A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

They stopped in Dunbar, near the coast. He could smell the brine in the air even before they climbed down from the travel chaise. Drew had deliberately not asked again where they were headed, and Ilsa had not volunteered the information. She slept for some time and woke quiet and subdued. From the glances she stole at him, he could tell she didn’t trust him.

The worst of it was, she was right not to. Once she fell asleep, he was paradoxically unable to close his eyes. He’d watched her for hours while dissecting and scrutinizing everything he knew. Drew had no intention of helping the Edinburgh sheriff apprehend William Fletcher, but neither would he exert himself to save the man unless it was necessary to help Ilsa. Because no matter how he tried to slant and explain the apparent facts, they looked very bad for Fletcher.

Duncan’s letter to him at Fort George said only that Thomas Browne, a common criminal familiar to the sheriff-officers, had come forward to claim the pardon. Under questioning, he readily gave up one accomplice, Edward Stephens, a fellow known for gambling and long suspected of thieving, who was apprehended on the verge of boarding a coach for Berwick in possession of stolen goods.

But Browne had also declared that the leader of the ring, the mastermind of every operation, was still at large, with the tantalizing hint that it was a highly respected citizen of Edinburgh. Rumors sprouted at once. Stephens had done odd jobs for Fletcher, and Browne told the officers the thieves had used false keys to open the locks of the robbed shops. Within hours Deacon Fletcher’s name had come up, and Duncan had sent his letter express at dawn the next morning.

Drew hadn’t slept the previous night because he’d roused the deputy procurator from his bed and demanded to know all. It was a shameless abuse of his newly elevated status, and he did not care. Unfortunately what he learned was that things had only got worse for the deacon.

Browne’s accusations were credible, detailed, and complete, in the sheriff’s eyes. He had led the officers to a bunch of keys hidden near Fletcher’s cabinetry workshop in Dunbar’s Close, which opened a number of victims’ doors. Stephens had become far more cooperative when it emerged that his wife had helped sell some of the stolen goods; in exchange for her freedom, he told the officers where to find more items waiting to be smuggled to Berwick. The goldsmith had identified several pieces as his.

Browne refused to name the mastermind; he wanted a reward for that, not just a pardon. Suspicion had already fallen on Fletcher because of the keys and where they were found, and the fact that William Fletcher was known to have been hired to repair or replace locks at some of the burgled shops. Officers had uncovered Fletcher’s history of wagering—and losing—at the cockpits. It was circumstantial, but highly suggestive.

Once the man fled Edinburgh, though, both Browne and Stephens swore that William Fletcher was indeed the planner and instigator of their robberies, that they shared their spoils evenly between them, and that he’d told them often that if any of them got caught, he would leave them all to twist on the rope. No one, he’d allegedly boasted, would believe he was a thief.

Everything fit. The sheriff believed Browne and Stephens. Drew couldn’t see a reason not to.

He knew it would be harder for Ilsa. Drew’s own father had certainly fooled him, charming and genial, never hinting that he’d mortgaged the silk shop and gone into debt. It wasn’t as bad as robbing half of Edinburgh, but it had taken Drew years to repair the damage and cost him his chance at attending university, as he’d dreamt of doing. Ilsa had been raised as a beloved only child, adoring and adored by her father, and she would defend him to the last. Drew didn’t even plan to try convincing her.

He drew a deep breath of bracing salty air as she stepped stiffly down. “I’ll secure rooms,” was all he said.

She didn’t look at him. “Thank you.”

He took two rooms and asked for dinner. Fortunately the inn was almost empty, and the innkeeper was able to offer them a private parlor. They ate in silence.

“Will we travel again tomorrow?” he asked after a while.

Her glance was dark with suspicion. God, how he hated that.

“I’ll speak to the driver if we are,” he added. “Tell him to make preparations.”

She reached for her wine. Most of her dinner was still on her plate. “No, I don’t think so.”

He nodded. So Dunbar was their destination, not merely a waypoint. Coaches left for England every day, and the harbor offered flight abroad. Did Ilsa suspect—or know—her father was here? Fletcher had left Edinburgh several days ago; it would be foolish for him to linger so near for so long, but then again, no one had found him yet.

