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B irdy smiled contentedly as they settled back into the coach after a rest stop. If it weren’t for the undercurrent of anxiety over being followed, this journey would serve as a fine honeymoon. The farther from London, the more Crispin relaxed, allowing her to examine facets of him she’d only glimpsed before.

Mr. Johnstone and Luke proved to be able and affable traveling companions. They’d bought Luke a new set of clothes in Stilton, and he was still strutting around like a peacock. The lad was very curious about her Ojibwe heritage and had asked many questions over the past ten days. His questions were usually thoughtful rather than silly, and she found his earnest curiosity charming.

So far, she’d taught him how to construct a lean-to, assemble a rabbit snare, and build an efficient fire. He’d somehow heard about smoke signals and had been eager to learn them. She didn’t have the heart to explain they were mostly useless for woodland tribes such as hers, but she created enough smoke to make him happy.

Their journey would be over soon. Grimsby was a mere five hours away. They’d arrive just in time to find a place to stable the horses, eat a hot meal, and find a place to sleep. She wished there was a way to somehow keep Johnstone employed. Her father’s enterprises had employed many people over the years. After a while, it was easy to tell which ones would be good and loyal workers. John and Luke Johnstone would be.

Grimsby was small and smelled of fish. Birdy drew in a breath and smiled; the town smelled like her father’s trading post. The resulting wave of homesickness was quickly vanquished by touching Crispin’s hand. Her home was wherever he was now.

She felt closer to her new husband every day. It was as if, bit by bit, the rock exterior he’d encased himself in was chipped away. So many things that he’d kept hidden inside himself, as if he’d swallowed them down, were revealed in brief glimmers when he let down his guard. He no longer hid his cheeky sense of humor or his growing affection.

Her man was a worrier. It was as if he held himself responsible for the entire world. He avoided conflict of any kind when possible. When that was not possible, disagreements and arguments made him physically uncomfortable. He was making himself ill with responsibility.

There was a place for worriers in any tribe. They often reined in the more reckless and considered possibilities no one else could see. They also sometimes stalled productivity. Berries would not be picked because there might be a bear. Everyone knew the berries were needed and there was always a bear.

When venturing from the island to the mainland, someone would call out “Watch for bears!” and everyone would laugh because it was a joke. There was always a bear. An angry bear was a fearsome creature, but no one in the tribe lost sleep because of bears because they trusted that everything that could be done to discourage a rogue bear had been done.

Dunwoody was Crispin’s angry bear. Only Crispin wouldn’t entrust any precaution to anyone but himself.

Johnstone proved his worth yet again by finding a four-room cottage to let in the city with an attached stable generous enough for their traveling coach and four horses. The man was well-traveled and had earlier revealed that this wasn’t his first journey to Grimsby.

Since it had been many years since his childhood visit, Crispin searched for any familiar landmark that might lead them to Dunwoody’s property. Not knowing the duration of their stay, they rented the cottage for a month from the local magistrate. There was no time to hire any other servants before nightfall, so they took their evening meal at the local inn.

“I wish you would stay on a bit here, Mr. Johnstone,” Birdy said as the serving girl approached with their stew and ale. “What are your plans?”

“The stables have a sleeping bench the boy and I can use. In fair weather, we’ll set our pallets up in the garden. I was hoping you’d let us stay there for a few days while we consider our options. Might be time for the boy to spread his wings a bit. He’s interested in them tall ships out in the harbor. Thinks he might try his hand on the sea.”

“Should he need reference, we’d be happy to provide it. Luke,” she said, addressing the boy, “I did not know you were interested in sailing.”

“Sailing, driving a rig, it’s no matter to me, really. I want to see the world. I want to see everything. Mountaintops, wild animals, and far-off places where no other man has laid eyes on before.” Luke’s face lit up as he spoke.

“ Bebaamaadizid ,” Birdy said. “You’re a traveler.”

“Is that an Indian word? Teach me how to say that.” Luke leaned closer to listen.

“Beb-ahh-mah-dizzied,” Birdy sounded out for him as best she could. Her mother’s tribe’s language didn’t always have an English equivalent.

“My people would call you Luke babaa-ayaa , ‘Luke Wanders About’.”

“I like the sound of that. Luke Wanders About.”

“What would they call me?” Crispin asked. “Besides ‘Birdy’s husband’.”

“Probably miishiingwe ,” she said, scrubbing a finger through his thickening beard. “It means hairy face .”

