His jaw tightened, and he cupped her cheek. “I will get you to Edinburgh. Do you trust me?”
She nodded and chewed on her lip. Feeling ridiculously tender, he cupped her other cheek and tilted her head, kissing first one closed eyelid and then the other. She was dejected, defeated, and it did not sit well with him. She was allowed a period of melancholy as much as anybody else, but in his mind, she was Emmeline O’Shea, firebrand and fierce defender of the wronged. To see her looking so crushed was disconcerting, and, he admitted, frightening. He realized then how much he’d come to expect her solidity, even as his adversary.
She must have sensed his thoughts, because when she opened her eyes, she managed a light scowl. “I am not broken.”
He smiled. “Of course you’re not.”
“Then you should not look at me as though I’m already laid out in a coffin.”
“Ah, good. There she is.” He still held her face in his hands. “I confess, seeing you wounded is an unpleasant occurrence.”
“You’ve seen me wounded plenty.” She managed half an eye roll before wincing.
“No, I’ve seen you filthy from demonstrations gone awry, hair pulled from pins as I’ve tossed you over my shoulder or into carriages, and angrier than a nest full of wasps. Never wounded.”
She cleared her throat, scowl deepening, and subtly straightened her shoulders. “Wounded is a subjective term. I’ve merely been inconvenienced by the actions of others.”
He smiled and was surprised by his sense of relief. She was still in there despite her bruises and aches and pains. He kissed her forehead and released her. “I’ll be out on the road,” he repeated. He paused and turned back. “Emmeline, what would you have done if I hadn’t followed you out of that airship?”
She sighed. “I suppose I’d still be sitting on the rocks, stuck in that infernal Jump Wing death trap.”
He laughed and made his way to the road. She’d have managed, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps she’d still be near the beach, or taken a different direction, but she wouldn’t have remained stationary.
The road was clear in both directions, but the stretch of coast where they’d landed was desolate for miles in either direction. He remembered seeing lights on the western horizon during the night, though.
“West, then,” he said aloud and strolled a short distance down the road and then back again to the trees.
He’d begun to wonder if Emme had disappeared by the time he heard snapping twigs. She hobbled out of the trees, making good use of her walking stick. He took the portmanteau from her and eyed her up and down.
“How fares the ankle? Better or worse than last night?”
“Same.” She’d cleaned her face and braided her hair, and while her eyes were still swollen and her face pale, she was looking more like herself.
He offered his arm, and she grasped it, and with a deep breath, she nodded at the road. They made their way slowly at first, until she found a rhythm in her limping gait. At one point she paused and withdrew her scriber from her pocket and handed it to him. “The radio signal still isn’t strong enough, but perhaps as we get closer to town . . .”
He nodded and watched it periodically as they walked, hoping to see signs of life on the thing. He was looking at it for what seemed the millionth time when she looked behind them and stopped.
“Someone is coming!”
He followed her gaze and saw a horse-drawn cart with a solitary driver approaching.
“Here’s hoping he’s a friendly fellow,” he said as the conveyance grew closer. The large horse’s clop was muffled by the rain-softened path but grew in volume until the wagon drew up alongside them and stopped.
It was filled with pumpkins, and the driver was a trim, tidy-looking man with round spectacles, nondescript features, and a friendly, curious smile. He might have been twenty years old or fifty. He was the sort of person who would have been an excellent undercover detective. He would melt into a crowd and be utterly unremarkable.
“This is a long stretch of road to walk!” He bore the speech of an educated Englishman.
Oliver nodded. “I wonder if you are traveling in the direction of Edinburgh? If so, might we prevail upon you for a ride? We would certainly compensate you for it.”
“No need for all that. I’m going there anyway.” The smile seemed genuine, and Oliver glanced at Emme, who regarded their would-be rescuer with an assessing eye. He couldn’t read her face.
She looked at Oliver and nodded. “We are grateful for the help,” she finally said.
As the driver slid over on the seat, Oliver helped Emme up and then handed her the bag. She sat gingerly next to the man, her lip caught between her teeth as she carefully maneuvered her sore foot.
“Oooch,” the driver said, watching her. “An injury?”
“A sprain,” she said with a tilt of her head and a strained smile. “I was running along the rocky shore, foolish me.”
“I shall deliver you directly to the hospital doorstep, if you wish, and would also be willing to remain and take you and your husband to your hotel of choice.”
Emme looked at Oliver, her smile frozen in place.
“Excellent,” Oliver told the man and extended his hand. “We are John and Mary Smith, and are very grateful for your assistance. Our Traveler malfunctioned a mile or so behind us, and we’ve had a rather long night of it.”
“My name is Guster Gustavsen. Associates with a sense of humor call me Gus-Gus. Most simply call me Gus.” He shook Oliver’s hand and
