In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster Read online

  If he had recognized her, what would he do? He was a scholar, no hero — not a knight or a warrior to come riding to her rescue himself. But he would be concerned, surely, and would either send word to her family, or visit them himself when he returned to town …

  If he was returning to town. She had no idea why he’d been this far north. Perhaps he was visiting friends?

  Folding her arms, she settled deeper into the corner. She couldn’t predict what Jeremy might do, but he was an honorable man — he’d do something to help her.

  It took a full minute for Jeremy to convince his brain that this was really happening, that he wasn’t dreaming, that the situation was real.

  Then he started thinking. Furiously.

  Jasper, finding him uninterested in going on, dragged the reins until he could lower his head and crop the grass of the verge.

  Jeremy sat in the stationary curricle, reins in his lax hands, and stared unseeing down the road.

  Assessing the situation, and what needed to be done, what was possible, what his options were.

  He needed to get word to the Cynsters, or if not that, to Wolverstone. The thought of notifying anyone else occurred, only to be dismissed. He might be a social hermit, but he knew well enough that in such circumstances preserving a lady’s reputation was high on the list of “things that must be done at all costs.”

  But if he drove south to Newcastle, the nearest town from which he’d be able to send a fast courier-rider south, or alternatively turned back to Wolverstone and Royce, all he’d be able to tell anyone was that Eliza had been taken in a coach across the border.

  While he was sure her parents would like to know even that much, he was equally sure they would prefer that he followed and tried to help their daughter escape.

  If he tried to send a message south, he would lose track of her and lose any hope of helping her directly.

  And clearly she needed help. She wouldn’t have tried to attract attention in such a way if she hadn’t been down to her last reserves.

  Help was what she’d screamed for. It wasn’t for him to question the call, but to respond appropriately.

  Especially as he doubted she would have recognized him, which meant she’d been reduced to soliciting help from any gentleman who might have ridden past.

  Such actions in a young lady of her ilk smacked of abject desperation.

  He thought back to the details of the kidnap plot that Royce had read out. It was believed that some laird, most likely a highland nobleman, was, for reasons unknown, intent on kidnapping one of the Cynster girls. A novel, and to Jeremy reassuring, aspect was that the laird, whoever he was, had insisted that Heather, once kidnapped, was taken excellent care of, even to the extent of providing a maid during the long journey north.

  Breckenridge — whom Jeremy knew slightly — had by chance seen Heather seized in a London street and had given chase, ultimately rescuing her and leaving the laird empty-handed.

  Now, it seemed, the laird had managed to seize Eliza Cynster. The question of how was intriguing; knowing the Cynsters, the males of the family, Eliza’s brothers and cousins, Jeremy couldn’t imagine how they’d come to let down their guard … but he pushed the fascinating question aside and concentrated instead on the more pertinent question staring him in the face — namely, what he should do. Now. This minute or the next.

  The facts were clear: Eliza Cynster had been kidnapped and was in a coach that would shortly carry her over the border. Once in Scotland, her trail would be hard to divine, especially if her captors took her into the wilderness of the highlands. Finding her then would be close to impossible.

  If he let her be taken across the border and didn’t follow, she might well be lost, or at least find herself at the mercy of the mysterious laird.

  If he did follow … he would have to rescue her, or at least do his best to help her escape.

  He wasn’t any sort of hero, but he’d spent the last decade in the company of such men, with Tristan and the other members of the Bastion Club. He’d been involved in a few of their civilian adventures and had seen how they thought, how they approached problems and dealt with the exigencies of such situations.

  That experience couldn’t compare with proper training, but in this case it would have to serve.

  As far as he could see, he was Eliza’s only hope.

  He’d been looking forward to going home and settling into his comfortable chair before the fire in his library to bask in the glow of his discovery of Royce’s manuscript, then later applying his mind to solving the problem of how to find his ideal wife, but clearly all that would have to be postponed. He knew where his duty lay, what honor demanded.

