Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (13 page)

Jaw set, Fletcher nodded. “And tomorrow, too. Until the laird comes for you, I want you under Martha’s eye at all times. Safer for you, anyway.”

Heather narrowed her eyes at him. “I’ll sit quietly after I’ve had a brief walk—just up the lane and back.”

“No.” Fletcher shifted closer, trying to intimidate.

Martha and Cobbins looked on, neither much interested, both simply waiting on an outcome of which they had no doubt.

The four of them and Breckenridge had been the only guests down for breakfast that morning; Breckenridge had just ambled into the tap and was currently out of sight. The innkeeper was busy elsewhere; there was no one about to hear their argument.

Glowering down at her, Fletcher raised an arm and pointed to the parlor door. “You are going to walk in there and remain in there for the rest of the day, until dinnertime. If you need exercise, you can pace in there. If you need distraction, you can look out of the window, or help Martha count her stitches for all I care.”

Heather opened her mouth.

Fletcher pointed at her nose. “You know our story. If you push me, I swear I’ll use it to tie you up and gag you, and sit you in there with Martha.”

She frowned, not just at Fletcher but at the realization that although she ought to be at least wary of him, if not outright afraid, she wasn’t—simply wasn’t. In her mind he featured merely as a hurdle to be overcome—a source of information to be milked, then left behind when she escaped. With Breckenridge.

Was it because he was close that she didn’t fear Fletcher?

Regardless, it didn’t take much cogitation to see she had no real option at that time. “Oh, very well!” She swung on her heel, marched to the parlor door, shoved it open, and sailed through—reluctantly refraining from slamming the door because Martha would be following.

Sweeping to the window, Heather crossed her arms and stared out at the new day. Spring had already arrived in London, but here it was struggling to break winter’s hold. Other than the conifers, all the trees were still bare. The morning was still chill, the wind still a touch raw, but the clouds had thinned and the drizzle had ceased, and somewhere high above the sun was trying to shine through.

Behind her, the parlor door closed. She heard Martha’s large bulk ease down into the armchair.

Eyes fixed outside, Heather humphed. “The lane’s still muddy, but the verge is drying nicely. It would be perfectly possible to go for a stroll. Perhaps after lunch.”

“Forget it,” Martha advised. “You heard him. No going outside.”

“But why?” Swinging around, Heather spread her arms. “What does he think I’ll do—escape into the wilderness? If I was going to escape, I’d have tried that first night.” She let her shoulders slump. “I’m a young lady of the ton—I can play the pianoforte and waltz with the best of them, but escaping isn’t something I have the vaguest notion how to do!”

Martha eyed her, not without sympathy. After a moment, she said, “Humor him for today. I’ll have a word with him tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning. If it’s fine, perhaps he’ll let you have your walk then, but mind, I’m making no promises.”

Heather met Martha’s gaze. She felt compelled to incline her head in acceptance of the olive branch. “Thank you.”

Turning back to the window, she grimaced. That still left her with an entire day to waste, with nothing much more she could gain from it. She’d already questioned Martha; she doubted there was any more to learn from her “maid,” and further probing might instead raise suspicions in Martha’s quite sharp mind.

If there was nothing more she could learn, nothing else she could do . . .

The thought that had been haunting her—that had followed her into her dreams last night and been in her mind when she’d awoken that morning—flared again. Last night, in the cloakroom, she’d almost kissed Breckenridge. It hadn’t been an accident, a mistake—she’d known exactly who he was the whole time. But she’d wanted to kiss him, would have, would have welcomed his kiss if he’d been so inclined. If he’d given the slightest sign of welcoming her advance, she would have stretched up and touched her lips to his.

The only thing that had stopped her—that had stopped the kiss from happening—was that she hadn’t been able to read his face, his expression. Hadn’t been able to see his eyes.

She’d searched, but there’d been nothing to tell her what he thought—whether he felt any attraction toward her at all, let alone something similar to what she felt for him. It was, she thought, a latent sensual curiosity—something the enforced closeness of their adventure had caused to grow from their previously strained and prickly interaction. Regardless, she’d definitely wanted to kiss him last night, and would have if she hadn’t suddenly been assailed not by missish sensibility, let alone modesty, but by the horrible thought that he might not want to kiss her.

