The Highlander's Excellent Adventure Read online

  Stratford did not take Abigail’s bait, so she fed him more. “She doesn’t like London either. In fact, I heard her tell Marjorie she was not returning.”

  When Stratford still didn’t respond, Abigail said, “Can you imagine that?”

  “I am certain your mother will have something to say about it.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Abigail said. “No one knows what Emmeline has planned, except Marjorie and me, because I overheard.”

  Stratford was not really interested in what any of the Wellesley girls had planned. But he peered down at the lawn to catch a glimpse of Emmeline—just a glimpse. He was not so far gone as to watch her constantly or follow her about. He had his pride.

  Emmeline wasn’t with the others. He was not alarmed. She’d probably gone inside. Except he didn’t remember her being at the picnic. Come to think of it, he couldn’t recall seeing her all afternoon.

  “Where is Emmeline?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” Abigail said.

  Stratford sat straight and gave the girl his full attention. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a secret. I wasn’t even supposed to have heard. Emmeline swore Marjorie to secrecy.”

  “Did she go to take a nap?”

  Abigail smiled. “No. She’s not even here.” Her hands flew to her mouth, and she looked horrified. “I mean, I mean—”

  “Where is she?” Stratford asked, looking directly at Abigail. The girl shrank slightly.

  “I told you I can’t say.”

  But she’d wanted to tell someone. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have come up here looking for someone to confide in. Stratford’s skill was in strategy, but even he didn’t have to work very hard to figure out how to make Abigail talk. “Abigail, either you tell me where Emmeline has gone or I will fetch your Mama and tell her exactly what you were up to in London.”

  Abigail’s eyes went wide. “How did you know?” she breathed.

  He hadn’t known, and he still didn’t know. The statement had been a calculated risk, and as usual it had paid off. “It’s my job to know things like that. Now talk or I call for Auntie Harriet.”

  “Very well! Emmeline has run away.”

  Stratford frowned. “Run away? Where?”

  Abigail tossed her dark curls. “To the posting house, of course. There she will catch the coach.”

  Stratford’s heart nearly stopped. This was worse than he could have imagined. If it had been any of the other sisters, he wouldn’t have believed it, but Emmeline was just bold enough to do something like that. “Which coach?”

  “I don’t know. Whichever one would take her furthest from London. She said she would not be made to suffer another failed Season. She’d rather die. You won’t tell Mama now, will you? I told you what I know.”

  Stratford didn’t answer. He was already striding down the hill and toward the stable. One of his brothers called after him, but he simply waved and went on. If he stopped to explain, he would surely miss Emmeline. He’d probably missed her already. Devil take that woman. He’d always known she had a mind of her own—everyone knew that—but she’d also seemed rather level-headed for a female. Why would she run off like this? Abigail must be mistaken. He hoped this was all a misunderstanding.

  Stratford flagged down a groom and in a few minutes rode away from the house and toward the posting house. When he arrived, it was as he’d expected. He’d missed the coach. When he’d asked if the proprietor had seen Miss Emmeline Wellesley, the proprietor frowned. “What does she look like, sir?”

  “She’s beau—” he began. Then shook his head. What was he saying? She was Emmeline. Stratford cleared his throat. “She has dark hair, quite dark, almost black, in fact. It’s dreadfully glossy in the right light, and she wears it draped over one shoulder with a loose curl that falls down over one...” He cleared his throat. “Er—blue eyes, medium height, Rubenesque figure.”

  The proprietor, a man of sixty or so, with a weathered face and red hands, drew his brows together. “What’s that mean?”

  “Never mind. Have you seen her?”

  “I didn’t see any fine ladies, but then I weren’t looking for any. I did see one female. She that seemed a bit out of place.”

  “How so?

  “It’s a warm day, but she were all wrapped up in her cloak. I didn’t get a look at her face.”

