Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (11 page)

He could do nothing else but incline his head. “Not a bad tack. And you’re right—it might tell us more.”

A moment passed—a moment in which he rapidly reassessed and came to the same conclusion he had earlier. Inwardly grim, he nodded. “All right. We’ll use the next few days to see what more we can glean.” He met her gaze. “Both of us. In my latest disguise, I’ll be able to get closer to Fletcher and Cobbins. If you find me with them, remember you don’t know me—behave as you would to a lowly, unemployed clerk.”

She grinned. “Is that what you are?”

He fought against returning her smile; he could almost see her thinking what an excellent tale this might be to tell of him later. “But there’s one thing you can do that I can’t—question Martha.”

She frowned. “She wasn’t there when they met the laird.”

“No, but they’ll have told her about the meeting, and about the man. If I know women—and I do—she’ll have formed a view of this laird based not just on what Fletcher and Cobbins told her but how they’d felt and reacted. They might well have communicated more to her than they themselves are aware of. Regardless, I’d put more faith in Martha’s view of the man than in theirs.”

She was nodding slowly. “Yes—I understand.” She briefly met his gaze. “Women are more observant in that regard.”

He grunted. “Possibly.” She might be more observant in that sense, but she hadn’t yet realized that courtesy of this adventure of hers, he and she were doomed to wed. The prospect of how she might react when she did realize flitted through his brain. He shifted restlessly. “So you ask your questions, and then see what you can extract from Martha. I’ll concentrate on drawing close enough to encourage Fletcher and Cobbins to confide in me man-to-man.” He met her gaze. “Even more importantly, however, I’ll put my mind to arranging your escape.”

She nodded, quite brightly. “All in all, that’s a sound plan.”

He drank in her approval, the eagerness and agreement investing her face, her eyes, and registered the novelty of her looking at him like that. This adventure of hers had had its beneficial aspects. Quite aside from allowing him to see her in a considerably different light, he’d found himself challenged by the situation in ways that were entirely outside the norm; meeting each new testing of his mettle and his mind left him with a sense of triumph he’d forgotten he enjoyed.

And while his primary objective was to keep her safe, like her, he was increasingly intrigued over who the mystery laird might be and his reasons for such a strange action; he felt increasingly certain that the Cynsters would be grateful for whatever he could learn, just as long as he kept Heather safe.

Heather studied his eyes; the melding colors appeared softer, less crystalline. She realized her hand still rested on his arm; she’d somehow just left it there. Administering a quick pat, she retrieved her hand; facing forward, she tucked it back under the cloak.

His cloak; she could smell the subtle scent of him insidiously wrapping about her.

It was altogether peculiar, this shift in her view of him. She’d always been attracted to him, but then what lady of the ton wasn’t? According to the gossipmongers, not even seventy-year-old dowagers were immune to his charms. Yet that didn’t explain why she now felt far more attracted than previously.

From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him sidelong, took in the shabby coat, the evolving beard, the much rougher appearance. If, in London, cloaked in sophisticated elegance, he held the power to fascinate, here, now, appearing one step up from a laborer, he exuded a raw masculine appeal that was much more potent. . . .

She looked forward, fighting the impulse to fan herself.

Conscious of the prickly awareness that, as always when he was near, crawled over her skin. She’d managed to ignore it, block it out, until then.

Ridiculous. This was Breckenridge. A point she should strive not to forget. He might be her savior now, but no doubt he would later revert to being her nemesis.

He might be treating her, dealing with her, as if he viewed her, trusted her, as an adult, an equal partner, but when this was all over he would doubtless go back to his usual ways, viewing her and treating her as if she were some silly young girl.

Just because some inner demon was prompting her to thank him with a kiss—to seize the excuse just to see what it would feel like—didn’t mean she should surrender to the impulse.

Forcing her limbs to function and take her away from his warmth, his magnetic strength, she rose. “I’d better get back upstairs. Thank you for the cloak.”

She slipped it off her shoulders and immediately felt its loss.

He’d looked up the instant she’d moved. He got to his feet and took the cloak from her. He met her eyes, hesitated for a moment, then murmured, “Let’s meet here tomorrow night.”

She nodded. “Yes, all right.”

Turning away, she slipped through the door before her demon got the better of her. While creeping up the stairs, she reminded herself of another pertinent consideration. At the moment she was dealing with Breckenridge reasonably well. If she kissed him, and he responded . . . she wasn’t at all confident that she would be strong enough to pull back.

