The Time Writer and The Escape (Season 2, Book 1): The Time Writer, #4
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About this ebook
Beware of doorways through time... and the Spaniards.
Amelia and Henry thought their time-traveling days were over. All they wanted was to settle down, adopt a cat, and enjoy a quiet life in modern-day Virginia.
Ha. As if.
One accidental stroll through a ship's doorway—and a rip in the space-time continuum—launches them straight into the chaos of the 1690s. Separated once again, each must survive in a world where pirates rule the waves and betrayal lurks behind every powder keg.
Henry joins a crew bound for Spain, hoping to find his way back to Amelia. But when a shady business deal turns into a royal double-cross, the crew is sold into service—and Henry is swept into mutiny, a pirate uprising, and the legendary voyage of Henry Avery aboard the Fancy.
Meanwhile, Amelia finds herself broke, stranded, and facing down shady lords, French smugglers, and an underground fashion racket involving—of all things—illegal hats. As she scrambles to earn coin, help friends, and avoid Spanish authorities, she discovers that finding Henry might be the hardest adventure of all.
Pirates. Fortune. French hats.
And absolutely no idea how to get home.
The Time Writer and The Escape is a swashbuckling, time-twisting historical adventure packed with humor, heart, and high-stakes hijinks. Will Amelia and Henry reunite? Will they find another portal? Or are they doomed to live out the Golden Age of Piracy one misstep at a time?
The Time Writer Series:
A Note on Seasons
The Time Writer series is organized into "Seasons," with each season exploring a different time period in Amelia's delightfully chaotic life. You can absolutely dive into any season without reading the others—each stands on its own swashbuckling feet. That said, you might miss a sly nod, a running joke, or a dramatic callback to an earlier escapade.
If that happens? No worries. Just hop in your nearest metaphorical time machine and catch up on the previous seasons. We'll be here when you return.
Prequel: The Time Writer and The Cloak ebook and audiobook available for FREE download to newsletter subscribers https://bit.ly/CloakAZ
Season 1:
1750s Virginia - French & Indian War
Book 1: The Time Writer and The Notebook
Book 2: The Time Writer and The March
Book 3: The Time Writer and The Hunt
Season 2:
1690s - The Golden Age of Piracy
Book 1: The Time Writer and The Escape
Book 2: The Time Writer and The Chase
Book 3: The Time Writer and The Surrender
Season 3:
1840 - 1869 Wagons West (coming soon)
Book 1: The Time Writer and The Trail
Book 2: The Time Writer and The Frontier
Book 3: The Time Writer and The Battle
Related to The Time Writer and The Escape (Season 2, Book 1)
Titles in the series (7)
The Time Writer and The Cloak: The Time Writer, #0 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The Notebook: The Time Writer, #1 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The March: The Time Writer, #2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The Hunt: The Time Writer, #3 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The Escape (Season 2, Book 1): The Time Writer, #4 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The Chase (Time Writer, Season 2, Book 2): The Time Writer, #5 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Time Writer and The Surrender (Time Writer, Season 2, Book 3): The Time Writer, #6 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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The Time Writer and The Escape (Season 2, Book 1) - Alex R Crawford
CHAPTER ONE
E lizabeth, we need to leave,
Anna hissed, easing open the heavy wooden door to Lady Elizabeth’s chamber. Now,
she added, jaw clenched. Her voice stayed low, her movements careful, but there was no mistaking the sharp edge of impatience slicing through every syllable.
I’m nearly ready.
Elizabeth darted about the room, cramming a shift, kirtle, and extra stockings into her bag. She sifted through the jewelry on her dressing table, snatched up a string of Scottish pearls, and shoved it in alongside the small pile of coins she’d squirreled away over the past few months. Her blue fabric purse—embroidered in delicate threads of silver and gold—was quickly secured to her girdle. From her jewelry box, she grabbed a few rings, necklaces, her antler-carved comb, and a small hand-held mirror to finish the collection. A single folded paper remained behind on the table, left with quiet purpose.
You should’ve packed earlier.
