Amanda Scott (33 page)

Pinkie moved, intending to sit straighter, and could not repress a moan.

Bridget’s eyes opened, and in a low voice, she muttered, “Did that awful stuff give you a headache, too?”

“Now that you mention it,” Pinkie murmured, grimacing. “I hadn’t noticed before, because my whole body aches from sitting so long in the same position.” Gingerly, using the strap to steady herself, she managed to pull herself upright.

She would have liked to let down the window and breathe fresh air, but she did not want to waken Sir Renfrew. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the glass, closing her eyes again and savoring the sensation of its coolness against her aching brow. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, then stiffened at the sight that met her gaze.

Cailean, faithful Cailean, was loping along behind the coach.

“What is it?” Bridget asked. “What do you see?”

“Aye, Lady Kintyre, tell us what you see that surprises you so,” Sir Renfrew said, sitting up. “It canna be Kintyre, for we must be nearing Bristol by now, and the only way he can have followed us is if he stopped at every inn and posting house, seeking word from you. Had he done that, though, he’d be a full day behind us, so what is it that you see?”

“Nothing,” Pinkie lied. “Nothing at all.”

“Aye, sure, I can see that for myself.” Leaning forward, he let down the window and put his head out. “Well, damme, so that’s how ye managed it!”

“What is it?” Bridget demanded. “Why does no one tell me anything?”

“It’s that great hound of Kintyre’s,” Sir Renfrew said.

“Cailean?”

“He’ll not harm you, sir,” Pinkie said hastily. “Let me call him.”

Sir Renfrew chuckled. “What, and invite him into this coach with us? Nay then, lass; I dinna mind having to give up our chaise to accommodate ye, but I won’t travel with yon great brute, and we canna have him following us through the streets of Bristol like a mute in a funeral procession either. He’ll draw the eye of everyone we pass. I’ll soon be rid of him, however.” Putting his head out again, he shouted at MacKellar to stop the chaise.

“Give me your pistol, man,” Sir Renfrew said, opening the door and getting out of the coach.

Pinkie heard his words, but at first they made no sense to her. Then, with a rush of horror, she knew what he meant to do.

Forgetting her aches, and even her own safety, she scrambled out of the coach in his wake, shrieking at the top of her lungs, “Cailean, no! Go back, run! Oh, go!”

The big deerhound paused and looked confused.

Sir Renfrew took aim.

Pinkie and Bridget screamed as one, “Cailean, run!”

A deafening shot echoed through the morning air, and the gallant deerhound dropped in his tracks.

W
HEN MICHAEL’S CHAISE RATTLED
through the Walcot turnpike on the outskirts of Bath, he knew that he had traveled one hundred and six miles from London, for the milestone sat at the side of the road just before the gate. The time was ten minutes before nine o’clock. He had not stopped along the way other than to change teams and postilions, for he was as certain as he could be that Sir Renfrew would head straight for his ship at Bristol harbor. If he did not—if they had gone by another route or to another destination—he would not find them in time, in any event.

Upon setting out, he had half expected to meet Penelope and Bridget on the road, on their way back to London, for he believed his bride to be a woman who accomplished what she set out to accomplish. Once darkness fell, however, he realized that if she had succeeded, they might pass each other in the night without knowing, and it would serve no good purpose to worry about that. He had made up his mind to go to Bristol, and to Bristol he would go. If he dithered over other possibilities, or took time to stop each oncoming coach, assuming they
would
stop, Sir Renfrew would easily succeed in carrying off his sister.

When the chaise entered the city of Bath, the road forked ahead of it. The chaise kept to the right and, according to a sign painted high on the first building, passed along a road called—most oddly, in Michael’s opinion—the Paragon Vineyard. Straight ahead he saw the huge sign atop the York House Inn.

Although he had spent all of the money he had carried on his person upon returning to George Street and a good deal of that which Lady Marsali had given him, it did not occur to him to alter his means of travel. Traveling post at nine pence per mile—plus added inducements to make the lads travel faster than the legally ordained five miles per hour—was ruinously expensive. However, the present boys had assured him that their Bath replacements would take him right down to the harbor in Bristol. Any other vehicle, he knew, would waste a great deal of his time. A driver hiring out himself and his coach would be less willing than the postilions were to spring his horses, and it would take time just to find a reliable man who knew his way around Bristol. Michael had never been there.