The lowering truth was she might not even try.

And then where would they be?

Chapter Six

T
he next morning, Breckenridge, in his guise of Timms, unemployed solicitor’s clerk, was already in the tap, sipping a mug of coffee and reading a news sheet at a table by the window, when Fletcher and Cobbins, followed by Heather and Martha, came in. As he’d expected, Fletcher led his party to the same corner table they’d occupied the previous evening—the table next to his. He looked up as they neared, nodded to Fletcher and Cobbins, then, evincing no interest in Heather or Martha, returned his gaze to the news from Edinburgh.

And listened.

He knew better than to approach Fletcher and Cobbins, to show any further overt interest in them or their business. But it was cloudy and drizzly outside, and if they were waiting for their employer to arrive, it seemed unlikely the pair would venture forth, which meant they’d be seeking entertainment, most likely in the tap.

Most likely with the only fellow guest, namely him. The three other travelers who’d stayed overnight had already breakfasted and gone on their way.

His story of an old wound in his side would account for his continuing presence, especially given the inclement weather; turning over the news sheet, he sipped his coffee, and waited.

The serving girl came bustling out to take their orders. Heather opted for the oatmeal porridge. Martha, Fletcher, and Cobbins gave their selections.

Heather barely waited for the serving girl to leave before stating, “I need to get some air. A short walk after breakfast, just along the lane and back—”

“Nope.” Fletcher cut her off. “Not here.”

“Nonsense. Martha can come with me.”

“Out in that wet muck?” Martha sounded faintly scandalized. “Thank you, miss, but I’m not stirring out of here.”

“Too right,” Fletcher stated. “You aren’t going out of the inn today, nor yet tomorrow.”

“Why?” Heather protested. “It’s not as if I’m likely to make a break for the hills.”

“Don’t know, do we?” Fletcher responded. “But we have to wait here at least for two days, and I can’t see any sense in letting you get too acquainted with the lie of the land. I’ve already hired the private parlor.”

Apparently idly, Breckenridge glanced up in time to see Fletcher nod in the direction of the closed door on the other side of the inn’s front hall.

He looked down again as Fletcher continued, “You and Martha can just sit tight in there until your guardian’s man comes to collect you.”

From beneath his lashes, Breckenridge saw Heather lean across the table toward Fletcher. Voice lowered, she hissed, “We both know there’s no guardian, and—”

“We also both know that there’s nothing you can do.” Fletcher’s voice had hardened. “If you make a scene, I’ll tell the innkeeper our story, and I swear we’ll tie you up and sit you in the parlor. Your choice.”

Even though he was no longer watching, Breckenridge could sense Heather’s fulminating glare.

When silence reigned, heavy but unbroken, he felt a moment’s admiration for Fletcher; he’d succeeded in standing fast against Heather’s wheedling, which was more than he’d been able to do, and she hadn’t even wheedled at him.

The serving girl returned with their breakfasts.

Breckenridge called for more coffee and pretended to read the front page of the news sheet for the third time.

Eventually, breakfasts consumed, Heather, prodded by Martha, rose and, nose in the air, swept huffily out of the tap. He couldn’t see her cross the hall, but he tracked her by her footsteps; she marched past the stairs, paused, presumably to open the parlor door, then went on. Martha’s heavier, shuffling footsteps followed in her wake. A second later, the parlor door softly shut.

Fletcher and Cobbins resettled in their seats to savor their coffee.

After ten minutes of desultory talk between the pair, Fletcher straightened, glanced around the empty tap, then turned to face Breckenridge.

Breckenridge looked up, met Fletcher’s gaze.

“Are you heading off, then?” Fletcher asked.

Breckenridge shook his head. “Not for a few days.” He grimaced. “Getting back into that trap of mine would be torture. I’ll need a few days at least before the pain eases off.” He glanced toward the window. “Not that this weather’s helping, but it’d be worse if I was out driving in that.”

“So you’re at loose ends?” Fletcher asked.

“Until I can drive on again.”

Fletcher grinned. “In that case, can I interest you in a game of cards?”

Breckenridge smiled. “Why not?”

They commenced by playing vingt-et-un, progressed to speculation, then as the morning waned, turned to euchre. Breckenridge took care not to win too often. Lunchtime saw several locals amble in. Play was suspended while the three of them chatted with the farmers and two travelers on their way to Glasgow. Then the serving girl came out of the kitchen and announced a simple menu—mutton stew or mutton pie. While the men debated the offering, Fletcher sent the girl to take two servings of the stew to the women in the parlor. The girl complied, then returned to ferry plates of mutton pie out to the hungry males.

