Ines and Emmeline fell into step behind them, their heads together as they whispered about God knew what. The dog ran ahead and then sprinted back to them, sniffing them each in turn before running ahead again. Dawn began to rise, and Stratford told Duncan he hoped they might see a farmer with a cart soon.
“It would save us time, aye,” Duncan replied.
Stratford glanced back at the ladies to make certain they were not tiring. Emmeline looked to have as much energy as Loftus. Stratford didn’t know where she came by it. She couldn’t have slept any more than he, and even his bones were tired. Still, he’d fought most of a war without much sleep. He knew he could keep going with little rest. He was not so sure about her.
But then why was he worrying about her? She didn’t want his worry. She didn’t even want his conversation. She hadn’t wanted to talk about the marriage proposal she’d blurted out. Stratford knew he’d hurt her feelings. But he hadn’t been rejecting her. He had been saving her the trouble of rejecting him.
For while their families were close, Stratford knew that Emmeline and her sisters did not know everything. They did not know the truth about him. They did not know why the baron hated him.
Of course, any fool could make it out. Stratford, no fool, had figured it out when he’d been but nine or ten. He wasn’t the baron’s son. Stratford looked a great deal like his mother, but he had none of his father’s features. He bore a resemblance to his siblings, but whenever they talked about the Fortescue nose, Stratford was aware of his father’s gaze avoiding him. Sometimes the baron would just abruptly leave the room.
Once, when Stratford had been quite young—before he’d figured out the truth—he’d asked his mother why his father hated him. She’d taken him into her arms and held him. It was a rare thing as she almost never showed him affection or attention. Then she’d looked into his small face and said, “It’s not you he hates, it’s a mistake I made. He hates my mistake, darling. Not you.”
But Stratford was keen enough to understand that the sight of him reminded the baron of his mother’s mistake, and he made sure to stay out of sight and to be good, perfect, and obedient. He wondered if the sight of him was why his mother did not love him. Perhaps looking at Stratford was a daily reminder to her too of her long-ago mistake.
Of course, as an adult, Stratford had looked into the matter more closely. He’d made discreet inquiries and discovered that his mother had been linked to the Marquess of Wight for several years before his birth. By the time he was born, the relationship had ended and the marquess had retreated to his country home. He hadn’t been seen since, and by all accounts the house had fallen into disrepair.
Stratford had thought for a long time about going to see the marquess. He wondered if he resembled the man and if he had any half siblings. In the end, he decided it did not make any logical sense. Wight had not tried to see him and might not even know he had a son. Better to let the past stay in the past. Except now he had to confront the past. He was not who Emmeline thought he was. He was not who anyone thought he was.
The sound of horses and wheels reached his ears, and he and Duncan turned about the same time. A moment later, a cart pulled by two horses appeared with a farmer at the front and a load of what looked like produce taking up most of the back. Stratford waved to the man, gesturing slyly for Duncan to stand back. Duncan would only scare the farmer.
The man lifted his hat and eyed the women first. It wasn’t a lascivious look but one of curiosity. Then he gazed with interest at Stratford, his eyes widening as he took in Duncan, who he couldn’t really miss. The farmer was a weathered man of perhaps forty who looked closer to nearing sixty. He wore simple, sturdy clothing that had been mended and was clean and fit him well. His hands held the reins of his horses confidently, and he called out, “Whoa,” slowing before he reached Stratford. Stratford walked back.
“Good morning,” Stratford said.
“Good morning,” the man answered.
“I am Stratford Fortescue, and this is my friend Duncan Murray. These ladies are our cousins.” Better not to give their names. “We are traveling to Scotland to visit with Mr. Murray’s uncle, the Duke of Atholl.” Always throw in a duke if possible—that was Stratford’s motto.
The farmer’s eyes widened appreciatively and predictably. “I am John Bixly.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Bixly. We have had to leave our coach behind,” Stratford said. Always stick to the truth as much as possible—another motto. “Would you mind taking us as far as you travel today?”
The farmer nodded. “Of course. It’s only five miles to the village, but I might be able to help you find someone else to take you further north.”
“That would be much appreciated.”
Stratford and Duncan started for the back of the cart as did Emmeline and Miss Neves. The farmer called, “Do the ladies want to sit up front?”
Stratford looked at Emmeline, who looked back at him. He could see she was tired. Her eyes had faint smudges under them, and her shoulders were slumped. But she might just ride next to the farmer to avoid being with him.
“I will sit in the back, senhor,” Miss Neves said. “Thank you.”
Bixly looked perplexed by Miss Neves’s Portuguese accent. Really, Stratford wished everyone would just let him do the talking. Emmeline climbed in beside the other woman. “I will ride back here too.”
“I’ll ride on the box,” Duncan said, and the farmer looked startled as the Highlander climbed up beside him. Well, that left no room for Stratford in the front. He climbed in beside Emmeline, who scooted closer to Miss Neves.
The cart started away, and after they’d been jerked this way and that, Stratford leaned closer to Emmeline. “Listen, I want to say—”
“I think I shall lay down and rest,” Emmeline said, not looking at him.
“I will too,” Miss Neves said.
Stratford sighed but handed them empty burlap sacks to put under their heads. They both laid back and closed their eyes. With their dirt streaked gowns and tangled unbound hair, they looked like they belonged in the back of the cart, though this farmer probably had daughters who looked more presentable. Still, since Emmeline’s eyes were closed, Stratford gave her surreptitious looks. Even though he’d escorted her to balls where she wore expensive silk gowns and diamonds about her neck, he thought she, lying in the cart with her black hair spread out under her and the dappled sun dancing over her cheeks, was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
She looked peaceful in sleep, for it hadn’t taken her very long to succumb to sleep. Miss Neves, on the other hand, had her eyes closed but was still wide awake. But Emmeline looked like the very picture of repose. He liked seeing her like that, liked not having to worry that she’d catch him looking at her and snap at him with one of her cutting remarks.
He wished she would understand she did not have to be defensive with him. He did not want to hurt her. Except he had, hadn’t he? She’d let down her guard for just a moment, and he’d rejected her.
But how was he supposed to know she would suggest marriage? She couldn’t have been serious, but still his first response should not have been no.
And though he kept trying to apologize to her, what could he really say? I’m not who you think I am? I do want to marry you, but I don’t think you’ll want me if you know the truth? And why need he say any of those things? She hadn’t really meant it when she’d said she wanted to marry him. It had been said in a moment of passion. Women’s minds always went to marriage when their passions were enflamed. But even if Emmeline would marry him, her mother would certainly not approve the match. She knew the truth about him.