No, he was certain that if Fletcher had been here, it had been only briefly. More likely Ilsa had come to see someone who knew something, perhaps unwittingly. That only made him more on edge, prowling the streets, trying to plan for a number of possibilities.
Finally he turned back toward the inn, riding his new brown gelding and leading another on a rope. He missed his own horse, but he’d pushed that animal to the limit riding back to Edinburgh from Fort George, covering two hundred miles of bad road in six days. At the same time, the close confines of the carriage yesterday had made his skin crawl. He couldn’t see anything or anyone from inside a carriage.
He left the horses at the inn. Ilsa hadn’t returned, and restlessly he walked out again. Her plan was mad, whatever it was. Either Fletcher was hiding here, stupidly lingering within a day’s ride of Edinburgh while the rewards for his capture were spread all over Scotland, or he’d left already, and Ilsa would have only made the sheriff more suspicious of her.
He was terribly afraid for her. If she knew how to find her father, then she’d lied to the sheriff. Under Drew’s midnight badgering, the procurator’s deputy admitted that they thought she already had. They knew Ilsa had gone straight to her father after a gossipy friend of her aunt revealed that someone had come forward for the pardon, and that Deacon Fletcher had fled town the next morning. David MacGill told Sheriff Cockburn that Fletcher had sent him a letter for his daughter, which he had delivered to her. Cockburn had gone to see Ilsa at once, and thought the letter was very nearly a confession. Ilsa had claimed it wasn’t her father’s handwriting, suggesting Mr. MacGill had written it himself, but Cockburn didn’t believe that. They were sure she knew something and was hiding it.
Drew cursed as he paced the road toward town. He’d argued to the deputy for two hours that night that Ilsa couldn’t have anything to do with the robberies. She’d been with him in Perth during the worst run of them, where he and Felix Duncan could attest that she’d neither sent nor received communication from Edinburgh. What’s more, she had no reason to steal, having a handsome fortune and—unlike her father—no known penchant for gambling or unsavory companions. Her only possible crime, Drew had insisted, was loyal devotion to her parent, which was not illegal no matter the state of that parent’s soul. Did they really mean to arrest a woman without evidence of any kind?
The deputy had said of course not, but that if she had any information, Drew should strongly encourage her to bring it to him. For her own sake.
Instead Drew had gone with her when he couldn’t persuade her to stay. He’d known he would all along. Whatever the truth of her actions, he couldn’t stop thinking of Ilsa saying that she was used to going alone, being alone, doing things alone. He didn’t want her to do this alone. Especially not when he suspected the sheriff would have men following her, to see if she led them to Fletcher.
Which was why he hadn’t told the sheriff.
Or his family.
Or the Duchess of Carlyle.
He was already far beyond when he’d promised to return to Carlyle. As the weeks slipped by, he had put off his letter to Mr. Edwards again and again. It still lay in the desk in Duncan’s spare room, barely begun, containing nothing of import except David MacGill’s unsuitability. And now there was no way to finish it—he had no idea where he was going or when he would return, or if he was inadvertently helping a wanted man escape the King’s justice, all because he had lost his heart to a bewitching, exuberant Scotswoman with a loyal, loving spirit who wanted nothing to do with his English title.
And that woman had been gone a long time. He hesitated, not wanting to risk her trust again but unable to shake off the feeling of unease. Damn it, he thought, and lengthened his stride toward Dunbar.
Ilsa meant to stay only a little while, but once Mary started talking, it was hard to leave. After the horror of the last fortnight, it was such a relief and a pleasure to speak fondly of Papa with another person who believed him innocent.
Her head was full as she walked briskly back toward the inn. It was a splendidly beautiful day and she filled her lungs, heartened not only by her visit with Cousin Mary but by the exercise and fresh air. She hadn’t dared go out after the scene with Liam, and her soul seemed to unfold and heal a little in the warm sunshine.
She was thinking of what she would tell Drew—she couldn’t send him away, nor did she want to anymore, but she was determined to keep him in the dark as much as possible, for his sake—when someone said her name behind her. Like an idiot, she stopped and turned, only to realize with alarm that the two men approaching her were not friends.