Anna glanced over her shoulder, first down the dim hallway toward the occupied rooms of the Scottish manor, then to the stairs at her right. She tugged the hood of her brown wool cloak—its thistle embroidery winding along the edge and down the front—over her light auburn hair. We need to leave before someone alerts your father.
Aye, I’m coming.
Elizabeth slung her satchel across her body and swept her green wool cloak over her shoulders. Its embroidery matched Anna’s, with one exception—silver thread stitched in delicate droplets, like falling rain. She’d chosen a plain gray kirtle to blend in with whomever they might pass on the road. Two unaccompanied ladies headed for Edinburgh would raise eyebrows, but two modest maidens off to assist with a birthing or to visit the market? Far less suspicious. She pulled a small blanket from the bed, rolled it tightly, and strapped it across her bag.
She padded to the door with her shoes in hand. Pausing, she gripped the edge of the open frame and cast one last glance around her bedroom. The fireplace, which had warmed her through so many bitter Scottish nights, glowed softly. Her bed, still made with wool blankets and layered furs, sat turned down for the night—untouched. She ached to crawl beneath the covers instead of slipping into the shadows with Anna, but she refused to face the coming day with Lord Hector Black, third son of the Duke of Ormonde.
If the arrangement had been with the young Lord Hector rather than his father, she might’ve considered it. Not that she’d met either man—but if forced to choose, she’d at least choose youth. Lord Hector was expected that morning, likely to confirm the nineteen-year-old bride-to-be resembled the portrait sent to the duke—that it wasn’t a ruse to saddle the aging nobleman with a plain-faced girl, dowry or not.
But marrying a man old enough to be her father was never in her life plans. How could it be? She longed for freedom, to see the world beyond her father’s land—not to be passed from one aging master to another and turned into a broodmare. Escape was her only choice. And thank God for Anna, her dearest friend, who had agreed to the risk.
With a gentle pull, Elizabeth closed the door behind her, careful not to let the lock click. Hugging the wall, she and Anna crept down the stairs, deliberately avoiding the second and seventh tread—both notorious for their creaks.
As a child, Elizabeth had made countless late-night runs to the kitchen, thundering down those same steps in search of a snack, only to wake her mother with every groan of the wood. The scolding always came at dawn. She couldn’t risk that now. If her mother entered the room too early and found her gone, everything would unravel.
Cloaked in shadows, they crept down the hall and slipped into the passage leading to the kitchen. Moonlight cut a sharp beam through the window, illuminating a side table still laid with trays from the night’s supper.
Elizabeth and Anna worked quickly, stuffing meat, cheese, candied fruits, small loaves of bread, and two bottles of wine into an extra satchel. Elizabeth hoped it would be enough to last them the journey to Edinburgh—a two-day ride, maybe three if things went poorly. She’d only been there twice as a child and prayed that between the two of them, they’d remember the way.
As children, Elizabeth and Anna had spent countless hours playing in the secret passages hidden throughout the house—passages designed to lead to safety beyond the estate’s walls. Anna had left their getaway horses saddled and waiting at the tunnel’s far end. All they had to do now was reach it without alerting the sentry.
A tapestry concealed the door tucked into a darkened corner beneath the stairs, dimly lit by the lamp Anna had placed there earlier when she slipped into the house like a mouse to retrieve her friend. Elizabeth felt along the wall for the small notch, swallowed her nerves, eased the door open just wide enough, and slipped into the darkness beyond.
Anna gripped Elizabeth’s hand with her left; in her right, she carried the lamp. The light bounced off the stones lining the narrow corridor—floor, walls, and ceiling alike—casting long shadows that nestled in the crevices like secrets. Secrets of lovers who once stole away for midnight trysts, or families fleeing from invaders.
At the corridor’s end, they turned left. A right turn would have sent them spiraling back into the confusing maze of passageways. They moved quickly, retracing the familiar sequence of turns—left, right, right, left—their footsteps thudding against the cobbled floor. The labyrinth had been built to mislead intruders, but Elizabeth and Anna, having mapped it with childhood feet and imagination, knew every twist and turn by heart.
The passageway opened onto one of the old hill forts just beyond the manor grounds. Hamish was stationed there that night. Thanks to a well-placed bribe to Janet, he’d be conveniently distracted for at least the next half hour—more than enough time for Anna and Elizabeth to reach the horses hidden in the nearby copse.
