? ? ?
This time when we rode into Shotton Pass, all trace of daylight had long since faded from the sky. However, the night was clear and cloudless, and since the moon was only three days shy of being full, the natural light it provided us was far superior to what we’d experienced during our last trip into the Cheviot Hills. The heavens were speckled with brilliant stars, their beauty almost making up for the bitter temperatures that had settled over the land without any clouds to hold in the heat of the day. I shivered inside my fur-lined winter cloak as Figg picked her way through the scrub and rocks, trailing Gage’s chestnut gelding, Titus.
Time being of utmost importance, Gage and Trevor had hurried to change out of their kilts and into riding breeches while our horses were saddled. Which left me with just a few precious minutes to throw on an old spencer over my blouse and bodice and put on a pair of woolen stockings before trading my dancing slippers for half-boots. With my cloak and gloves, this was the warmest I could expect to feel on horseback on a cold January night.
Lord Fleming had met us with the ransom money at The Plough Inn in Town Yetholm before setting off for Beckford Parish Church with a pair of his footmen. There he was to lie in wait for the man who delivered his grandfather’s bones after the ransom was paid, should our efforts fail to capture him beforehand. As Gage had said, he wasn’t taking any chances, though we really had no idea whether the bones would be left at the church or elsewhere. We’d been fooled before.
We waited as long as we could for the arrival of my uncle and cousins, but when the hour inched too close to the appointed time of the ransom delivery, we’d had to leave without them. Trevor had left a note with the innkeeper should they appear after we departed, but we all knew not to count on their assistance from this point forward. In any case, we had Dixon and his son Davy—the local men Trevor had prearranged to guide us—and Anderley to boost our party to six.
Even with the familiarity of our surroundings and the increase in our numbers, I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. If the setup was familiar to us, it was even more familiar to the thieves, making it all the more dangerous. Especially if the thieves had observed our pursuit last time and decided it was too much of a risk allowing us to continue our investigation. They could be lying in wait for us even now, ready to attack.
The knots tied inside my stomach tightened even further.
We reined in our horses just as we had before as we rounded the curve into the pass. Our horses’ hooves stamped in the dust, and pranced back and forth, clearly sensing their riders’ unease. The ridges rising before us were solemn and dark, nothing more than humped shapes against the paler black of the night sky. But still we watched for shifting shadows and listened for the scuff of a foot or the clicking cock of a pistol’s hammer. Nothing but the sound of Figg’s breath and the creak of my saddle met my ears. Gage nodded, and Dixon and his son slowly led us down the rise into the pass.
The sorrel mare was positioned as before, her leather reins twisted in the branches of the yew tree. Her ears perked up as we approached and she lifted her head, still munching on a tuft of scrub grass she had pulled from the ground at her feet. History seemed to repeat itself as Gage and Trevor lifted the leather saddlebags containing the ransom money onto the mare’s back and tightened the straps. My brother remounted his stallion as Gage untangled the mare’s reins from the yew, but unlike before, he paused.
With his back to us, it was difficult to tell what had halted his movements, but I glanced around, trying to see or hear what he was sensing. When finally he shifted to the left, I could see he’d pulled something white from the end of a twig. It was much too early in the year to be a blossom, but what else could it be? A letter?
Still holding the mare’s reins, he rounded her body and held up what appeared to be a square piece of cloth toward the moonlight. His eyes dropped to meet mine, though I could not read their expression in the darkness.
“It’s a lady’s handkerchief,” he murmured quietly. “And it bears your initials.”
I frowned in confusion, and then held out my hand. “Let me see it.”
He passed it to me, and I ran my gloved fingers over the fine embroidery in the corner. He was correct. It was mine. But how . . .
“Mr. Stuart,” I informed the men, speaking only as loudly as I dared. “He asked for a token after rescuing me at the assembly in Edinburgh.”
Gage’s posture stiffened, clearly recalling what he’d been “rescuing” me from.
“He asked for my handkerchief.”
Trevor’s stallion snorted as my brother urged his horse closer. “But what does it mean?”