As it turned out, they travelled for several more miles until the sun was beginning to wane, before Peter saw Hugo lingering ahead on the outskirts of a small hamlet several miles away from Gloucester.
They were too close for Peter to make eye contact with him, but heaved a sigh of relief when Hugo slowly turned his horse down the main thoroughfare.
“What is he doing?” Jemima whispered, casting a furtive glance around.
Peter smiled encouragingly at her. “He is signalling to us that this village is fine, and we can go straight to the tavern.”
Jemima scowled and wondered if she had missed something. “Is this some sort of secret boy’s code?” She hated being kept out of the loop and hated secrets even more.
“If you like,” Peter replied, knowing she was waiting for him to elaborate when she continued to stare at him. He could almost hear her mentally tut and sigh at him, and fought the urge to smile. “For both of our sakes, we cannot talk to Hugo directly. To do so would immediately connect him to us and put all of us at risk if Scraggan or his men are in the area. I don’t know what was back there, but it was something that Hugo wasn’t comfortable with. We have agreed that he will do certain things to tell me when places are all right for us to approach. If he is visible and turned toward us, he has seen something that could pose a threat. If we have to drive through somewhere, Hugo is going to circle around us and ride ahead, to check out the next few villages before we get there. We are travelling a lot slower than he is, partly because we have to travel by road, and partly because we have one horse pulling the two of us. Hugo can jump fences and ride across country to get where he needs to go, faster.”
Jemima shook her head, and considered the lengths they were going to. She was about to ask if all the subterfuge was necessary when she remembered the stern look on Hugo’s face as they had passed, and her own fear at the thought that Scraggan or his men were nearby.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Peter asked after several moments of thoughtful, yet tense silence. “It’s not too late to turn back you know.”
Jemima immediately thought of Eliza and Edward, and her friend alone and at risk still in Padstow, and shook her head. “I have to do this, Peter.”
Peter sighed and shook his head. “Then onwards it is. I don’t know about you, but if I stay on this seat any longer I may not be able to stand upright again. Let’s hope Hugo has found us somewhere to stay that isn’t too far away.”
“Amen to that,” Jemima replied fervently. She realised she was still pressed close to Peter, and wondered if she should ease back a little. But he had made no protest at her closeness, and seemed to have forgotten he still had his arm around her.
Placing a gentle hand on his thigh, she lowered her head to his broad shoulder, smiling slightly when his arm immediately held her near, and he kissed the top of her head.
“Are you alright?” he murmured gently, knowing how arduous the day had been for himself, let alone Jemima, who was still recovering from her ordeal.
“I’m fine,” Jemima whispered, kissing his chin. “Just fine.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Would you mind leaving a candle on tonight?” Jemima murmured from beneath the sheets. They had followed the same nightly ritual as the previous night. Peter had just returned from his meeting with Hugo, and his absence had given Jemima a few moments of privacy to see to her ablutions and get into bed.
“Of course. I got some more candles from the innkeeper earlier,” Peter replied, eyeing the tiny bed in distaste.
Although they had turned into the yard of the run-down inn with a sigh of relief, their joy had been short-lived as they had studied the shabby, unkempt state of the place. Luckily it hadn’t turned out to be a bawdy house; Peter would certainly have refused to let Jemima stay there, but it was only one very small step above.
He eyed the sheets warily, unsurprised to find Jemima still in her shift and lying beneath a threadbare blanket. The pillow covers they had taken from the previous night’s inn covered the grime on the pillows they were going to use.
“If you wake up itching in the morning, it’s probably the fleas on the bed, rather than me,” Peter declared flatly, opting to remove his shirt but leave his breeches on, before climbing beneath the blanket.
He turned on his side to face her, knowing she was waiting.
“It seems that Scraggan’s men were in the tavern,” Peter announced, mentally cursing at the shadows that appeared in the depths of her amber eyes. “It appears they are on their way back to Padstow to tell Scraggan you are dead.” He had broken their agreement and sought Hugo out to ask him.
“How do we know that?” Jemima murmured, wondering if they were a search party out to find them.
“Because Hugo went in for a quick pint and overheard them discussing the hangings. They were talking about who would get to be the one who broke the news.” Peter yawned and rolled onto his back.
“That’s macabre,” Jemima grumbled, lifting her head as Peter slid his arm across her shoulders to draw her close.
“That’s Scraggan for you,” Peter countered, quirking a brow at her and waiting while she found a comfortable spot on his chest. They were already acting like a married couple, he mused silently, staring up at the cracks in the water-stained ceiling with deep masculine satisfaction warming the blood in his veins. Ignoring the aching in his loins, he tried to ignore the dips and curves of her feminine body lying against him, and closed his eyes.
“Get some sleep, because it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.” He smiled when Jemima groaned.
Sometime during the night, Peter was woken by the sound of mumbling. Jemima had moved to lie on her back and was now thrashing her head against the pillow, whispering incoherently.
“Jemima?” He rose up on one elbow and leaned over her to try to shake her awake.
He didn’t expect her eyes to pop open and for her to stare at him, having seemingly brought herself out of her nightmare.