Page 43 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Half an hour passed, and they were forced to slow. Erroll considered turning back. Surely Halifax wouldn’t have gone this far? Erroll had expected to overtake them within four hours at the most. Had he miscalculated? Maybe they’d turned off on one of the side roads? The faint rattle of a fast moving carriage brought his mind to attention. He glanced to the right at Oscar, but couldn’t see the man’s face.

“I heard it,” Oscar said in a low voice.

“As did I,” Somerset confirmed.

Without another word, the three shot forward. A minute later, a shout went up from the carriage.

“Halt!” Somerset ordered, but the squeak of wheels said the carriage had picked up speed.

“Bloody bastard,” Oscar growled. “He’ll kill Miss Crenshaw.”

The brute was right. The moon, hidden by thick clouds, left them in dense blackness that made fast travel treacherous. Erroll loosened the reins, allowing his horse to gallop unencumbered on sure feet. Seconds later, he discerned the carriage fifty feet ahead and yanked free the revolver from his waistband. Erroll pointed the weapon skyward and fired.

A woman inside the vehicle screamed and the driver’s “Whoa,” preceded the squeak of slowing wheels.

“Drive on,” a man shouted from inside the coach, but the driver didn’t obey.

Erroll slowed his panting horse, with Oscar and Somerset alongside, but Somerset was off his mount first and lunged for the carriage door.

“Somerset,” Erroll began, but was cut off by Oscar’s “Stop, you fool.”

The carriage door swung open, and a tall, young man of about twenty years of age stepped to the ground, a revolver pointed at them. Somerset took a step back.

The young man looked from one to the other of them, then said, “Who the devil are you?”

“Not the father chasing you,” Erroll said. “Forgive us. We are pursuing a different couple.”

The young man hesitated.

“It is no trick,” Erroll assured him. “Somerset, get back on your horse.”

The viscount complied, but the young man wasn’t taking any chances, and backed into the carriage. Before he closed the door, he said, “Sykes, drive on.”

The carriage rolled into motion. Erroll urged his horse into a trot and, followed by his companions, passed the carriage.

When they were out of earshot, Somerset said, “How did you know?”

“The woman in the carriage screamed,” Erroll said. “Miss Crenshaw does not scream.”

For the last hour, Erroll told himself to keep riding, but, like wildfire, his worry jumped from one possibility to another, and now he wondered if he’d erred in taking the main road. How far would Halifax ride in order to ensure his story was believed? He would know the gossipmongers needed only the slightest prodding to accept and spread such a juicy story as the one he hoped to inspire. The purest in Society thrived upon the worst rumors. Erroll knew that truth firsthand, as he’d been the subject of many a vicious tidbit.

He had to admit, though, the scandal with Miss Eve Crenshaw topped even the time he’d made the rounds of half a dozen balls accompanied by London’s most notorious courtesan, Lily Thackery, who had been allied with Lord Belmont at the time. The marquess had a violent temper and met Erroll for a dawn appointment. They both missed, but Belmont, dissatisfied, had produced another pistol from his waistband and tried a second time to shoot Erroll. Erroll’s second shot him before he got off the round, but Erroll was credited with shooting the marquess.

The man had lived, and didn’t want to recount the story, which Erroll knew was the only reason the magistrate hadn’t been called. Erroll’s father had banished him to Scotland the remainder of that year and through the bitter Highland winter. But the incident with Miss Crenshaw was worse. Far worse. And here he was, chasing her to Gretna Green.

*****

Eve couldn’t believe it. Lord Halifax had changed horses and driven them through the night as if she and he were truly lovers making a run for Gretna Green. During the first two stops, she’d remained silent. But every subsequent stop thereafter, she had protested that he spent too much money on what was supposed to be a jest. He’d answered that no one could possibly dispute what had happened with so many witnesses along the way. His manner had darkened, however, at their last stop, when Eve announced with a laugh that they’d gone far enough. His “I will tell you when we have gone far enough,” was devoid of humor, and Eve was at a loss to understand what he truly intended.

Morning was fast slipping away and she calculated they would reach the border within two hours. What were the chances they would reach Scotland in time to witness Grace and Lord Rushton pronounced man and wife?

Eve jolted awake. She blinked, and another hard jolt reminded her that she rode in a carriage with Lord Halifax. She hadn’t meant to sleep, but she’d grown unnerved staring at him through the morning hours, and had closed her eyes in an effort to blot out his face. The carriage slowed, and Eve pulled aside the curtain. Five years had passed since she’d been on this road, but she hadn’t forgotten the green hills that marked the approach to the Scottish border.

She released the curtain and shifted her gaze to Lord Halifax. “Sir, we have gone far enough. We need not cross the border.”

For the dozenth time, a chill crept up her spine when his gaze dropped from her face to her breasts, then returned to her face.

“You are not particularly rich,” he said. “Three thousand pounds a year. Not nearly as rich as Lady Hancock, but she has a dozen young bucks at her feet.”