Janet had visited Hamish on more than one occasion without prompting. Anna had overheard her gossiping with one of the other maids and knew Hamish wouldn’t think twice about her appearance—nor decline her invitation for a little mischief atop the watchtower.
The April night still held a lingering chill, but a few blankets and a bit of vigorous distraction would take care of that.
Nearly breathless from the rush of excitement and exertion, the two women eased open the final door and stepped into the night—into what they hoped was freedom.
Moonlight spilled across the field beyond the manor walls like a cold, blue ocean. The breeze stirred the tall grasses into gentle waves, rising and falling like a tide. Somewhere to the east, hidden from view, their horses waited—blissfully unaware of the burden they’d soon carry to deliver two women to freedom.
Elizabeth glanced back toward the manor. Torches flickered along the perimeter wall, each one a reminder that the longer they lingered, the greater the chance her father’s men would catch them. Stealth and speed were their only hope.
Anna scanned the shadows to her right. She spotted the silhouette of a guard moving west along the wall. That gave them only moments to dash across the rest of the field and vanish into the trees before he turned and headed back.
The moonlight might have been perfect for travel—but it was a traitor to escape.
With a quick squeeze of Elizabeth’s hand, Anna gave the signal. Skirts lifted high for unhindered strides, they bolted across the hundred yards of open field, diving behind the first trees they reached.
Their chests heaved. Breaths came fast and shallow. Time was moving too quickly. The horses still needed to be packed and mounted. They had to get on the road—west to Stirling, across the narrow bend in the River Forth, and onward to Edinburgh—before Janet finished her rendezvous with Hamish.
Anna had argued for taking a boat across the Firth of Forth, but Elizabeth dismissed it as too obvious, too easy to follow. Besides, she wanted to sell the horses in Edinburgh to help finance the rest of their journey.
There was no time to rest. No time for second thoughts.
With swift strides, they reached the waiting horses. Elizabeth secured the blanket and satchels behind her saddle. Anna added the extra satchel of food to the one already strapped to the rear of hers. With firm grips and practiced swings, they mounted up—riding fast, riding hard, riding as far away as the road would take them.
You know, there’s still time for you to turn back,
Elizabeth said quietly as they rode side by side down the wooded path, trees hemming them in on either side. A gallop would draw attention—the pounding hooves would be a dead giveaway—so they kept to an easy gait, just enough speed to make progress without noise. It left room for whispers.
If you want to stay, you should. I’m the one being auctioned off to an old man.
Why would I stay?
You’re supposed to marry Gareth. At least he’s young. And decent-looking.
Aye. He’s good looking, I’ll give you that,
Anna said, adjusting her cloak over her head. And he’d be a good provider, no doubt. But he’s also my brother’s best friend. Do you think I want Robert meddling in my marriage for the rest of my life?
She shook her head. Nay. Best I go with you.
Do you think we can really do this?
Elizabeth,
Anna said firmly. If Elizabeth was wavering, then she had to be the one to keep them both steady. Unless you want to be used for your father’s ambitions, I suggest we find our way to Edinburgh and get on the first ship that’ll take us far from here.
I don’t trust that he’s doing what’s right for me.
Exactly,
Anna said. Let your mother handle his rage in the morning when he realizes his precious pawn has vanished. He’s only marrying you off to curry favor with King William and Queen Mary—to clean up the mess he made backing King James.
It’s hollow homage,
Elizabeth muttered. You know he’s a Jacobite. And Mother? She’ll go along with whatever he says. He’ll rant and rave, smash a few plates, toss back whatever he’s drinking these days, and then send his hounds after me.
She paused, throat tight. After us. He’ll send them after us. And your father… your father will take a strap to your back for helping me.
The weight of it all settled hard in her chest—the danger Anna faced because of her.
Shall we put some distance behind us, then?
Anna asked, sitting tall in her saddle. I’d prefer to keep the flesh on my back—and not gift it to my father’s belt.
With a nudge of their heels, the women spurred their horses forward and rode into the fading darkness, away from the rising sun.
