Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (33 page)

More, that he might know he did, but—witness his charming words, his roundabout arguments—for some impenetrable male reason he was unwilling to declare that truth, not in any way, shape, or form.

So he was going to be difficult. But if there was any chance at all that he, arrogant, infuriating, and irritating though he was, was her fated hero, that he and this was her chance to seize a future as glowing as any she’d ever dreamed, then there was likewise no chance that she would—that she could—give up and walk away.

The love of such a man is worth fighting for.

Catriona’s words rang in her head.

Rising up on her toes, eyes locked with his, she simply said, “Give me one
good
reason why I should.”

His temper was as close to the surface as hers. She all but saw the hot words leap to his tongue—but he pressed his lips even tighter together, holding the impulsive, sure to be revealing response back. . . .

Eventually, his tone rigidly controlled, he replied, “We need to get married because that is the only acceptable outcome.”

She held his gaze, felt his will, implacable and utterly compelling, beat about her.

Felt her own stubbornness well. Harden.

Felt her temper surge, hot and scalding.

She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind—fury clogged her throat.

“
Arrrgh
!” She flung up her hands, swung on her heel, and stormed off through the gardens.

Breckenridge watched her go. Heard the gravel crunch beneath her feet, read the fury in every stride, the anger investing every line of her svelte form.

The words he’d uttered, and those he hadn’t, echoed in his head.
We need to get married because that is the only acceptable outcome . . . to me
.

If he’d been honest enough, brave enough, to give voice to the last two words . . . would she have let him get away with just that?

He inwardly scoffed. A fool’s hope. When it came to that particular “affection,” she, like her like-minded sisters, would insist on her full due. If he gave her any definite hint that he felt anything of that nature for her, she wouldn’t rest until she had him on his knees swearing undying devotion. And offering her his heart on a platter.

Something he could never do.

The one thing he would never trust any woman enough to do again.

Heather reached the manor’s side door and disappeared inside.

He thought, consulting the morass of ill-used feelings churning inside, then, jaw setting, stalked off along a different path—the one that led to the stables.

S
tanding a few feet back from the window in the turret room below the bedchamber she and Richard shared, Catriona, arms crossed, watched Breckenridge stride toward the stables. “Well, that looks promising.”

“Indeed.” Beside her, Algaria nodded. “I wasn’t sure before, but now . . .”

“I wasn’t sure either.” Catriona turned to the room. “Not that she was the right one for him, or that he was the one for her, but after that performance, there can be no doubt.”

She used the chamber as a sitting room, and Algaria often brought Lucilla and Marcus there for their less formal lessons. The elder twins were seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting various leaves, learning the plants their mother and the Vale folk used for various ills, both in themselves and their animals.

“Be that as it may”—Algaria turned to watch the twins—“I sensed from the first that he’s . . . very contained.”

Catriona nodded. “That’s why I was most unsure about him—he appears so outwardly open, so charmingly at ease, yet inside there are walls. Thick, impenetrable walls.”

Algaria nodded. “If he’s ever to have her, he’ll need to take those walls down himself.”

“Or at least open a door and let her in.” After a moment, Catriona went on, “All we can do is have faith—and watch to see what happens next.”

Chapter Sixteen

T
en hours later, Heather lay in the four-poster bed in the room she usually occupied at the manor. Fingering the chain about her neck, she stared up at the canopy above.

Most of the manor’s occupants would by now be snoring. If she intended to join Breckenridge, then it would be safe to go to his room now.

Cloaked in comfortable darkness, she didn’t move, just lay staring unseeing upward.

Thinking, reviewing. Planning.

Scheming.

She had, at his request, declared her position—told him what she wanted from any man she would agree to call husband. She’d made the effort, plumbed her deepest feelings and bared her dreams . . . and what had been his response?

Silence. Then he’d tried charming her.

When that hadn’t worked, he’d reverted to heavy-handed, domineering arguments.