“Shall I go with you tomorrow?”

“No!” She flushed and rubbed her temple. “Please don’t ask me questions,” she said softly. “You say you don’t care whether Papa is innocent or not, but I do care, very much. I accept that I’m the only one who believes in him, but I don’t want to argue and defend myself to you. Isn’t it enough that you’re here?”

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “Go on to bed. You look about to drop where you are.”

She gave him a sad, searching look and got to her feet. “Good night, Captain.”

He sat for a long time at the table, that final word racketing around in his brain. Captain. Not Andrew, or Drew, let alone anything more affectionate. She kept her distance and didn’t trust him enough to tell him what she meant to do. The easy warmth and powerful attraction between them might never have been.

Drew gripped the back of his neck. His feelings had not changed. Hell, even though William Fletcher appeared as guilty as sin to him, he would have extended that King’s Pardon to Fletcher, if he could have, damning any protests from the lord advocate and no matter that his own mother’s shop had been victimized, just to save Ilsa from further heartache.

There was no chance of that, obviously. Not only had Fletcher been named the mastermind and chief conspirator, he had fled like a guilty man.

So think, he told himself. How can you help her?

Ilsa was not surprised to see Drew when she came down early the next morning. Yesterday he’d worn his red coat and Stuart tartan, looking every inch the King’s man—the King, whose pardon had been dangled in front of a thief to coax him into blaming another man for the robberies. Even though it was Drew, whom she’d yearned to see and hold again, the red coat had jarred her.

Today he wore a more familiar dark green jacket and plain kilt. He still wore a sword at his hip and a dagger in his belt, but she felt more at ease. A full night’s sleep no doubt also helped. Being out of Edinburgh made her feel like she could breathe again—and, she knew deep in her heart, so did Drew’s presence, even if she didn’t quite trust his assurance that the sheriff-clerk knew nothing about it.

“Do you go into town?” he asked over breakfast.

“It’s not far,” she said vaguely. “I fancy a walk after the long drive yesterday.” She hated not feeling able to confide in him.

He looked down. His hair had grown, and dark curls fell over his forehead now. She gripped her teacup to avoid stroking them back. She knew how his hair felt tangled in her fingers, when she held him close and kissed him. “When shall you return?”

She wiggled her shoulders. “A few hours.”

“Excellent.” He drained his mug and stood. “I’ve a few things to do, as well.”

Ilsa was taken aback, but if she wouldn’t tell him where she went, she couldn’t ask where he went. “Very good. I will be ready to leave when I have my hat.”

They walked together into the town with minimal conversation. Ilsa was covertly studying the stone houses and trying to remember Jean’s directions, and Drew seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. When Dunbar Castle rose in front of them he bade her farewell. “Are you certain you wish to go alone?” he asked again, his gaze probing.

She fisted her hands, digging her fingers into her gloved palms. “Yes.” She wished she was as confident as she sounded. “I shall see you back at the inn.”

Drew only made a polite bow and turned, going toward the harbor. She watched him for a moment, wondering where he went and why, then resolutely turned away, heading east. It was near the beach, Jean had said, whitewashed with blue shutters.

Ilsa found it after a half hour’s walk. With great trepidation, she knocked on the door. Pleasantly but determinedly, she asked to see the mistress of the house. She was shown into a neat parlor, and a woman about Jean’s age came in.

“Mrs. Murray?” said Ilsa. “Miss Mary Fletcher, as was?”

“Aye,” said the woman curiously. “And I’ve not the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“You do, but it’s been many years. I’m Ilsa,” she said. “William Fletcher’s daughter. And I need your help to save him from the hangman.”

Drew finished his errands in good time. Dunbar had a small but active harbor. It might offer a departure point, but there weren’t enough ships for a man to slip away unnoticed, as there were in London or Glasgow.

No, he was certain that if Fletcher had been here, it had been only briefly. More likely Ilsa had come to see someone who knew something, perhaps unwittingly. That only made him more on edge, prowling the streets, trying to plan for a number of possibilities.

