Matteo’s instincts clamored for attention. “That will take too long. I want to go ahead and try to overtake her on the road. We’ll check the nearest border stop,” he said, then turned to Sir Clarence. “Which is the closest crossing?”
“The post goes from here to Coldstream, but there’s a stage to Norham from Etal too,” he said pensively. “But it’s not likely she made it to the stage on foot since it leaves early morning. We’re more likely to find her at the Rose and Crown in Etal or hiding somewhere nearby.”
“Then you stay here while Father goes to Etal. I will go ahead to the border on my own.”
His father scowled at him. “Not alone. Take Ottavio.”
That was what he’d expected, but it still annoyed him that he was no longer his own man. “Very well. Ottavio let’s go.”
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” his father called to the servant.
The bullish young man nodded back at his father, and they took off on the north road.
Chapter 10
Matteo watched the inn courtyard from an upper story window. He’d berated Ottavio into waiting outside, but it had taken some effort.
His father’s servant was growing more and more insolent as time went on. But Matteo had won the argument in the end. They needed more than one pair of eyes on the passing coaches, so the man was watching from the stables.
Of course, it was possible he had chosen incorrectly. They were in Norham, despite the fact the Coldstream post stop had been closer to the manor house. Coldstream was also the most direct route to Edinburgh, and then to the Highlands. From Norham one had to travel to Chimside and then up the circuitous coastal route before getting to Edinburgh. But his instincts said Isobel wouldn’t do the expected thing and fly home via the most direct path. She would try and throw them off the scent.
On horseback, they’d traveled much faster than was possible for the stage coach, using paths that were inaccessible by any sort of conveyance. If Isobel was on the road here, she had to be behind them.
Matteo sighed and briefly closed his eyes. There was always the possibility that his uncle had been correct and they’d already captured her before she even had a chance to reach either the post or the stage. It was also possible she was taking shelter around Ford.
His uncle assumed she had no friends in the neighborhood. Sir Clarence had been sure she didn’t know anyone outside his household, but Matteo was equally certain there was a lot about his governess that he didn’t know.
Turning back his attention to the window, he sipped at the lukewarm tea one of the inn’s maids had brought him. He’d wanted coffee, but they didn’t have any, and it had been a choice between tea or ale. And he didn’t need anything that dulled his senses. So he drank the damn tea.
In the distance, a horn sounded. When another carriage turned into the inn’s driveway, he roused himself and sat up straight. The last two had been private traveling carriages. He’d been assured by the innkeeper that the stage was due momentarily, but the bad roads had made “a moment” an eternity.
Several people alighted from the carriage, two men, a matron, and a widow. They hurried inside to relieve themselves or to buy a quick meal. The coach had a timetable and would leave them regardless of their ultimate destination or the fare they had paid.
There was no bright red hair among the passengers that had descended. Disappointed, Matteo went downstairs to make sure all of them had disembarked, pulling on his greatcoat and large brimmed hat as he went.
He bypassed the taproom and went outside, gesturing to Ottavio who’d been watching from the stables, which stood a few feet away. When the servant shook his head, Matteo found the stable master and instructed him to saddle two fresh horses.
Maybe there would be enough time to reach Coldstream, he thought, his heart heavy. Making his way to the taproom to wait, he stood in the corner nearest the door as the passengers hurriedly finished their business and started to head back to the coach.
He was about to join the exodus when he noticed the figure in black again, the woman in widow’s garb. She was completely covered in black crepe from head to toe. A heavy veil obscured her face and hair.
At first he wondered how she could see anything past that thick layer of black over her eyes, but a moment later it was her steps that captured his attention. Not only could she see clearly, but she moved with grace. A grace that was as familiar to him as her lovely face.
Isobel.
He almost tripped over a chair in the sweeping rush to get to her before she made it to the doorway. His knee was throbbing as he reached her, but he didn’t care. She saw him before he reached her. She froze as he reached out and pulled her into his embrace.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her veiled ear as he was engulfed by her familiar scent of flowers with a hint of vanilla. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sir, I don’t know you,” Isobel said loudly, pushing at his chest and arms.