Which led her back to her persistent fear, nay, entrenched belief, that he saw her as little more than a schoolgirl. A girl child. A female so young and inexperienced that a man of his ilk could never see her as a woman, let alone ever stoop to taking advantage of her.

Much less anything else, any consensual liaison.

Arms tightly folded, frowning unseeing out at the trees, she had to admit her attitude toward him had changed over the last days. Changed . . . or perhaps clarified. Previously she would have been more likely to use her lips to berate him than kiss him, but now . . .

The thought of kissing him—just seizing the moment and doing it, and getting the madness out of her system and satisfying her curiosity—was rapidly becoming an obsession.

An obsession that, for the next hours, she could do nothing about.

She humphed, inwardly pushed the subject aside.

Determinedly focusing on the trees outside, she turned her mind to the only other thing she might accomplish—evaluating ways in which she and Breckenridge could escape, but then keep watch on the inn and get a look at the mysterious laird when he arrived, sufficient to identify him.

B
reckenridge spent the morning outside the inn, taking advantage of the brighter weather to avoid Fletcher and Cobbins, the better to ensure they didn’t suspect him of taking too great an interest in their business. If the laird wasn’t expected until at least the following day, then Heather would be safe enough, confined, as she was, to the inn parlor.

After breakfasting late, he strolled to the inn’s stable and checked over the old chestnut he’d hired in Carlisle, along with the ancient pony trap. The horse was faring well; it would carry him and Heather far enough to make good an escape.

But in which direction? He spent the rest of the morning ambling around the hamlet of Gretna Green, taking note of the roads and the cover afforded by the landscape in each direction, then he strode the half mile or so back down the highway to the main village of Gretna, with the Customs and Revenue Offices, and the border itself just beyond.

With clouds blowing up and the wind tending bitter, he returned to the inn at lunchtime. Pausing in the front hall, he glanced at the parlor door, but all was quiet inside.

Turning away, he walked into the tap. And fell in once again with Fletcher and Cobbins. They were joined by the usual band of locals during the meal, but once the platters were cleared and the farmers departed for their fields once more, the three of them gathered about the table by the window.

Fletcher had brought the pack of cards but seemed uninterested in any game. He picked up the pack and let it fall an inch to the table, over and over again.

Breckenridge noted it. “Are you worried about this laird of yours showing?”

“Heh?” Fletcher focused, then shook his head. “No—he’ll be here. I just wish he’d be here sooner.”

“Tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Tomorrow, or the next day. He’ll definitely be here by then.” He glanced at Breckenridge. “It’s just that I don’t like sitting in one place, waiting. Sort of like being a sitting duck—it grates on my nerves.”

“Ah. I see.” The only men Breckenridge had previously encountered who chafed at being forced by unavoidable circumstances to remain in one place were felons of one stripe or another. It made them feel trapped. Glancing at Cobbins, more taciturn than Fletcher, he saw a similar edginess growing.

Unless he missed his guess, both men had at some time been very much on the wrong side of the law; they might never have been caught, but both knew what it was like to be hunted.

Which was a fact worth noting, given he intended to filch their latest prize from under their noses. He’d already learned through general conversation that Fletcher was good with knives, and had several on him at any time, while Cobbins was a true bruiser at heart, a heavy man who, once he mowed into something, wasn’t likely to stop until he was the last one standing.

“Tell me.” Relaxing back in his chair, he projected the air of someone seeking to distract the pair from their angst. “How does this sort of caper work? Seems to me it’s a capital lark—you do the job, hand over the package, get paid, and everyone’s happy.” He frowned, as if thinking it through. “But then you have to stump up the wherewithal to set up the snatch in the first place, and the cost of the travel and all the rest—” He broke off because Fletcher was shaking his head.

Setting aside the cards, Fletcher leaned his arms on the table. “No. It’s better than that. Mind you”—Fletcher sent a sharp glance his way—“it takes years and years to work up a reputation like we have. You don’t get the arrangements we do straight off, first time.”

Cobbins nodded. “Professionals, we are.”

“Exactly.” Fletcher looked back at Breckenridge. “So the way it works for us, us being professionals and well known in this work, is that we get paid wages up front—proper compensation for our time doing the job—and enough to cover all expenses, like our travel down to London and back, staying in the capital, Martha’s wages, and all the rest.”

“All up front?” Breckenridge blinked in genuine surprise. Whoever the laird was, he was not only wealthy but also willing to invest serious money for the chance of seizing one of the Cynster girls.