Finally he turned back toward the inn, riding his new brown gelding and leading another on a rope. He missed his own horse, but he’d pushed that animal to the limit riding back to Edinburgh from Fort George, covering two hundred miles of bad road in six days. At the same time, the close confines of the carriage yesterday had made his skin crawl. He couldn’t see anything or anyone from inside a carriage.

He left the horses at the inn. Ilsa hadn’t returned, and restlessly he walked out again. Her plan was mad, whatever it was. Either Fletcher was hiding here, stupidly lingering within a day’s ride of Edinburgh while the rewards for his capture were spread all over Scotland, or he’d left already, and Ilsa would have only made the sheriff more suspicious of her.

He was terribly afraid for her. If she knew how to find her father, then she’d lied to the sheriff. Under Drew’s midnight badgering, the procurator’s deputy admitted that they thought she already had. They knew Ilsa had gone straight to her father after a gossipy friend of her aunt revealed that someone had come forward for the pardon, and that Deacon Fletcher had fled town the next morning. David MacGill told Sheriff Cockburn that Fletcher had sent him a letter for his daughter, which he had delivered to her. Cockburn had gone to see Ilsa at once, and thought the letter was very nearly a confession. Ilsa had claimed it wasn’t her father’s handwriting, suggesting Mr. MacGill had written it himself, but Cockburn didn’t believe that. They were sure she knew something and was hiding it.

Drew cursed as he paced the road toward town. He’d argued to the deputy for two hours that night that Ilsa couldn’t have anything to do with the robberies. She’d been with him in Perth during the worst run of them, where he and Felix Duncan could attest that she’d neither sent nor received communication from Edinburgh. What’s more, she had no reason to steal, having a handsome fortune and—unlike her father—no known penchant for gambling or unsavory companions. Her only possible crime, Drew had insisted, was loyal devotion to her parent, which was not illegal no matter the state of that parent’s soul. Did they really mean to arrest a woman without evidence of any kind?

The deputy had said of course not, but that if she had any information, Drew should strongly encourage her to bring it to him. For her own sake.

Instead Drew had gone with her when he couldn’t persuade her to stay. He’d known he would all along. Whatever the truth of her actions, he couldn’t stop thinking of Ilsa saying that she was used to going alone, being alone, doing things alone. He didn’t want her to do this alone. Especially not when he suspected the sheriff would have men following her, to see if she led them to Fletcher.

Which was why he hadn’t told the sheriff.

Or his family.

Or the Duchess of Carlyle.

He was already far beyond when he’d promised to return to Carlyle. As the weeks slipped by, he had put off his letter to Mr. Edwards again and again. It still lay in the desk in Duncan’s spare room, barely begun, containing nothing of import except David MacGill’s unsuitability. And now there was no way to finish it—he had no idea where he was going or when he would return, or if he was inadvertently helping a wanted man escape the King’s justice, all because he had lost his heart to a bewitching, exuberant Scotswoman with a loyal, loving spirit who wanted nothing to do with his English title.

And that woman had been gone a long time. He hesitated, not wanting to risk her trust again but unable to shake off the feeling of unease. Damn it, he thought, and lengthened his stride toward Dunbar.

Ilsa meant to stay only a little while, but once Mary started talking, it was hard to leave. After the horror of the last fortnight, it was such a relief and a pleasure to speak fondly of Papa with another person who believed him innocent.

Her head was full as she walked briskly back toward the inn. It was a splendidly beautiful day and she filled her lungs, heartened not only by her visit with Cousin Mary but by the exercise and fresh air. She hadn’t dared go out after the scene with Liam, and her soul seemed to unfold and heal a little in the warm sunshine.

She was thinking of what she would tell Drew—she couldn’t send him away, nor did she want to anymore, but she was determined to keep him in the dark as much as possible, for his sake—when someone said her name behind her. Like an idiot, she stopped and turned, only to realize with alarm that the two men approaching her were not friends.

One of them doffed his hat, which did nothing to soften his implacable expression. “Mrs. Ramsay, a moment of your time, if you please.”

She clutched the hem of her jacket and kept her spine rigid. “Who, pray, are you, sir?”

