In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

  The stableman was experienced and, when informed of their needs, turned out two likely chestnuts, one heavier, the other a touch younger and sleeker. Jeremy inspected them and approved. Selecting saddles and tack was quickly accomplished. After paying the man, Jeremy led the horses out into the narrow yard beside the road.

  At the sound of hooves, Eliza turned.

  Her eyes widened.

  He frowned. A quick glance back showed that the stableman had retired deeper into his domain.

  Slowing the horses, Jeremy used them as a screen as he halted in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

  Dragging her eyes from the restive, eager horses, Eliza focused on her principal rescuer’s face. “I, ah …” With an effort she suppressed the urge to wring her hands. “Wouldn’t it be faster to drive? In a curricle with a pair of fast horses, for instance?”

  His frown grew a touch more etched. “Possibly — possibly not. But the deciding factor is that a carriage of any sort will restrict us to the roads — passable roads — while on horseback, if necessary we can go cross-country.”

  Her gaze flicked to the horses again.

  She felt Jeremy’s gaze search her face. After a moment, he added, voice low, “If Scrope or the laird manage to find our trail and chase us, we need to be flexible, mobile, able to tack and turn like foxes. We need to be able to run, so we need to be on horseback, not in a carriage.”

  She dragged in a breath, shifted her gaze to his face, and forced herself to nod. “Yes, of course.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “You can ride astride, can’t you? I’ve always heard that riding sidesaddle is harder.”

  “I’ve heard the same.” She clung to the commonly held belief. “I’ve just never ridden astride before.” Locking her gaze on the smaller horse, she hauled in another huge breath, fought to quell her suddenly pitching stomach enough to lift her chin and declare, “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  She would have to. He and his friends had gone to so much trouble to help her, and riding was clearly required to make their rescue work.

  “Good.” He angled the smaller chestnut before her. “I’ll hold him. Can you get up on your own?”

  “I think so.” She’d watched her brothers and cousins mount more times than she could count; grimly determined, she placed the padded toe of her boot in the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, and hoisted herself up.

  And was pleasantly surprised by the unexpected freedom her breeches afforded her; swinging her leg over, with commendable grace she came down in the saddle and quickly picked up the reins.

  She could definitely get used to wearing breeches.

  Jeremy adjusted the stirrups for her. The sensation of sitting astride the horse’s back felt odd, yet far more secure than her usual position in a sidesaddle.

  I can do this. Surely riding astride in her new male persona she wouldn’t have any problem. She just had to believe; horses sensed the mood of their riders — she knew that well enough.

  Jeremy attached both saddlebags, one before her saddle, the other before his, then swung easily up to his mount’s back. He settled, then picked up the reins and nodded briskly at her. “Right. Let’s go.”

  He led the way out of the stable yard. Eliza’s mount followed its companion more or less of its own accord.

  That was all right. She could manage that.

  The next ten minutes had her slowly relaxing. Both horses seemed to be reasonably well mannered. Although eager to run, neither possessed the mettlesome tempers she was accustomed to having to wrestle with in Cynster-bred mounts.

  Her neat chestnut obeyed her hand on the reins well enough. Even more reassuring, although it was barely dawn, there was sufficient traffic on the road — other riders, a few carriages, and lots of carts — to ensure their best speed was, at most, a slow jog-trot.

  It wasn’t that different from riding in Hyde Park.

  I can do this. The refrain repeated in her head as they left Edinburgh, perched high on its rock, behind them, and trotted southeast on the road to Carnwath.

  Behind them the sun slowly rose in the sky, warming their backs, and throwing long shadows ahead of them, while turning the sky from gray to pink, to a pale wash of yellow, and finally to a soft summer blue.

  Eliza rode steadily on.

  Scrope, Genevieve, and Taylor seemed like distant memories; so much had happened since last she’d seen them.

  Jeremy rode beside and half a length ahead of her, keeping to a steady pace. The road stretched out in front of them, with nary a hurdle in sight.

