaster. We’ll just have to go the other way. We’ll get through — we have until now, and we will, somehow.”

  He looked into her eyes, felt her calm reach into him and soothe him. He sighed, dropped his hands. After a moment, shook his head. “I just can’t believe we’re stymied again. It’s as if all of Scotland is in league with the devil — in this case the laird and his henchman, Scrope.”

  She smiled. “At least they don’t know where we are.”

  He raised his brows. “There is that. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies.”

  “Or not so small.” She stirred, sat straighter. “It’s too late to go on today — the light’s already failing.”

  He glanced out through the parlor windows; dark clouds had closed in, along with a fine mist.

  “I’ve asked the innkeeper, and there’s a room we can hire.” Capturing his gaze, Eliza went on, “Given we don’t have to worry about Scrope or the laird catching up with us here, we can get a good night’s rest, then go on tomorrow morning.”

  A moment elapsed, then he nodded. “Where’s the map?”

  She pulled it out from the bags resting beside her.

  Once more they spread it out and studied the area. “We’ve looked at this so often,” he murmured, “yet it always seems we’re looking for another way.”

  Silence stretched as they both looked. Both saw.

  Eventually, she said, “Except, this time, there isn’t another way. Is there?”

  Eyes on the map, he slowly shook his head. “We’ve run out of options. From everything I’ve learned, the only way we can reach the border from here is to take this lane”— with one finger he traced the route —“heading northwest from here to Langlee, beside the highway south of Jedburgh, and from there we’ll have to risk the last stretch of highway to the border. It’s about ten miles.”

  “Hmm.” Studying the lane to Lan
glee, she asked, “Are they sure the lane’s passable?”

  “There’s two bridges along it, but all the locals seem to think they’ll still be standing. If they aren’t … we’ll need to tack further north, which means we’ll join the highway even closer to Jedburgh.”

  “And a lot later.” Raising her gaze, she met his eyes. “If we head out early tomorrow — at first light — we could be over the border in what? Two hours?”

  Leaning back in the chair, he nodded. “About that.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.” She started refolding the map. When he didn’t say anything more, she glanced at him, saw him regarding her in the way he occasionally did — as if he was studying her. She arched her brows inquiringly.

  His lips twisted. “You don’t seem too bothered by having to spend yet another night on the road.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not. We’re in no danger, this inn is comfortable enough, and whether we reach Wolverstone today or tomorrow doesn’t change very much, does it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  She pulled one of the bags into her lap and tucked the map away.

  “You seem … very confident that we’ll get through tomorrow.”

  She glanced briefly his way. “I see no reason not to be.”

  He captured her gaze, held it. After a moment, he quietly said, “Thank you.”

  She raised her brows mock-haughtily. “For what? Not dissolving into a panic?” She humphed. “I’m not such a pea-brain.”

  His smile deepened. “No.” Reaching out he caught her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Thank you for being you.”

  Eliza looked into his eyes, felt absolute conviction lock about her heart. She smiled and handed him the saddlebags. “Come on — we’d better tell the innkeeper we’ll take that room.”

  When true night finally fell, they retired, climbing the inn’s stairs to a corner room overlooking, on one side, the front of the inn, and on the other the rushing spate, with the mist-shrouded Cheviots in the background.

  Carrying two lighted candlesticks, Eliza led the way.

  Following her into the comfortable room with its pleasantly worn furniture — a dressing table and armoire against one wall, a large washstand in the corner between the windows, and a large four-poster bed complete with canopy and brocade curtains — Jeremy closed the door and hesitated.

  He watched Eliza circle the bed, place one of the candlesticks on each of the two small bedside tables, then glide toward the window. Moving to the dressing table, he set their bags down, paused, then glanced at her.

  She’d closed the curtains over the front window but had halted facing the other; arms raised, hands grasping the curtains, she stood poised to shut out the view of the Cheviots etched in faint moonlight, yet appeared transfixed by the sight.

  Or, as he suspected, by the prospect of what lay beyond.

  Even as he walked to join her at the window overlooking the raging stream, he wondered at the certainty that had settled in his gut, in his mind.

  Halting behind her, without thinking — simply letting that inner certainty take charge and guide him — he slid his hands around her waist and eased her back against him.

  On a sigh, she leaned back, her gaze on the dark horizon. “Tomorrow.”

  She said nothing more, but he knew what she meant and had no insights to offer.

  After a moment more of staring into the deepening dark, she straightened, pulled the curtains closed, then turned between his palms.

  She studied his face. “But tonight, it’s just us. Just you and me.”

  “Yes.” Tonight was their last night in this curious in-between world — this world that was theirs, yet not. Tomorrow, when they reached Wolverstone, they would each return to their customary existence, reassume their usual social persona, and be subject once again to the rules and regulations that pertained on that plane.

  “Tonight”— she held his gaze —“can just be for us.”

  His lips lifted. “There’s no one else here.” Hands firming about her waist, he urged her closer.

