Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (26 page)

“This way.” Heather pointed left, then led him into a straight, narrow lane that cut directly down an incline. At the bottom of the incline, the lane met a well-paved road.

“There!” Heather pointed.

Lifting his gaze beyond the road, Breckenridge saw what at first glance appeared to be the entrance to another lane directly opposite the one they were in, but once they’d descended the first few yards, he saw that the lane was in fact a drive, the entrance flanked by shoulder-high stone cairns, with drystone walls stretching to either side.

The further they descended, leaving Knockgray behind them, the more obvious it became that the lane opposite was the entrance to a significant private estate; the stone walls stretched unbroken to either side, and the land enclosed looked prosperous and well tended, far more so than any farm they’d yet passed.

“This is the road to Ayr,” Heather almost gaily announced as they reached the intersection. “Carsphairn, the village, is that way”—she pointed to their right—“and Ayr is far beyond it. To the left lies New Galloway.”

Breckenridge nodded, mentally orienting their position on the map. Keeping his hold on her hand, he led her across the road. “How far is the house?” A sense of impending danger still rode him.

“The manor—Casphairn Manor—is about two miles on.” She glanced at him as, pausing in the entrance to the driveway, he glanced back up the lane.

The lane was so straight that he could see all the way to the top, to where it met the lane through Knockgray.

Heather squeezed his hand. “You don’t need to be so worried—we’re here now.”

He met her eyes. “Two miles is still two miles.”

She grinned and started walking. “True, but I can’t imagine, Catriona being who and what she is, that anyone would dare follow us into the Vale—not if they meant to do us harm.”

That gave him pause, and another question. “Catriona—exactly who and what is she?”

Heather’s lips were distinctly curved. “She’s the Lady—the Lady of the Vale. She’s . . . well, I suppose those who don’t understand would call her a witch.” She briefly met his eyes. “A very powerful witch.”

“What about those who do understand—what do they say of her?”

“That she’s the Lady, and she keeps the Vale and all its inhabitants safe and prosperous.”

“We’re not inhabitants.”

“I’m family and you’re protecting me—believe me, that puts us under her wing.”

He pulled a face and didn’t argue, but he’d be damned if he dropped his guard because of a witch who might or might not be sitting two miles ahead. And who might, or might not, be watching, let alone be of a mind to assist.

They walked straight on, due west, for a quarter of a mile, then the lane, more a well-graded carriageway, curved around a low hill to the south. Once around the bend, they would be out of sight of anyone pursuing.

Heather strode toward the bend, her gaze fixed eagerly ahead.

Releasing her hand, he halted and turned, letting her walk on while, yielding to instinct, he searched the route they’d followed, scanning their trail all the way back up the lane to the intersection in Knockgray—

And the rider, dark-haired and well-built, sitting his chestnut at the very top of the lane, his gaze trained on them.

Breckenridge didn’t need a closer look to know—beyond question—that the man had indeed followed them; he was the same rider he’d seen before. And now . . . the rider’s stance, his focus, positively screamed his interest.

He was almost certainly the mysterious laird behind Heather’s kidnapping.

He fit the bill. Not just in physical parameters but in every other way as well. There was a menace in his stillness, some intangible, primitive quality Breckenridge recognized even across the distance separating them and interpreted without the slightest difficulty.

The man was a warrior—warrior-born, like him. A worthy foe, one no sane man would discount.

Breckenridge stood, watched. Hands rising to his hips, he waited.

But the rider didn’t move, neither forward nor back.

A standoff. Breckenridge finally accepted that.

The man, the laird, whoever he was, wasn’t inclined to venture onto Vale lands.

And while Breckenridge was certain the man was their enemy, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave Heather and give chase. Even if he’d had a horse handy, he wasn’t about to leave Heather, even if she was less than two miles from safety.

By the time they reached the manor, even if he and Richard rode out as soon as they could, the rider would be long gone.

For a full minute, he stared at the rider, returning look for look, then, hands falling from his hips, he turned and stalked on, following Heather deeper into the Vale.