“He gets to be a traveler, and I’m reduced to a hairy face. Doesn’t seem fair,” Crispin teased.

Their meal, a fish stew that at least smelled fresh, was served with a good, crusty bread. It was mostly tasty and very filling. They would all sleep well that night.

The next morning dawned soft and quiet. A light drizzle coupled with thick fog softened the sounds of Grimsby coming to life. It would have been easy to pull up the blanket and go back to sleep. But this wasn’t a holiday journey. They had a job to do. Pushing the blanket aside, Birdy slipped from the bed.

Having just arrived, they had few supplies, but she could make tea. Anything more filling would have to be taken down the street at the Fish Head Pub. If they stayed long enough, she’d stock the kitchen. Behind her, she heard Crispin begin to stir.

“If that’s tea, you’re an angel,” he said before yawning. “I’ve been thinking about what I remember of visiting Grimsby as a child.”

“You were supposed to be sleeping.”

“I did plenty of that too.” He pulled on his trousers and joined her in the kitchen. “I remember a house. Dunwoody’s house. I think if I saw it again, I’d recognize it.”

“We’ve no milk for the tea.”

“I’ll drink it black. We’ll have to use the traveling coach to look for the house. It’s damn conspicuous. If Dunwoody sees it, he’ll know it belongs to my father.”

“We’ll hire a gig from the local stables if it will ease your mind.”

“I hate to spend the money. I need to find the local bank and present my letter of credit. We need more ready cash.”

“Mr. Johnstone is somewhat familiar with the area. Describe the house to him. Maybe he’ll recall it. Or you could ask someone at the Fish Head if they know where Lord Dunwoody resides.”

“I don’t want anyone to tip him off.”

“Mr. Shaw’s last report placed Dunwoody firmly hiding in his office in London. He could not have known where we’d be going. You’re inventing things to be worried about.” If only she could remove some of the worry weighing down his shoulders. Was his stubborn independence from lack of tribe or lack of trust? How had he come to be this way?

“Maybe you’re right. Did you heat enough water for washing or should I go to the well?”

“It’s by the grate, keeping warm.”

“If only they had a tub, we could bathe together.” Crispin pulled her into his arms and held her close.

“Parts of you are more awake than the others,” Birdy teased as he pressed his erection into her hip. “Should we return to the bed?”

“I wish. But, no, we need to start our search.”

In the coach, they traveled up and down the coast scouting out grand houses. There weren’t that many and none of them jogged Crispin’s memory. She should have insisted on hiring saddle horses for the day. Their coach was cumbersome and stood out like a sore thumb in the humble countryside. They attracted attention every time Mr. Johnstone stopped and asked for directions.

Crispin’s method of blustering his way through any difficulty wasn’t serving them well. She knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t yet ready to share his burden with her, so she kept her lips sealed. He’d come to the conclusion himself if she gave him enough time.

Did he not recall how well they worked together when they found Mr. Shaw? The thought of their old ally saddened her. Were they the cause of his death? If they couldn’t find the house of Crispin’s memories today, she’d suggest they move on to another town. Perhaps the wilds of Scotland would be good for easing Crispin’s worry. She’d heard outrageous stories of the highlands from some of the trappers back home. Surely no one would follow them there.

“I’ve been racking my brain,” Crispin said at last when they’d stopped to water and feed the horses. “What might have seemed like a grand house to the child I was, I’m now considering as a grown man. The building was ‘L’ shaped with a ground floor and one upper floor. One of the ends of the ‘L’ was made of a crazy quilt of stone blocks. The upper windows were oddly shaped. Pointed at the top,” he explained. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“We’ve been up and down the coast, milord,” Mr. Johnstone said, shaking his head. “The last place looked as if it was abandoned sometime last century. Come,” he said, “Draw the shape of them windows in the dirt here so I can keep my eyes open for them.”

Quickly finding a proper pointy stick, Crispin drew a row of four pointed-top windows and added a roofline as he recalled it. He was still adding details when Birdy noticed a carriage coming up the road. It was a small gig made for local travel with one occupant. She saw neither travel valise nor trunk.

“We’ll have company soon, Mr. Johnstone. Are we far enough off the road?” she asked, even though she knew they were. So engrossed in their drawing, no one else had noticed the approaching carriage traveling toward Grimsby.

