Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 18

  “Good.” She propped her chin in one palm and met his eyes across the table. “We have concerns enough as it is.”

  He nodded. “How are the boots?”

  “Quite good. He was right, the cobbler. They are well made.”

  “All right. So . . .” He pulled the map from his coat pocket, unfolded, then refolded it so the section they needed was exposed. He set it against the wall between them, so they could both see it. “We’re here.” He pointed to Dumfries. “And Carsphairn—the village—is there. How to get from here to there is what we need to decide.”

  The girl returned with his coffee, Heather’s tea, and two plates piled high with buttery scones. For ten minutes, they were silent, but after polishing off his second scone loaded with blackberry jam and cream, he picked up his coffee mug, sipped, and returned his attention to the map. “Nice scones.”

  “Hmm.”

  The sound made his lips twitch. It was one of the things he was learning to like about her; she appreciated the small pleasures.

  How she would react to larger, more intense pleasures . . .

  He blinked, and forced himself to refocus on the map. “Let’s list all our options first. We could hire a gig and drive—the most obvious way to get from here to there.”

  Heather poked a bit of jam-laden scone past her lips. “Or we could hire horses and ride—and if we did that, we could go cross-country, not by the major roads. We could take this route.” With one fingertip she traced a minor road—more like a country lane—that went across and over the hills.

  He considered it. “That route looks shorter, but it’ll almost certainly take longer because of the climbing and switching back and forth through the passes. Against that, it will almost certainly be free of patrolling constables, and at this time of year, there’s little likelihood of the passes being blocked—the way should be clear.”

  Heather took a long, revivifying sip of her tea, then sighed and set down the cup. “But we can’t risk hiring a gig or any carriage, not even horses, can we?”

  Breckenridge met her eyes, then grimaced. “I’ve been toying with the notion, but I can’t see how to do it without leaving some trace. The constabulary isn’t foolish—they’ll have alerted all the stables. And we have to assume we have the mysterious laird on our heels, too. He must have arrived in Gretna by now. We can’t afford to assume we’re free of him, and he’ll certainly check every possible place we might try to hire from.”

  Heather nodded briskly. “If we can’t hire horses, then we’ll have to walk.”

  Breckenridge hesitated, his eyes on hers, then quietly asked, “Are you up for that?”

  Not, she noted, could she manage that; he really was remarkably attuned to women.

  Suppressing a smile, she nodded. “I walk quite a lot when at home. These hills may be higher than the Quantocks, but they’re not horribly mountainous, either. I’ll manage.”

  He looked at her, then said, “If you can, then I’d prefer to play safe—to do everything we possibly can to avoid both the constables and the laird if he’s searching. How long it takes us to get to the Vale is less important than that we reach there safely.”

  She nodded again. “I agree. For us, the less-traveled way, the least likely way, is the best option.”

  He reached for the map. “The country lanes, then.” He consulted the map, then said, “We need to head out on the main road to Glasgow. The road we want gives off that a mile or two out of town.”

  She looked past him, out through the front window of the coffee shop. “The light’s starting to wane. We should go.”

  They drained their mugs. Crumbs were all that was left of the scones.

  The girl came to take their payment.

  “Which is the road to Glasgow?” Breckenridge asked.

  The girl pointed right. “Go straight along the street, across the bridge over the river, then turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  Breckenridge thanked her and left a small tip—the sort an unemployed solicitor’s clerk might leave.

  The girl bobbed and, smiling, showed them out.

  Stepping into the street, Breckenridge saw two constables walking the pavement, but by fate’s blessing they had their backs to them and were walking away from them, away from the bridge over the river. “Come on.” He’d already taken Heather’s hand. He glanced at her head, at the shawl she had slung about her shoulders. “Can you wind the shawl about your hair? It’ll make you a trifle less recognizable.”

  She drew her hand from his and complied.

  Then she reached for his hand again, just as he reached for hers.

  Together, hand in hand, side by side, they walked steadily, resisting a very real urge to hurry, along the street, across the bridge, and out of Dumfries.

  The highlander calling himself McKinsey rode into Dumfries an hour later. The first thing he noted as he walked Hercules along, heading toward High Street, was a number of constables either watching the main road or patrolling the pavements on foot.

  The constables were searching for a girl. He, however, was searching for a couple.

  He’d found their tracks in the fields immediately southeast of the town, had seen where they’d veered to join the road leading into the town proper. He debated sharing his insight with the constables but decided against it. The constables here most likely wouldn’t know that it was he who had instigated their search, which would necessitate detailed explanations, but more importantly, should he find the girl and the bounder she was with, he wanted to be free to deal with the man in his own way—silently and anonymously.

  Turning off the main street into the yard of the Globe Inn, he left Hercules safe in the stable and headed on foot into the warren of streets that formed the center of the town.

  He was Scottish; he could ask questions and, by and large, people would happily answer. All he needed to do was allow a touch of his native brogue to slide into his voice.

  He’d found the barn where the fugitive pair had spent the night. He’d tracked them steadily on; somewhat to his surprise they hadn’t stopped at any village, not even in Annan, to eat. From what he’d understood of how they’d left the inn at Gretna Green, they shouldn’t have had any food with them. Which meant that by now, they should be dizzy with hunger.