One of them doffed his hat, which did nothing to soften his implacable expression. “Mrs. Ramsay, a moment of your time, if you please.”
She clutched the hem of her jacket and kept her spine rigid. “Who, pray, are you, sir?”
“George Williamson, ma’am. King’s Messenger for North Britain.” He motioned at his companion. “And Mr. Hay, sheriff-officer of Edinburgh.”
Mr. Hay was Mrs. Arbuthnot’s loose-lipped brother-in-law. Her heart stuck in her throat. She managed a nod and resumed walking. “Regrettably, I am in a hurry. Good day, sirs.”
They fell in on either side of her. Sweat beaded the back of her neck. She ought to have let Drew accompany her. “We can talk as we go, ma’am.”
“I’m sure I have nothing interesting to tell you.” She kept her eyes straight ahead and walked as briskly as her feet would go.
“Perhaps not,” agreed Mr. Williamson affably. “But perhaps you’d be so kind as to oblige us by answering a few questions.”
“Where is your father now?” asked Mr. Hay. He was a big fellow with hard, squinty eyes and a suspicious expression.
“I don’t know,” she said evenly.
“Have you any idea where he might have gone?”
“He has frequently expressed a desire to see Paris,” she replied. “I suggest you seek him there.”
Mr. Hay growled. Mr. Williamson smiled, but she sensed his patience was waning. “Anywhere else? Where does he have family?”
“My grandparents came from Perth, but they have both passed away,” she told them truthfully. “His only sibling, his sister, resides in Edinburgh with me. You already know that.” Mr. Williamson didn’t blink. “And his cousin Mrs. Murray lives here. I’ve been to visit her, in fact. I assure you she also knows nothing of his whereabouts, but by all means inquire with her directly.”
“And you’ve just come on a whim to see her,” said the officer cynically.
“I wished to leave Edinburgh,” she said, her voice growing tight. They showed no signs of leaving and the inn still seemed a league away. “Perhaps you can guess why, after your fellow officers searched my home and gave everyone to believe I conspired with the criminals.”
“Not all the criminals,” Mr. Hay said with a sharp look. “Only the one. Your father.”
She swallowed. Her heart beat a sharp tattoo against her breastbone. Would they seize her? Would they arrest her? Would they tell Drew, or arrest him, too? Had he led them to her, or had she led him into disaster?
Then the man himself appeared over the rise of the road, and she couldn’t stop a gasp of relief. Both officers looked up.
“What luck meeting you here, Captain,” said Mr. Hay sardonically as Drew approached. “Mr. Cockburn thought we might. He sends his regards.”
“Very kind of him. Convey mine to him, sir.” Drew barely bowed his head at the officers. “Mrs. Ramsay, I apologize for not meeting you sooner.”
“I enjoyed the walk,” she said with a smile, trying to hide how fast her heart was racing. “I had a delightful visit with my cousin. You were too kind to indulge me.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” He looked at the men flanking her with unmistakable hauteur and command. “Is that all?”
Mr. Williamson cleared his throat. “Nay, Captain. We’ve a few more questions for Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Oh?” Drew’s brow arched impatiently. “Wh
at are they?”
“Where did William Fletcher go?” demanded Mr. Hay.
“I don’t know—”
“Ah, ma’am, we can’t truly believe that,” said Williamson almost regretfully.
“The lady answered your question.” Drew’s tone was icy.
Williamson stepped forward, hands raised to placate. He spoke to Drew, his voice low and calm. Mr. Hay leaned closer to Ilsa. “What did that letter mean? The one your solicitor brought?”
“I showed it to Mr. Cockburn.” Her throat was tight. “Though I doubt my father even wrote it . . .”
“Convenient story, that.” He took hold of her arm. “Obviously there was something hidden in it, wasn’t there? Some clue that made you hurry all the way to Dunbar to see a distant cousin for a few hours.”
“Let go of me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can visit family if I wish.”
Instead he took a pair of manacles from his pocket. “You’ll have to come back to Edinburgh, Mrs. Ramsay.”
