Two
DUNCAN
Duncan Murray stepped off the box of the coach he’d hired to take him back to Scotland and stretched his legs. He’d never liked being cooped up inside a coach and would have normally traveled on horseback, but he had gifts for his mother and sister from London, and he had needed a vehicle to convey them all. And now, after four hours on the box, he was rather appreciative of the coach. He hadn’t slept much the night before as he’d spent his last hours in London with his friends at the Draven Club. He’d drank too much and had been late paying his respects to Colonel Draven this morning. But it might be a year or more before he was in London again, and he hadn’t regretted drinking to the health of his friends—and to their wives and their horses and even to children yet-to-be-born. Finally, at approximately four in the morning, they’d run out of reasons to drink and stumbled to their beds.
He lifted his face to the setting sun. He would have enjoyed the fine summer day if the heat of it hadn’t made his head ache. Soon he’d be back in the cool of Scotland, though, and that was something to look forward to—even if his return would also be accompanied by his mother’s disappointment.
He’d disappointed his mother once with disastrous consequences for all, especially his father, and Duncan had sworn he would never disappoint her again. Yet here he was coming home alone when she’d ordered him to find the daughter of an English peer to marry.
“Sir, the horses are almost ready,” the coachman informed him as the hired man climbed back up on the box.
Duncan nodded. “Aye. Looks like we have two or three hours of light left. Make the most of it.” He wanted to cover as much distance as possible while the good weather held. Once they reached Scotland, the climate was less predictable. He started for the coach and the coachman called after him. “You won’t be riding up here, sir?”
“Nae. I find myself in need of a wee nap. Wake me when the light fades, aye?”
“Yes, sir.”
Duncan climbed into the dark coach and shut the door as the coachman spurred the horses forward. He raised his arms then attempted to find a comfortable position on the seat. He was far too big to lie down upon it, so he extended his legs to the seat across from him, determined to stretch out and nap that way. But his feet nudged something soft and solid. He’d thrown his greatcoat inside earlier, but this was too heavy to be a coat. He nudged it with his foot again, and it moaned.
Duncan was instantly alert, knife in hand, and in attack position. “Who’s there?” he demanded, voice low. “Show yerself.”
There was no response save a long...sigh? Was the intruder sleeping? Moving gingerly, Duncan lifted the shutter on the lamp slowly, shedding weak light into the interior. There was definitely someone curled under his coat. He made out a distinctly human shape. Brown hair at the top of his coat and a yellow slipper peeking out of the bottom.
A lass? Christ and all the saints!
Duncan knelt on the floor between the seats and peered more closely. With his coat in the way, he couldn’t see much, so he pulled the material back slowly, revealing the fine facial features of a young lady. Her eyes were closed and her face lax as though in sleep. He pulled the coat down further, exposing slim shoulders and slender arms tucked close to her body.
Duncan sat back on his haunches. Where had she come from? Had she been in the coach since London? She didn’t look like the sort of poor creature who would stowaway. She wore an apron, but under it was an expensive gown. There was lace at the throat of her striped yellow and white dress. It was one of those dresses ladies wore in the morning before they donned the afternoon and evening gowns he liked because they showed a bit of skin.
Duncan stared at her for several minutes, not sure what he should do. Wake her? Let her sleep? He’d never had a woman fall asleep in his carriage before. Of course, he didn’t own a carriage, but he didn’t take it to be a usual occurrence, nonetheless. The wheels jounced over a hole in the road and the woman shifted, opened her eyes slightly, then made to turn over.
Until she spotted him, and her eyes opened. With a jerk, she sat up and opened her mouth, presumably to scream. Duncan acted quickly, putting his hand over her lips before she could emit a sound. “Dinnae fash, lass. I willnae hurt ye.”
She continued staring at him, her large brown eyes the size of saucers.
“Shh,” he said as he slowly moved his hand away. “Dinnae scream.”
His hand fell to his side, and she blinked at him. She was fully awake now. Her chest rose and fell under the thin material of her dress. Slowly, Duncan moved back to the seat across from her. Now that she was sitting and facing him, something about her was familiar. He raised the shutter of the lamp on the opposite side of the coach to view her more clearly. He could have sworn he had seen her somewhere before, but then he’d been to twenty balls or more in the last few months and countless other amusements. In his search for a bride, he’d looked at so many women, they blended together in his mind.
Since she still hadn’t said anything, just continued to stare at him, he decided he had better begin the preliminaries. “Do I ken ye, lass?”
Her eyes widened further, which was truly remarkable as he hadn’t thought they could open any further. “What’s yer name?” he asked.
Her brow furrowed, and she opened her mouth then closed it again. She seemed to be trying to speak but could not find the words. Did he frighten her, or did she have a reason for not wanting to tell him? Let her keep her secrets—for the moment.
“Och, ye dinnae want tae tell me, is that it? Verra well. Where did ye come from? How did ye find yer way in here?” He gestured to the coach and she followed the movement with her eyes.
Well, this was one of the more tedious conversations he’d had. Perhaps if he revealed something of himself, she would follow. “My name is Duncan Murray.” He tapped his chest. “Since ye’re in my coach, sleeping under my coat, I dinnae think it’s too much tae ask yer name, lass.”
She swallowed, her long throat moving delicately. “Beatriz,” she said quietly, pointing to her own chest.
Duncan narrowed his eyes. She hadn’t said it in the English way—Beatrice. In fact, she hadn’t sounded British at all. “Where are ye from, Beatrice?”
“Beatriz.” And then she said several sentences, none of which made an ounce of sense to him. He wasn’t very good with languages. He understood the English well enough as his mother was one. But though the Highland clans had always been close with the French, Duncan had never learned it. Still, he’d heard it enough to figure what she’d said wasn’t French. Maybe Italian? Or German? Christ, he didn’t know.
She was looking at him expectantly, probably much as he’d been looking at her a moment ago. Now he was the one confused. He didn’t particularly mind having her eyes on him. She was unusually pretty. In addition to those large brown eyes, she possessed chestnut-colored hair that fell in waves about her face. On the seat beside her was a cap that had probably confined it at one point but had been lost or set aside during the trip.
“Where are ye from?” he asked.
She cocked her head to one side.
He pointed to himself again. “Scotland.” He pointed to her.