  Eating would be at the top of their list of things to do in Dumfries. As it was market day, the town would have been crowded throughout the day; they would have had excellent cover. More than enough to avoid the notice of the constables patrolling the streets.

  From their tracks, he estimated that the pair had entered the town at least three, possibly four hours ahead of him. Starting at the lower end of High Street, he stopped at every eatery and asked after his brother and his lass, explaining that he’d missed them and was trying to catch them up; from what he’d learned of Timms, the relationship would pass well enough.

  He struck gold early at the Old Wall Tavern just off High Street. The serving girl couldn’t tell him anything about the pair’s eventual direction, but she sent him to the cobbler a little further north along the main street. There, he learned of their purchase. Remembering the girl’s slippers, he wasn’t surprised, but he couldn’t decide whether the purchase of walking boots specifically implied anything.

  The cobbler, when applied to, shrugged. “Only pair I had in her size, so it could have just been that that made her choose them.” A second later, the old man grinned. “Mind you, you should warn your brother—he’s been living in Lunnon too long. Charged ’im the full Lunnon price, I did, and he didn’t turn a hair. Just pulled out the coins and handed them over. Not short of the ready, is he?”

  He tipped his head, smiling as if in amused agreement. “No.” Pushing away from the counter, he walked to the door. “I’ll be sure to remind him. He’s been away too long.”

  Stepping out of the shop, he closed the door—
and let his easy expression fall away. Plenty of money, and neither the serving girl nor the cobbler, both of whom had seen both him and Timms up close, had batted a lash at the notion that they were brothers.

  Timms, the bounder, the supposed unemployed solicitor’s clerk, was taking on new dimensions.

  Lips setting even more grimly, he turned and continued up the street. The cobbler had had no insight into which road the pair had been making for, but he’d noticed that they’d headed north from his door.

  More than an hour later, after he’d exhausted every possible place they might have stopped at, or been spotted from, all along High Street and then west out along the road to Edinburgh, he stalked back toward the center of the town. Could they have decided they were safe enough to stop in Dumfries for the night?

  Given the number of constables about, given how careful the pair had thus far been, he seriously doubted it.

  Halting at the top of High Street, he looked west into the setting sun, down the length of Buccleuch Street to the bridge over the Nith. And remembered Fletcher saying that Timms had been on his way to Glasgow. Of course Fletcher had also believed Timms was an unemployed solicitor’s clerk, but . . . what if, whoever Timms was, he really had been heading for Glasgow before becoming distracted by the Cynster chit?

  Stifling a sigh, he started down Buccleuch Street, stopping at every shop, asking after his errant sibling and his lass.

  The girl in the coffeehouse remembered them.

  He could barely believe his luck. Not only had she in passing overheard them agreeing to go on by foot, but later they’d asked her for directions to the Glasgow Road.

  Thanking the girl with his most charming smile as well as a couple of coins, he sat down and ordered coffee and a large slice of ginger cake.

  While he drank and ate, he weighed his options. It was already dusk; night would soon close in. Setting out now . . . he would run the risk of missing his quarry, passing them all unknowing in the dark. If the pair followed their previous night’s pattern, they would find some barn or perhaps a farmer’s cottage in which to spend the night, then be out on the road again early in the morning.

  He knew the Glasgow Road. Knew the long, open stretches that lay between Dumfries and Thornhill. Mounted on Hercules, catching up with the pair tomorrow, arranging to come up with them on one of those long, lonely stretches, would be simple, easy, and certain. He’d have plenty of opportunity to watch them from a distance, to gauge what was between them, and then decide what to do.

  And then do it.

  Meanwhile . . . better that he and Hercules spend a comfortable night, then set out refreshed in the morning.

  Decision made, cake consumed, and coffee drained, he rose, dropped payment and a sizeable tip on the table, then headed back to the Globe Inn.

  Chapter Ten

  The light had faded from the western sky, leaving a sunset of swirling purples and blues, when Heather and Breckenridge walked into the tiny hamlet of Gribton.

  They’d turned off the main road to Glasgow about two miles north of the bridge in Dumfries, onto the lane they’d chosen to follow across and over the hills. A stone circle sitting in a field bordering the lane had caught their interest, but they hadn’t dallied. Breckenridge’s map was reasonably detailed; they’d felt confident enough of finding their way, but had wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Dumfries before seeking shelter for the night.

  The lane would take them through a series of passes between various peaks. With luck, they would reach the main pass tomorrow, and might even reach the Vale, but for tonight they had to find some resting place.

  Which had led them to Gribton. As they’d walked further inland, the landscape had changed from flat near the firth to rolling pastures, with denser hedgerows and taller trees. They’d spotted the roofs of Gribton as the sun had started to dip beneath the horizon. Rather than risk continuing on to the next village along the country lane, they’d turned off it down a track that had led to the five cottages clustered around a country crossroads.

  Breckenridge halted in the middle of the track, in the middle of the cottages. “Which one?”