  Lifting his reins, he clucked at Jasper. “Come on, old son. Back the way we’ve come.”

  Turning the curricle in the empty road, he set Jasper pacing, then urged him to lengthen his stride. “It’s the border for us, then Scotland beyond.”

  Absentminded scholar though he was, he had a damsel in distress to save.

  Chapter Two

  liza determinedly paced the wooden floor of an upper-story room in the coaching inn at Jedburgh. The stout oak door was locked, sealing her in. Her captors had supplied her with a tray of food, then gone downstairs to enjoy their dinner in the more convivial atmosphere of the inn’s dining room.

  Reaching the wall, Eliza swung around, her gaze falling on the tray set on a table on the other side of the room. Even though she’d had no appetite, she’d forced herself to eat all of the broth, and as much of the game pie as she’d been able to swallow. If she was to escape her three jailers — Scrope, Genevieve, and Taylor, the burly coachman — she would need her strength. The possibility of escape, however remote, was the reason she was pacing, hoping the exercise would help burn off the lingering effects of the laudanum.

  Stepping out again, down the long room, she had to work to hold her balance. The drug was still in her system, still sapping her strength, leaving her muscles weak and wobbly, and her relatively helpless. They’d kept her drugged for three days — this was, they’d said, the third night after Heather and Breckenridge’s engagement ball — so she probably shouldn’t be surprised or too concerned that it was taking some time for the potent sleeping draft to completely wear off.

  Reaching the tray, she paused to lift a glass and swallow a mouthful of water; she was fairly certain drinking water would help, too.

  She was trying, quite desperately, to keep her hopes up, but …

  Given all she’d recalled about him, having to rely on Jeremy Carling was hardly reassuring.

  He was widely acknowledged as having a brilliant mind, but as that mind preferred ancient times to the present, and usually appeared to be distracted, dwelling on civilizations long gone to dust rather than paying attention to what was happening under his nose …

  Setting down the glass, she hauled in a huge breath, held it until her nerves settled again. There was no sense in working herself into a state. Jeremy would either do something to help, or he wouldn’t.

  There was nothing she could do to influence that.

  Pacing again, she tried to ignore the insidious, carping whisper that slid from the deepest recesses of her mind. Heather got Breckenridge, her hero, as her rescuer. Who did I get? Jeremy Carling. How utterly unfair!

  Brushing the irrational complaint aside — at the moment she’d be happy to be rescued by anyone, never mind her hero — she doggedly marched across the room.

  Her mind returned to that moment in the coach when, fast approaching the very brink of despair, she’d seen Jeremy and her heart had leapt. She could see him quite clearly in her mind’s eye — sitting upright, broad shoulders square, his greatcoat, open, draping from said shoulders, framing a chest that, compared to her previous memory of him, appeared to have improved in both width and strength, or at least the impression of it.

  Frowning, she paced on, remembering, recalling. She had to admit there was nothing in his present appearance that disquali
fied him as a potential rescuer. Indeed, dispassionately considering the recent image burned into her brain, she concluded that even absentminded scholars could eventually grow into the sort of gentlemen ladies noticed.

  Regardless, as that little voice of darkness within her was quick to point out, what he looked like didn’t matter. Just because Heather’s rescuer had turned out to be her hero was no reason to suppose anything of the sort would happen to Eliza.

  Besides, all she knew of Jeremy Carling suggested he was infinitely more interested in any musty, dusty, ancient tome than he was or ever would be in any woman.

  Reaching the wall, she sighed, tipped up her head, and spoke to the ceiling, “Please let him have noticed me. Please let him have recognized me. Please let him have done something to send help my way.”

  That was another issue; in her experience, absentminded bookworms were the second least decisive people on earth, only fractionally better than timid little old ladies.

  Lowering her chin, swinging around, she paced steadily back across the room. The muscles in her legs seemed less wobbly than when she’d first started pacing.