  With a gentle, flirting smile, she obliged, pressing nearer; tipping her head back, she stretched up and wound her arms about his neck. “There’s no one we need to impress.” Her gaze fell to his lips; her lids lowered. “Whose opinion we need to consult.”

  “No.” Slowly, he bent his head, his gaze drifting over her face to fasten, at the last, on her lips. “We can do as we like. As we please.” He breathed the last word over her lips.

  “Yes.”

  Together they closed the last fraction of an inch, the last sliver of separation between their lips.

  Together they pressed nearer still; mouths melding, tongues seeking and tangling, together they stepped into the waiting flames. Into the welcoming warmth of acknowledged passion, of desire owned and willingly embraced.

  Willingly, not just wantonly.

  Deliberately, without resistance.

  Tonight … he wasn’t going to even make the attempt to hold onto control, onto reason — to even pretend that he might, that he could.

  A futile effort.

  Tonight was fated. A storm, washed-out bridges; clearly fate had decreed they should spend another night together in this in-between place. On this plane divorced from their normal reality.

  One more night … so that he could bend the knee to the power that lived in their newfound connection.

  One more night during which he could accept and embrace his new state. His new reality. So that he could pay due homage to the new and glorious element that had wound about his heart and captured his soul.

  He was a scholar; he learned fast.

  In this instance, however, she seemed to have come to the correct conclusion faster than he.

  Although perhaps by a different route.

  She seemed to have no hesitation in, much less resistance to, engaging with that emerging power. In grasping it, working with it, and letting it work on her. Where he had turned wary, gripped by innate caution, she had stepped forward with eager, innocent curiosity, a type of courage he felt forced to not just mimic but also match.

  So tonight he would go into their engagement with open eyes and an equally open heart. With acceptance, delight, and no reservations.

  He would follow her lead and see where she, and that elemental power, led him.

  Where was the harm? They were still far from home, in their land of in-between.

  She’d offered her mouth; he tasted her flavors, claimed the slick softness, drank in the promise of her passion. A heady delight.

  He took a step back, then waltzed her, circling, spiraling, to the bed.

  Breaking from the kiss, she tipped her head back and laughed, a sultry, giddy, tantalizing sound. Then her eyes met his.

  And he saw the wanton there. The woman she became in his arms, the woman she truly was, who, with every night that passed, only grew more confident.

  He smiled — he couldn’t help it — in anticipation, in welcome.

  Reading his eyes, her own gleaming green and gold, she raised a hand to his face, framed one cheek, then stretched up and kissed him.

  In blatant, flagrant invitation.

  They shed their clothes, garment by garment, first one of hers, then one of his. Hands caressed; fingers stroked, teased.

  He shaped her curves, sculpted and possessed, then bent his head to pay homage to her breasts. To feast on their bounty and worship.

  Again and again, their gazes met, increasingly heated, smoldering, then flaring, then burning.

  Passion steadily mounted.

  Breath by breath, caress by caress.

  Then ignited.

  The pair of candlesticks on the bedside tables shed light enough to see; the warm glow slid over her ivory skin, casting a golden aura over the silken curves he’d bared.

  The same glow let her see, let her visually possess the planes of his naked chest before, dropping his shirt, she sent her hands to complete his conquest
.

  Neither hurried. They had time. In their in-between world they had all night to discover whatever fate had arranged for them to find.

  There was no fire burning on the small hearth, but desire kept them warm, with every heated, provocative touch spreading flames beneath their skins.

  Until they burned.

  Until, naked, they stood beside the bed, achingly, rapaciously hungry for the other’s touch, for the other’s kiss. For the fiery mating of their mouths, for the evocative, arousing sensation of bare skin imprinting on bare skin —

  Desire erupted, broke free. Urgency whipped them; passion drove them on.

  Sliding his hands down and around, claiming the globes of her derriere, he gripped and hoisted her against him.

  On a gasp, all need and longing, she broke from the kiss; long legs instinctively wrapping about his hips, she clutched his shoulders, panting, eyes burning into his as he positioned her. Lowered her.

  Eliza felt the broad head of his erection part her slick folds, let her lids lower as her senses savored, let her head tip back on a moan of greedy relief. Of anticipation and desire and flagrant encouragement.

  Yes. Now.

  She didn’t — thank heaven — have to find breath to say the words. He gripped her hips and ruthlessly drew her inexorably down … and thrust up and impaled her.

  Delicious shock rippled through her, immediately swamped by ravenous need. By the sensation of him so hard, so thick and long, pressed high within her. By the raging hunger that provoked.

  He’d stilled — was holding still — buried deep within her.

  Half blind with surging need, she found his lips, brushed a panting kiss to their curves, then nipped the lower. “More.”

  A near-hoarse demand, but he heard; he was moving even before the word faded.

  Drawing back, then thrusting in, gripping her hips so he could plunder.

  She tried to shift, tried to ride, but he gave her no leeway, simply held her, and filled her, and made her shudder.

  Her climax took her unawares. It erupted, flashed, hard and bright, through her, unraveled her mind, scrambled her senses and dragged a scream from her throat —