  With birdsong swelling around them, with the clack of hooves, the rattle of wheels, and the occasional voices of passing drivers competing for her ears, with the fresh breeze blowing in their faces, even with the sure knowledge that a long and physically tiring day lay ahead, she found herself amazingly content.

  Her heart felt light, buoyed, free.

  Even though she was riding a horse.

  I can do this.

  Smiling, she rode alongside Jeremy, away from Edinburgh.

  Chapter Six

  ’m off to wait for McKinsey in the square.” Scrope walked into the kitchen of the town house where Genevieve and Taylor had just sat down to their breakfasts.

  Genevieve gestured to the platters on the table. “You don’t want any?”

  “I ate earlier. I want to get Miss Cynster into McKinsey’s hands as soon as I can — and get my hands on our bonus. He said he’d be waiting first thing — let’s see how keen and eager he is.” Scrope looked at their plates. “As soon as you’ve finished, take a tray down to Miss Cynster — just tea and toast will do. Get her up, washed, dressed, and fed, ready to hand over to McKinsey when I bring him here.”

  Genevieve nodded.

  Scrope turned for the front door. “Be sure she’s ready when I get back.”

  Genevieve pulled a face at his back, then applied herself to her meal.

  Once the front door clicked shut behind Scrope, Taylor grumbled, but he, too, ate as quickly as he could. Both he and Genevieve had long ago learned that it was better to humor Scrope in all things; his jobs were invariably the simplest, the most straightforward, and the best paid.

  Stuffing her last crust into her mouth, Genevieve rose and started assembling a tray. When the kettle boiled again, she filled the teapot, then tipped the rest of the steaming water into an ewer she’d half filled with cold water. “That should do her.”

  Setting the kettle back on the hob, she wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at Taylor. “You ready?”

  Swallowing a last bite of sausage, Taylor nodded. Pushing his plate away, he rose.

  While Genevieve hefted the tray, he took the keys from the hook, unlocked the door to the basement steps, and hauled it wide. Reaching for the lantern, he quickly kindled it, adjusted the wick, then led the way down.

  Genevieve followed more slowly. Balancing the tray, she halted outside the basement room door and waited while Taylor, having set the lantern on the floor, inserted the large key, unlocked the heavy door, and pulled it open. The light from the lantern showed them the outline of their prisoner, still lying in the bed.

  Walking forward with the tray, Genevieve looked back at Taylor and tipped her head toward the kitchen. “Fetch the ewer and basin, will you, while I get her highness up?”

  Taylor grunted and went, leaving the lantern on the floor.

  The beam of light wasn’t strong. Genevieve set the tray down, glanced at the figure in the bed, then went back to fetch the lantern. “Rise and shine, Miss Cynster. The day of reckoning has come.” Seeing Taylor slowly descending the steps with the basin and ewer, Genevieve lifted the lantern, strengthened the flame, then turned back into the room.

  “Come along, now.” She advanced on the bed, playing the light over it. “It won’t do you any good —” She broke off on a gasp. A second later, she rushed the last feet to the bed. “No!”

  Dragging back the sheet, exposing the two pillows bunched and stuffed beneath it
— exposing the complete absence of the young woman who should have been there — Genevieve let out a shriek. “No! How could this be?”

  There was a clatter and a clang on the floor outside, then Taylor came rushing in. “What? What is it?”

  Having comprehensively scanned the room, Genevieve turned a white face to him. “She’s gone.”

  “Don’t be silly — she can’t be.” Taylor looked around, then bent down and peeked under the bed.

  “She’s gone,” Genevieve repeated. When Taylor straightened and lumbered back to his feet, she was clutching her elbows. “Scrope will have our heads!”

  “Don’t see why — it’s not us who lost her.” Taylor turned in a stunned circle. “She’s just not here. She’s vanished. From a locked room.”

  “You try telling Scrope that. He’s going to think we’ve done some deal with the chit — taken money from her family to let her go.”

