Stratford stared at the spaniel. He hadn’t considered the dog in his plans. But, of course, if this was Emmeline’s dog, they must take her with them. “She can ride with me,” he said.
The groom nodded and gave the dog one last affectionate pat on the head. Stratford made his way back to Emmeline and informed her of his plans.
“That’s not my dog,” she said.
Stratford frowned. “I assumed she was yours since you were trapped in the broom closet with her.”
Emmeline’s cheeks colored and she looked down. Now this was an interesting development. He had rarely if ever seen Emmeline blush. “It’s a long story. She was—er, foisted upon me.”
“Then you don’t want the dog?”
The groom was leading another horse toward them and gasped. Emmeline gave him a look from the corner of her eye. “I did not say that. I can’t leave her to fend for herself.”
“Oh, miss!” the groom began. “If the dog isn’t yours, might I have her? She’s a beautiful dog, and she’ll be well cared for. I had one just like her when I was a boy, but she died a few years ago of old age.”
Emmeline looked at Stratford who shrugged. Then she cleared her throat. “Will you promise to take good care of her?”
“Yes, miss!”
“You will feed her and exercise her and all the other things one must do for a dog?”
“Yes, miss!”
Emmeline gave the groom one last long look. The man straightened his shoulders. He must be ten years her senior, but she was undeniably in charge. “Then you may have her.” She bent, took the dog into her arms, and handed the spaniel to the groom.
Stratford closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This was why Emmeline was still unmarried. She was impossibly dictatorial, though she had a regal way of going about it. Still, no man wanted to be treated like a subject to the queen, and most men were no match for her. He’d watched her at countless societal gatherings over the years. She could dismiss a man with a single look. The braver men abandoned her when they realized she had a mind of her own and was not afraid to express it. As he mounted his horse and steered the animal in the direction of the inn, Emmeline right behind him, Stratford noted that she was unlikely to marry any time soon, if ever.
Why that thought should please him was a mystery better left unexplored.
DUNCAN
Duncan rose early, as usual. He hadn’t been able to accustom himself to the hours the English kept in Town. Highlanders were always up with the sun as were soldiers, and he was both. He’d slept hard and heavy, a dreamless sleep that left him feeling refreshed this morning. And yet as he made his way down to the public room, where a gray-haired woman hummed to herself as she dusted chairs and wiped down tables, Duncan couldn’t stop himself from looking just a little too long in the direction of the door leading to Beatriz’s chamber.
Though they did not speak the same language, he couldn’t help feeling she had wanted more than a curt good night the evening before. The way she’d looked up at him with those dark, brown eyes made him want to kiss her full lips. But he was probably imagining things. He’d just spent weeks in London, trying his damnedest to catch the interest of just one lady, any lady, and he’d failed spectacularly. Though he wouldn’t admit it publicly, his pride was bruised. He didn’t need to damage it further by soliciting rejection from a woman who had no choice but to stay with him.
There were lasses in Scotland who would be more than happy to catch his interest. They would not call him a barbarian or back away when he walked into a room as though he were some sort of murderer after their blood.
Duncan sat at a table by the window and looked out upon the cobbled street running through the center of the small village. In some ways, it reminded him of home. He too had grown up in a small, simple town, where he knew everyone and where life was simpler. But he was the younger son of the brother of the laird. He’d tried his hand at farming, then at raising sheep, then at several other professions. Nothing seemed to fit him. Nothing seemed to quell the roaring in his mind and his soul that had begun when he’d gotten his father killed all those years ago. No, the only time the pain and agony of that loss subsided was when Duncan used his fists.
And so his mother had suggested—insisted more than suggested, really—that he join the army. And what Lady Charlotte wanted, she got. But Duncan hadn’t fought her on it. Like most Highlanders, Duncan had no love of the redcoats, but when he’d been given the opportunity to fight the French on the Continent, he had gone. And then when he’d been approached by Lieutenant-Colonel Draven after a bloody battle and asked to join his suicide troop, Duncan hadn’t understood why he’d been selected.
Colonel Draven had merely cocked his head and said, “I need men who are not afraid to die.”
Duncan had snorted. “Everra man is afraid to die.”
Draven had nodded. “Some more than others. I just watched you, on foot, take down three mounted officers armed with bayonets.”
“I lost my horse,” Duncan said, “or it would have been more.”
Draven had leaned forward then, his blue eyes boring into Duncan. “Your commanding officer calls you the Lunatic. I can’t say as though I dispute his assessment. Answer me this, Lunatic. Are you afraid to die, Mr. Murray?”
Duncan had shrugged. “Nae verra.”
“Good. Then you’re one of mine now.”
But Duncan hadn’t died, though he’d been sent on missions that had killed others in the troop, and he’d done things that should have resulted in his death. It seemed the French forgot to fire if a man ran toward them with his face painted red and screaming like a banshee. Perhaps the soldiers who went into battle calmly were the real lunatics.
Duncan stiffened as he became aware of someone moving behind him. For a moment, he thought it might be the woman come to offer him refreshment, but the steps were too heavy. A familiar voice spoke, “Old habits die hard, soldier.”
Duncan smiled. “One of these days I’ll sleep past six.” He turned just as Stratford Fortescue slapped him on the shoulder and took the seat across from him. The two had served together in Draven’s troop and had lately spent several weeks causing trouble in London. Duncan was glad to see his friend. “I thought I’d finally rid myself of ye when ye left London.”
“And I thought you’d be on your way back to Scotland by now. What are you doing in—where the devil are we?”
“How should I ken? This isnae Scotland. I plan tae be back on my way home after a wee detour tae see Nash.”
Stratford sat back in his chair. “His estate isn’t far from here, is it? Now, that’s an idea.”
“I can see by the narrowing of yer eyes, ye have a plan swirling aboot in that brain of yers. Leave me oot of it. I have a lass I need taken back tae London, but she doesnae speak English. I need Nash tae translate.”
Stratford set the legs of his chair on the floor. “I have so many questions that I’m not sure where to begin.”
Duncan waved a hand. “Then dinnae. She speaks Portuguese and so does Nash.”
“Do I want to know how it is you ended up with a Portuguese woman in the middle of the English countryside?”