In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster by Stephanie Laurens Page A

would be in any woman.
    Reaching the wall, she sighed, tipped up her head, and spoke to the ceiling, “Please let him have noticed me. Please let him have recognized me. Please let him have done something to send help my way.”
    That was another issue; in her experience, absentminded bookworms were the second least decisive people on earth, only fractionally better than timid little old ladies.
    Lowering her chin, swinging around, she paced steadily back across the room. The muscles in her legs seemed less wobbly than when she’d first started pacing.
    Head down, she tried to put herself in an absentminded scholar’s shoes, tried to imagine what Jeremy might do. “If he sends word to London, how long before —”
    Tap .
    Halting, she stared at the curtained window. She’d thought the sound had come from there, but the room was two floors up; she’d already evaluated her prospects of escaping via that route and found them to be nil. Admittedly, Breckenridge had first contacted Heather through a second-floor inn window, but really, how likely was that to happen with her? It was doubtless just her mind playing tricks on her. Wishful think —
    Tap.
    She flew to the window, flung open the curtains, and looked through the glass.
    Directly into Jeremy Carling’s face.
    She was so thrilled to see him that she just stood there and beamed. Drinking in the fact that he had very nice eyes; she couldn’t make out their color in the moonlight, but they were large, well set, giving him a wonderfully direct and open gaze.
    His features were regular, a touch patrician, his nose distinctly so, his forehead wide, his cheeks lean and long; his chin was decidedly squared, but his lips looked like they belonged to a man who laughed easily.
    Her gaze skimmed quickly down and, yes, his shoulders really were much broader, his overall build much stronger than when she’d last seen him.
    The moon was full, pouring silver light over him; sitting on the ridge of the roof just below her window, Jeremy felt ridiculously exposed. But his logical mind reminded him that normally people rarely looked up. He just hoped none of the patrons leaving the inn fell too far outside the norm.
    As it was just as bright outside the room as in, he could see Eliza’s face clearly. See her features well enough to register her surprise, pleased though it was.
    He could hardly take umbrage; he was surprised to find himself perched on the roof outside her window.
    As she seemed momentarily frozen, he seized the chance to confirm that the impression he’d assimilated wasn’t wrong; she was … not prettier, but more striking than he’d recalled. Especially now she wasn’t so distressed.
    He felt oddly pleased about that.
    Raising a hand from the roof’s ridge, he pointed at the catch on the casement window, twirled his finger.
    She looked, then quickly obliged.
    As she eased the casement open, he leaned back to let the frame pass by him, then leaned in, closer, to whisper, “Are you alone?”
    Gripping the windowsill, she leaned nearer still. “For the moment. They — there’s three of them — are downstairs.”
    “Good.” He beckoned. “Come on.”
    Her eyes flared, then she leaned over the sill and looked down.
    He stared at the profusion of honey-gold locks glimmering in the moonlight just below his chin, then blinked, and continued, “It’s not as steep as it looks. We can brace against the wall to the edge of this roof, then it’s only a small drop to the next, and from there we can cross part of the kitchen roof — it’s a bit of a scramble, but —”
    “I can’t.” Drawing back, still gripping the sill, she raised her eyes to his. “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to go with you, but I …” She reached out and grasped his forearm.
    Looking at her hand, he saw it shake as she tightened her grip just a fraction, but no more.
    She released him on a sigh. Met his gaze as he lifted his eyes questioningly to hers. “That’s the