  Stratford did not want it to be Emmeline, but the description fit. A woman who hadn’t wanted anyone to see her face would wear a cloak on a warm day. Emmeline was a clever woman. The proprietor told him the coach’s next stop, which would be a brief one simply to change horses. But he added, “Just follow the Great Northern Road. You’ll catch her.”

  As Stratford mounted his horse again, he reflected that he had been trying to catch Emmeline his whole life. He’d tried for years to catch her attention and her interest, but she never treated him any differently than she treated anyone else in his family. And he would rather keep his feelings to himself than be made a fool of by announcing them when they were not returned.

  And so he would bring Emmeline back, preferably before his mother or aunt realized she was missing. In that case he’d be sent after her anyway, but his departure would be accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. If he could bring Emmeline back quickly and quietly, all the fuss and theatrics could be avoided. Not that Stratford believed bringing her back would be easy. She had some reason for running away, but she was generally a sensible woman. She didn’t disappear onto the terrace with men at balls and didn’t drink too much at garden parties or offer to show her skill at the pianoforte at musicales.

  In fact, Stratford thought as he spurred his horse to a gallop in the hope of catching the coach before it advanced too far ahead, except for her tendency to be outspoken, she was no trouble to chaperone at all. She was a wallflower. What had gotten into her?

  Unfortunately, at the next posting house, he was told he had missed the coach by a half hour. By now he had to change his own horse, and he thought better of continuing on without sending some word to his family. He penned a note to the baron, stating the facts and reassuring the baron (though truth be told it was his aunt he was thinking of as the baron did not deign to read missives Stratford sent) that he would bring Emmeline back safely in no time at all. He sent the horse back with the note and informed the lad he sent that the baron would pay when he arrived. Stratford was a bit light on coin as he hadn’t expected to be traveling any further than the dining room this evening. And by now evening was descending. The summer days were long, the light lasting until eight or nine, but his stomach told him it was time for dinner. Ignoring that rumbling, he continued on, adding starvation to the list of grievances he would present to Emmeline when he found her.

  Two

  DUNCAN

  Duncan Murray stepped off the box of the coach he’d hired to take him back to Scotland and stretched his legs. He’d never liked being cooped up inside a coach and would have normally traveled on horseback, but he had gifts for his mother and sister from London, and he had needed a vehicle to convey them all. And now, after four hours on the box, he was rather appreciative of the coach. He hadn’t slept much the night before as he’d spent his last hours in London with his friends at the Draven Club. He’d drank too much and had been late paying his respects to Colonel Draven this morning. But it might be a year or more before he was in London again, and he hadn’t regretted drinking to the health of his friends—and to their wives and their horses and even to children yet-to-be-born. Finally, at approximately four in the morning, they’d run out of reasons to drink and stumbled to their beds.

  He lifted his face to the setting sun. He would have enjoyed the fine summer day if the heat of it hadn’t made his head ache. Soon he’d be back in the cool of Scotland, though, and that was something to look forward to—even if his return would also be accompanied by his mother’s disappointment.

  He’d disappointed his mother once with disastrous consequences for all,
especially his father, and Duncan had sworn he would never disappoint her again. Yet here he was coming home alone when she’d ordered him to find the daughter of an English peer to marry.

  “Sir, the horses are almost ready,” the coachman informed him as the hired man climbed back up on the box.

  Duncan nodded. “Aye. Looks like we have two or three hours of light left. Make the most of it.” He wanted to cover as much distance as possible while the good weather held. Once they reached Scotland, the climate was less predictable. He started for the coach and the coachman called after him. “You won’t be riding up here, sir?”

  “Nae. I find myself in need of a wee nap. Wake me when the light fades, aye?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Duncan climbed into the dark coach and shut the door as the coachman spurred the horses forward. He raised his arms then attempted to find a comfortable position on the seat. He was far too big to lie down upon it, so he extended his legs to the seat across from him, determined to stretch out and nap that way. But his feet nudged something soft and solid. He’d thrown his greatcoat inside earlier, but this was too heavy to be a coat. He nudged it with his foot again, and it moaned.