  That was a real possibility. Taylor wasn’t used to thinking fast — that’s why he worked for others like Scrope — but he was thinking now. “She was here last night. Scrope was the last to leave — he was the one who closed the door and locked it. He was up and in the kitchen earlier than we were …” Taylor met Genevieve’s gaze. “Could he have already handed her over to this laird — and now he’s just left us?”

  Genevieve gave the matter due thought but eventually shook her head. “That’s not his way. He never works alone, so he needs to hire us, or those like us. It won’t do him any good if word gets out that he’s crossed us.”

  Taylor nodded. “Right — you’re right.”

  Still clutching her arms, Genevieve turned slowly, examining every inch of the room. “How the devil did she get out — of here, of the basement, even of the house?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Taylor saw the light. “Howsoever she got out, she’s gone, but if she was here late last night, as we know she was, then no matter when she left the house, chances are she wouldn’t have been able to leave the city until early this morning, once the sun came up and the stables opened.”

  Taylor caught Genevieve’s gaze. “We’ve a chance of catching her if I go now. Right away.” He swung on his heel and hurried out of the room.

  Genevieve came to life and raced after him. “How can you know which way she’s gone? Where to look?”

  “Simple.” Taylor didn’t look back as he climbed the steps. “She’ll have gone home — where else would a young lady like her go?”

  Reaching the kitchen, he grabbed his coat off a peg by the rear door. “Even if she’s found some fellow to help her, she’ll be heading down the Great North Road, fast as ever she can.”

  “To the border.” Genevieve nodded.

  “I’m off to check the stables and coaching inns at the bottom of South Bridge Street — that’s where she’ll have looked for a carriage or a mail coach.” Taylor turned to the door. “You stay here and tell Scrope. I’ll be back with his package — or send word if I have to follow her along a ways.”

  Genevieve pulled a face, but there was no help for it.

  Without waiting for any response from her, Taylor strode to the front door and clattered out into the street.

  Following as far as the door, Genevieve heard Taylor’s footsteps running down the cobbles. Closing the door, she stood in the hall, still absorbing the shock. “But how the devil did she get out?”

  “Oh, fair and joyous day!” Hugo leaned back against the curricle’s seat, golden wig twirling on one finger as with a sweeping gesture he expansively declaimed, “The sun is shining, our enterprise is prospering. What more can we ask of life?”

  The curricle’s reins in his hands, Cobby shot him a grin. “I suspect we should hope that Jer and Eliza have managed as well as we have.”

  “Doubtless they have,” Hugo replied. “Why wouldn’t they? Our plan is excellent. What could go wrong?”

  Cobby shrugged. “Have to say this horse is a goer. Nice action and plenty of power.”

  “Jer’s always had an eye for such things.” Hugo glimpsed a coach approaching and set the wig back on his head.

  “If we keep up this pace, we’ll be in Dalkeith shortly.”

  Hugo twisted around to look back at Edinburgh, high on its rock, fading into the haze rising from the firth beyond, shrinking and receding as they sped along.

  Turning back, the rattle of the curricle’s wheels now joined by the deeper rumble of the approaching coach, Hugo drew Eliza’s cloak closer about the gold silk gown he wore, let his shoulders fall, flipped the cloak’s hood up and turned his head away, transforming in a heartbeat to a shy lady as the coach drew near.

  Then the coach was past, and Hugo turned back, met Cobby’s eyes and grinned. He remained in his female persona until they’d gone another mile, then, with no other travelers about to see, he threw back the cloak. “Onward!” Dramatically, he pointed down the road. “To Dalkeith, then Berwick. And then on to Wolverstone!”

  “To Wolverstone!” Cobby clicked the reins, and Jasper obligingly stepped out.

  “I’m looking for a young lady — English, fair-haired, in a gold evening gown.” Taylor halted before two ostlers in the yard of the small inn just past the larger inn at which his own party had left their coach.

  He was still catching his breath, having run all the way down from the house, but eyeing the two faces before him, watching the lads exchange a glance, it was clear the exertion hadn’t been wasted. Hope surged. “Obviously you’ve seen her. Which way did she go?”