  Head down, she tried to put herself in an absentminded scholar’s shoes, tried to imagine what Jeremy might do. “If he sends word to London, how long before —”

  Tap.

  Halting, she stared at the curtained window. She’d thought the sound had come from there, but the room was two floors up; she’d already evaluated her prospects of escaping via that route and found them to be nil. Admittedly, Breckenridge had first contacted Heather through a second-floor inn window, but really, how likely was that to happen with her? It was doubtless just her mind playing tricks on her. Wishful think —

  Tap.

  She flew to the window, flung open the curtains, and looked through the glass.

  Directly into Jeremy Carling’s face.

  She was so thrilled to see him that she just stood there and beamed. Drinking in the fact that he had very nice eyes; she couldn’t make out their color in the moonlight, but they were large, well set, giving him a wonderfully direct and open gaze.

  His features were regular, a touch patrician, his nose distinctly so, his forehead wide, his cheeks lean and long; his chin was decidedly squared, but his lips looked like they belonged to a man who laughed easily.

  Her gaze skimmed quickly down and, yes, his shoulders really were much broader, his overall build much stronger than when she’d last seen him.

  The moon was full, pouring silver light over him; sitting on the ridge of the roof just below her window, Jeremy felt ridiculously exposed. But his logical mind reminded him that normally people rarely looked up. He just hoped none of the patrons leaving the inn fell too far outside the norm.

  As it was just as bright outside the room as in, he could see Eliza’s face clearly. See her features well enough to register her surprise, pleased though it was.

  He could hardly take umbrage; he was surprised to find himself perched on the roof outside her window.

  As she seemed momentarily frozen, he seized the chance to confirm that the impression he’d assimilated wasn’t wrong; she was … not prettier, but more striking than he’d recalled. Especially now she wasn’t so distressed.

  He felt oddly pleased about that.

  Raising a hand from the roof’s ridge, he pointed at the catch on the casement window, twirled his finger.

  She looked, then quickly obliged.

  As she eased the casement open, he leaned back to let the frame pass by him, then leaned in, closer, to whisper, “Are you alone?”

  Gripping the windowsill, she leaned nearer still. “For the moment. They — there’s three of them — are downstairs.”

  “Good.” He beckoned. “Come on.”

  Her eyes flared, then she leaned over the sill and looked down.

  He stared at the profusion of honey-gold locks glimmering in the moonlight just below his chin, then blinked, and continued, “It’s not as steep as it looks. We can brace against the wall to the edge of this roof, then it’s only a small drop to the next, and from there we can cross part of the kitchen roof — it’s a bit of a scramble, but —”

  “I can’t.” Drawing back, still gripping the sill, she raised her eyes to his. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to go with you, but I …” She reached out and grasped his forearm.

  Looking at her hand, he saw it shake as she tightened her grip just a fraction, but no more.

  She released him on a sigh. Met his gaze as he lifted his eyes questioningly to hers. “That’s the best I can do — the hardest I can grip anything at the moment. They gave me laudanum for the past three days and it still hasn’t worn off. My legs are still shaky, and I can’t hold onto anything. If I slip …”

  A chill coursed down his spine. If she slipped … he might not be able to catch and hold her, and stop her from pitching over the roof’s edge. She was tallish, admittedly slender, yet there was enough of her to make him question whether he would be strong enough to hold and save her. He grimaced; the truth was he didn’t know his own strength — he’d never had occasion to test it before. “All right.” He nodded, keeping both gesture and tone calm and even. “It won’t help our cause if either of us falls and breaks a limb, so we’ll think of another way.”

  She blinked as if taken aback, but then nodded. “Yes. Good.” She paused, then asked, “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Relieved that she seemed to be in a more rational state than he’d expected, not panic-ridden and, heaven forfend, weepy, he turned his mind to considering their options.

  There didn’t seem to be many.