“George Williamson, ma’am. King’s Messenger for North Britain.” He motioned at his companion. “And Mr. Hay, sheriff-officer of Edinburgh.”

Mr. Hay was Mrs. Arbuthnot’s loose-lipped brother-in-law. Her heart stuck in her throat. She managed a nod and resumed walking. “Regrettably, I am in a hurry. Good day, sirs.”

They fell in on either side of her. Sweat beaded the back of her neck. She ought to have let Drew accompany her. “We can talk as we go, ma’am.”

“I’m sure I have nothing interesting to tell you.” She kept her eyes straight ahead and walked as briskly as her feet would go.

“Perhaps not,” agreed Mr. Williamson affably. “But perhaps you’d be so kind as to oblige us by answering a few questions.”

“Where is your father now?” asked Mr. Hay. He was a big fellow with hard, squinty eyes and a suspicious expression.

“I don’t know,” she said evenly.

“Have you any idea where he might have gone?”

“He has frequently expressed a desire to see Paris,” she replied. “I suggest you seek him there.”

Mr. Hay growled. Mr. Williamson smiled, but she sensed his patience was waning. “Anywhere else? Where does he have family?”

“My grandparents came from Perth, but they have both passed away,” she told them truthfully. “His only sibling, his sister, resides in Edinburgh with me. You already know that.” Mr. Williamson didn’t blink. “And his cousin Mrs. Murray lives here. I’ve been to visit her, in fact. I assure you she also knows nothing of his whereabouts, but by all means inquire with her directly.”

“And you’ve just come on a whim to see her,” said the officer cynically.

“I wished to leave Edinburgh,” she said, her voice growing tight. They showed no signs of leaving and the inn still seemed a league away. “Perhaps you can guess why, after your fellow officers searched my home and gave everyone to believe I conspired with the criminals.”

“Not all the criminals,” Mr. Hay said with a sharp look. “Only the one. Your father.”

She swallowed. Her heart beat a sharp tattoo against her breastbone. Would they seize her? Would they arrest her? Would they tell Drew, or arrest him, too? Had he led them to her, or had she led him into disaster?

Then the man himself appeared over the rise of the road, and she couldn’t stop a gasp of relief. Both officers looked up.

“What luck meeting you here, Captain,” said Mr. Hay sardonically as Drew approached. “Mr. Cockburn thought we might. He sends his regards.”

“Very kind of him. Convey mine to him, sir.” Drew barely bowed his head at the officers. “Mrs. Ramsay, I apologize for not meeting you sooner.”

“I enjoyed the walk,” she said with a smile, trying to hide how fast her heart was racing. “I had a delightful visit with my cousin. You were too kind to indulge me.”

“I am delighted to hear it.” He looked at the men flanking her with unmistakable hauteur and command. “Is that all?”

Mr. Williamson cleared his throat. “Nay, Captain. We’ve a few more questions for Mrs. Ramsay.”

“Oh?” Drew’s brow arched impatiently. “What are they?”

“Where did William Fletcher go?” demanded Mr. Hay.

“I don’t know—”

“Ah, ma’am, we can’t truly believe that,” said Williamson almost regretfully.

“The lady answered your question.” Drew’s tone was icy.

Williamson stepped forward, hands raised to placate. He spoke to Drew, his voice low and calm. Mr. Hay leaned closer to Ilsa. “What did that letter mean? The one your solicitor brought?”

“I showed it to Mr. Cockburn.” Her throat was tight. “Though I doubt my father even wrote it . . .”

“Convenient story, that.” He took hold of her arm. “Obviously there was something hidden in it, wasn’t there? Some clue that made you hurry all the way to Dunbar to see a distant cousin for a few hours.”

“Let go of me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I can visit family if I wish.”

Instead he took a pair of manacles from his pocket. “You’ll have to come back to Edinburgh, Mrs. Ramsay.”

The sight of the manacles sparked a panic inside her. He meant to chain her up and drag her back to town—lock her in the Tolbooth—bully her and threaten her and, most horribly of all, keep her from finding Papa and clearing his name. She pulled against his grip, and he gave her a sharp shake, so hard her teeth clacked together.

