Amanda Scott (31 page)

The coach moved forward slowly, and when the coachman posed his question, the pedestrian said helpfully, “This is Willesden, and that road yonder goes to Wembley or to Hazelsden.”

Pinkie frowned thoughtfully. “Are either of those towns north of here?”

The pedestrian chuckled. “Not as ye’d notice, ma’am. Wembley be to the west, and Hazelsden to the south. If it’s north ye want, go straight on till ye come to Watford or to Great Stanmore. Then ye can cut over to the St. Albans Road.”

The coachman said, “The dog’s waiting for us, ma’am. Best ye call him back, and we’ll get onto the right road.”

Pinkie opened her mouth to call Cailean, but she shut it again and said to the pedestrian, “Have you seen another coach today, sir, perhaps with a beautiful dark-haired young lady inside?”

The man shook his head. “Seen two or three coaches, ma’am. Didn’t notice who was inside them.”

Nevertheless, Pinkie had made up her mind. “We’ll follow the dog, Mr. Conlan. If they had wanted the St. Albans road, they would have kept straight on at Kilburn. I do not know why they came this way, but I am sure that they did. Cailean would not otherwise have led us here.”

“I never heard of a dog as could follow someone in a coach,” Conlan said doubtfully.

“I never had, either,” she admitted. “But he followed his master all the way from Scotland with no more than a scent on the wind. We won’t get lost, will we?”

“No, ma’am. Anywhere I can drive to, I can get home from. Never you worry your head about that.”

For the next several hours, however, it did seem as if they were chasing wild geese, for the dog led them along sundry roads and lanes, sometimes heading west, sometimes south, through the villages of Sudbury, Norholt, and Hillingdon. As time passed, Pinkie found it more and more difficult not to think about Kintyre. She did not fear his anger nearly as much as she feared the likelihood that he would think she had purposely deceived him, and that he ought never to have married her. She had no regrets about their marriage, but if he resented her heritage, if everyone in London came to know of it now…those thoughts alone made her feel sick.

When they entered the town of Uxbridge, the coachman drew up at the King’s Arms to rest his horses and purchase a mug of ale for himself and a glass of lemonade for his passenger. Handing it to her, he said, “They’ll be heading north now, ma’am, through Buckingham to Chester. I’d wager my best hat on it.”

He admitted that no one at the King’s Arms had noticed a coach with a young lady answering Bridget’s description, but pointed out that it was not the only inn in Uxbridge. Sure enough, several inns later, at the White Horse, one of the ostlers said he had seen her half an hour before. The young lady had been expecting to meet a gentleman, he said, but the gentleman had left her a message, to drive on.

“How far have we come?” Pinkie asked Conlan.

The coachman looked thoughtfully at the sky. “I’d say we’ve come no more than twenty miles from London, ma’am, for all we’ve been driving nigh onto four hours since we left the city. We’ll go faster on this here post road, and from what that chap said, we’ve gained distance on them.”

Cailean had taken the opportunity to drink deep from each inn’s horse trough, drawing fascinated attention from the ostlers. Uxbridge was larger than any village they had passed through before now, and Pinkie worried that the deerhound might lose Bridget’s scent. The road passed straight through the town, however, and whether the dog had lost the scent or not, it seemed to catch it again when they passed the last cottage. Even so, the coachman’s good cheer soon failed, for at the first crossroads, without hesitation, Cailean turned south again.

“Do we follow him, my lady?”

“Aye,” Pinkie called.

“So much for my best hat.” Fifteen minutes later he slowed his horses and shouted, “Faith, ma’am, I know where we are! That wall marks Stoke Place. My missus has a cousin in service there. We’re not but a mile from the Bath Road!”

“Bath? Why would she go to Bath?” Pinkie asked the question aloud, but the coachman had whipped up his horses again, and he did not reply.

Five minutes later they reached the village of Slough, and the coachman drove into the yard at the White Hart and climbed down from his perch. It took only a moment to get the information they sought.

“Ten minutes ahead now,” he told Pinkie. “She finally met her gentleman, right here, and apparently she was none too pleased to see him, as who can wonder after leading her such a merry chase. He would have done better to bring her by the quickest route without all that roundaboutation.”

“Did anyone chance to overhear where they are bound?”

“No, and I did ask, ma’am, but it seems plain as a pikestaff, I should think.”