  The older of the two looked up at him. “What’s in it fer us?”

  Taylor cursed and hunted in his pockets. Finding a shilling, he held it out. “Don’t push your luck. So where did she go?”

  The ostler took the coin, inspected it, then slipped it into his pocket. “She came in with an English gen’leman. He’d stabled his curricle and black here — came in yesterday, late morning. They took the curricle and set off at first light.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  The younger ostler shifted. “Heard the gen’leman mention the Great North Road. Dalkeith and on from there.”

  “Thank you.” Thinking furiously, Taylor fished in his pocket and found a few more coins. Handing them over, he asked, “Do you have a fast horse I can hire? And someone to run a message into Auld Town, too?”

  “At last!” Jeremy loosened his reins and glanced at Eliza. “I thought the traffic would never thin. I had no idea we’d strike so many carts. At least now we can start moving.”

  He tapped his heels to his mount’s sides and the bigger chestnut surged.

  Eliza forced herself to ease her reins enough to allow her horse to respond. As it lengthened its stride, she instinctively tightened her grip — clamped her thighs to the saddle skirts, felt her stomach clench — tightened everything.

  Every muscle tensed, and tensed.

  She tried to stave off the burgeoning panic. Tried to remind herself she was now a youth, not a female. Especially not a female who couldn’t ride well. I can do this.

  Ahead of them, the road was finally clear. The flat surface stretched as far as she could see, beckoning and tempting any decent rider.

  “We’ll need to go at a cracking pace if we’re to reach Wolverstone by evening,” Jeremy called.

  Clinging to the saddle, to her seat, to her composure, she told herself it wouldn’t matter if they were a few hours late.

  I can do this. I can do this.

  She repeated the mantra to the quickening rhythm of the horses’ hooves as she rose and fell awkwardly with her horse’s gait.

  I can do this.

  She was managing, just, but she was still in the saddle. There, see?

  I can do this.

  A minute later, Jeremy called to her, “We’ve over a hundred miles more to cover. We need to start making up time — let’s go.”

  “N —” Her throat seized, along with everything else.

  Jeremy’s chestnut fluidly shifted into a gallop.

  Her
horse stretched out, following its companion.

  She felt like a block of wood, stiff, frozen, unable to relax, to do what she knew she should.

  Panic welled and swamped her.

  Her lungs seized. She couldn’t breathe.

  I can’t do this!

  She started jouncing, as she’d known she would, her panicked attempts to match her horse’s stride quickly getting out of rhythm until she was bouncing, until her horse’s stride broke, fractured. It started pulling, then tossing its head, trying to pick up the gallop and join its stablemate.

  Gasping, panic a full-blown monster in her chest, she fought the horse, yanked and tugged and hauled — the beast slowed, swerved onto the grassy verge, back arching as she wrestled with the reins.

  The horse abruptly halted and she tipped, then, helplessly flailing, trying to regain her balance, she slowly slid ignominiously sideways, toppling over the horse’s forequarter, to land, staggering, on the grass, the reins still in her locked fingers.

  Her legs wouldn’t hold her. She collapsed, chest heaving, to the ground.

  The bands binding her breasts didn’t help in the least. Feeling faint, she drew up her knees and hung her head between.

  Suddenly Jeremy was there. He crouched beside her. She felt his hand briefly touch her back, then sensed him glancing around.

  “There’s no one around to see.” Jeremy looked back at her, astonished by what had happened, equally surprised by his own, highly visceral reaction. “Why did you come off?”

  He’d looked around only in time to see her serve to the verge, then fall out of the saddle. Ducking his head, he tried to look into her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Her reply was muffled. She kept her head down.

  He looked at the horse, running his eyes over its head and legs. He couldn’t see anything amiss with either beast or saddle.

  Then he heard her drag in a huge breath and heave it out in a long sigh.

  “I’m sorry.” She raised her head and met his eyes. “I should have told you — I’m not a very good rider.”