T
he man who wasn’t McKinsey sat his horse at the top of the steep slope and looked down and across the road at the couple retreating around the bend. He watched them disappear around it, saw the man who had stood and stared back at him, warriorlike and challenging, put out a hand to steady the woman. In the last instant before they passed out of his sight, the man’s hand slid down to engulf the woman’s.

Heather Cynster. He didn’t know her, but now he’d laid eyes on her he was faintly relieved that fate had intervened and sent someone else—some other warrior—to rescue her. She looked like she’d be a handful; her confidence even under such circumstances, the proud set of her head, the fluidity of her stride, suggested intelligence, courage, and an independent will.

A termagant would have made his life difficult. Even more difficult than it already was.

It was perfectly possible he’d had a lucky escape, that he should thank the man—the gentleman-warrior—for taking her off his hands.

Now he’d seen the man, it was clear he no longer had to worry about the Cynster chit’s future, let alone her safety. That had been his principal concern, the reason he’d felt compelled to follow them, but it was transparently obvious that the gentleman who had walked protectively, a touch possessively, by her side had taken both her future and her safety into his hands.

Timms, the unemployed solicitor’s clerk, who was no more a clerk than he himself was.

Although the distance between them had been too great to have any hope of identifying the man—or to run the risk of the man identifying him—like recognized like. It wasn’t simply the set of the man’s shoulders but how he held them, not just the long length of his rider’s legs but how he moved.

The man—Heather Cynster’s protector—was of his own class, a nobleman. He would take his oath on that.

And the man’s name was definitely not Timms.

He was tempted to leave, to turn and ride home and consider his obligation to Heather Cynster at an end, but one question remained: Why had they walked up that particular lane?

The lane appeared to strike west toward the next range of hills, the Rhinns of Kells, that ran along the other side of the valley. But those hills were more rugged than those the pair had already crossed; the way through them would be far from easy. Surely they weren’t intending to make their way over the range?

His uncertainty communicated to Hercules, who shifted forward several steps and tossed his head. Calming the great beast, he looked down again, then stared at the cairns and drystone walls he could now see flanking the entrance to the lane, suggesting it was actually the carriage drive leading to some country house.

There was no sign on the stonework—a carved stone plaque or anything similar—to give a clue as to which house it might be. Although he knew the general geography of the region, he didn’t know whose estate it was . . . but he had an inkling.

Regathering Hercules’ reins, he turned the big gelding and trotted on along the lane through Knockgray. A few inquiries at the nearest tavern should give him the details he required to set his mind completely at ease.

The lane joined the Ayr road just south of the village of Carsphairn. A small country tavern in the middle of the village appeared perfect for his needs. Dismounting, he left Hercules tethered in the inn yard and went in.

Slouching on the bar, he ordered a pint of ale. A few comments on the weather, and a speculation about the upcoming harvest, delivered with a strong hint of his native brogue, and he was accepted and free to say, “Passed the entrance to an estate just a little ways back.” With a tip of his head, he indicated the road south. “Didn’t say whose it might be, but the land looked lush.”

An old codger seated on a stool along the bar nodded. “Och, aye—that’d be the Vale.”

“Vale?”

The old man exchanged a glance with the barkeep, then shrugged. “Vale o’ Casphairn, it be. Owned by the Lady, and her husband, Mr. Cynster.”

“Good man, Mr. Cynster.” The barkeep polished a glass. “Comes in here now and then.”

He nodded easily and let the subject drop, asking instead about the state of the road to Ayr. Not that he intended to go that way, but they didn’t need to know that.

He remained at the bar, slowly sipping his ale, feeling relief, now complete, slide through him. He’d studied the Cynsters enough to have stumbled across the information that Richard Cynster had married some lowland witch, who, it seemed, owned the Vale of Casphairn.

Little wonder why Heather Cynster and her protector had headed down the Vale’s drive.

And that meant they were now safe. Back in the bosom of the Cynster clan.

Setting down his empty mug, he saluted the old man and the barkeep, and left the tavern. Despite the total failure of his plan, he felt oddly lighthearted; although the outcome wasn’t what he’d planned, what he’d wanted, much less what he needed, he felt irrationally pleased that—thanks to fate—he’d avoided disaster. A disaster he wouldn’t have been able to easily live with, that would have darkened the rest of his days.