“Why would she go to Bath?”

“Not Bath, ma’am. My guess would be Bristol or Milford Haven if you’re still thinking they’ll be bound for Scotland.”

“Bristol! Faith, but that means—He owns ships! He’s taking her by sea!”

T
HE WHOLE TRUTH WASHED
over Pinkie in that instant. Knowing that Bridget believed her anonymous admirer to be Chuff, and believing along with Kintyre that it was far more likely to be Mr. Coombs, she had not given much thought to the identity of the gentleman leading them in circles, or to his reason for doing so. She had been interested only in catching up with them to save Bridget’s reputation. But Bridget’s admirer was not Mr. Coombs. Unless she was mistaken, Bridget had been as astonished to learn his identity as Pinkie was, for her secret admirer could be none other than Sir Renfrew Campbell.

Mr. Coombs might have been capable of taking her to Gretna. He was foolish enough and young enough to view such an act as both heroic and romantic. Still, Pinkie would not have credited him with sufficient courage to risk infuriating both Kintyre and Balcardane by running away with Bridget. She saw now that she ought to have given that detail much more consideration, for had she done so, she might have realized sooner that Sir Renfrew certainly would take such a risk. It was no great wonder that she had not thought of him earlier, however, since she had believed that Kintyre himself was meeting with Sir Renfrew that morning.

“We must catch them, Mr. Conlan, and quickly!”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am. That dog’s sure all atwitch to be off.”

Though Conlan was willing, they soon came to a steep hill, which slowed them considerably, and by the time they arrived at Maidenhead and drove into the yard of the Saracen’s Head, his team was flagging badly.

“We must hire fresh horses,” Pinkie said firmly. “Have the ostlers choose what you like, Mr. Conlan, but tell them to hurry.”

The inn’s ostlers were more experienced than the others they had met, and made the change with more speed than Pinkie had expected. In the process, Mr. Conlan managed to glean some information, both welcome and unwelcome. “They’ve been this way, ma’am,” he said before climbing back onto his box. “They left their coach but took the coachman along, and they’ve hired a chaise and four.”

“Then they’ll leave us in the dust,” Pinkie exclaimed. “Perhaps I should also hire a chaise.”

“If ye do, I shall have to return to London, and I don’t mind telling ye I’d be loath to do that if you’ll be going on by yourself. I don’t think they’ll travel a deal faster than we shall, for they’ll encounter traffic, you see, and they’ll want their dinner soon, too. We ought to catch up with them then if we don’t before.”

Recognizing the common sense of his words, and realizing that she had no wish to catch up with Sir Renfrew and Bridget without someone large and masculine to support her, Pinkie agreed to continue as they were. Realizing now that Sir Renfrew had taken such a roundabout course to throw off pursuit, and certain that he could have no notion they were following him, she called Cailean into the coach but left the window down, hoping that if the chaise ahead altered course, the dog would be able to sense it and give them warning.

Having expected to catch up with Bridget quickly, she could not help feeling depressed. When they learned in Reading that the chaise had gained distance and was again thirty minutes ahead, she had to fight a renewed urge to hire her own chaise in place of the lumbering coach. Conlan thoughtfully purchased a bun and some sliced beef for her, however, and although she shared it with Cailean as they drove on, the food soon lifted her spirits.

It was nearly seven o’clock when the coach turned into the yard at the Globe in Newbury, having paused at nearly every inn since Reading so its driver could ask questions. They learned only that Sir Renfrew had twice changed horses, but at the Globe, Conlan quickly discovered that a gentleman traveling post with a very young lady had hired a private parlor to dine.

“They be here, ma’am,” he said.

“Thank heaven,” Pinkie said with feeling. “I think I should confront them first alone, Mr. Conlan, since my sister will not thank me for introducing a stranger to such a scene. Perhaps you will be good enough to await me here with Cailean. I will either bring her out in a few minutes or send you word to join me inside.”

“If you’re sure, ma’am.”

“I am,” Pinkie said, gathering confidence. After all, she had met Sir Renfrew more than once, and he had always been perfectly polite to her. Nor did she expect trouble from Bridget. Having learned that her secret admirer was Sir Renfrew Campbell would undoubtedly make the younger girl perfectly willing to return to London, even if it meant facing Kintyre’s wrath.