Breckenridge bided his time and made sure both Fletcher and Cobbins had three pints of ale with their meal. When the locals rose and went forth into the increasingly dismal day, and the travelers wrapped themselves in their cloaks and departed, both Fletcher and Cobbins had mellowed.

Settling back at the table near the window, Breckenridge picked up the pack of cards but let them idly drop, one by one, from his fingers. Fletcher, sitting opposite, watched the cards fall, as if mesmerized.

“So,” Breckenridge said, “how long do you have to sit in this thrillingly exciting atmosphere and wait?”

Fletcher’s grin was a trifle lopsided. “Don’t rightly know. Two days at least until the laird—the girl’s guardian’s man—gets here, but it might be longer than that. Depends.”

“Laird, heh?” Breckenridge stifled a fabricated yawn, then blinked sleepily. “A real laird? Or just someone calling himself that?”

“Oh, he’s a laird, right enough.” Cobbins leaned both elbows on the table and propped his chin in his palms. “Not that he said so, o’course, but you could tell.”

“Oh?” Breckenridge frowned as if having trouble focusing. “How?” He looked at Cobbins. “How can you tell a man is a laird just by looking?”

Fletcher chuckled. “Not just by looking, for one thing. His voice, the way he spoke. He was one for giving orders and having them obeyed, right enough. There’s that attitude the nobs have about them, as if the world and all in it ought to know well enough to get out of their way.”

“And there were signs to see, too.” Cobbins slumped lower on the table, cradling his head on one arm. “He’s a big bastard.” Cobbins squinted across the table at Breckenridge. “You’re tall, but he’s taller. Broader, too. Heavier. And he doesn’t walk—he strides.”

Breckenridge snorted. “He could just be full of himself.”

“Nah.” Fletcher slumped back in his chair, stretched his legs out under the table, and closed his eyes. “Face like hewn rock and eyes like ice.” He shivered dramatically. “Like Cobbins says, there’s something about them—the nobs—that you just know.”

Breckenridge watched the pair. Both had their eyes closed. Then Cobbins uttered a soft snore.

Fletcher cracked open an eyelid, glanced at his companion, then sighed and closed his eye again. “Think I’ll just have a little nap, too. We can play cards later.”

Breckenridge stayed where he was until he was sure the pair were both asleep, then, pushing back his chair, he slowly rose, and walked—not strode—silently from the room.

I
n light of her captors’ sudden insistence on keeping her under close guard, Heather felt forced to devote most of the day to shoring up her façade of a typical, and therefore harmless and helpless, young lady of the ton.

By the exercise of considerable willpower, she managed to hold back the need to interrogate Martha until after she’d badgered the older woman into ringing and requesting afternoon tea, and the little serving girl had arrived with the tray and departed again.

Finally quitting her position by the window, where she’d been standing literally for hours gazing out at the dripping day, Heather crossed to sit on the sofa and pour.

Ensconced in an armchair, Martha, fingers flashing with her incessant knitting, watched her, not openly suspicious but as if there was something about her she couldn’t quite reconcile.

Heather poured Martha a cup, too, then held it out.

Martha softly grunted, settled her needles in her capacious lap, and accepted the cup.

Heather sipped, sighed, then relaxed back against the sofa. “Tell me—how did you fall in with Fletcher and Cobbins? I know you’ve known them for years, but this particular time?”

Setting her cup on her saucer, Martha shrugged. “I take jobs nursing most times. I’d just finished with one of my patients—the old biddy upped and died—so I was at home when Fletcher came calling. Hadn’t seen him in two years or more, not since he’d headed up north to Glasgow. He told me about this laird who wanted you taken north, with a maid for countenance. Seemed a nice, easy lark—see a bit of the country, all expenses paid, and the money was good.”

Heather sipped, let a moment go by, then asked, “What do you know about this laird?” She met Martha’s sharpening gaze. “Seeing I’ll be meeting him soon, and he’s going to take me away, surely there can’t be any harm in telling me.”

Martha studied her for a moment, then her lips kicked up. “If it’ll make you cease your pacing and staring, I can tell you he’s definitely handsome—Fletcher wouldn’t have thought of the word else. And not that old—younger thirties would be my guess.”

Heather looked her interest, looked encouraging.