“Cash in hand, at the start,” Fletcher confirmed. “We don’t take the job without it.”

“But . . .” Breckenridge felt a chill as the question formed in his mind. “What guarantee does your employer have that you’ll actually do the job?”

Fletcher grinned. “Our bonus, of course. There’s two thousand pounds coming our way, along with the laird.”

“
Two thousand
?” Breckenridge didn’t have to feign his shock.

Smile deepening, Fletcher nodded. “Told you this is a really sweet job.” Fletcher hesitated, studying Breckenridge, then looked at Cobbins and exchanged a glance before turning back and adding, “If you ever get tired of being a clerk, you look us up—you’d be useful. If we brushed you up, with your looks you could pass for a gentleman. Useful, that is, in our line of work.”

Still coping with the discovery of just how much the mysterious highland laird wanted Heather, Breckenridge managed a nod. “I’ll think about it.” He stirred, then shook his head and sat up. “Two thousand! That’s . . . amazing.”

Amazing, and revealing, in the worst possible way.

Chapter Seven

I
think it’s time for me to make my escape.” Heather said the words before she’d even sat beside Breckenridge on the narrow bench beneath the coat pegs in the tiny cloakroom.

She’d waited until it had been so late that there would have been no chance of the innkeeper surprising them, all the time fervently hoping that Breckenridge would not only have been waiting but would have found and lit a candle by the time she arrived.

He had; the wavering light had welcomed her. Slipping inside the confined space, pushing the door closed behind her, she’d taken in the reassuring sight of him as he’d glanced up at her.

He waited as she settled, then flicked out the cloak he’d been holding in his hands and, turning to her, swirled it about her. He hadn’t been wearing it, so it didn’t hold much of his scent, but she was grateful for the added warmth nonetheless.

“Is that woman ever going to give you back your clothes at night?”

“I doubt it. It seems to be her habitual way of controlling her charges.”

He grunted, then, his lips setting in a surprisingly grim line, met her gaze. “Escaping, I regret to say, isn’t going to be as easy as we’d thought.”

She blinked, studied his face. “Why?”

He looked down at his hands, clasped between his spread knees. “Fletcher and Cobbins stand to collect two thousand pounds when they hand you over to the laird.”

“
Two
thousand
. . . good God!”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“But . . .” She struggled to take it in. Finally said, “Clearly this laird is no penny-pinching pauper. He’s definitely not wanting me for ransom, nor yet to marry.”

“At least not to marry for your money.”

She glanced at him. “I really don’t think I’ve met this laird, so why else . . . oh, you mean for the connection to the family?”

“Who knows? But regardless of his reasons, we now face a significantly greater problem than we’d foreseen.” He met her gray-blue eyes. “Fletcher and Cobbins are no bumbling fools. They’re dangerous, and they’re not going to let two thousand pounds slip through their grasp without making a determined bid to snatch it—you—back.”

She nodded; her expression stated she understood and accepted his argument, yet she didn’t seem overly worried. After one blink, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”

Staring into her eyes, lit by the candlelight, the truth hit him like a sledgehammer. She trusted him. Trusted him implicitly to protect her and get her out of this, away from any danger. He would, of course, but he hadn’t expected her to be so . . . accepting. Lips twisting, he looked forward. “We’re going to have to find some way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins, so that they’re too busy to notice you’ve escaped, if at all possible for a day. They’re going to chase us like madmen.”

“Madmen motivated by two thousand pounds.”

“Precisely. But as well as distracting them to whatever extent we can, we need to make for the nearest safe place.”

She grimaced. “We can’t just escape and put up at some inn in Gretna, can we?”

He shook his head. “I’d assumed we would head back to London—possibly detour to the Brunswick estates on the way.” His father was at Baraclough, the earldom’s principal estate in Berkshire. If he and Heather were to marry, he wanted to tell his father first, in person. “But that’s the first direction in which Fletcher and Cobbins will look, and there’s no safe harbor along that route that we can be sure of reaching before they catch up with us.”

He hesitated, then went on, “Admittedly, once back in England, as long as we saw them coming I could use my title to have them taken up. However, if we don’t see them closing on us—and given their experience, I’m not confident we would—then that won’t save us.” Save her. If Fletcher and Cobbins caught up with them, they’d at the very least incapacitate him and steal her back—and then make absolutely certain she was without delay placed directly into the hands of their mysterious laird.

