Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (22 page)

Besides . . . he hadn’t yet grown reconciled to the fact that, in doing all he could to tie her to him last night, while he might have succeeded in that, he’d simultaneously bound himself even more irrevocably to her, moreover in ways he didn’t yet fully understand.

Ways he didn’t yet want to understand.

He glanced at her again; his eyes were drawn to the ripe curves of her lips . . .

Dragging his gaze from her, he shifted, then grabbed the satchels, closed them, and got to his feet.

She looked up at him, brows rising, that odd little—sirenlike—smile still on her lips.

It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how much she’d seen, how much she’d guessed.

Hardening his heart along with his expression, he held out a hand. “We should get on. We’ve some way to walk yet if we’re to be sure of reaching the Vale tomorrow.”

She tilted her head, regarded him for an instant, then nodded and set her hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. “Thank you.”

He waited while she brushed down her skirts and shook them out, then handed her the satchel she’d been carrying. “We should join a larger road up around the next bend. Kirkland should be a little further west.”

She merely nodded, reached out, and slipped her hand into his.

He grasped it lightly, settled her fingers within his clasp as he led her from the stream, back into the lane.

Hand in hand again, with her striding easily—transparently contentedly—by his side, they walked on toward Kirkland.

T
he man masquerading as McKinsey was in a far more deadly mood as, inwardly cursing, he rode south, heading back to Dumfries along the Glasgow Road.

If all had played out as he’d originally planned, he would have been, at that moment, back in the highlands, almost home, with Heather Cynster in tow, and his estate and all those on it would soon be safe once more. Instead . . .

Grim-faced, he was forced to halt every traveler heading north and ask after the pair, forced to stop at every cottage, barn, tavern, every possible resting place, had to sidetrack and check for any sight of them down every lane giving off the road.

He’d reached Thornhill without finding them—which had meant they’d either halted somewhere and unknowingly he’d overtaken them, or they’d turned off the road and headed elsewhere.

Where, he had no idea.

It had been no part of his plan to call attention to himself by approaching dozens of people along the road and asking questions, but he had no option. At least the stretch of road south of Thornhill didn’t have that many lanes giving off it, and most had a cottage or farm close by the corner. At that time of day, with the sun shining brightly, everyone was out in their fields; easy enough to inquire whether they’d seen his brother and his lass.

Remounting after questioning another crofter and once again getting a shake of the head, he settled in the saddle, picked up Hercules’ reins, eased the big gelding into a canter, and wondered if the Cynster chit was worth the effort.

If she hadn’t escaped with some unknown bounder . . .

Inwardly sighing resignedly, he rode on. No matter what arguments he wove, there was simply no way he could let the silly chit run off into the wilds and come to harm, given the blame for her being in the wilds at all and not safely in the bosom of her family in London lay entirely at his feet. His fault. Her potentially perilous circumstance was undeniably and solely an unintended outcome of his tortuous plan.

It was up to him to set things right.

Jaw firming, he tapped his boot heels to Hercules’ side and shifted into a gallop.

Chapter Twelve

I
n the late afternoon, with Heather beside him, Breckenridge walked into a tiny hamlet that, according to his map, gloried in the name of Craigdarroch. In unspoken accord, without a word or even a glance exchanged, he and Heather halted and considered the three cottages clustered just ahead of them on the slight upslope above the lane.

“I don’t suppose there’s a larger village around the next bend?” With her head, Heather indicated the next curve in the lane, the next outcrop of hill that hid their way onward.

“Not according to the map. It doesn’t show a larger settlement for quite some way, so we can’t risk going on.” He glanced at the western sky. “The sun might still be shining, but it won’t be for long.”

They’d reached Kirkland a little after midday and had continued on along a larger lane that ran over the hills joining Thornhill and New Galloway. That lane had been better surfaced, but it had still tacked and turned, climbed and descended, albeit never steeply. Nevertheless, the going had been slow—there was no chance they could reach the Vale that day. They’d passed through the village of Moniaive an hour or so ago, and following the route they’d selected, they’d turned off onto the much narrower, pitted lane-cum-track that had brought them to Craigdarroch.

He hoped their taking a less obvious route out of the hills would throw any pursuer off their trail.

At his side Heather stirred. “Let’s try the last cottage. It looks to have an extra room added at the rear.”

He looked, then nodded. Grasping her hand more firmly, he walked with her to the red-painted door of the whitewashed cottage at the end of the short row. They halted on the stoop. He adjusted the satchels on his shoulder, then raised his hand and rapped.

A moment passed, then a woman opened the door. She looked surprised to see them. Alarm briefly flared in her eyes as she looked at him; she quickly moved the door closer to closed before asking through the narrower gap, “What is it?”

Before he could respond, Heather stepped forward; slipping her left hand from his grasp, she gripped his sleeve, pressed . . . in warning? “We were just wondering, mistress, if you have a room we might hire for the night. We’re on our way to visit my family, but the going was harder than we’d thought, so we need a bed for the night.”

Breckenridge saw the woman’s eyes drop to Heather’s hand on his sleeve—the hand on which his signet ring still gleamed—and held his tongue.