  He frowned. “Freeing you tonight would probably be unwise, anyway. It’s pitch black out on the road, and going back across the Cheviots, even in a carriage, in the dead of night, possibly fleeing pursuers who might or might not have weapons, could end very badly. Given we don’t know this area …” He stopped and looked inquiringly at her, but she shook her head. He concluded, “It would be wisest not to attempt to flee at night.”

  “We might get lost. We might run off the road.”

  “Exactly.” He thought further. “You said there are three of them?”

  Leaning her elbows on the sill, Eliza nodded. “Scrope is the leader — I think he was the one who was waiting in the back parlor of St. Ives House.” She met Jeremy’s eyes. “The room was dark. I didn’t see him, but he drugged me — with ether, I think. They must have taken me out through the window — it gives onto an alley.”

  He looked at her intently, patiently waiting for her to continue.

  “There’s a woman — I’m sure she must normally be a nurse-companion. She’s somewhere in her early thirties, and stronger than she looks. And the coachman, Taylor, is also part of the scheme. He’s burly and strong, too, rather rougher than Scrope, who looks and speaks like a gentleman.”

  His eyes still locked on her face, Jeremy said, “So there’s three of them and only two of us, so even in daylight we can’t try anything direct, not unless we can get rid of at least one of them, if not two.”

  Both paused to think. After a minute ticked past, she shook her head. “I can’t think of any clever way of even distracting two of them — they’re very definitely not stupid.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Where are they taking you?” His eyes again met hers. “Have they said?”

  “Edinburgh.” Her lips firmed. “They’ve kidnapped me for some highland laird and they’re planning to hand me over to him there — they said the day after tomorrow.” She held his gaze. “You see, there’s this Scottish nobleman —”

  “I know all about it — about Heather’s kidnapping and who your family thinks is behind it.” When she looked her surprise, he went on, “I was at Wolverstone Castle, evaluating a manuscript for Royce, when he got a letter from Devil telling him about the incident with Heather, explaining what they thought, and asking his advice. Royce read it to Minerva and me. That’s how I know.”

  “Good.” She let her
relief color her voice. “I wasn’t looking forward to explaining it all — it sounds so far-fetched.”

  “There’s nothing far-fetched about you being here, locked in an inn room in Jedburgh.”

  “True.” She grimaced. “This laird is clearly no figment of anyone’s imagination.” Leaning more heavily on the sill, she said, “So if I can’t escape tonight —”

  “I’ll have to arrange to get you out of their clutches tomorrow.” He made the statement sound like a fact. “As it happens, getting you free is likely to be significantly easier in Edinburgh than here.”

  She frowned. “Because Jedburgh’s such a small town?”

  “Partly.” He met her gaze. “In his letter Devil mentioned a tale the kidnappers had concocted to ensure Heather couldn’t easily get help, even from the authorities …”

  She was already nodding. “About them fetching me for my guardian? Yes, they’ve mentioned it. Threatened it, as it were.”

  “Well, that’s the other reason trying to rescue you while we’re in or near Jedburgh isn’t a sound idea. All they’d need to do would be to alert the garrison, and they’d have quite a force to throw against us — and it’s possible they could close the border before we reached it, too.”

  “Definitely not a good option.”

  He hesitated; from his expression — definitely intelligent — she suspected he was thinking, assessing. “On top of that,” he eventually said, “Edinburgh has pertinent advantages. It’s a large city, so hiding ourselves in it once we have you free of them won’t be such a problem. And even more helpfully, I have friends, good friends, in Edinburgh itself.” He caught her gaze. “I’m sure they’ll help.”

  He paused, searching her eyes, her face — she wasn’t sure what he was looking for, much less what he would see — then he somewhat diffidently said, “If they head on tomorrow morning, as I think we’re safe in assuming they will, they’ll reach Edinburgh about midday. You said they expect to hand you over to the laird on the day after that, so they’ll have to hold you somewhere in or very close to the town. Do you think you can bear to go on with them, at least until they halt wherever they intend to spend tomorrow night?”