“If they’re local, we should show them the drawing,” Crispin said excitedly. “Surely they’ll recognize it.”

“I think it unwise,” Birdy blurted out, but it was too late. There was little for the people of Grimsby to do other than fish and gossip. By tomorrow, everyone would know who they were and what they were looking for.

“Hey-o,” Mr. Johnstone shouted out, waving his arms in the air to attract the other driver’s attention.

The traveler, who introduced himself as Mr. Thomas, had indeed seen a building with such windows and knew exactly where it was. He did not know the owner of the estate but had seen smoke from the chimneys for the past month or two.

“I must see it,” Crispin exclaimed when Mr. Thomas was on his way.

“I can get us there before the sun sets,” Mr. Johnstone said with pride. “If we leave now.”

The closer they got to the property; the more uneasy Birdy became. The law was clear. There was nothing Crispin could do. If Lamb’s baby was there and he let his anger get the better of him and snatched the child, she’d have to find a way to get them all out of the country for safety. He’d be outlawed in his native land.

Mr. Johnstone had the good sense not to drive the carriage up the approach to the house and pulled off the road near the tree line. Between the four of them, it was decided that they would split into two groups and approach on foot. Not confident of their success in spotting an infant child, Birdy was content to be paired with Luke to approach the house at the corner where the two wings met.

“Do you want me to sneak up and peep in the window?” Luke asked, eager to please.

“Not yet,” she replied, placing her hand on his arm to hold him back. “It’s a bright day and the drapes are all open. Let’s try to figure out what each room is before we approach.”

“That looks like a dining room!” Luke called out excitedly.

“Sound travels,” she whispered. “We must be more silent in our quest so we can listen for a baby’s cry. How many chimneys do you see?”

“Eight,” he whispered back.

“Excellent. See, the big ones are likely for kitchen and dining areas. The smaller ones are probably bedrooms. Where do the English put their nurseries?”

“Upstairs, I think,” he answered. “So guests can’t hear the crying.”

“Wait,” she said as the thought occurred to her. “It’s a beautiful, bright, warm day. A good day to take even a small child outside. Let’s follow this hedge and see if we can look into the garden without being seen.”

“We’re going to sneak up like red Indians,” Luke said with a clueless smile.

“No. And yes.” Birdy sighed. She’d forgotten for a moment how the English viewed her people as shifty, wild, savages. This was neither the time nor the place to argue with the boy. He’d clearly meant no personal disrespect.

“I forgot you was an Indian,” Luke said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean it.”

“We won’t speak of it. Come,” she said, ducking lower, so she’d not be seen over the hedge. “Stay low and quiet. Whatever we see, we’ll go back along this hedge and back into the trees, where we can decide what to try next.”

Birdy took the lead and crept to the break in the hedge as quietly as she could. She was still wearing English clothes and found it impossible to be silent in hard-soled shoes. She heard the cry before she saw evidence of the child.

She might not have seen him at all if the nurse hadn’t so quickly reacted to the baby’s outburst. The nurse was an older woman with a kind face, and she handled the baby gently as she lifted him from the wheeled cradle. The infant appeared to be in able hands. Heart pounding, Birdy motioned for Luke to retreat before he whooped in excitement.

“That was the baby his lordship was looking for,” Luke gasped out as soon as they were hidden by the trees once again. “We done it!”

“Maybe,” she answered in a whisper, hoping it would remind the boy they weren’t meant to be heard. “Now we go back to the coach and wait.”

“Wait? We should go tell his lordship.”

“We will not be running around an unfamiliar estate looking for the others. We’ve seen a baby. We have no way of knowing if it’s the right baby. We’ll discuss it with his lordship back at the coach.”

“I don’t mean any further disrespect, milady, but I don’t think his lordship will just give up and walk away if he don’t see that baby.”

Damn . The kid was right.

“Stay here,” she said at last. “I’ll go around through the woods and see if I can find them. If they return while I’m gone, keep them here. I’ll return shortly.” She hoped she was in time to prevent Crispin from doing something rash.

It didn’t take her long to find them; they’d made little effort to hide themselves. They had not yet seen the child but were slowly making their way to the garden and would spot him eventually. She had to get to Crispin first.

She considered removing her shoes but pushed ahead without stopping. To cut the men off before they alarmed the nurse, she’d have to run across open ground where anyone might see her from the house. Weighing the risks, she made a mad dash for the cover of the far end of the hedge where she could warn the men of the nurse’s presence in the garden before they surprised her.

