Page 11 of Kidnapping Cordelia

Across the carriage from her, Mr Anderson had closed his eyes and appeared to be dozing. She suspected he had slept no better than she had, for despite her exhaustion she could not rest easy after everything that had happened. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lord Malmsey clutching the knife in his belly and accusing Mr Anderson of having killed him. She did not doubt the horrific scene was etched on the poor man’s mind too, and most likely accounted for his rather haggard look this morning.

Not that he wasn’t a handsome fellow. He had strong features and an uncompromising square jaw that suggested he had a stubborn streak a mile wide. He had broken his nose at some point in his life, but it added to the rather uncivilised air he carried and in no way diminished his looks. Quite the contrary, in fact. Involuntarily, her eyes dropped to his knees, and to the long legs that stretched out diagonally across the carriage. Colour rose to her cheeks, and she looked hurriedly away, only to find herself studying him again just moments later. With his tawny hair brushed more neatly this morning, and his dress clean and properly arranged, he still looked not quite tame, like a man out of time and place. She could easily imagine him wielding a broadsword and defying the English at that awful ultimate battle that had taken place at Culloden over a hundred years ago. He was an honourable and brave man, the kind that would die before he yielded to what he believed to be an evil influence.

Delia realised she found him rather intimidating. Though she had met him in society and his manners had been impeccable, she had never felt he was entirely at ease there. At first, she had assumed it was her company he disliked and that he’d been eager to get away, but then she had wondered if he experienced the same sense of being out of place as she did. He certainly never made the same kinds of faux pas that Delia did with humiliating frequency, and he was always witty and engaging. There was no real reason for her to suppose he was anything but at home there, other than some sixth sense that told her he was not where he would choose to be.

The carriage lumbered over a rut in the road and Delia dragged her gaze from his legs to his face just in time as he blinked awake.

“Where are we?” he asked thickly.

“I’ve not the least idea,” she replied with an apologetic smile. “But I think we must be nearing the station.”

“Aye,” he said, staring out of the window. “Reckon so. Lord, but I shall be glad to be out of England.”

“Is Scotland very different?” she asked, feeling foolish as he looked at her incredulously.

“Have ye never been?”

Delia shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Though I have long wished to. Is it really as wild and remote as people say?”

“Not all of it. We have cities that could rival London,” he said with no small amount of pride. “But aye, Wildsyde is about as far from the world as ye can get, I suppose. Ye winnae be feart to be so far from everything?”

Delia shook her head. “I grew up in the countryside and, whilst we were not so far from the world, I saw nothing of it, so I may as well have been on the moon.”

He considered this, studying her with interest. “Your da, Sefton. He’s nae a kindly fellow, I think?”

Delia suppressed a shiver at the mention of her father. “No, Mr Anderson, not a kindly fellow at all.”

“Ach, dinnae call me that. If we are to be wed, I reckon ye may call me Muir.”

“Thank you,” she said, but his expression had grown serious.

“He didnae beat ye, I hope?”

“No, he never raised a hand to me, though I had a strict governess who did the job for him often enough,” she added with a wry smile. “I suppose I gave her cause to, for I was not a very adept student.”

“Student? Yer father educated ye like a lad?” he asked with interest.

Delia let out a laugh at the idea. “Good heavens, no. My father would think that a ludicrous idea. No, but I was supposed to learn to paint and sew and play the pianoforte and the harp. All the ladylike accomplishments.”

“And ye couldnae?”

Delia shook her head. “Only very poorly. I have a fair hand with a pencil, I suppose, and I play the piano a little, but as for the rest. No, indeed. I have very few talents I fear.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” Muir replied, which she suspected was nothing more than another try at gallantry on his part, but he sounded more sincere this time and she appreciated the sentiment.

The train journey to York, then Berwick and into Edinburgh, was long and wearying and Delia was not displeased about stopping for the night before going any farther. The inn where Muir secured lodgings was a bustling place and as Delia waited in the carriage, watching the comings and goings, she doubted Muir would be able to find them rooms for the night. However, he returned to her, hurrying through the dark and drizzle to tug open the carriage door.

“Well, ye have a bed for the night, but ye may not like it overmuch,” he admitted.

“I think I could sleep pegged to a line,” Delia said, smothering a yawn.

He chuckled at that and offered her his hand. “Come then, lassie, and ye may scold me after if it ’tis nae to yer liking.”

“I’m sure I shall do no such thing,” she said, tugging her cloak up over her head, for they were not yet married, and she did not wish to add more fuel to the fire… if that were even possible. Obediently, she hurried up the stairs in Muir’s wake, and into a cosy, low beamed bedroom with a large fourposter and a blazing fire in the hearth.

“Oh, but it’s perfectly charming,” she said, turning to Muir in confusion. “Whyever did you think I would not like it?”

“It wisnae the room I suspected ye would dislike, but the fact there is only one. We must share it, lassie. Dinnae fret yer head about it, though. I signed ye in as my wife, and I shall sleep on the floor.”