Page 123 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

He thrust the note at her and stood silent as she read it. “Oh, my.”

“Indeed. I am going after her.”

“Of course you are.”

“I need you to notify her parents.”

“Naturally. Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”

He stared at her for a moment. Did she really have no idea? “Scotland.”

“Ah yes.” She read the note again, which annoyed him, because it was short enough for her to have memorized it by now. “Why did she leave?”

He huffed a breath. “Why do you think? She never intended to stay.”

“But you’re betrothed.”

Ah, that burned his gullet. “It was all a game to her.”

Esmeralda sighed. “How like her.”

“Is it?” he snapped.

“Oh, yes. She’s always been exceedingly independent. But I’d thought, after our conversation last night, that she was coming around.”

Something in her tone made a frisson slither up his spine. “What did you discuss?”

Esmeralda looked away. She might have flushed.

“Well?”

“Nothing much. She’s been ill, you know.”

How the fuck did that signify? “And?”

“You did anticipate the wedding vows . . .”

His blood went cold. Oh God. Oh God. “Do you think . . . ?”

Esmeralda merely shrugged, but her expression made her opinion clear.

“Holy hell. I’m going after her.” Without another word, he spun on his heel, sprinted back to the mews, and leaped into the saddle. His woman—and possibly his child—were in danger. And as confident and brazen as she could be, she had always been cosseted and protected by her family. She didn’t truly understand how dangerous the world could be. How vulnerable she was.

Especially now.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It is said that there was nothing as swift as a mail coach, and Isobel, who had never ridden in one before, was stunned at how true this was. From the moment the mail box lids clanged down and the driver yelled hee, they fairly flew from the stable yard—though it was impossibly crowded—and pounded down the road out of town. She had to hold on to a strap to keep from slamming into the man next to her, though he was well cushioned.

There were not many passengers on the mail coach to Inverness via York on this day—only Isobel and her companion—which was a mercy as the mail coaches were usually overflowing, to include people clinging on outside. But the dearth of paying passengers was made up for with packages aplenty. They were piled high on the far bench and on the floor. While Isobel had room to stretch out her legs, the jostling of the coach had parcels and bundles tipping onto her with each sharp turn.

Her companion, a Mr. Breedlebum heading for York, was a chatty type. Isobel learned all about his thriving textile business, his wife and six children, and his favorite hunting dog. He shared his supper with her, an apple and some cheese, for which she was grateful, because she hadn’t thought, in her haste, to bring food.

Mr. Breedlebum told her he spent a lot of time on the road and shared some of his experiences, including a time when he was actually robbed by a highwayman.

That, of course, seemed very thrilling.

“What did you do?” she asked.