They set out for Annan a little after dawn. The day was cloudy, but the wind had softened. Given the state of her slippers, Heather was grateful it wasn’t raining.
She’d woken to find herself wrapped in her gowns, her cloak, and Breckenridge’s, too, but he’d been gone. He’d walked back into the barn as she’d reached the bottom of the ladder; by the time she’d gone out and come back in herself, he’d been climbing down the ladder with their satchels already packed and her cloak over his shoulder.
Side by side, they walked steadily westward. Skirting Dornock village — a few houses lining the road to Annan — to the south took them close to the shores of Solway Firth. The water was gray, but relatively calm. As the sun rose at their backs, the surface of the water took on a rosy hue.
They’d passed Dornock and could see the roofs of Annan ahead when Breckenridge stopped her with a hand on her arm. She glanced at him, saw him looking at the road a few hundred yards to the north. Following his gaze, she saw two riders — both constables, who had been heading west — slow to meet with a pair of their comrades riding in the opposite direction. The four milled, clearly exchanging news, then formed up two by two and headed toward Annan.
She and Breckenridge were traversing a wood, one with plenty of bushes between the trees; as long as they didn’t move, they wouldn’t be spotted. They held still and watched the four constables ride on. Heather looked ahead; judging by the roofs, Annan wasn’t a large town.
As the constables reached the outlying cottages, she glanced down at her slippers. Considered, then asked, “How far to Dumfries?”
Breckenridge glanced at her. After a moment replied, “As the crow flies, which is more or less the route we’re walking, about twelve miles.”
She grimaced, raised her head. “We’d better get on, then.” Suiting action to the words, she stepped out.
Breckenridge kept pace alongside her. She appreciated that he didn’t make a fuss, or ask what she meant. She’d spoken first, intentionally absolving him of making any decision that would, as he would see it, adversely affect her well-being.
He held his tongue while they gave Annan a wide berth. For a while they walked along the firth’s shores. When the road angled more northwest, enough to allow them back into the fields while maintaining their distance from it, he glanced at her more intently, studied her face. “We could stop at one of the smaller villages and see if we can get something to eat.”
She almost smiled. His tone made it clear that he didn’t want to risk it but felt he had to make the offer. “We could, but should we?” Halting in the lee of a hedge, beside a stile over which they’d need to climb, she met his hazel gaze. “It’ll be much easier, and much safer, for us to slip into and then out of a large town like Dumfries. Any village we stop at. . even if the people there don’t try to capture and hold us, they’ll certainly remember us and tell the next constable who rides past.”
She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Breckenridge held her gaze. “True, but at the same time, I’d rather you didn’t faint. Me carrying you into Dumfries isn’t going to make us less noticeable.”
Her lips tightened. “I promise I won’t faint. I can make it to Dumfries without food, and there’s plenty of fresh water, at least.”
They’d crossed numerous small streams; the area was riddled with them, and in this season most were in full spate. “If you’re sure. .” He waved her to the stile.
“I am.” She reached up and grasped one of the rungs; the stile was a high one, the top higher than his head. She started to pull herself up, but her feet, still clad in her leather-soled dancing slippers, slid on the wet grass.
He caught her about the waist, steadied her.
“Damn!” She huffed, blowing errant strands of hair off her forehead. “You’ll have to help me up.”
Mentally gritting his teeth, he didn’t let himself think, just slid his hands to her hips, gripped, and hoisted her up.
She stifled a gasp, seized the stile’s highest bar, and quickly clambered up.
But then she stopped. On the top step of the stile, looking down the other side. After a moment, she said, “The ground’s further down on this side than on that.”
“Wait there.” He climbed up, then swung around her, his long legs making the maneuver easy enough. He climbed down, dropped down to the ground on the other side, glanced quickly around, then turned to her and beckoned. “Come on.”
She started climbing down. When she reached the last step, still too far from the ground for her to jump down, he gripped her hips again, lifted her clear, and set her down.
When he released her, she wobbled.
He caught her waist, steadied her. Glanced at her face. “All right?”
Her cheeks were a trifle pink, but whether from the exertion or something else he couldn’t tell.
She nodded as he released her. “Yes, thank you.” Raising her head, she faced forward, drew breath, then exhaled. “Come on.”
Straightening his lips before she saw them twitching, he dutifully fell in beside her.
Halfway across the field, he said, “The reason I wondered whether you would faint is because my sisters would have. When they were your age they used to starve themselves. If they didn’t eat something of a morning, they’d be sure to fall limp before luncheon.”
She met his eyes. “Your sisters are significantly older than you. Which makes them very much older than me.” She faced forward again, nose elevating. “Fashions change.”
“I know.” He hesitated, then said, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t imagine you would faint because I think you’re weak.”
She looked almost as surprised by the explanation as he was. She recovered first, crisply nodded. “Duly noted.”
And continued walking.
He kept pace, wondering at himself — wondering why he’d wanted to reassure her. He told himself it was because his sole aim that day was to keep her safe, and that would be much easier if she was speaking to him.
Despite their tonnish lives, both of them spent at least some time each year in the country; it showed as they strode along, both relatively long-legged, their pace an easy, swinging stride that ate the miles to Dumfries.
While they walked, he had plenty of time to dwell on the irony in the situation. A situation that now left him truly appreciative of the very aspects of her nature that had previously irritated him to a near-insufferable degree. Her inner strength of purpose, of will, her independence of thought, and the confidence that showed in her ability to think and act. Previously he’d found those qualities not so much challenging as abrasive.
He was thankful for them now. If she’d been a different sort of female, the sort he might previously have wished her to be, their situation now would have been infinitely worse.
Then again, if she’d been that other, meeker, milder sort of female, she’d have allowed him to haul her out of the inn at Knebworth and take her straight home.
He considered that, weighed it against the outcome of the path they’d taken instead. . despite all, he couldn’t find it in him to disapprove of her stance. Her insistence that she needed to learn all she could of the laird who had sent men to kidnap her or one of her family.
That sort of loyalty, of family protectiveness, was bred in the bone — in him and in her. He could hardly disapprove of something he himself considered sacrosanct.
He glanced at her. Wondered when she would realize what the outcome of this adventure of theirs would be. There was no alternative, none at all. Would she accept it? Or would she try to fight it?
Or would she, as he had, realize that there were far worse fates?
His lips kicked up briefly. Looking ahead, he saw another hedge, another stile.
This one was lower. When they reached it, he climbed over first, then took her hand to help her over.
Didn’t release it when she joined him on the ground, instead sliding his fingers fully around hers before turning and walking on.
She shot him a glance, but then settled her fingers in his.