She’d given him the opportunity to bare his deepest feelings—even a hint would have sufficed—but instead he’d held firm and told her nothing.

Admitted nothing.

For the rest of the day, through the long evening, he’d held to a rigidly correct distance. If it hadn’t been for the heat in his gaze she might have thought he’d decided to return to treating her as he had over the past years in London, that as far as he was concerned the interlude between London and the Vale had never occurred . . . but those dark, smoldering glances had given the lie to that.

He’d admitted nothing yet remained unswervingly fixed on marrying her.

All of which left her in a complete quandary.

Did his refusal to admit he felt any strong “affection” for her mean that he did but was—in typical male fashion—doing his very best to hide it?

Or instead had he refused to give her any hope because he truly didn’t feel any real affection for her, only lust, something he presumably would know all about, and recognizing that, he was too honorable to pretend to feel the “affection” she required in order to falsely gain her agreement to marry him?

She could hardly fault him if the latter were the case.

And if it was, she wouldn’t be marrying him.

Which very definitely meant she shouldn’t get up, slip through the corridors, and make her way to his bed.

She might actively want more experiences to build her store of memories against the lonely years ahead, but . . . going to him would prolong his belief that if he persevered, he would eventually wear her down—wear her out—and she would agree to marry him without the vow of “affection” she sought.

In that, he wouldn’t succeed, but there was, unfortunately, another pertinent consideration.

What if she fell pregnant?

There’d be no avoiding the altar then. Even more so given he needed an heir.

Introducing a child into their equation was the only twist capable of forcing her to put aside her requirement for “affection” and marry him regardless.

That was something he might guess.

Something he, given his continuing determination to wed her, might seek to use if she continued to refuse him, and then she’d never know which of his potential reasons—true “affection” or mere honor linked with lust—was his real motivation.

So . . . no further indulging.

At least not unless she had better proof that he truly did love her.

She wasn’t afraid of using the word, yet simply thinking it evoked a wellspring of yearning, a hollow need that encompassed her heart, and had grown deeper and broader over recent days.

An emptiness she prayed would one day be filled, by a partner, a lover, a husband who loved her.

She sighed, then sat up, thumped her pillow and slumped down on her side, her cheek pillowed on soft linen.

Not the same as being pillowed on his chest.

Nowhere near as soothing.

But it was safer this way.

Besides . . . it was entirely possible that abstinence would make the heart grow fonder.

Whether it might make his heart any easier to read was another matter altogether.

S
he wasn’t coming.

Hands beneath his head, Breckenridge lay on his back, stared up at the ceiling, and felt the realization sink to his marrow. He wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or aggrieved.

In the end, aggrieved won out.

How was he supposed to convince the damn woman to marry him if she avoided him? Especially if she avoided him here, at night, in the arena in which his persuasive powers were strongest?

Perhaps he should go to her?

He debated the option for a full five minutes but reluctantly conceded that if she didn’t come to him, then he couldn’t go to her. Such an act would smack of a need he was trying hard to hide; the suggestion that he would rather not be parted from her for even one night was simply too revealing.

Besides, if she didn’t want to sleep in his arms . . .

The thought shook him but effectively refocused him on the question of why she hadn’t come slipping through his door.

All conceit aside, he knew she’d enjoyed their interludes every bit as much as he had, and even if she wished to hold to her stance of not marrying him, why would she deny herself a pleasure that, if she prevailed, she wouldn’t have available for many days more?

Why put an early end to their liaison?

To punish him for not admitting to “deep affection”?

Or to prod him into admitting the same?

Or both?

The more he thought of it, the more he was convinced the answer lay somewhere along those lines.

Lips twisting wrily, he turned on his side, pulled the covers over his shoulder, and closed his eyes.

What was sauce for the gander in that regard was also sauce for the goose.

B
reakfast the next morning was the usual noisy, warmly inclusive Saturday morning meal Heather recalled from previous visits to the Vale.