“None of that, now,” he growled. “You’ve got a fair bit to answer for.” He squeezed her wrist into the manacle, so tightly she cried out. She twisted, trying to pull away from him, and he yanked her back against him.

Then he gave a shout and shoved her away, so hard she sprawled on her face in the dirt. For a moment she couldn’t breathe; her head had hit the ground, knocking off her hat, and the dirt and rocks of the road scoured her cheek. Ilsa struggled to sit up. Mr. Hay glared at her, one hand clapped to his chin, where a long thin scratch oozed blood. Her hatpin, she realized.

Then Hay jerked backward, his small eyes going wide in surprise.

From Ilsa’s position sprawled on the ground, Drew towered like an avenging angel as he threw Mr. Hay to the ground and stalked after him. He snarled something and put his boot on the man’s chest as Hay attempted to scramble to his feet, sending him flying again. Once more the officer tried to get up, and this time Drew let him, only to fell him with a punch that made his head snap around. Mr. Hay didn’t move when he hit the ground for a third time.

Flexing his hand, perhaps still breathing fire, Drew turned to her. “Are you injured?”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head.

For a moment they stared at each other, until something shattered inside her breast. With a strangled sob she scrambled up from the ground and flung herself at him. He caught her with both arms, hauling her off her feet and covering her face with kisses. Crying, still shaking, she kissed him wholeheartedly, clasping his face between her hands.

“You hit him,” she sobbed between kisses.

“He hurt you,” Drew replied. His wounded hand stroked over her hair; her hat was somewhere in the dirt. He touched her scraped cheek, his mouth flat with anger. “You looked so terrified—you’re sure you’re not badly hurt?”

She nodded, her lips trembling.

“Good.” He kissed her hard once more, then set her back down and stooped over Mr. Hay. He came back with a ring of keys and unlocked the manacle from her wrist, flinging it and the keys into the tall grass of the field. With a grunt he heaved the officer up off the road, hauling him several feet away into the grass.

“Where is the other?” she asked fearfully.

Drew glanced over his shoulder. “Over there. He tried to stop me from coming to you.”

The country here was lonely, rising and falling in gentle hills. Drew jogged back to where Mr. Williamson sprawled, a thin trickle of blood on his mouth. He carried Mr. Williamson to where he’d left Mr. Hay, and settled them both with some care.

“Are they dead?” she whispered. She’d only managed to retrieve her hat and stood watching in awe.

“Nay. They’ll wake soon. I only want to buy time.” He took her hand and set off at a brisk pace in the direction he’d come from.

Ilsa hurried along behind him. “Time for what?”

“For us to leave,” he said evenly. “When they come around, they’ll go to the local sheriff and then we’ll be in the fire.” He gave her a fraught look. “We have to go now. I hope you learned what you needed.”

The local sheriff would arrest them both. Drew had assaulted law officers, one of whom would probably say she had stabbed him when he tried to subdue her. Terrified, Ilsa nodded.

They reached the inn and she ran up the stairs to her room. Drew followed close behind, whispering to her to gather only a change of clothes and any papers, and to pack the rest in her small trunk. A few minutes later he tapped on her door and handed her a wrapped package, which turned out to be a pair of breeches. “Dress to ride,” he told her.

A quarter of an hour later they rode out on two strange horses, which apparently belonged to Drew now. Without a word Ilsa took the lead, choosing the road leading southwest.

They rode for an hour before speaking. “What of our things?” she finally asked.

“I left a note and some coin for the chaise driver, asking that he return your trunk to your aunt in Edinburgh. I explained we would go the rest of the way by horseback.” He lifted one shoulder. “One less person who can tell anyone where you’re bound.”

She nodded, feeling as if she were in a play on the stage, wholly unreal and fantastical. They were wanted criminals on the run now. Merciful heavens, how her life had changed in a few short weeks. Had it really been little more than a month since she’d run through the maze at Stormont Palace with him and spent the night in his bed, her greatest worry being how to sneak back to her own room unseen?

“I take it you know where we’re heading,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes.” She hadn’t meant to tell him, but there was no longer any doubt that they were in this together, for better and for worse. “Glasgow.”