The change at the York House was quick, but he took a few minutes longer to eat a bun and drink some coffee that a servant brought out to the chaise, and then they were off again. The new postilions maintained a pace similar to that of the others, but now that he was nearing his destination, the twelve miles to Bristol seemed to take forever. In reality, they took less than two hours.

The chaise wended its way downhill through narrow, twisting streets, then alongside the River Avon, which Michael recognized because the road from Bath frequently had run beside it. They drew to a halt at last in an enormous square in what appeared to be the lower end of the oldest part of town.

As Michael emerged from the chaise, he thanked the postilions but expressed his surprise that he had not yet caught sight or smell of the sea. “I expected you to deliver me to the harbor,” he said.

The older postilion chuckled. “The harbor be all around us here, my lord. Queen’s Square be the very point o’ land where the River Frome joins the River Avon. Them lads we changed with said ye’d be wanting the Customs House.”

“Aye, that ’s true, but where is the sea?”

“The sea be a good distance from Bristol, my lord. It be nine or ten miles yet before the Avon flows into the Bristol Channel, and nigh onto a hundred after that before any ship reaches open sea. Don’t fret yourself, though. We’ve got plenty o’ ships here to serve ye. Ye’ll find one to take ye wherever ye wants to go.”

“I see,” Michael said. “Where shall I find the Customs House, then?”

“Just there in front of ye, m’ lord,” the man said, pointing to a large building that formed the central block on what Michael judged to be the north side of the square. “Ye’ll find the quay and most berths for larger boats and barges on the Frome side, yonder beyond those buildings.” He pointed to his left. “Smaller ones be on the Back, the Avon side, where we turned in.” He gestured to his right.

Queen’s Square was enormous, larger than any square Michael had seen in London, and very handsomely built. Walks and rows of trees occupied its center, along with a fine equestrian statue. Shops flanked the Customs House, and he saw a tavern and a coffeehouse.

Dismissing the chaise, he walked to the Customs House, and as he went up the steps, he noticed a small crowd of people gathered near the northwest corner of the square, on what the postilion had called the Frome side, but he paid it little mind. Inside, he learned that Sir Renfrew did indeed have a ship berthed on the quay, and that it was called the
Lass of Arisaig.

The customs agent said, “I believe that ship departs for France this morning, my lord, if it has not already done so. Its captain claimed his drawback yesterday, after our agents had supervised the transfer of Sir Renfrew’s export goods from our bonded warehouse to the cargo hold, where they remain under our seal.”

The news sent a cold chill through him, but he did not think Sir Renfrew had any intention of sailing to France. “What does he export?”

“Numerous things, I’ll warrant, but it’s the tobacco that he offloaded to our warehouse and then loaded again last night.”

“I must hurry if I am to have any chance of catching up with him,” Michael said, seeing no point in delaying further by telling the agent that if Sir Renfrew was dealing in tobacco, that tobacco was doubtless destined for English shores rather than French. He took time only to get directions to the
Lass of Arisaig.

Hurrying outside and turning toward the quay, he saw that the small crowd still lingered at the corner. In his hurry, he would have walked on had he not heard the familiar whine of an injured animal. Though he knew it likely was only a stray hit by a speeding coach or chaise, he could not pass without making certain that someone was looking after it properly, if it had a chance to survive, or would put it out of its misery if it did not. Forcing a path through the gawkers, he said, “Let me have a look. I know a good deal about helping injured animals.”

Willingly, they made way for him, and when he saw what lay at the center, he gasped in shock. “Cailean!”

Michael knew that Penelope had taken the great dog with her, and he had been glad, for he knew that Cailean would protect her. But he had also assumed that the dog would stay with her in the coach, and that it was with her still. That it was not, and that it had been injured, stirred a host of unwelcome suspicions.

He quickly knelt at Cailean’s side.

“He’s dead,” an urchin said. “Just look at all that blood!”

“No, he’s not dead,” Michael said after a swift examination. “He’s been shot, though, and he’s worn to the bone. He must have—”

“Kintyre! The devil, sir, is that you there?”