“I didn’t meet him, don’t forget.” Draining her cup, Martha leaned forward and placed cup and saucer on the low table between them. “But I know Fletcher and Cobbins, so this laird is . . .” Martha pursed her lips, then stated, “Powerful. Fletcher and Cobbins, they don’t scare easily. Been around for quite a while, those two, but this laird made quite an impression on them both.”

“You make him sound dangerous.”

“P’raps, but not simple dangerous—a bully boy might be dangerous, but he wouldn’t impress the likes of Fletcher and Cobbins.”

Studying Martha’s face, Heather tried to divine just what her “maid” was trying to convey. “They . . . what? Found him imposing?”

Lifting her needles, Martha nodded. “That’s closer to the mark. Not fright, not exactly awe. They were impressed, and wary. Regardless, they’re very sure they don’t want to disappoint him, and it’s not simple fear driving that.”

Heather pondered that unwelcome insight.

“A toff he is, no question.” Martha set her needles clicking again.

Heather frowned. “Do they know he is, or is that just”—she waved a hand—“conjecture? A guess?”

Eyes on her knitting, Martha snorted. “No guess.” She glanced up, met Heather’s eyes. “Stands to reason. Take it from me, only a toff would have thought of hiring a maid as part of his kidnap plans.”

That, Heather realized, was perfectly true.

Which meant the man who had ordered her kidnapping was almost certainly one of her own class. Which made him even more dangerous to her.

“Y
ou just behave yourself, you hear me?”

Heather glanced in surprise at Fletcher. She and Martha had just walked into the taproom for dinner. Fletcher had seen them; leaving the table of local men he’d been drinking with—which group included a certain viscount who not even his sisters would recognize—he’d come over to join her and Martha as they took their seats at the table in the room’s front corner.

Fletcher’s diction, normally precise, was a trifle slurred, especially as he’d hissed the words beneath his breath.

Heather frowned. “Why?” Realizing her tone wasn’t quite in keeping with her helpless and harmless—gormless—persona, she sniffed and added, “And anyway, when haven’t I behaved?” With a flounce, she sat and looked up at Fletcher with petulant irritation, as if he didn’t appreciate her as he ought.

Fletcher frowned back. “Just sit there, keep your head down, and eat. Don’t think to say anything. He’s just an out-of-work solicitor’s clerk—don’t go imagining he might help you escape.”

He looked back at the other table.

Following his gaze, Heather saw Cobbins lumbering to his feet—along with Breckenridge. Deciding her alter ego would inquire, she asked with innocent interest, “Who’s he? Is he coming to join us?”

“Yes, he is, but you don’t need to know his name.” Fletcher turned back to her. “This isn’t some society dining room—you’re not going to be introduced. Like I said”—he leaned closer, lowered his voice as Cobbins and Breckenridge neared—“just sit and eat, and keep your mouth shut.”

Heather glared, but then Martha heaved herself onto the bench alongside her, and Fletcher turned away to greet Breckenridge.

Fletcher waved Breckenridge to the seat he normally occupied, opposite Martha, and drew up another chair to the head of the table, between Martha and Breckenridge. Cobbins settled into the chair opposite Heather.

“This here’s Martha.” Fletcher waved to Martha, who nodded across the table. “This is our friend, Timms, who’s on his way to Glasgow to find himself a new job.”

Head dutifully bowed, hands clasped in her lap, through her lashes Heather saw Breckenridge nod to Martha, then look at her, then he arched a brow at Fletcher.

“I think,” Fletcher said, “that the less you know about our charge, the better her guardian would like it, if you take my meaning.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Breckenridge amiably turned his gaze from her. He looked past Fletcher at the serving girl hurrying up. “So what’s on the menu tonight?”

Haddock and turnips, or mutton again.

When asked, Heather glanced at the girl and whispered, “Haddock. And a glass of water, please.” The other four had opted for ale.

As she’d been bid, Heather sat with eyes downcast and listened to the conversation, occasionally glancing up through her lashes at her companions.

Mostly at Breckenridge.

She knew it was him—despite the dark roughness of his beard, his tousled hair, and his less-than-kempt appearance, she could see it was him—but his voice was quite different, which unsettled her. She was used to his fashionable drawl, and equally accustomed to his clipped and incisive, unaffected speech—the voice he used when ordering her about—but listening to him now . . . if she didn’t look, she could almost believe he was indeed some clerk one step away from the slums of the capital.