Page 69 of The Duke and the Runaway Bride

She took the clothes from the trunk and donned them, dressing as a man again so she could sneak out. There was also a small purse of coins she had saved. She had to take matters into her own hands.

She went to the connecting door and pressed her ear to it, but she heard no sound. She pulled the hood up over her head and left her bedroom, hoping no one heard her.

Beatrice had wandered around the manor many times, and she knew where to put her feet to avoid the creaking floorboards. She made it down the corridor to the stairs at the rear of the manor, and then she descended to the ground floor. She listened for any movement, but the manor was silent.

She left the manor through the back door, wearing pants and a long cloak that hid her hair. She stuck to the shadows, making her way to the stables. She slipped inside and found a saddled horse. Then she quickly mounted it and left.

She was free.

Beatrice caught herself at that moment thinking about fleeing again. She could leave on her horse and remove the problems for everyone else.

No, I am done running! It’s time to face my problems.

The wind whipped at her hood as she rode, and she wanted to untie her hair, but she was riding in disguise, and it had to stay that way. The horse was swift, and she kept to the dirt roads, not staying too close to any areas that might be populated. She passed a couple at some point, but they paid her little notice.

Beatrice felt a giddiness at being outside at night again in her disguise. She could pretend she was someone else and not worry about her problem. Still, she was on her way to try and solve that problem.

The Red Lion was not a tavern she had frequented a lot, but it was her destination that night. She had spoken to a man in The Red Lion once who worked frequently on Lord Velasquez’s estate. That helped her little, but his sister had worked as a lady’s maid for Agnes last year, and she hoped that was still the case.

A large wooden sign above the tavern entrance flapped in the wind. It portrayed a red lion rearing up on its hind legs, its mouth open in a snarl. The building was not very large, similar to a regular cottage, and had a thatched roof. The lamps inside gave off a warm glow.

Beatrice pulled her steed to a halt. She dismounted and tied the reins to one of the wooden posts. Sounds came from inside the tavern, but it didn’t sound overly busy. She hoped her friend was inside—there was a good chance, as he drank there almost every night, from what she remembered.

Beatrice took a deep breath and walked into the tavern. She felt all eyes on her, but no one turned to look at the person who entered. No one could care less about one more patron in the establishment, though they might care more if they knew a duchess was in their midst.

The tavern, while not full, was still bursting with a lively atmosphere of laughter, conversation, and clanking metal tankards. The smell of steak and kidney pie brought back a memory of a night in a different tavern over a year ago.

Beatrice licked her lips, and her stomach rumbled even though she’d had a hearty supper with Modesty and Elizabeth. She looked around the tavern but could not see the man she was looking for. She did not think anyone would recognize her, but she kept her hood up and her head down.

She walked toward the bar, and someone bumped shoulders with her. Her first instinct was to look the person in the eye, but her second instinct—her innate survival instinct—told her to keep her head down to avoid any potential trouble.

The best way to blend in was to look like she belonged, so Beatrice went to the bar and ordered some ale. It was not normally a drink she would consume, but something about it was appealing. She had often ordered ale whenever she snuck out of her family home and enjoyed a few sips while never finishing an entire tankard.

“Cheers,” she said, keeping her voice low.

She took the tankard of ale and moved into one of the two rooms off the main room. It was there that she spotted her old friend sitting with two other men at a table. Beatrice found her way to a separate table near the far corner, in line of sight of Trevor McDairmond.

She took a sip of the ale after sitting, more memories flooding her mind. She knew she should not be out, but the excitement was intoxicating.

Trevor did not look up just yet. Beatrice kept her hood low and her head mostly down but kept an eye on Trevor. She could see the main room behind him—the bar ran along one wall, with shelves stocked with bottles of wine and spirits, and two large barrels sitting on the floor.

It only took Trevor five minutes before he looked up. He caught Beatrice’s eyes, held them for a second, and then looked down again. He spooned chunks of meat from his bowl of stew into his mouth. When he looked up a second time, a flicker of recognition crossed his features.

He said something to his two friends and then picked up his drink. He walked over to Beatrice’s table and swung his leg over the back of the chair to sit down.

“Didn’t think I would see you again. It’s been a long time,” he grunted.

He looked older and a little more grizzled but had the same glint in his eyes. He was always quick with a joke or a story.

“It has,” Beatrice agreed, using her regular voice but speaking quietly.

“How have you been?” Trevor asked.

“Getting up to my usual mischief,” Beatrice replied. “I’m married now.”

“Goodness. Lord help that poor man. Who would want to settle down with you?”

Beatrice laughed. “Oh, just some duke.”

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