  Duncan was instantly alert, knife in hand, and in attack position. “Who’s there?” he demanded, voice low. “Show yerself.”

  There was no response save a long...sigh? Was the intruder sleeping? Moving gingerly, Duncan lifted the shutter on the lamp slowly, shedding weak light into the interior. There was definitely someone curled under his coat. He made out a distinctly human shape. Brown hair at the top of his coat and a yellow slipper peeking out of the bottom.

  A lass? Christ and all the saints!

  Duncan knelt on the floor between the seats and peered more closely. With his coat in the way, he couldn’t see much, so he pulled the material back slowly, revealing the fine facial features of a young lady. Her eyes were closed and her face lax as though in sleep. He pulled the coat down further, exposing slim shoulders and slender arms tucked close to her body.

  Duncan sat back on his haunches. Where had she come from? Had she been in the coach since London? She didn’t look like the sort of poor creature who would stowaway. She wore an apron, but under it was an expensive gown. There was lace at the throat of her striped yellow and white dress. It was one of those dresses ladies wore in the morning before they donned the afternoon and evening gowns he liked because they showed a bit of skin.

  Duncan stared at her for several minutes, not sure what he should do. Wake her? Let her sleep? He’d never had a woman fall asleep in his carriage before. Of course, he didn’t own a carriage, but he didn’t take it to be a usual occurrence, nonetheless. The wheels jounced over a hole in the road and the woman shifted, opened her eyes slightly, then made to turn over.

  Until she spotted him, and her eyes opened. With a jerk, she sat up and opened her mouth, presumably to scream. Duncan acted quickly, putting his hand over her lips before she could emit a sound. “Dinnae fash, lass. I willnae hurt ye.”

  She continued staring at him, her large brown eyes the size of saucers.

  “Shh,” he said as he slowly moved his hand away. “Dinnae scream.”

  His hand fell to his side, and she blinked at him. She was fully awake now. Her chest rose and fell under the thin material of her dress. Slowly, Duncan moved back to the seat across from her. Now that she was sitting and facing him, something about her was familiar. He raised the shutter of the lamp on the opposite side of the coach to view her more clearly. He could have sworn he had seen her somewhere before, but then he’d been to twenty balls or more in the last few months and countless other amusements. In his search for a bride, he’d looked at so many women, they blended together in his mind.

  Since she still hadn’t said anything, just continued to stare at him, he decided he had better begin the preliminaries. “Do I ken ye, lass?”

  Her eyes widened further, which was truly remarkable as he hadn’t thought they could open any further. “What’s yer name?” he asked.

  Her brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth then closed it again. She seemed to be trying to speak but could not find the words. Did he frighten her, or did she have a reason for not wanting to tell him? Let her keep her secrets—for the moment.

  “Och, ye dinnae want tae tell me, is that it? Verra well. Where did ye come from? How did ye find yer way in here?” He gestured to the coach and she followed the movement with her eyes.

  Well, this was one of the more tedious conversations he’d had. Perhaps if he revealed something of himself, she would follow. “My name is Duncan Murray.” He tapped his chest. “Since ye’re in my coach, sleeping under my coat, I dinnae think it’s too much tae ask yer name, lass.”

  She swallowed, her long throat moving delicately. “Beatriz,” she said quietly, pointing to her own chest.

  Duncan narrowed his eyes. She hadn’t said it in the English way—Beatrice. In fact, she hadn’t sounded British at all. “Where are ye from, Beatrice?”

  “Beatriz.” And then she said several sentences, none of which made an ounce of sense to him. He wasn’t very good with languages. He understood the English well enough as his mother was one. But though the Highland clans had always been close with the French, Duncan had never learned it. Still, he’d heard it enough to figure what she’d said wasn’t French. Maybe Italian? Or German? Christ, he didn’t know.