The woman looked at Heather in her rumpled gown, her hair escaping from the bun she’d fashioned that morning, her normally alabaster skin faintly pinkened by the sun, then considerably more carefully looked at him. She looked him down, then up, then she returned her gaze to Heather. “He’s your man?”

“Yes. He’s mine.”

“He” managed not to glance inquiringly at Heather. Her answer had been instant, assured and absolute; from the corner of his eye, he watched her chin tilt upward a fraction, as if challenging the woman to comment unfavorably on him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been viewed by any woman in a less-than-favorable light, but he wasn’t slow. Clearly the woman distrusted large and physically strong men. Ducking his head, doing his best to lower his shoulders and seem less intimidating, he shifted his feet and murmured, “I’d be happy to cut wood for you, mistress. Did that for the couple we stayed with last night, back down by Gribton. In addition to the coin, of course.”

The woman glanced again at Heather, then she nodded and stepped back. Holding the door wider, she waved them in. “I’m Mrs. Croft. I’m a widow, so I have to be careful, you see. But I won’t deny the coin—and the wood—will come in handy.”

Heather glanced around the cottage’s tiny sitting room. An open door in the middle of the rear wall led into a lean-to kitchen, a deal table at its center. A door in the wall to the right of the front door no doubt gave onto the cottage’s main bedroom. The hearth and chimney were built into the rear wall, to the right of the kitchen door. Further to the right, a narrow stairway led upward, turning to disappear behind the chimney.

After shutting the stout front door and slipping a heavy iron latch into place, Mrs. Croft waved to the staircase. “The spare room’s up there. Take a look, set down your things. The washroom’s out the back through the kitchen.” She hesitated, her gaze skating over Breckenridge to fix on Heather’s face. Then she nodded as if she’d made some decision. “You’ve come at the right time—I was just starting in on filling the pot. If you fancy, I can do you a decent dinner and a good breakfast, too, as well as the room.”

“Thank you.” Heather smiled in honest relief. “That would be most welcome.” Remembering what they’d paid the Cartwrights, she suggested the same sum.

Mrs. Croft all but beamed. “That’ll do nicely—if you’re sure you can spare it.”

Breckenridge, head bowed because he was standing beneath one of the low ceiling beams, rumbled, “Seems fair. And I can start filling your woodbox before the light goes, if you like.”

A small fire was already burning in the hearth.

Mrs. Croft glanced at the wooden crate beside the fireplace. It was half full of logs. Without meeting Breckenridge’s eyes, she waved. “Oh, you can leave that til morning. You’ve been walking all day by the sounds of it, if you’ve come up from Gribton, and the light’s already fading.”

And then they would leave her with a full woodbox.

Breckenridge ducked his head even lower. “The morning, then.”

Heather had to press her lips together to hide her smile. He looked so . . . not him, trying to make himself appear innocuous. “We’ll just go up then.”

Mrs. Croft nodded. “I’ve a bell—I’ll ring when the plates are on the table.”

Heather started up the stairs. At the turn she glanced back and saw Breckenridge, about to follow, angle his shoulders sideways just so he could fit. She’d never considered the difficulties associated with being so tall and broad-shouldered; continuing up the short flight, she stepped onto a tiny landing before a simple door.

Opening the door, she walked into a small, but fastidiously neat, room. Windows at the rear looked across the rising meadow behind the cottage. The room had been built over the kitchen, spanning the space between the cottage’s original roof and the raised bank behind; the room’s floor was the kitchen’s ceiling.

A wood-framed bed occupied the center of the room, with its head against the wall below the windows and its foot toward the blank wall of the chimney flue. There was space enough for a small chest of drawers against the far wall and a washstand against the wall beside the door.

Heather crossed the room and set her satchel down by the chest. She turned to see Breckenridge, having closed the door, pause with his hand on the chimney.

Seeing her looking, he said, “With the fire downstairs, we’ll be warm enough up here.”

Slipping the satchels off his shoulder, he walked to the corner beside the washstand. As he straightened from setting the bags down, a knock sounded on the door.

Mrs. Croft’s voice reached through the panel. “I’ve brought a pitcher of warm water—thought you might like to use the basin in there.”

Waving Breckenridge back, Heather hurried to the door. Opening it, she smiled at their landlady. “Thank you. That was kind.”

Handing the pitcher over, Mrs. Croft wiped her hands on her blue-striped apron and immediately turned away. “Aye, well, you’re welcome.”

Heather watched her descend the stair, then held the heavy pitcher out for Breckenridge to take. He relieved her of it and set it on the washstand.

Closing the door, Heather murmured, “I wonder what happened to her.”

Breckenridge cast her a glance, then tipped still steaming water into the waiting basin. “Her husband probably beat her.”

The way he said it, his tone, made her think he recognized something in the way Mrs. Croft reacted to him.
That’s why you’ve been trying to appear harmless.
She thought the words but didn’t say them, instead accepting his waved invitation to make use of the warm water.

