* * *
Convinced he’d never be warm again, Ambrose gritted his teeth as the berlin embarked on the gradual climb out of North Queensferry, heading north.
The driver negotiated the narrow streets of Dunfermline without difficulty, though it was slow going.
The three-hour journey took them through farmland and forested areas where the tall firs provided a measure of protection from the incessant wind.
Finally, they came alongside the dark waters of the Tay, and entered the outskirts of Perth at dusk. Ambrose peered out at the empty streets. The place was deserted. An uneasy disquiet tugged at his innards. More than ever, he regretted agreeing to Giles’ request for help.
Perth
Giles gave his driver terse directions to the High Street. “Too late to venture out on the moors now,” he explained to Ambrose. “We’re going to a safe house. The daughter of the family is affianced to one of the Jacobite casualties.”
They turned away from the banks of the River Tay into a street wider than any Ambrose knew of in Edinburgh, except for those in the vicinity of Holyrood. However, the four-story houses didn’t come close to the eleven and twelve-story tenements of the capital.
The driver eventually drew the conveyance to a halt in front of a house facing an identical row on the opposite side of the street. The thoroughfare was wide, but Ambrose had an uneasy feeling of being trapped in a no-man’s-land between two opposing giants poised to swoop.
He looked up at the dark façade. “Doesna seem anyone’s home,” he remarked as he pried himself out of the berlin. He turned up his collar against the wind and reached for the sky, relieved to stretch his aching muscles after being cramped inside for hours. “’Tis a grand carriage,” he said, “but nay designed for amonwith a six-foot frame.”
Giles chuckled briefly but then said, “The Calhouns are no doubt in the back of the house. Rory doesn’t believe in wasting money lighting too many rooms.”
Ambrose pitied the young woman who apparently lived within. As if a fugitive fiancé wounded in a faltering rebellion wasn’t enough, she lived with a parsimonious father.
The driver carried their luggage to the door and rapped hard.
They waited. Medical bag tucked under his arm, Ambrose took the opportunity to look up and down the street, puzzled to see the whole neighborhood deserted and no light in any window. Not even a dog barked. “’Tis eerie,” he murmured.
“The rebellion has put the townsfolk on edge,” Giles replied. “People are suspicious of everyone, even their neighbors. They’re afraid of being wrongfully arrested for supporting the rebels. Knock again,” he told the driver when there was no sign of life.
The door opened a crack a minute or two after the driver’s second attempt to rouse the household by banging repeatedly with the heel of his fist. A sour-faced male servant poked his head out of the narrow opening. “Wheest! Hold yer horses,” he groused.
It was difficult to tell in the waning light, but Ambrose thought the old fellow must be well into his eighties. Tufts of white hair stood out on his mostly bald scalp. The bottom of the stubborn door dragged on the stone step, but he eventually managed to get it fully open, apparently recognizing Giles after peering at him for a good while. “Be quick about it,” he admonished in a thin voice. “Folks are mistrustful of night visitors.”
He pressed a bony hand to the driver’s chest. “Ye canna leave that contraption in the street. Get it to the stables, round back.”
Ambrose relieved the driver of their luggage and stepped inside the dark hallway lit only by the meager flame of the servant’s flickering candle. It was a far cry from the foyer of his ancestral home at Kilmer. Grandmother Hannah had always insisted visitors be welcomed into a cozy, well-lit entryway. The tradition continued to this day, even after her death. What Ambrose wouldn’t give to be walking into his mother’s loving arms amid a blaze of sweet-smelling candles. He hoped the chamber allotted to him in this bleak house was warmer than the foyer, though he had his doubts.
He removed his fur hat and glanced up the narrow flight of stairs directly facing the doorway when he heard the creak of a footfall. He thought he caught a glimpse of movement—perhaps the swish of skirts—but it was too dark to see clearly.
“Follow me,” the servant intoned, heading off down a narrow hallway to the back of the house. “My master is in the parlor.”
* * *
Eala took refuge in her chamber shortly after arriving home, preferring the solitude to her irritating father’s constant dire predictions. She sent her maid to the kitchen for a tray of leftovers. Rory Calhoun always waited until his mouth was full before beginning his diatribes. How her late mother—a refined, educated woman—had endured the man’s ignorant habits, she’d never know. Despite her objections, he’d maneuvered to arrange her betrothal solely to take advantage of the elder Bruce’s wealth and connections in the wool trade, not to mention the man’s powerful standing as Lord Provost of Perth.
Fighting off a looming headache, she was picking at the cold chicken on the tray when she heard the front door being dragged open and voices downstairs. Filled with relief that Dr. Raincourt had perhaps returned at last, she ventured out on to the landing.
Peering down into the gloom, she was surprised to see a younger man with Raincourt—presumably the other surgeon he’d gone in search of. The newcomer was tall and broad-shouldered. She gasped when he removed his hat to reveal wavy curls—brown like dark mahogany, she’d guess.
Then, he looked directly up at the landing. Heart racing, she retreated quickly, though it was unlikely he’d seen her. The dim light ofauldMicah’s candle highlighted chiseled features that spoke of breeding and education.
She gripped the railing as a strange thrill rippled up her thighs. An urge to giggle bubbled in her throat when she regained the safety of her chamber.
“Are ye all right, Miss Eala?” Phreine asked from her sewing perch by the hearth. “Ye’ve gone all red.”
“I’m fine,” she replied, fanning herself with her hand. “’Tis hot in here.”
Nestling deeper into her shawl, the maid frowned. “Ye must be coming down with summat.”