The sight of the manacles sparked a panic inside her. He meant to chain her up and drag her back to town—lock her in the Tolbooth—bully her and threaten her and, most horribly of all, keep her from finding Papa and clearing his name. She pulled against his grip, and he gave her a sharp shake, so hard her teeth clacked together.
“None of that, now,” he growled. “You’ve got a fair bit to answer for.” He squeezed her wrist into the manacle, so tightly she cried out. She twisted, trying to pull away from him, and he yanked her back against him.
Then he gave a shout and shoved her away, so hard she sprawled on her face in the dirt. For a moment she couldn’t breathe; her head had hit the ground, knocking off her hat, and the dirt and rocks of the road scoured her cheek. Ilsa struggled to sit up. Mr. Hay glared at her, one hand clapped to his chin, where a long thin scratch oozed blood. Her hatpin, she realized.
Then Hay jerked backward, his small eyes going wide in surprise.
From Ilsa’s position sprawled on the ground, Drew towered like an avenging angel as he threw Mr. Hay to the ground and stalked after him. He snarled something and put his boot on the man’s chest as Hay attempted to scramble to his feet, sending him flying again. Once more the officer tried to get up, and this time Drew let him, only to fell him with a punch that made his head snap around. Mr. Hay didn’t move when he hit the ground for a third time.
Flexing his hand, perhaps still breathing fire, Drew turned to her. “Are you injured?”
Wide-eyed, she shook her head.
For a moment they stared at each other, until something shattered inside her breast. With a strangled sob she scrambled up from the ground and flung herself at him. He caught her with both arms, hauling her off her feet and covering her face with kisses. Crying, still shaking, she kissed him wholeheartedly, clasping his face between her hands.
“You hit him,” she sobbed between kisses.
“He hurt you,” Drew replied. His wounded hand stroked over her hair; her hat was somewhere in the dirt. He touched her scraped cheek, his mouth flat with anger. “You looked so terrified—you’re sure you’re not badly hurt?”
She nodded, her lips trembling.
“Good.” He kissed her hard once more, then set her back down and stooped over Mr. Hay. He came back with a ring of keys and unlocked the manacle from her wrist, flinging it and the keys into the tall grass of the field. With a grunt he heaved the officer up off the road, hauling him several feet away into the grass.
“Where is the other?” she asked fearfully.
Drew glanced over his shoulder. “Over there. He tried to stop me from coming to you.”
The country here was lonely, rising and falling in gentle hills. Drew jogged back to where Mr. Williamson sprawled, a thin trickle of blood on his mouth. He carried Mr. Williamson to where he’d left Mr. Hay, and settled them both with some care.
“Are they dead?” she whispered. She’d only managed to retrieve her hat and stood watching in awe.
“Nay. They’ll wake soon. I only want to buy time.” He took her hand and set off at a brisk pace in the direction he’d come from.
Ilsa hurried along behind him. “Time for what?”
“For us to leave,” he said evenly. “When they come around, they’ll go to the local sheriff and then we’ll be in the fire.” He gave her a fraught look. “We have to go now. I hope you learned what you needed.”
The local sheriff would arrest them both. Drew had assaulted law officers, one of whom would probably say she had stabbed him when he tried to subdue her. Terrified, Ilsa nodded.
They reached the inn and she ran up the stairs to her room. Drew followed close behind, whispering to her to gather only a change of clothes and any papers, and to pack the rest in her small trunk. A few minutes later he tapped on her door and handed her a wrapped package, which turned out to be a pair of breeches. “Dress to ride,” he told her.
A quarter of an hour later they rode out on two strange horses, which apparently belonged to Drew now. Without a word Ilsa took the lead, choosing the road leading southwest.
They rode for an hour before speaking. “What of our things?” she finally asked.
“I left a note and some coin for the chaise driver, asking that he return your trunk to your aunt in Edinburgh. I explained we would go the rest of the way by horseback.” He lifted one shoulder. “One less person who can tell anyone where you’re bound.”
