A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,115

large pack over one shoulder. Ilsa tensed but Drew held her back. “Don’t call attention to him,” he murmured, and she stilled, holding tight to his arm.

Fletcher came up to them and doffed his cap. His expression was calm and peaceful today, and his eyes were full of love as he looked at Ilsa. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” She even managed a smile. “Your daughter is not the sort to fall into a fainting fit, sir.”

He smiled at that. “Well do I know it! And how proud it makes me.” He let down his pack. “You’re a better daughter than I deserved.”

“Papa.” Her eyes shone with tears as she went into his embrace. Drew turned to scan the docks one last time, giving them a moment of privacy. He’d silently kept an eye out for any more officers following them or Fletcher but had seen no one suspicious. He hoped there were none. Let Fletcher get away with this, he thought. For her sake.

“There now.” Fletcher stepped back, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at Ilsa’s cheeks. “Don’t waste your tears on me. Wish me a bon voyage and be happy.” He glanced at Drew. “And I wish you great happiness.”

She pressed his hand. “How can I write to you—?”

“Ah, child.” Regretfully he stepped back. “You know you can’t. I don’t know where I shall go, in any event.”

“All right,” she said, remarkably poised in Drew’s opinion. “Then you must write to me. Somehow. I expect you to find a way, Papa. I will look every month for a letter from my distant cousin in America.”

His mouth quirked in reluctant amusement, and he winked. “God willing that he does write to you someday.”

A shout from the launch made them all look around. The bell in the church began to chime the hour. Fletcher hesitated. “Good-bye, lass,” he said to his daughter. “God go with you.”

“And with you, Papa.”

Her father’s mouth twisted into a sad, trembling smile. He gripped her hand to his heart. “Saints, I’ll miss you.”

Her chest heaved. “I know. But this is better than me missing you because you’re in a crypt in the graveyard.” She bent her head and kissed his hand, then gently disentangled her fingers from his. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Better they than the hangman,” he quipped. The moment of emotion over, Fletcher slung his pack onto his shoulder and turned toward the shore. The men waiting in the launch were untying the ropes, and he picked up his pace, trotting along the short beach and down the dock until he climbed into the craft.

Ilsa’s face was calm as she watched him go. The sailors cast off the last line and shoved the launch out to sea. Fletcher gripped the gunwale as the boat rocked from side to side, but managed to lift his cap for a moment. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the sprays of water thrown up by the oars as the men bent to their task, taking William Fletcher away from Scotland and the hangman—and his only daughter.

Ilsa didn’t move until the boat had grown too small to pick out of the swarm of boats in the harbor. In the distance, sailors were climbing the Carolina’s rigging, setting the sails. Finally her shoulders slumped in a silent sigh.

“He can never prove his innocence now,” said Drew quietly. “He can never return to Edinburgh, if not Scotland entirely.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But he’ll be safe. Perhaps one day I’ll tire of it here and follow him to America.”

They returned to the inn and took a light dinner. Ilsa’s eyes kept straying to the window overlooking the harbor, and Drew knew she was trying to pick out the Carolina among the ships beginning the long journey to America.

“What will you do?” he asked when they had gone back to their room, which faced east—Edinburgh, not America.

It was no small question. Fletcher had made a detailed plan. He had left a letter with Mr. Lorde, professing his intention not to expose his family to the indignity and shame of a trial, which Mr. Lorde would convey to the Edinburgh authorities at an appropriate time. He would also bring Fletcher’s will and execute it, once Fletcher’s death was accepted. Ilsa would affect deep grief and astonishment, even to her aunt—for they had both agreed Jean Fletcher couldn’t keep the secret as closely as it must be kept.

“I’ll use some of his money as restitution for those who were robbed. I don’t need it or want