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 language 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.

Emmeline never fluttered her lashes and seldom agreed with any man. And whenever she was out in Society, she rarely smiled. Her mother always forced her into undergarments that cut off her breathing and dresses that were too small, so Emmeline could barely inhale much less dance. Added to the inconvenience of not being able to take in sufficient oxygen, her mother also did not allow Emmeline to eat, hoping that Emmeline would wither away and actually be able to fit into the too-small gowns. And her mother wondered why Emmeline did not look forward to the Season.

But this year insult had been added to injury. Marjorie, who was enjoying only her first Season, had a suitor who had asked Mama’s permission for Marjorie’s hand. Mama had agreed, but she wanted to keep the betrothal quiet until the end of the Season to “give Emmeline more time to make her own match.”

Emmeline was the eldest of the five siblings, and it was traditional to marry the eldest before the younger. But Marjorie had accused Emmeline of “ruining everything” and “standing in the way of all my happiness” by remaining unattached. Though her sister’s words had hurt Emmeline, she could not fault the sentiment. Of course, Marjorie, who was only twenty years old, wanted to publicly celebrate her good fortune. Her betrothed was the son of an earl—a younger son, but he had a good living as a barrister and had also inherited money from a doting grandfather. He seemed a pleasant enough man, though Emmeline found his conversation dull and plodding and his ideas about justice very wrongheaded indeed.

But then Marjorie’s brain was also dull and plodding, full of useless information about fichus and fripperies. She never read anything beyond the Morning Post’s descriptions of the clothing the fashionable set wore. Emmeline’s family preferred cards to literature, embroidery to long walks, and an evening at Vauxhall to the Royal Opera House. They did not understand Emmeline any more than she understood them.

But sitting in the packed coach, wedged between a woman with a baby whose nappy needed changing and an older woman whose head was drooping as she snored silently, Emmeline thought she might be more like her family than she had been willing to acknowledge. After all, running off like this was one of the more idiotic things she had ever done.

Yes, her feelings had been hurt by Marjorie’s cutting words. Yes, Emmeline had wanted to shock her mother and catch her attention so that she might finally listen when Emmeline said she did not want to go to another ball or assembly or dinner party. That she could not stand another evening of her stays biting into her ribs. But perhaps this method was a bit too extreme?

Emmeline hadn’t even really decided where she should go. She had a vague notion of visiting her paternal grandmother, who lived in the far north of England, but Emmeline realized now she did not really know if the coach on which she rode would take her anywhere near her grandmother’s residence in Carlisle. She had known it traveled north, and that seemed all that mattered at the time.

Now she had been sitting on this coach with the smelly infant and the snoring woman and the two men across from her arguing about the price of wool for the last three hours, and she needed to use the necessary and stretch her legs and fill her lungs with fresh air.

And so it was with great relief that the coachman called back to the passengers on top of the coach—at least she was not seated up there—and those unfortunates called down to inform those seated inside that the coach would stop for a brief refreshment at the next posting house. The sound of voices caused the mother to rock her baby and shush him, though he did not cry. On her other side, the elderly woman snorted awake and looked about.

“What is the commotion?” the lady asked.

“We will be stopping soon for refreshment,” Emmeline told her.

“Oh, thank goodness. I fear I may not be able to stand after such a long period of sitting, though,” the lady said. “My legs are not what they used to be.”

“I’ll be happy to provide whatever assistance you might need,” Emmeline offered.

The lady beamed at her, her eyes a pretty hazel under her dour black hat. “Thank you, my dear.” She patted Emmeline’s arm. “You remind me of my Lucy, now ten years in her grave.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Emmeline said, even as the older woman’s eyes filled with tears.

“She was my only daughter, you see, and a comfort to me in my advancing years. My sons pay me no heed. They hire companions for me, but what good is that when the creatures leave me to fend for myself? My last one ran off with a gentleman she hardly knew. And now I must make my way back to Derbyshire all on my own.”

“My own grandmother lives in Cumbria,” Emmeline said. “I will be happy to assist you to Derbyshire.”

“You are most kind.” The lady patted Emmeline’s sleeve. “But I fear you have taken the wrong coach. This conveyance is not traveling to Cumbria.”

Emmeline nodded as this confirmed her supposition. “I purchased my ticket in haste. At the posting house I will ask about making a change at some point on the route.”

“My, but you speak decisively for one so young.”

Emmeline had heard this criticism before. Decisively was another word for her mother’s favorite—Impertinent.

The lady continued, “I have traveled on this coach many times, and I would be happy to assist you. It seems we can both be of service today.”

Emmeline did not need the woman’s help, but when she squeezed Emmeline’s arm, Emmeline managed a smile for her. She’d been mistaken about this adventure after all. It was not exactly comfortable or pleasant, but she’d be able to stretch her legs shortly, and she could assist the older woman, who was alone in the world. This was exactly the sort of thing Emmeline was always telling her mother—there were more important things to do than finding a husband. It felt infinitely more satisfying, when they did stop a few minutes later, to help the lady down from the coach and into the small public house than it ever had to exchange words about the weather with the son of a duke.

Inside the small, dark posting house, Emmeline ordered bread and tea and paid for it and that of the older lady, who she had learned was a Mrs. Goodly. Mrs. Goodly asked the proprietor of the posting house where Emmeline should change coaches to travel to Cumbria, and though he was not certain, he assured her she would have that opportunity once they were further north. Emmeline sat at one of the smattering of tables, Mrs. Goodly across from her, and sipped her tea. She would have preferred to go outside and walk about in the sunshine and fresh air. The posting house smelled of cabbage and Mrs. Goodly had wanted to sit by the fire, which made the room much too warm. But Emmeline could not leave Mrs. Goodly alone.