Elizabeth turned in the saddle just once. The manor sat cloaked in shadows behind them, silent and still. No sign yet of the storm to come. Her jaw tightened. If there was regret, she didn’t let it rise.
She faced forward again and leaned closer to Anna.
We’ll make it,
she whispered. Somewhere out there, we’ll be more than what they planned for us.
CHAPTER TWO
Lord Hector Black, third son of James Black, Fourth Duke of Ormonde, rode toward the mid-morning sun and the looming gates of Balcarres House—ancestral seat of Alexander Lindsay, 11th Earl of Crawford. His father’s instructions had been clear: confirm that the young bride-to-be was real, presentable, and willing.
The gates creaked in the distance, still a few minutes away.
Hector had gladly accepted the task upon returning from a term with the Royal Navy. Not because he approved of the match—far from it—but because it gave him the perfect excuse to leave the chaos of his father’s estate behind. The thought of his father marrying a woman three years younger than himself was unsettling, to say the least.
This trip was just another excuse to get out of the house,
Hector said. Andrew, please ride ahead and announce my arrival,
he added, glancing toward the man on his left. I’d like this to be a quick visit, William.
Aye? You’ve got something better to do?
William replied with a grin.
Hector had brought a small entourage on the journey—mostly to give the men a chance to stretch their legs and enjoy some fresh air after his return to Ireland. A break from household responsibilities, rent collections, and endless business dealings. A lads’ holiday, of sorts—granted official blessing by the duke himself. And really, how could William’s wife argue with a mission ordered by His Grace?
I never said I was eager to go home. My father just wanted me conveniently out of sight while the King visits Ireland—something about obedience, religion, Scots, bishops… and a dozen other matters I’ve no interest in.
Hector shot a sly smirk toward William. I’ve already done my duty, thank you very much—His Majesty’s Royal Navy saw to that.
Shall we detour to France instead? Frolic around the court a bit?
William teased. You know how scandalous the French can be.
Overhead, the rising sun strained against a ceiling of thick gray clouds—perfectly matching Hector’s mood and his day’s unwanted agenda.
Gracious, no!
Hector said with a sharp exhale. You might not have heard, but tensions with France are brewing again. I doubt we’d be as welcome there as we were a few years ago.
Again?
Of course, again,
Hector said, waving a hand flippantly. When isn’t there nearly an act of war between us and them?
They continued toward the house at a leisurely pace. A small chapel along the road caught Hector’s eye, and he wondered how many Earls of Crawford were buried there—watching over these lands long after their time. When Elizabeth left this place for Ireland, who would inherit the title once the earl passed on? She was an only child. No son to claim the role. Perhaps a brother. A cousin. It mattered little to Hector. He had no appetite for titles or ancestral burdens. His future lay elsewhere—ideally, in India—far from aristocratic drama and arranged marriages.
Don’t say that loud enough for your father to hear,
William said. He’ll happily send you back to sea before you’ve unpacked your bags.
Don’t tempt me. If it weren’t for that wretched captain who thought himself God, I might’ve stayed longer.
From behind the house, dogs barked—a chorus of warning rising into the morning air. A few men working the gardens dropped their tools and moved toward the rear of the house, prepared to greet the approaching riders.
You could’ve requested a reassignment,
William said.
Think I didn’t?
Hector shook his head. My father either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care how terrible some of his so-called friends are.
One day we’ll be those terrible friends,
William said with a grin.
We’re lucky our fathers didn’t send us to the Church instead.
Could be worse. We get to inspect your father’s prized cow.
I’m still not sure which would be worse.
Before William could respond, they reached the front of the great stone house, its façade commanding a proud view of the Firth of Forth. On clear days—when the fog lifted and the sun broke through—the distant skyline of Edinburgh could be seen shimmering across the water.
But for Elizabeth, raised within those walls, twenty miles across the estuary might as well have been a world away.
Two attendants stepped forward to take the reins, while another pair brought a wooden mounting step to assist the riders. Hector and William dismounted, and Hector paused—raising a hand to stop one of the attendants from leading his horse away. He reached into a saddlebag, retrieved something, then gave a brief nod for the man to proceed.
At the top of the stone steps stood their host, framed in the heavy architecture of the entryway. Andrew waited beside him, having arrived ahead to announce their presence.