Descending to the yard, Pinkie shook out her skirts, took a deep breath, and walked into the inn. The innkeeper met her in the hall, and when she explained her wish to speak with the couple who had hired his private parlor, he escorted her upstairs, where he rapped sharply on one of the doors along a narrow corridor.

Receiving a command to enter, the innkeeper pushed the door open, saying, “I’ve brung ye a visitor, sir.”

Pinkie walked past him into the room, to find Bridget and Sir Renfrew seated opposite each other at a small round table before the fireplace, where a fire crackled and shot sparks up the flue.

Bridget gasped and started to rise, but Sir Renfrew reached across the table, grabbed her wrist, and said firmly, “Sit down, lass. I’ll deal with this. Leave us,” he added curtly to the innkeeper, who left at once, shutting the door behind him.

Pinkie did not object to his leaving. This was no business to conduct before strangers. “I daresay you are surprised to see me,” she said, moving nearer the table.

“Where is Michael?” Bridget demanded, looking past her as if she expected to see her brother stride into the room. The girl looked pale, and her voice had less animation than usual. Her eyes shifted back to Sir Renfrew.

He remained silent, watching Pinkie.

“I do not know where he is at this moment,” Pinkie replied honestly. “I left word for him to follow me, however, so he could be along very soon.”

Sir Renfrew said, “How did ye follow us, lassie? I vow, I’m right interested to hear that, for I’d have said that no man could do it.”

Pinkie nearly told him, then decided that it was none of his business. Instead, she said, “I mean to take Lady Bridget back to London with me, Sir Renfrew. She had no business running away in such a slapdash manner and at such risk to her good name. My coach is waiting in the yard.” Turning to Bridget, she said, “Fetch your cloak if you have one, please.”

Bridget did not move. She seemed spiritless, unlike her normal self.

“She will stay with me,” Sir Renfrew said calmly. “I have no objection, however, if ye wish to come with us, madam. No doubt the lass will welcome the company of another female.”

Pinkie shook her head. “You cannot mean that,” she said. “It is bad enough that you have abducted her. Surely you do not think you can simply abduct me, too. I told you, sir, I have a coach waiting, and the coachman is a quite large and burly man. I have only to call him—”

“Ye’ll no be callin’ anyone. MacKellar!”

At her left, a door that she had not previously noticed opened and another man entered the room. He was taller than Sir Renfrew, younger and more muscular, and clearly was his servant or henchman.

“Aye, sir,” he said, looking curiously at Pinkie.

“Lady Kintyre has managed to follow us here,” Sir Renfrew said, “and she tells me she’s got a coach and a driver waiting in the yard. I’ll attend to them, but ye’ll need to keep an eye on these two lassies whilst I do.”

“Aye, sir,” MacKellar said, pulling a pistol from his coat pocket as casually as if he had reached for a handkerchief.

Pinkie stiffened. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”

Sir Renfrew said, “I told ye, lass, I’m taking Lady Bridget to be my wife. If ye’re concerned about Kintyre’s debt, ye need not be. I’ve told him I’ll accept the lass in lieu of half the debt, and I’m a man o’ my word. He need pay only the other half, and I’ll give him what time he needs, seeing as he can scarcely pay me when I’ve left England without settling the arrangements with him. ’Tis hardly fair, that, and I’m a gey fair man, I am.”

“How dare—”

“Now, madam, dinna be wroth with me. I’m a man in love, is what I am. Bide ye now with MacKellar, and dinna be thinking he will not shoot. He’s a faithful lad, is MacKellar, and he kens well that if he murders ye, I’ll see him safe out of England before ever anyone else discovers his crime.”

Glancing at MacKellar, Pinkie doubted that he would shoot two innocent females in cold blood, but when she raised her chin, the big man raised his pistol.

“Sit down,” he growled.

“Ye’d best do as he says, lass,” Sir Renfrew said amiably. Rising and picking up one of the wineglasses from the table, he strolled over to stand beside and just a step behind her, as if he would bar her way to the corridor.

Pinkie rapidly considered her options. She still did not think MacKellar would shoot either of them, but if she screamed, neither could she depend upon the innkeeper to take her side in the matter. Even Mr. Conlan would be reluctant to take on a man of Sir Renfrew’s standing, and she knew she could not depend upon Sir Renfrew to speak the truth to her coachman. He was much more likely to lie.