After rinsing the dust of the lanes from her face, then patting it dry with the thin towel hanging from the side of the washstand, she left him availing himself of the rest of the water and went to inspect the bed.

Drawing down the coverlet, she examined the sheets, then pulled the coverlet back up and sat on the mattress, bouncing to test it. “The linens are fresh, and the bed”—slipping off her walking boots, she lay back and stretched out full length, her head on the pillow—“quite comfortable.”

Turning from setting the towel back on its rack, Breckenridge regarded her.

Closing her eyes, she let her muscles go lax on a surprisingly contented sigh. Now she was off her feet, lying supine in relative comfort, with dinner arranged and nothing more to do . . . she could think of what else might be, what else she might accomplish if she put her mind to it.

Breckenridge drank in her expression, saw the smile flirting about her lips—and found himself drawn irresistibly to the bed. His legs came up against the opposite edge of the mattress; he was tempted, so tempted, to reach out and run the backs of his fingers down one delicate cheek. . . .

Unwise. He knew where even the most innocent touch would lead, and she’d been walking all day. Better to let her catch her breath before instigating the next stage of his plan.

His plan to ensure she married him.

That when the time came, she wouldn’t argue but instead would happily agree.

He might have his work cut out for him, but it was, after all, work at which he excelled. There was no need for him to be a cad and press his case immediately; he had time.

Reluctantly turning away, he sat on the edge of the bed and, reaching out, hauled one of his satchels closer. Pulling out the map, he unfolded it.

As he studied their route onward, beneath his feet he could hear the occasional clang of a pot, the clunk of a stove door. He concentrated on the map, estimating the distance they still had to traverse, gauging the likely terrain, adding up the hours. Despite his focus, some part of him registered the cadence of Heather’s breathing; he knew she wasn’t asleep. “We’re more or less in the middle of the passes up here—we haven’t much more climbing to do. An hour or two, and then all the rest is downhill. If the Vale is where you say it is, we should definitely reach it tomorrow, but it’ll probably be midafternoon before we get there.”

“Hmm.”

He heard the consideration underlying her response, decided he didn’t need to torture himself with imagining what she might be thinking.

Staring at the map, he heard another rattle and clang from downstairs. Thought of Mrs. Croft, and the flash of alarm that had shown in her eyes. He’d seen it before, knew what it usually meant. And whenever he came across such responses . . . he was always left wondering how, let alone why, any man would hit a woman. Just the thought of hitting a woman—any woman—literally sickened him. He knew his own strength, had fought with men his own size often enough to know just how powerful, how damaging an uncontrolled blow from him might be—to a man. To a woman?

The entire notion of beating a woman—the why of it, the how of it—was simply beyond his comprehension.

Not that he hadn’t met women who’d qualified as unmitigated bitches—the one who had taught him the true value of love sprang to mind—but no matter how much they might have deserved retribution in full measure, he’d always been of the mind to leave that to fate.

In his experience, fate usually caught up with most wrongdoers, and often in exquisite ways no human agency could match.

Despite his wishes, his thoughts circled back to the woman on the bed at his back. Her and her kind—no matter that he knew the worst of them, all the bored matrons who scratched and clawed at each other, then plastered on a false smile and tried to lure him to their beds—they were women of his class, and the protectiveness he felt toward them was inbred and innate. He could no more turn against them than he could cut out his own skeleton, his attitude to them was that deeply ingrained.

As for Heather . . . even as his mind focused more definitely on her, he felt something in him rise. Something steely, forged, and ungiving.

He would never raise his hand to her, but he’d kill any who did.

That was a conundrum about himself—about him and other men like him, like the Cynsters and their ilk—for which he’d never found any rational explanation. They would never, could never, be violent toward their women but would unhesitatingly respond with unparalleled violence were any to threaten said women.

He was perfectly aware—had been for years—that that propensity lay within him. Only now, however, with Heather, had it—it wasn’t an emotion, was it? . . . no, better to call it an ingrained attitude—achieved its full and somewhat unsettling potential.

Unfortunately, knowing that how he felt was normal enough for men like him didn’t make dealing with the associated impulses any easier.

The bed behind him dipped. He assumed she was turning over and settling for a nap, but then the mattress immediately behind him dipped deeply, and she was there, pressing close, her front to his back, her breasts soft mounds against the hard planes on either side of his spine as she settled on her spread knees and sent her hands sliding around him.

Without thought, one of his hands left the map to trap her questing hands against his chest. “What are you doing?”

He raised his head, then tipped it slightly as she nuzzled beneath one ear.

“I’m trying to seduce you into putting the hour we have before Mrs. Croft rings her dinner bell to good use.” The warm waft of her breath was followed by the gentle caress of her lips. Then she drew back and murmured in his ear, “Is it working?”

Heather didn’t think he’d answer, at least not in words. She was operating on a combination of instinct and impulse, and had no idea if he would be willing to play. If tonight was to be their last free of all social restraint, then to her mind she needed to make the most of it. She had no idea if after they reached the Vale he would consent to continue a liaison, and even so, any affair between them would necessarily end when he returned to London, which he presumably would once she was safe under Richard and Catriona’s roof.