Finally, the coachman came inside and informed the passengers the coach would be departing again in five minutes. Emmeline helped Mrs. Goodly rise to her feet and supported her as she walked across the room. But before they could reach the door, the young mother cried out, “Oh, no!”

“What is it?” Emmeline asked. The woman turned to look at her, tears streaming from her eyes. Emmeline knew that look. She’d seen it a time or two on her own mother’s face when her brother had been a baby. It was exhaustion coupled with frustration.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the mother said, dashing a hand across her wet eyes. “My little Jack has just wet his clean nappy, and I left his others in the coach.”

“I will fetch one for you,” Emmeline said. Really, what would these passengers do without her?

“Thank you, but they are packed at the bottom of my valise. I fear it would take too long to find them.”

“Perhaps I can hold the baby while you search,” Emmeline offered. “I will just see Mrs. Goodly to the coach and then return.”

“Oh, but this lady can see me to the coach,” Mrs. Goodly said. “Then she can fetch what she needs and return.”

Emmeline did not know why she hesitated. The plan was reasonable and more efficient. She opened her mouth to reject it anyway then realized perhaps her mother was correct, and she did argue just for the sake of arguing. Emmeline swallowed her objection. “Oh, yes,” Emmeline agreed. “That is a much better solution.”

“The proprietor offered me this room to change him,” the mother said, leading Emmeline away from Mrs. Goodly to a door in the back. She opened it, and Emmeline saw a small storage closet full of mops and brooms, but a table was cleared and that must have been what the mother used to change the infant. “If you wait in here, I will be right back. He’s sleeping,” she said as she handed him to Emmeline. “I’ve covered his face so the light doesn’t wake him.”

Emmeline took the small, warm bundle and stepped into the closet, rocking the baby gently. The mother gave her a hug, which Emmeline found very sweet. The door closed behind her, the motion causing the lantern to go out and casting her into darkness. Emmeline assumed this was probably for the best so the baby would stay asleep as long as possible. Come to think of it, the baby had been sleeping the entire journey. Emmeline didn’t remember Robert sleeping that much when he’d been an infant. This mother was either very lucky or the baby was very tired.

From inside the closet she heard the coachman call out for any last passengers. Emmeline started. She knew the coaches did not wait for anyone, but surely the mother would tell him she needed to collect her child and Emmeline.

She waited for voices indicating someone was coming for her, but there were none. Growing even more alarmed, Emmeline tried the handle of the door. When she pushed down on the latch, it did not move. She tried it again, pushing harder. Nothing happened. The door was locked. She waited for screams or the sound of the mother running back to claim her baby, but there was only silence as the passengers had left and now the public house was empty.

Emmeline pounded on the door with her free hand. When no one came, she called out. There was no answer. The proprietor was probably outside or in the kitchen, which meant he could not hear her. But she had to get out before the coach was too far away. She had to catch up and reunite the mother and child. She was certain the mother was distraught and in a state of panic at having her child left behind.

Emmeline was certainly panicking. She could not be left here. She had no idea where she was, and it wasn’t as though there was a town nearby. This posting house had been all she had seen on the road for some time.

Emmeline pounded on the door again, then realized she had better calm down or the baby would wake and cry. But the baby was already moving in her arms. Emmeline pushed the blanket away from his face and murmured some words of comfort.

And that’s when the baby licked her.

To her credit Emmeline did not drop the squirming bundle. She jumped, but she managed to hold on. Shaking now with fear and uncertainty, she reached a hand back toward the baby’s face.

The baby licked her again with a big, wet tongue...

That was no baby tongue.

Emmeline touched the child’s face and felt a wet snout, fur, and soft, long ears.

It was not a baby at all. Further unwrapping of the blankets confirmed her suspicions that she held a small dog.

And that was the point Emmeline sank to the floor. She had been duped, played for a fool, tricked. And here she had prided herself on being the cleverest of her sisters. Well, they weren’t sitting in a broom closet with a dog wrapped like a baby, were they?

But why would the so-called mother want to trick her like that? What could she possibly be after—

Emmeline set the dog down quickly and reached inside her dress for the pockets she’d tied over her petticoat. She dove into one pocket then the other. Both were empty. But how—

That hug.

The embrace she had thought so sweet. That was when the woman had reached into her pockets and taken her purse. And now poor Mrs. Goodly was trapped on the coach with the duplicitous woman.

Except that Mrs. Goodly had encouraged her to go with the mother and baby. And Mrs. Goodly had not stopped the coach when Emmeline did not arrive before it departed. Surely a woman like Mrs. Goodly could make a coachman listen to her.

It was all so clear now. Mrs. Goodly had been part of the scheme as well, and Emmeline had been very easy prey. Why hadn’t she argued? The one time she held her tongue and look what had happened!

The dog licked her hand again and Emmeline stroked his head. “No wonder you were so quiet,” she said. “She was probably feeding you treats to keep you happy.” At the mention of the word treat the dog put his—or her—paws on Emmeline’s knee and jumped. “I don’t have anything for you,” Emmeline said, sinking down to the floor. “And until the next coach arrives, we’ll probably be stuck in here.”

She listened for a few moments, but the room that had been so full of people a few minutes ago was silent. She leaned her head back against the wall. “What will we do? I have no money, no one knows where I am.” She bolted upright, sending the dog scampering back. “I left my valise on the coach! Oh, no!”

She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the dog creeping back toward her feet. Now she’d have to slink home and admit what a failure she was—not only at securing a husband but at running away. She couldn’t do anything right!

Emmeline straightened her shoulders. If she continued to think that way, she’d probably end up right where she’d been, propping up a wall at another ball. She’d made the decision to go to her grandmother’s, and she would see that through.

One way or another.