Equally undesirably, however, invoking his title would make their journey together without any acceptable chaperon public, something he would prefer not to do. He was confident the Cynsters would have covered up her absence—she’d be recovering from a hideous chill or something of that nature—and his absence wouldn’t have even been noted; if any in the wider ton wondered about him at all, they would assume he was at Baraclough. If at all possible he intended to present their necessary betrothal as something that had been arranged quietly between their families, not as something necessitated by her being kidnapped, and not even by him.

Calling attention to themselves would end all hope of keeping her reputation intact.

He stared at his hands. “And we can’t afford to let them catch us in Scotland—not at all. We have to assume this laird’s a nobleman, some arrogant and, as it happens, very wealthy highlander. If it comes to his title versus mine—and neither you nor I have anything with us to verify who we are, and there’s no one close who can vouch for us—then it’s perfectly possible he’ll be able to lay claim to you, and take you off God knows where while I protest my innocence and identity from a cell.”

That scenario was his worst nightmare.

She was frowning. “Don’t you have any cards with you?”

“Yes, but I don’t think a silver card case with cards in the name of Viscount Breckenridge will do us much good.” He met her gaze. “He’ll—they’ll—claim I stole it.”

She grimaced and looked forward.

Looking back at his hands, he continued, “So we need somewhere safe that’s reasonably close—some place we can reach within a day. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t think of anywhere.”

“Casphairn.”

He glanced at her. Her tone had been definite; her expression was confident and assured. “Where?”

“The Vale of Casphairn. It’s where Richard—my cousin Richard—and his wife, Catriona, live. It’s . . . well, a day’s journey in a carriage from Carlisle.”

“In which direction?”

“To the west. We pass through Gretna, then go west to Annan and Dumfries. . . .” She grimaced. “I’m not sure of the road after that. I know we go through a town called St. John’s of Dalry. That’s about an hour from the Vale.”

“If I get us a map, could you find it?”

She nodded. “And I know Richard and Catriona are there. They don’t come down for the Season, not usually, and they weren’t expected in London this year.”

“Good.” He knew Richard Cynster. He nodded. “We’ll make for there.”

Heather embraced the notion with relief. The thought of Breckenridge being slung in a cell while she was dragged off by some loutish highlander . . . she gave an inward shudder, then determinedly banished the thought. “So how do I escape?” She turned to look at Breckenridge. “And when?”

He considered, then shook his head. “Not tomorrow. According to Fletcher, he’s not really expecting the laird until the following day. That gives us tomorrow to plan.”

He glanced at her, then rose.

She rose, too.

He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll find us a map, for a start. Meanwhile, both of us should put our minds to thinking of a way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins long enough for us to get safely away.”

She nodded, then remembered and slipped his cloak off her shoulders. Once again, she immediately felt the loss. “Martha said that if tomorrow is fine, she’ll try to get Fletcher to let us go for a walk, so I might have a chance to learn something useful.”

He took the cloak from her, but caught and held her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t jeopardize how they currently view you. We don’t need them to realize what you’re capable of and decide to keep you under lock, key, and tighter guard.”

The acknowledgment that she wasn’t some meek and mild—helpless and gormless—fashionable miss had her smiling. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

He grunted and reached for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob. He caught her gaze, looked at her . . . long enough to have her lungs tightening and thoughts far removed from escape rising in her mind . . . but then he grimaced and looked away. “Regardless of what we find, we’ll have to get you out of Fletcher’s clutches by the day after tomorrow.” His voice was a bare whisper as he added, “That’s when the laird is supposed to arrive.”

She felt a sudden chill and told herself it was simply the effect of losing the protection of his cloak.

He blew out the candle, then opened the door, looked out, and stepped through and to the side. She slipped out of the cloakroom and, with a last glance his way, headed straight up the stairs.

Lecturing herself that she couldn’t at this point give in to the impulse to simply walk into his arms and see what came next.

I
t hadn’t happened that morning, as Heather had hoped, but after lunch Martha finally convinced Fletcher that he needed to allow both her and Heather out for a walk. The day had been sunny since morning, and the grass was no longer wet, just damp. Fletcher hadn’t been happy, but he’d grudgingly agreed that they could walk across the fields to a nearby grassy hillock.