Coming up on them quickly, she grabbed Crispin from behind. Placing her hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t call out, she twisted her body to wrestle him to the ground.

“Shh,” she hissed as she threw Mr. Johnstone a warning look.

“What the hell?” Crispin had the good sense to whisper.

“There’s a baby in the garden with the nurse,” she mouthed.

“You’ve seen him?”

“Yes. The baby is in a cradle.”

He struggled to get loose. “I can’t see him. I have to see him.”

She tightened her grip on him. “It’s dangerous to linger.”

“Just a little while longer. I promised.”

“A little while.” She let him loose and motioned for him to follow her to the place where she’d seen the baby. Every instinct in her body was telling her to leave this place, but she buried the feeling in order to indulge her new husband. He would never rest until he knew.

Legs beginning to cramp from being crouched behind the hedge for too long, Birdy’s pain abated when a second woman joined the nurse in the garden. Collectively, they all stopped breathing and strained their ears.

“It’s nearly time for tea, Mrs. Duckworth,” the newcomer said. “Will you have yours here or has the wee lad had his fill of sunshine for the day?”

Birdy didn’t hear the nurse’s reply. She’d stopped listening when she heard the nurse’s name. Duckworth . It was proof that the infant was indeed Lamb’s son. She didn’t breathe again until the newcomer had returned to the house.

Placing a single finger over her lips, she pulled on Crispin’s arm, urging him to leave. They’d been lucky in not being seen, but she didn’t trust luck for very long. Crispin, in turn, grabbed Mr. Johnstone’s arm, and they all slunk back behind the hedge until more safely hidden by trees.

“Now we go,” she said. The quest Crispin had placed such importance on was complete and they didn’t have a follow-up plan. They didn’t speak until the coach was on its way back to the cottage.

As she explained the significance of the name “Duckworth”, she watched a myriad of expressions cross over her husband’s face. Satisfaction at first, then the familiar anxiety, until finally he settled on the stony stare of impotent anger. There was nothing he could do.

“You never told me you knew the nurse’s name.”

“When I heard it, it was just a name. It didn’t become important until now.” Cringing inwardly at the lameness of her excuse, Birdy tried to formulate a better response. The hard truth was that she hadn’t told him for fear of increasing his burden of stress. The name had meant nothing until it did. “I should have told you.”

“Damn right you should,” he snapped back peevishly. “What else didn’t seem important to you? What else do you know that you’re not telling me? I thought we were partners in this.”

“I apologize. I thought I was sparing you more worry.” Birdy squared her shoulders and blurted out the concern that lay heavy on her heart. “We are partners as much as you allow me to be. You hold yourself personally responsible for the entire world. I see the stress and worry you carry like a yoke, and I thought to lessen your burden. I chose wrong.”

“Someone has to be responsible,” he replied, his voice now resigned rather than enraged. “Someone has to make things right and…perfect.”

“There is no such thing as perfect. Even nature is beautiful chaos. Why is it your responsibility to make everything perfect?”

“No one else will. A man without responsibilities is a wastrel. Rudderless. I’m responsible for you, Birdy, you’re my wife. As a gentleman, I’m responsible for protecting my family’s honor. As a caring brother, I’m responsible for ensuring my sister’s safety and well-being. I’m now an uncle to the child of a murderous reprobate. Who will protect that child if not me?”

“Do you remember the tale of the hummingbird?” she said at last.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“One drop at a time. Do what you can when you can. Dunwoody is unlikely to harm his own heir. The child is being well taken care of. Other than simply knowing the boy’s location, until he reaches the age of reason, there’s nothing you might gain by contacting him. Inserting yourself into his life right now threatens everyone.”

“Walking away feels cowardly.”

“You’re the heroic man who broke into a house to save his sister’s life. The fearless man who married a stranger to achieve his worthy goal. The courageous man who fulfilled his promise. I do not think you cowardly.”

Crispin shook his head twice as if dismissing the notion of bravery or courage. Clenching his hands into fists he sighed deeply. Had he surrendered to logic? Accepted defeat? Without speaking, he reached over and covered her hand with his.

Birdy sat back in the seat and stared at him, ready for anything. They were married, but she did not know this man well enough to say how he’d accept the truth of the situation. This is a test, she told herself. A test of his character and of their marriage. She hoped their marriage would survive.