A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,102

I do care, very much. I accept that I’m the only one who believes in him, but I don’t want to argue and defend myself to you. Isn’t it enough that you’re here?”

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “Go on to bed. You look about to drop where you are.”

She gave him a sad, searching look and got to her feet. “Good night, Captain.”

He sat for a long time at the table, that final word racketing around in his brain. Captain. Not Andrew, or Drew, let alone anything more affectionate. She kept her distance and didn’t trust him enough to tell him what she meant to do. The easy warmth and powerful attraction between them might never have been.

Drew gripped the back of his neck. His feelings had not changed. Hell, even though William Fletcher appeared as guilty as sin to him, he would have extended that King’s Pardon to Fletcher, if he could have, damning any protests from the lord advocate and no matter that his own mother’s shop had been victimized, just to save Ilsa from further heartache.

There was no chance of that, obviously. Not only had Fletcher been named the mastermind and chief conspirator, he had fled like a guilty man.

So think, he told himself. How can you help her?

Ilsa was not surprised to see Drew when she came down early the next morning. Yesterday he’d worn his red coat and Stuart tartan, looking every inch the King’s man—the King, whose pardon had been dangled in front of a thief to coax him into blaming another man for the robberies. Even though it was Drew, whom she’d yearned to see and hold again, the red coat had jarred her.

Today he wore a more familiar dark green jacket and plain kilt. He still wore a sword at his hip and a dagger in his belt, but she felt more at ease. A full night’s sleep no doubt also helped. Being out of Edinburgh made her feel like she could breathe again—and, she knew deep in her heart, so did Drew’s presence, even if she didn’t quite trust his assurance that the sheriff-clerk knew nothing about it.

“Do you go into town?” he asked over breakfast.

“It’s not far,” she said vaguely. “I fancy a walk after the long drive yesterday.” She hated not feeling able to confide in him.

He looked down. His hair had grown, and dark curls fell over his forehead now. She gripped her teacup to avoid stroking them back. She knew how his hair felt tangled in her fingers, when she held him close and kissed him. “When shall you return?”

She wiggled her shoulders. “A few hours.”

“Excellent.” He drained his mug and stood. “I’ve a few things to do, as well.”

Ilsa was taken aback, but if she wouldn’t tell him where she went, she couldn’t ask where he went. “Very good. I will be ready to leave when I have my hat.”

They walked together into the town with minimal conversation. Ilsa was covertly studying the stone houses and trying to remember Jean’s directions, and Drew seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. When Dunbar Castle rose in front of them he bade her farewell. “Are you certain you wish to go alone?” he asked again, his gaze probing.

She fisted her hands, digging her fingers into her gloved palms. “Yes.” She wished she was as confident as she sounded. “I shall see you back at the inn.”

Drew only made a polite bow and turned, going toward the harbor. She watched him for a moment, wondering where he went and why, then resolutely turned away, heading east. It was near the beach, Jean had said, whitewashed with blue shutters.

Ilsa found it after a half hour’s walk. With great trepidation, she knocked on the door. Pleasantly but determinedly, she asked to see the mistress of the house. She was shown into a neat parlor, and a woman about Jean’s age came in.

“Mrs. Murray?” said Ilsa. “Miss Mary Fletcher, as was?”

“Aye,” said the woman curiously. “And I’ve not the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“You do, but it’s been many years. I’m Ilsa,” she said. “William Fletcher’s daughter. And I need your help to save him from the hangman.”

Drew finished his errands in good time. Dunbar had a small but active harbor. It might offer a departure point, but there weren’t enough ships for a man to slip away unnoticed, as there were in London or Glasgow.

No, he was certain that if Fletcher had been here, it had been only briefly. More likely Ilsa