Hector stepped two paces ahead of his companions, and the three men bowed in graceful unison to the Earl of Crawford.
My lord,
Hector said as he rose from the bow. My father, James Black, the Fourth Duke of Ormonde, sends his sincerest regards to your lordship.
He produced a letter from beneath his black wool cloak, sealed in thick red wax with his father’s signet pressed into its center.
Alexander Lindsay was a tall and imposing figure. At five-ten, with hair black as a Highland midnight, he ruled his estate with an iron will. Everyone knew he resented having no male heir. Mary had given birth to Elizabeth just months after their wedding—and that had been their only surviving child. Miscarriages and infant deaths had plagued them since, until the earl eventually withdrew from his wife’s bedchamber altogether.
He had dabbled elsewhere, but no other heirs came. He blamed the women, blamed himself, even blamed God—but never stopped longing for a son.
And Elizabeth? She was her mother’s daughter through and through: auburn hair, green eyes, fair skin. None of his fierce features. None of his fire.
He kept her at arm’s length, showed her no affection. So when the opportunity came to use her as a pawn in his political game, he didn’t hesitate.
A marriage to the Duke of Ormonde—thirty years her senior—would secure the alliance. The title wouldn’t go to the duke himself, but to his brother. Still, it was a connection worth selling his daughter for.
Alexander invited the men inside, leading them to the sitting room on the right.
Lady Elizabeth will be down shortly,
he said, settling into a large chair. The deep blue upholstery and intricate woodwork matched the weight of his presence—and the tension hanging in the room.
Hector and the others remained standing, suddenly very aware of how the furniture seemed designed to make visitors feel small.
Yes, my lord. We look forward to meeting your daughter,
Hector said politely. My father asked me to ensure all was well and that the maiden is eager to join him in Ireland.
What he wanted to add—but didn’t—was that he’d have preferred the girl wait for him, rather than the other way around.
A soft knock came at the door before it creaked open. Hector straightened, ready to greet his father’s bride-to-be.
A woman in her forties slipped through the doorway. She was attractive—graceful even—but far older than he’d expected. His father had been promised a nineteen-year-old lass, not someone who looked old enough to be his aunt.
Hector’s eyes darted to William, then to Andrew. Did they see what he was seeing? William gave a subtle shrug.
Lord Hector,
said Alexander, may I introduce you to my wife, the countess.
Relief flooded Hector’s chest, and he let his shoulders drop.
My lord,
Mary said meekly, might I have a word with you?
Please fetch Lady Elizabeth,
Alexander said, brushing off the request.
Aye, my lord—about her…
Mary’s brow furrowed. She glanced toward the door, then back to her husband. I believe I need but a moment of your time.
Alexander rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ignored the groan of the second tread and skipped over the seventh without thought. Reaching the top, he flung open the first door on the left—Elizabeth’s room.
The bed hadn’t been slept in. Pillows still fluffed. Blankets tucked neatly. Not a wrinkle or dent in sight.
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, my lord,
Mary said, having followed him. Our daughter was not in her bed this morning when Janet went to wake her.
Ah, yes. Janet—the very maid who had helped the two women escape—now played her part as the wide-eyed innocent. She claimed ignorance with practiced grace, offering not the faintest hint of involvement.
Elizabeth had always treated her kindly. And Janet had been well compensated for her silence. She had no desire to face the earl’s wrath, and her purse was far better off for the effort. As far as she knew, the two young women were off on a harmless adventure. She had no idea she'd played a part in what Elizabeth would later call The Escape, nor could she grasp the lasting consequences of that bold departure.
Janet stood dutifully outside the room, hands folded in front of her, face the picture of sincerity.
No, my lord,
she said sweetly. I know nothing of Lady Elizabeth’s departure. I was in my room, sleeping.
A lie. But a polished one.
Where? How?
Her maid found this on Elizabeth’s dressing table,
Mary said, holding up a small, folded note between her index and middle finger.
Alexander snatched the missive from her hand. His eyes swept the page, but the words blurred as fury rose behind them. He blinked hard, rubbed at his face, and read again—this time slower, angrier. His blood boiled hotter with each line.