  She was looking at him expectantly, probably much as he’d been looking at her a moment ago. Now he was the one confused. He didn’t particularly mind having her eyes on him. She was unusually pretty. In addition to those large brown eyes, she possessed chestnut-colored hair that fell in waves about her face. On the seat beside her was a cap that had probably confined it at one point but had been lost or set aside during the trip.

  “Where are ye from?” he asked.

  She cocked her head to one side.

  He pointed to himself again. “Scotland.” He pointed to her.

  She bit her lip as she considered. He watched her small white teeth sink into the pink flesh and tried not to think of sinking his own teeth into that flesh. She was lost and alone. He needed to help her, not maul her. This was the problem with months of bride-shopping—all looking and no touching.

  Finally, she looked up at him and cleared her throat. “Portugal,” she said.

  Duncan sat back on the seat. “Christ and all the saints.”

  Duncan sat silently for some time with the word she’d spoken ringing in his ears. He was a man of action—some said too much action. He often acted without thinking, and that was fine by him. He lived by his wits and his instincts, and they hadn’t led him wrong yet. Sure, some might call him a lunatic—his fellow soldiers did—but Duncan couldn’t see how caution and restraint had served them any better than impulsivity had served him. But now, just for the moment, he wished he had Stratford or Phineas here beside him. Those two seemed to always know the correct course of action. They’d know what to do with this lass.

  Duncan looked at her and sighed. She looked back at him, her legs still curled under his greatcoat, and her eyes wide with concern. She dropped her gaze when it met his, and a blush rose on her cheeks.

  “I dinnae suppose ye ken what tae do aboot this situation?” he asked, mostly to himself, but she looked up at the sound of his voice. “I can’t exactly leave ye oot on the road nor can I take ye tae Scotland with me.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, which burned with fatigue. He wished he had slept last night. His mind would be clearer. “I can only think of one option. I’d better take ye back tae London.”

  “London?” she asked in an accented voice. “Não. Não London.” She shook her head and looked the most animated he had seen her.

  Duncan leaned forward. “What’s wrong with London?”

  She didn’t answer, merely looked at him.

  “Ye dinnae like London?”

  “Não London,” she repeated.

  Well, that was a problem. He needed someone who spoke her langu
age to find out who she was and where she belonged. A few of the men in Draven’s troop had been in Portugal and knew the language—Neil was one, but he was back in London. Nash was another. Nash was a sharpshooter who had been injured in battle. Duncan hadn’t seen him in a year at least, since Nash had retired to his family estate. If Duncan remembered correctly, that estate was only about fifty miles out of the way in the village of Milcroft.

  “But if we go too much further north, we’ll have tae dooble back,” he said before parting the curtains and sliding the window down. “John Coachman!”

  A moment later the driver’s voice carried back on the breeze. “Aye, sir?”

  “Stop for the night at the next inn!”

  “Sir?”

  Duncan looked at the woman staring at him in alarm. “Our plans have changed.”

  EMMELINE

  Emmeline Wellesley—a distant relation to the duke of that name—was beginning to realize that perhaps she should have thought through this plan of running away a bit more thoroughly before embarking on the adventure.

  That is to say, she should have thought about it for more than the quarter hour it took her to gather her belongings and depart. Yes, she was weary of the Season. It was her fifth Season, and the way things were progressing, she could envision a sixth and seventh Season as well. Emmeline had begun to wonder exactly how many Seasons her mother planned to force her to endure. Surely with three younger sisters, her mother might try to economize and cut her losses.

  Emmeline was most certainly a loss in the eyes of Society. She had received only a handful of lackluster proposals from men she would not have married had a pistol been pointed to her head. The problem, as her mother had told her often enough, was that Emmeline insisted on opening her mouth when she met an eligible gentleman. And once she opened her mouth, she had the Very Bad Habit of saying what she thought. Her mother chastised her continually for her impertinence. Women were not supposed to have ideas of their own about matters other than fashion. Unmarried women, especially, were not to have thoughts about anything. They were to smile and flutter their lashes and agree with the man at their side.