She nodded, feeling as if she were in a play on the stage, wholly unreal and fantastical. They were wanted criminals on the run now. Merciful heavens, how her life had changed in a few short weeks. Had it really been little more than a month since she’d run through the maze at Stormont Palace with him and spent the night in his bed, her greatest worry being how to sneak back to her own room unseen?
“I take it you know where we’re heading,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Yes.” She hadn’t meant to tell him, but there was no longer any doubt that they were in this together, for better and for worse. “Glasgow.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
They kept well clear of Edinburgh, running south as far as Melrose before turning west. The Lowlands were far easier traveling than the rocky crags of the Highland Cairngorms he had so recently raced through. Vastly relieved to be on a more maneuverable horse than boxed in a carriage, Drew kept a keen eye out for any more followers.
There would be hell to pay for what he’d done in Dunbar. Neither Williamson nor Hay would suffer any lasting harm, but Drew had burnt his authority and respectability to ash by assaulting them and fleeing with the woman they sought.
Williamson had told him in no uncertain terms that Ilsa must return to Edinburgh. Drew had been trying to convince him otherwise when Hay shoved her to the ground, having already locked one manacle around her wrist.
Well. There was no going back now. Ilsa rode ahead of him, her back straight, as at home astride the hastily acquired horse as she had been on Duncan’s long-legged gelding. They didn’t talk much, but there was no need. She no longer avoided his eyes, and that alone eased the tension in his heart.
Of where they were headed and what they would do there, he thought very little. It didn’t matter. He had bound himself to her, like a liege knight to his queen, and where she led he would follow.
The first night they stopped on the edge of a quiet little wood, where the grass was thick and soft and a stream ran nearby. Ilsa nibbled her lip at the prospect of sleeping in the open, her eyes flitting up and down the road behind them.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, unsaddling the horses and setting them to graze. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to find an inn? We’ll be defenseless out here . . .”
He put his hand on his sword. “Cold words, lass. I’ve been an army officer for a decade, and ye fear for yer life in my hands?” He shook his head, and she smiled reluctantly, as intended.
Later, when they had a small fire going and the horses were snuffli
ng quietly nearby, Ilsa crept close to him. “Thank you,” she said, drawing up her knees under her chin.
“For what?” He watched her, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against a sapling.
The fire flickered on her unbound hair, blue-black in the dark. “For following me. I was cruel to you in the carriage.”
“You were wary.”
She looked at him, her eyes midnight pools. “I was wrong. I’m sorry for the things I said.”
“We’re all wrong at times. No sin in making certain of someone.”
She touched the knuckles of his right hand. They would be sore tomorrow; the officer was a big fellow, and Drew had hit him hard. “You struck the sheriff-clerk’s officer. Two of them.” Her fingers ran over his. “If you hadn’t been there, they would have arrested me and made me go back to Edinburgh.”
He flipped his hand and grasped hers. “It didn’t happen. Don’t dwell on it.”
“No,” she whispered, staring at their clasped hands. There was an ugly bruise circling her wrist from the manacle. “Because you didn’t let it.” She raised her eyes. “I know where Papa’s gone.”
Drew’s stomach clenched.
“I did not know before I spoke to Cousin Mary,” she went on, staring at their little fire. She made no effort to pull her hand from his. “Mary is his only cousin. The Fletchers are a clan of small families. When my mother died, Mary came to stay with us for a few months. I believe she hoped Papa would marry her.” A faint half smile lit her face. “Papa was so handsome and charming and clever, everyone was in love with him . . . He did not marry her, though, and she went away and married someone else, but they remained deeply fond of each other. Talking about him with her was wonderful.”
Drew wondered if Ilsa counted too much on Fletcher’s charm. “Then those men will find her and demand she tell them what she told you.”
Finally some animation returned to her face. “She’ll tell them these charges are lies! Mary would take any secret of Papa’s to her grave, but she doesn’t even know what to tell them. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have figured it out without going to Dunbar, but I’m still glad I went. Mary had heard rumors and was worried. Talking to her reminded me. Papa will go to the Lord of Princes.”
A Scot to the Heart Page 26