Outside, he greeted Hercules, then mounted. The gelding sensed his lighter mood and pranced, anticipating a run. Grinning, he patted Hercules’ powerful neck, then turned the horse out into the road, dropped the reins, and let him fly.

Clinging, crouched low, hands sunk in the streaming mane, the air whistling past his face, he felt the powerful bunch and release of the horse’s muscles beneath him, and for that moment simply savored the thrill.

The freedom.

Illusory though it was, he’d take what he could of it, what surcease he could find.

Home
.

On one level, the most visceral level, the thought made his soul sing.

On another, more immediate plane, it brought unwelcome reminders of what waited for him there—of the chaos and catastrophe it was his lot to avert.

His role to make right.

However he could, however he might.

Whatever he had to do, he would. He had no other choice.

But that was for tomorrow. For today, he was free.

A
fternoon was waning into evening, the sun dipping behind the western hills, leaving shadows lengthening and the air cooling, when Heather and Breckenridge walked up the last rise and into the wide forecourt before Casphairn Manor.

The manor was a large, many-gabled stone building with three storeys under the slate roof and three turrets reaching to the sky. Built of dark gray stone, the house was irregular in shape yet seemed somehow balanced, settled on a slight rise with a small river coursing past. Gardens, currently bursting with life, filled the gentle slope between the house and the river. Breckenridge had glimpsed a jumble of outbuildings behind the house, with all the trappings of a busy, productive farm.

They weren’t even halfway across the forecourt when the massive double front doors flew open and three children raced out.

“Heather!”

“Mama, Papa—Heather’s
here
!”

Breckenridge suppressed a wince; after the silence of the wide valley, the serenity and peace, the high-pitched screech was an aural assault. But then he glanced at Heather, saw the quality of the smile that split her face as she stepped forward and opened her arms wide, and decided he would have to forgive the hooligans. Anything that gave her that much joy . . .

The two eldest children slammed into her; he put his hand to her back to steady her, though she hardly seemed to notice as she fiercely hugged the pair.

“Lucilla!” Heather placed a kiss on one shining coppery-red head, then hugged the black-haired boy and released him. “Marcus.”

She transferred her attention to the youngest of the three, bending as the girl reached her so the child could fling her arms about her neck. “And Annabelle.” After exchanging another near-violent hug and kiss, Heather straightened and looked toward the door, just as her cousin Richard came striding out. “Is your mother at home?” she asked the children, her gaze on Richard.

“Yes, but she was in the nursery with Calvin and Carter,” Lucilla reported, “so she’ll still be rushing down the stairs.”

Breckenridge fixed his gaze on the tall, black-haired gentleman striding across the gravel. He knew Richard, thank God, and Richard knew him. This was going to be awkward enough as it was.

Richard’s cornflower-blue eyes rapidly assessed Heather, then he swooped and swept her up into a tight hug. “We’ve all been worried, you ninnyhammer. About time you showed up somewhere.”

“Believe me,” Heather said, returning the hug, “we came as fast as we could.”

Easing his hold on her, Richard held her at arm’s length, then, apparently reassured as to her health, he released her and turned his narrowing gaze on Breckenridge. After an instant’s hesitation, Richard nodded curtly and held out his hand. “Breckenridge.”

“Richard.” Breckenridge clasped the proffered hand, shook it. “I assume you’ve heard—”

“Heather! About time!” Relief, albeit collected and calm, rang in the words.

Glancing at the house, Breckenridge saw a vividly beautiful lady walking smoothly their way, skirts and shawl gently streaming behind her in the light breeze. Hair the color of bright copper-red lit by the sun was gathered in a knot on the top of her head, strands wreathing loose to frame a face with delicate features and a surprisingly firm chin. Richard’s witchy wife was a little taller than average, slender and curvaceous rather than svelte. Breckenridge had met Catriona only once before, at Caro’s wedding. Now, as then, she effortlessly exuded an aura of calm, of confidence and serene assurance.