Why are you just now bringing this to my attention?
he snapped.
I tried, husband,
Mary said evenly. But you wouldn’t answer my summons.
She shook her head, and the effort sent her hastily tied hair tumbling loose. Red waves fell halfway down her back as she drew herself up to her full five-foot-four height.
She’d read the note, too. And knew better than to blame herself.
It wasn’t her fault Elizabeth had fled.
It was his—his arrogance, his disregard, his bargain to trade their daughter like a broodmare to a stranger twice her age.
Mary had known this day would come. She had often dreamed of escaping herself. Elizabeth had done what she never could.
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—one part grief, two parts pride.
Of course she would miss her daughter. But she whispered a wish into the universe just the same:
Do not return, my love. Not to this house. Not to this country.
Downstairs, Hector stood stiffly as the sounds of a marital storm rolled through the stone halls above. Alexander’s voice—booming, biting, unrelenting—echoed down the stairwell with enough force to rattle Hector’s teeth.
This was not how he’d planned to spend his day.
He hadn’t intended to remain at Balcarres more than a few minutes. But the longer the earl and countess squabbled upstairs—over who knew what—the longer he was trapped in Scotland.
The three men exchanged glances, silent but exasperated, as the voices upstairs rose and fell.
It’s my understanding,
William said dryly, tilting his blond head toward Hector, that the young maiden wasn’t quite prepared for our early arrival.
We were only half a day ahead of schedule,
Andrew added. Surely she’ll be better prepared for your father.
The three chuckled—wry, tired, and entirely at Elizabeth’s expense—still unaware just how far ahead of them she truly was.
A door slammed.
Thunderous footsteps charged down the stairs—each one radiating fury. Two treads groaned under the full weight of Alexander Lindsay’s rage.
The parlor door flew open.
Alexander’s eyes blazed as he scanned the room for a target. Hector instinctively took a step back—then caught himself and squared his shoulders, stretching to his full five-foot-ten. He would not be intimidated.
Alexander stormed across the room in four long strides.
Hector cleared his throat and tried for calm. Shall the lady require a few moments to finish dressing?
Cool. Confident. Controlled.
That was the goal.
In reality, he tripped over the word shall more than once. The first time, his voice cracked. The second time, it squeaked.
Third time’s the charm.
Alexander moved to the window, staring out at the neatly manicured front gardens. He took immense pride in appearances—his home, his lineage, his earldom—and most of all, his ability to control any situation.
Elizabeth’s disappearance had upended all of it.
Panic churned in his chest, but as always, he masked it with fury.
He drew in a long breath, held it, and released it slowly through flared nostrils—an attempt to vent the flames without setting the room ablaze.
It would appear,
he said stiffly, that Lady Elizabeth is having doubts about the marriage to your father.
Each word scraped out of his throat, brittle with shame.
Mayhap, if we could only speak for a moment—
Hector began.
Alexander lifted a hand to silence him. Not possible.
He shook his head and his hand in unison, as if flinging away the facts he couldn’t control.
It seems my daughter would rather live in exile than consent to an arranged marriage.
All three young men straightened at the earl’s declaration.
As much as Hector didn’t want his father to marry, he wanted even less to return home empty-handed—and face the duke’s wrath. His instructions had been simple: confirm the bride’s existence and her suitability. Thus far, he’d failed on both counts.
Are you planning to send men to retrieve Lady Elizabeth?
he asked.
Alexander’s face flushed with fury, cycling through shades of red fast enough to rival a wine stain.
I have no intention of claiming that child as mine,
he spat. I should never have allowed my wife to lie to me. No child of mine would disrespect me in such—
"Yet she is your child, Hector interrupted.
Recognized. Declared. Her standing as your daughter is precisely why my father agreed to the marriage."
Aye. That—and her dowry,
Alexander grumbled.
Aye,
Hector said flatly. And her dowry is promised to my father, with or without the bride.
He watched the barometer of the earl’s temper spike—ears glowing crimson, cheeks burning, nostrils flaring.
"If you want her for your father, you can go find the lass, Alexander snapped.
I’m done with her."
