Free Amanda Scott by Highland Fling Page B

have friends,” she said. “Surely, you could spare me a shilling or whatever it costs to hire a chair.”
    “But I can’t,” he said flatly. “I gave my word.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what does that matter? You do not want to see your brother—and certainly I don’t want to see him—so there is no need for you to take me there.” She stared at him in dismay when a new thought struck her. “Look here, do you mean to drag me back to that horrid place afterward? The magistrate said you were to do so if I proved to be lying, and you know even now that I lied through my teeth.”
    “You have not been listening,” he said, tightening his grip on her arm and urging her downhill. “We’ll go this way, to the river. You will not want to walk all the way to my house, so I shall splurge and hire a barge for us at Blackfriars.”
    Maggie could see the Thames—wide, blue, and sparkling—at the bottom of the hill, and curious to see the river that had been called the lifeblood of London, she let him guide her toward it without more protest, but she did not intend to drop the subject altogether. Looking up a moment later, searching his face for answers, she said, “I heard everything that was said in that courtroom, sir, and that man said you were to return me if you were to discover that I had not spoken the truth.”
    “What you did not hear, however, was me saying I would. I said only that I would engage to present you to Rothwell and that I will do. I don’t give my word lightly, but when I do, I feel honor bound to keep it.” He grimaced again at her appearance. “I do wish you had something more presentable to wear.”
    “No more than I wish it,” she retorted, “but all the baggage I brought was on my coach, and that entire vehicle—not to mention four horses—disappeared in Alsatia before I had regained my wits, so I cannot tell you what became of my other dresses.”
    “So that tale was true, was it? Were you really in Alsatia at the time?”
    “I was. My coachman, being new to London, took a wrong turning and in a single moment drove from a perfectly civilized road into an altogether uncivilized one. My coach was mobbed and overturned. I am lucky to have escaped with my life.”
    “How did the coachman manage to go amiss?”
    “I am sure I cannot tell you. His directions were quite clear, to take Fetter Lane from Holborn, turn into Fleet Street, and then take the sixth turning toward the river.”
    “He must have turned the wrong way into Fleet Street. I do not know which street is the sixth, but I can tell you that nearly any turning he might have taken from Fetter Lane east—until you were well past Bridewell, at all events—would take you into Alsatia. The fashionable areas are to the west. Look here,” he added, albeit in the same matter-of-fact tone, “were you harmed in any other way?”
    Her head was pounding now. She looked at him, encountered a straight look, and blushed, saying quietly, “I bumped my head, and it aches a bit, but that is all.”
    “Then you were lucky indeed,” he said. “Now, do you mean to tell me your name, or must I make one up? I shall need to call you something, you know, when I present you to Rothwell.”
    “I am Margaret MacDrumin, Mr. Carsley.” Watching him carefully, she could see no sign that he recognized her name.
    He nodded, saying, “I take it then, that you are now resigned to meeting Ned.”
    “I suppose I am.” She sighed. “Will he be very angry?”
    Carsley shrugged. “We must hope not, but if he is, you may believe that he will be more angry with me than with you.”
    That was hardly reassuring, but she could think of nothing to say in response, and he fell silent for a time. Despite her headache, she was drinking in the sights and sounds of the city. There were costermongers everywhere, crying their wares, and a man and woman danced for pennies on the footway.
    As they neared the riverbank, the noise grew louder. Iron cartwheels