The Wedding Ring Quest. Carla Kelly

his. ‘I’ve never had this luxury, either.’ She couldn’t help herself. She brushed the hair from Nathan’s forehead. ‘His mother must have been a beautiful woman.’

      ‘She was. I never saw a bonnier lady.’

      He must have thought such a comment was a bit cavalier, since she was a woman, too. He touched her nose with his finger, just a light touch. ‘But I do like freckles, something a man never sees in the Iberian Peninsula. ’Night, Mary, and goodbye, I suppose.’

      He picked up his sleeping child again and, key in hand, went a few doors down the hall. She almost went to help him when he fumbled with the key and kept Nathan from waking up, but he managed. He closed the door and that was that.

      * * *

      But it wasn’t. Hours later, Mary was still wide awake and staring at the ceiling. She worried about money first, then reminded herself that she was excellent at economising and York wasn’t so far. Besides, if she needed more funds, Uncle Samuel would send them.

      Thank goodness that the forlorn Miss Bruce didn’t pine for a man in Bath. York likely had modest establishments for careful travellers. Mary worried next about her fellow travellers, then reminded herself that since Aunt Martha had never felt inclined to send a servant to accompany her on trips about Edinburgh, she had long ago perfected her stern, leave-me-alone face that could quell all but the most relentless bores and roués. No one would bother her on the Royal Mail, not even in England.

      She had no remedy for the loneliness that was beginning to plague her, even though she had only been a little more than a week on her quest for the Christmas cake. The days were lively enough, because there was usually a woman or two on the Royal Mail of sufficient gentility to share a nod with and then a polite conversation. And she always carried a book in her reticule. The nights were troublesome, cooped up in one inn or another with no one to speak to, once she had tracked down, acquired, sifted through and then discarded the Christmas cakes.

      Until she had begun this impromptu journey, Mary hadn’t realised how much she enjoyed popping down to the kitchen for a chin-wag with Mrs Morison, or even listening to her Aunt Martha complain about this or that, or Uncle Sam speak to her until he retreated behind his morning newspaper. Cousin Dina hadn’t been any fun at all, since she had agreed to marry Mr Page.

      ‘It’s only a few more days to be lonely and then you will be home in Edinburgh, Mary,’ she told the ceiling. ‘Buck up a wee bit.’

      That should have been enough, but she took her thoughts a step further tonight. Maybe she could blame it on Mr Barraclough and his little hopes, dreams and flights of fancy. He was a man living with a maiden aunt, perhaps for years, and he was fussy and silly already. All good wishes aside, Mary doubted supremely that Miss Jennie Lynch would ever stand with him under the kissing bough.

      She lay in bed and realised that the saddest specimen of humankind in the world must be a ridiculous spinster or bachelor. Spinster I may be, but please God, not a ridiculous one, she thought as she fluffed her pillow, then pounded it and tried to sleep.

      Nothing worked, so she thought about Captain Rennie, wondering how a man did what he did, taking the punishment of broadsides at close range or typhoons in the South China Sea without wanting to run screaming into a dark corner, as she thought she might. And how in the world did he maintain his balance on a slanting or pitching deck? She wanted to ask him, but the opportunity was gone.

      Besides the obvious differences, Mary suspected that men were different in other ways, too. Her urge had always been to stay as far away from trouble as she could. Possibly if women ran the world, no one would fight. Although still not married to her, perhaps Lieutenant MacDowell would at least be alive to know his son, instead of dead on a Spanish battlefield he had probably never heard of, before it became his final resting place.

      Mary wondered when her ever-so-distant cousin Ross had last spent Christmas ashore. It was too late to ask him. She knew the mail coach to Dumfries left before the sun was up. He and his son would be long gone before the York Mail left. She only knew that because she had overheard some of the other passengers talking about York. She would have to trust his sister to make his holiday—his shore leave—a good one. On that note, she finally slept.

      * * *

      Ross knew his son would go back to sleep as soon as he was in his nightshirt, but he didn’t. Instead, Nathan put his hands behind his head, wriggled into a comfortable spot and frowned.

      ‘What?’ Ross asked. ‘I know that look.’

      He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell his boy that Inez had given him that same look a time or two, when he wasn’t quite measuring up. A pity his son never knew his own mother.

      Nathan didn’t question his comment. ‘It’s this, Da,’ he began. ‘I don’t think we should let Cousin Mary travel by herself on the Royal Mail. I mean, the common coach is fine for us, but she’s a lady.’

      ‘Aye to that. You know, I’ve been having the same thought. What can we do, though, outside of kidnapping her?’

      ‘Oh, Da!’

      They laughed together. Ross lay down beside his son, assuming the same position, hands behind his head. After a moment’s thought, he leaned on his elbow. ‘Are you expecting me to think of something?’ he asked.

      Nathan nodded. ‘You’re the man here.’

      ‘Very well. I’ll think about it.’ He leaned over and kissed his son, then rose to put on his own nightshirt. ‘Now go to sleep.’

      ‘We really don’t have much time,’ Nathan pointed out. He closed his eyes, his expression blissful. ‘Da, she touched me and I liked it.’

      She touched me, too, and I liked it, Ross thought, surprised. ‘All right. I’ll devise a plan. Will that do? Will you go to sleep now?’

      * * *

      When Mary woke up, dawn struggled in the east. She must have been roused by the sound of the Royal Mail, departing for Scotland. She yearned to be on it, even if she found herself squashed between ordinary folk headed to early markets, as she had found on other early mornings. Well, Captain Rennie and Nathan would only be crowded for a few hours themselves, since Dumfries was not far. Her destination was York, which made her sigh, turn her face to the wall and snuggle deeper into her blankets, eager to put it far from her mind for another hour.

      * * *

      When she woke again, the room was light and she could not ignore the day. She sat up, not pleased with herself and even more cross with Mrs Morison, who had so calmly enlisted her for this trip. No matter; Mary could put on her quelling face and no one on the Royal Mail would trouble her with conversation.

      She washed and dressed, then went into the sitting room, looking with real distaste on the Cumberland sausage and wishing she had directed the innkeep to remove it after the Rennies had left. She would do that when she went into the commons room to request breakfast, a prospect that didn’t thrill her. The commons rooms were usually peopled by farmers resting after taking produce to market and she did dislike being ogled.

      She stopped at the door and looked down at a folded square of paper pushed into the room, her name on it. She smiled to see ‘Cousin Mary’ and picked it up, curious. She read the note and her eyes opened wider. She read it through again out loud, thinking she might comprehend better what Captain Rennie had wrought.

      ‘“The Lords of the Admiralty wish to inform Miss Mary Rennie that Captain Ross Rennie, post, requests and requires her permission to serve as an escort during times of war, and all trips into enemy territory—York,”’ she read, shaking her head in amazement. She laughed out loud to read smaller printed words in parenthesis. “Aye, we are at peace now, but I know my employer pretty well and do not trust him to stay on that little island so close to France.” You would know,’ she murmured.

      The note was close-written, but easy to read. Perhaps the economy of space came because he was used to writing in a ship’s log. She scanned the remaining paragraph, gasped at his impertinence,