Martha had eyed the slight mound, a goodly distance away, then told Fletcher not to expect them back for at least two hours. “We’re going to have a sit in the sunshine.”

As Martha had become quite belligerent over the whole question of their walk, Fletcher had gritted his teeth and waved them off.

Heather took the opportunity afforded by the walk to get a better sense of the surrounding land. They passed the stables at the side of the inn, to the west of the main building, then tramped southwest. The fields were largely flat; what hedges there were weren’t thick or dense. At this time of year, with all the branches bare, there was precious little cover to be found. The faint hope she’d harbored that they might lurk close enough after her escape to glimpse the laird when he arrived died.

The hillock wasn’t that far. When she halted on its crest and looked south, she could see the glint of sunlight off the waters of Solway Firth.

Martha looked, then set down her knitting bag and shook out a large rug she’d carried under her arm. Laying it on the grass, she pointed to one end. “Sit you down there, and don’t make me regret taking up for you and getting you out in the fresh air.”

Remembering Breckenridge’s warning not to step out of her assumed character, Heather dutifully subsided. Martha sat, too, and pulled out her knitting.

Although the fresh air was welcome, within ten minutes, Heather was thoroughly bored. The last thing she needed was time to dwell on Breckenridge and the unruly impulses that increasingly came to the fore when he was near.

She definitely didn’t need to think about those, and even less about him, and her steadily changing opinion. It had been much easier to deal with him, and her misguided attraction to him, when she’d thought him a too-handsome-for-his-own-good, far-too-experienced-to-look-in-her-direction, arrogant, indolent, and self-indulgent rake of the first order.

Now . . . he might still be all that, but he’d also shown himself to have qualities she knew enough to recognize as admirable. Protective males could be difficult to manage; against that, they were likely to be there when one needed them, and when one was in danger, their presence was comforting. More, he’d shown a—to her—surprising ability to deal with her as a partner. That, she most definitely hadn’t expected, especially from him.

The thought reminded her of what they were both supposed to be assessing that day—means of escape. She glanced at Martha. The older woman’s head was nodding, but she felt Heather’s gaze and looked up.

Heather glanced back at the inn, clearly visible across the fields.

Martha misinterpreted and chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. He won’t come charging out to drag us back.” Setting down her knitting, Martha, too, looked back at the inn. “Mind you, I’d wager he watched for the first ten minutes or so, but he’ll have seen by now that there’s no risk to you.” Martha waved her arms at the fields around them. “No chance anyone could creep up and steal you away.”

Heaving a huge sigh, Martha lay down full length on her end of the rug. “I’m going to have a nice little nap in this sun. Don’t think to wander off—I’ll know if you move. A very light sleeper, I am.”

Heather stared, speechless, at the woman who slept so soundly every night that she’d never heard Heather slip out of their room, or back in. Heather managed not to shake her head in disbelief, just in case Martha was watching through her lashes. Instead, she drew in a deep breath and looked around with more interest.

Considered the firth, not more than a mile away. Could they possibly escape by water? Surely they could find a fisherman who might . . . but no. Travel by small boat at this time of year wouldn’t necessarily be fast—faster than going by land—and she was fairly sure there would be no benefit to them in trying to get closer to Casphairn by sea. The Vale lay well inland, that much she knew.

While Martha’s snores kept the birds at bay, she wondered what possible distraction they might stage. It had to be something to keep Fletcher and Cobbins occupied—

The soft sound of a footstep had her turning quickly, to see Breckenridge quietly walking up. He looked at Martha, then nodded politely at Heather. “This looked like a good place to get some air. Do you mind if I join you?”

Understanding they were to continue to play their fictitious roles, she inclined her head. “If you wish.”

He sat on the grass a little way away. Drawing a map from his pocket, he opened it and spread it out—laying it between them, where she could see it.

Pointing to Gretna, Breckenridge murmured, “I thought I’d work out the best road to Glasgow.”

He’d spoken quietly, but distinctly. He waited, but Martha’s snores didn’t break rhythm.

Looking at Heather, he arched a brow.

Leaning closer, she extended one tapered finger, with it traced the main road from Gretna to Annan and on to Dumfries. There, she halted, lifted her finger while with her eyes she searched further north and west. . .

“There,” she breathed, her finger descending to point to a small village.

He looked, then looked up at her questioningly.