Looking up, he saw the harsh face of the Earl of Balcardane peering over the shoulders of nearby onlookers. MacCrichton, looking worried, stood beside him. Michael had never been so glad to see any two men in all his life.

MacCrichton said, “I say, isn’t that Cailean?”

“It is,” Michael replied grimly.

“Then you have not yet found Lady Bridget,” Balcardane said.

“No, I have not, and matters have altered now considerably, sir.”

“In what way?”

“Because if Cailean is here, like this, it can only mean that Campbell has now got Penelope as well.”

MacCrichton exclaimed, “Pinkie?”

“Aye, lad, and according to the customs agent, his ship is departing for France this morning.”

“What ship?”

“The
Lass of Arisaig,
berthed on the quay.”

“Look after the dog,” Chuff snapped. “I’ll see that the ship stays where it is.” He left at once, breaking into a run, his long strides soon taking him beyond sight He returned, however, just a few minutes later, as Michael was laying Cailean gently on the seat in Duncan’s chaise.

“He’s already gone, and he’s got both women with him,” Chuff announced angrily. “The harbormaster tells me he saw them himself, and they sailed over an hour ago. What’s more, we cannot follow till tomorrow unless the wind shifts.”

“How can that be?” Duncan demanded.

“Something to do with winds and the tides, and the proximity of the mouth of the Avon to that of the Severn,” Chuff explained. “I did not try to understand it all, for once the man told me that Campbell had gone and that the tide had turned so no more ships can leave until nearly seven tomorrow morning, I ran back to tell you. We must find a ship bound for France and book passage for ourselves.”

“He’s not going to France,” Michael said. “He’s bound for Scotland.”

“But they say he’s got tobacco aboard which must go to France.”

Michael exchanged a look with Duncan, and the older man said, “Do you think he might be one of our smugglers?”

“I do, sir, for I’ve never heard him speak of exporting goods to France.”

“You’ll be taking a big chance, going north when the evidence points south.”

“I don’t care about the evidence. I know Campbell.” Michael paused as another thought occurred to him. “Do you know how much it costs to take a ship to Scotland? I’ll be cleaned out soon.”

“Don’t worry about the cost,” Duncan said. “Amongst the three of us, we’ll find enough to get you there.”

“I’m going, too,” Chuff said.

Duncan nodded. “Aye, you should, but we cannot all go. One of us must return to London to tell the others what we’ve learned, and to look after them.”

Michael nodded. “If you would be so kind as to see that my aunt and our servants get safely back to Edinburgh, sir, I’ll be much obliged to you.”

“I’ll do that,” Duncan promised. “You just find Pinkie and your sister.”

“Aye, I will, but I warn you, when I do, no one is going to be happy.”

Duncan nodded. “I know you must be wroth with your sister, lad.”

“My sister is a disobedient chit who defied my orders and must suffer the consequences,” Michael said grimly. “But she is not alone in this, sir. My wife displayed a foolhardiness I’d not have expected in her, and whether you or MacCrichton agree with that assessment, she will soon learn what I think of it, and then she will wish that she had thought twice before haring off after Bridget as she did. As for Sir Renfrew Campbell,” he added, his tone hardening, “when I catch that bastard, I’m most likely going to kill him.”

The
Lass of Arisaig
took two and a half days to reach Poll Beither Bay, because, for the first ten hours or so, the wind blew steadily from the north, and soon after it shifted to the west, the ship dropped anchor for a couple of hours. Why or where it stopped, Pinkie had no way of knowing, for she and Bridget were locked in a small, stuffy cabin belowdecks, where they had to make do with a single cot and an odd sort of slops basin boxed into a corner for their personal needs.

For some time after Sir Renfrew shot Cailean, both young women had sat in a near state of shock, and it had taken no more than a threat to force more laudanum down their throats to make them board quietly. Even so, when Pinkie saw the harbormaster watching from the quay, she would have cried out to him had Sir Renfrew not put his hand over her mouth and scooped her up in his arms.

To a curious sailor, he muttered, “Lass fainted, poor thing. I’ll just take her below and see she’s made comfortable.”