  Her hand still in his, Heather surveyed their choices. “Let’s try the middle one.” Neat, whitewashed, with a sound slate roof, the cottage nestled between two trees just off the track. It appeared the most prosperous of the five abodes.

  With her beside him, Breckenridge halted on the stoop and knocked on the green painted door.

  The woman who opened it wore a harassed expression, instantly explained by the bevy of children who came racing up to crowd behind her. Ineffectually pushing them back, she looked at Breckenridge, then at Heather. “Yes?”

  Breckenridge nodded politely. “We were wondering, ma’am, if you could put us up for the night. We’re on our way up into the hills. We’d be happy to pay for a room if you have one.”

  The woman looked torn, but then glanced at the brood clustering behind her and sighed. “I can’t. But”—looking back at them, she waved further down the track—“if you ask at the last cottage, the old couple who lives there, the Cartwrights, could most likely put you up. Their son and his wife moved up to Glasgow a couple of months back, so they’ve the room and could use the coin, too.”

  Breckenridge smiled; Heather did, too. “Thank you.”

  With nods all around, they retreated, leaving the woman to shoo the children back and shut the door.

  Returning to the track, they headed for the last roof they could see, that of a cottage sunk within a small plot of garden. Before they reached its boundary, Breckenridge halted.

  When Heather stopped, too, he drew her to face him. “We can’t expect to get more than one room, and to get that room, they’ll need to believe that we’re man and wife.”

  Even if he could get another room at one of the other cottages, there was no way he could leave her alone in a separate building, not with the mysterious laird possibly following them.

  Somewhat to his relief, she merely shrugged. “So we’ll let them believe we’re married, and if they ask outright, we lie.”

  Releasing her, he tugged the signet ring off his little finger, then reached for her hand. “And you wear this”—he slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand—“so with any luck they won’t even think to ask.”

  She held up the hand as if admiring the ring, then swung the seal around so only the band showed and nodded. “All right.”

  It wasn’t quite the way he’d imagined putting a ring on her finger, but . . .

  Retaking her hand, he led her on to the gate in the low hedge before the cottage, and through it to the front door.

  This time an old man, long and lanky once, but stooped now, answered his knock. When Breckenridge inquired about a room, the old man turned and called, “Emma?”

  The old woman who bustled to the door was as short and round as the old man was tall and thin. When she heard of their request, she smiled sweetly. “Yes, of course. Come you in.”

  The old man stood back and waved them inside. Breckenridge ushered Heather in, then followed, stepping into a neat parlor.

  “This way.” The old woman beckoned. “I’m Mrs. Cartwright, and that”—she waved back at the old man—“is Mr. Cartwright, of course.”

  Heather was grateful Breckenridge had thought of giving her his ring. It felt warm and strangely heavy on her finger. They followed Mrs. Cartwright through the tiny kitchen to a door in the rear wall.

  Opening the door, Mrs. Cartwright set it swinging and stepped back to let them past her. “We added this room on when our son married. I’ll just get a candle so you can see to set down your bags.”

  Heather stepped into the small, spare room. There was only one window, in the end wall, but it was heavily curtained. Most of the floor space was claimed by the bed, one wide enough for two, pushed into the far corner
. A tiny cabinet stood in the nearer corner, leaving only a narrow walk space at the foot of the bed and along one side.

  “Here.” Mrs. Cartwright returned, shielding a candle flame.

  Heather took the candlestick. “Thank you.” She moved to set it on the corner cabinet.

  Breckenridge, who’d halted at the foot of the bed, shrugged off the two satchels he carried and set them down, then removed his cloak.

  Setting down her satchel beside the cabinet, Heather unwound her shawl, then slipped off her cloak. She turned as Mrs. Cartwright said, “You’ll find the sheets aired, and there’s two blankets on. I always keep the room ready in case our son and his wife come for a visit.”

  “Thank you—I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable.” Much more comfortable than in a hayloft. Heather smiled. “We’ve been traveling for a few days. We’re grateful you could put us up.”

  “Oh, nonsense. We’re glad to be able to. Now.” Mrs. Cartwright fixed her surprisingly bright blue eyes on Breckenridge. “Have you eaten? Mr. Cartwright and I have already had our tea, but there’s some soup and bread, if you’d like it?”

  “Thank you,” Breckenridge said. “That would be very welcome. We had lunch in Dumfries, but that was a while ago.”

  “Oh, I know how you lads eat, never fear.” Mrs. Cartwright patted Breckenridge’s arm, then bustled out. “I’ll just set the soup pot back on the fire.”

  Heather pressed her lips tight, holding back a laugh as she bent to blow out the candle. Breckenridge looked faintly stunned at being called a “lad.” But he followed Mrs. Cartwright back into the kitchen, stepping in to relieve her of the heavy soup pot and lift it onto the hook over the kitchen fire.

  Without being asked, he crouched and tended the blaze.

  Mrs. Cartwright smiled down at him approvingly, then looked at Heather. “Come along, dear, and I’ll show you the necessaries.”

  The “necessaries” proved to be a small bathing chamber-cum-washhouse giving off a tiny back porch, and an outhouse beyond. The main chamber contained a pump, which Mrs. Cartwright said came off the outside well.