We’ll take the dowry,
Hector replied coolly. Regardless of your daughter’s presence. You could send your men after her—but I suspect they’d return her damaged. And that would make her less useful to my father.
He tapped his finger to his lips, thoughtful. Fortunately… I have a proposition for you.
Alexander narrowed his eyes. Aye,
he said slowly, clearly not trusting whatever deal the young buck was about to propose involving his runaway daughter.
My men and I will track her down,
Hector said. She’ll come willingly—or she won’t. Either way, she’ll be unharmed. That’s a condition my father won’t bend on, and I don’t trust you or your men to deliver her in one piece.
You would find her?
Alexander asked, incredulous.
Aye. And she shall not return here.
Hector gave a shallow bow. You’ll send her belongings and her dowry to my father, along with a message: I will deliver the bride myself.
After gathering what information they could from servants, lady maids, stable hands, and guards, Hector, William, and Andrew took their leave—bounding down the front steps two at a time.
You’ve got a large pair of bullocks on you,
William said with a laugh, clapping Hector on the back.
Hector finally let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Let’s just hope I don’t get them shot off chasing some girl through the Highlands,
he muttered.
William grinned. Wouldn’t be the first time one of us nearly died for a redhead.
Hector rolled his eyes, swung into the saddle, and gave the manor one last look.
God help me, he thought. I’ve just agreed to hunt down a woman who doesn’t want to be found—for a man who probably doesn’t deserve her.
He gave his horse the signal and turned toward the road.
Scotland stretched out before him—wild, untamed, and full of trouble.
Just like Lady Elizabeth.
CHAPTER THREE
E lizabeth,
Anna whispered, giving her friend’s shoulder a firm shake beneath the worn quilt. We cannot rest for long.
They’re not going to find us,
Elizabeth mumbled into her pillow, then groaned as she stretched her limbs with lazy defiance. She sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from her eyes as the dim gray light of morning filtered through the crooked shutters. The two of them shared a lumpy featherbed in the back room of Missus Graham’s cottage—a squat, smoky little dwelling tucked on the edge of Linlithgow, not far from the loch. Through the rain-streaked window, the spires of Linlithgow Palace loomed like watchful sentinels. Elizabeth eyed them warily.
They’d chosen this spot carefully, steering well clear of the castle and anyone inside it who might recognize the earl’s daughter. It was no secret how fast word traveled in noble circles—especially when there was gossip involved. But Missus Graham had asked no questions, and for the right coin, had offered them everything they needed: oats, shelter, rest for their horses, and not a single raised brow.
All will be well,
Elizabeth murmured as she nestled back under the covers. Outside, a soft April rain tapped gently on the roof, a lullaby that tempted her back into dreams. We’ll leave early in the morn after we break our fast.
Early the next morning, the sun strained weakly against a sky choked with thick gray clouds. It made a brief attempt to brighten the day before losing its battle entirely. What remained was a damp, colorless drizzle clinging to everything—the kind of rain that soaked more through persistence than intensity.
Aye, stop complaining. It’s but a smirr,
Anna said as she pulled her brown wool cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric already damp and beginning to cling.
It’s enough of a drizzle to make my hair look like a wet cat,
Elizabeth muttered, tugging her own cloak up and over her head with an exaggerated huff.
"That is why you have a hood. Anna pointed at the sodden wool that had slipped halfway off the back of Elizabeth’s head.
Cover your head and let’s get on with it."
A reluctant sigh escaped Elizabeth’s lips, but she obeyed, casting one last longing glance toward the warm light that flickered inside the cottage behind them.
And with that, the two women mounted their horses, cloaks pulled tight, and began the last stretch of their ride toward Edinburgh.
On to the adventure, then, hm?
Elizabeth said softly. Excitement fluttered in her chest—but so did doubt. She wanted to believe they were headed toward freedom. She just needed someone else to believe it too.
The road unspooled before them in a ribbon of dark, damp earth, flanked by rolling green hills freckled with sheep and lowing cattle. Thick tufts of mist hovered over the ground, curling around hooves and ankles like curious spirits reluctant to let them pass. Rainwater pooled in wagon ruts, reflecting the sky in scattered fragments of silver.
Fields on either side