Sadly, the effervescent buzz of conversation, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the chiming of crockery, only made her temples throb more definitely.

She hadn’t slept well. And she knew at whose feet to lay the blame.

Breckenridge sat alongside Richard toward the other end of the table; between sipping tea and nibbling toast, she cast dark glances his way—glances he chose to ignore.

Rising temper did nothing to ease her burgeoning headache.

Finally the meal, shared with the entire household, was at an end.

Seated at the middle of the high table, Catriona rose and looked at Heather. “I need someone to take a basket to one of the farms—some items to help a new mother. Her babe’s only two months old. Can you take it?”

A nice long walk in the fresh spring air was exactly what she needed. She nodded and pushed back her chair. “If you’ll tell me the way, I’ll be happy to.”

Catriona glanced at Lucilla and Marcus, seated to Heather’s right. “Why don’t you two act as guides?”

“Yes, please!” Marcus shot up from his chair.

Catriona smiled. “It’s the Mitchells’ farm.”

“We know the way,” Lucilla assured her. Looking at Heather, Lucilla added, “We won’t let you get lost.”

Heather felt her lips curving for the first time that morning. “Thank you. I’ll put my faith in you.” She arched a brow at Catriona.

“Megan Mitchell, and the babe’s Callum. He’s a healthy boy, but if you sense anything amiss”—Catriona included Lucilla with her eyes—“be sure you tell me when you get back.”

“Yes, Mama.” Coming around the table, Lucilla took Heather’s hand, then peeked down. “Good—you have your boots on. So we can go and collect the basket straightaway. Cook will have it ready.”

“Yes, all right.” Allowing herself to be towed around and off the dais, Heather exchanged a laughing glance with Catriona, then surrendered and let the twins drag her on—all the while pretending not to notice the increasingly black frown on Breckenridge’s face.

The instant Heather disappeared through the archway leading to the kitchen, Breckenridge cut across Richard’s dissertation about the local crops to ask, “How far is the Mitchell farm?”

His expression mild, Richard replied, “About a mile and a half, maybe a bit more, further into the Vale.”

In the act of swanning past, Catriona paused. “You don’t need to worry. They’ll be perfectly safe. The way’s all on Vale lands, after all—I would know if anything threatened.”

With that, she passed on.

Richard cast him an understanding glance. “I take it you’ll be busy this morning?”

Breckenridge grunted and left it at that. Richard didn’t need more of a reply.

After a few seconds’ consideration, Breckenridge rose, nodded a farewell to Richard, who smiled, but wisely said nothing, then Breckenridge left the hall and headed for the manor’s front door.

He circled around through the herb garden; he was standing concealed in the shadows cast by one of the irregular corners of the manor when Marcus ran out of the back door, followed by a skipping Lucilla. Heather brought up the rear, a basket on her arm.

The basket didn’t appear to be that heavy. Breckenridge reluctantly rejected using its weight and his offer to carry it as his excuse for joining the expedition. Given the situation between him and Heather, he knew well enough that this was the wrong time to push her—to press his company on her—but equally he wasn’t able to simply stand by and watch her walk out effectively unescorted.

She might be perfectly safe, but his inner male wasn’t about to risk it.

Once the threesome were far enough ahead, he set out in their wake, walking slowly, hands in his pockets, and making good use of any available cover.

H
eather reached the Mitchells’ farmhouse after half an hour of pleasant rambling along the winding river, then up a sloping path through a stand of trees to the small, south-facing plateau on which the farmhouse sat.

The sun bathed the front of the whitewashed building, glinting off the windows flanking the green-painted door. One of the windows was open a crack; as Heather approached, she could hear the baby fretting.

She paused before the door, hesitated, but then raised her hand and rapped.

A pale face appeared briefly in the window, saw her, saw Lucilla and Marcus running up from where they’d dallied among the trees, and abruptly disappeared.

Half a minute later, the door opened to reveal a harried-looking young woman smoothing down her skirts. “Yes?”

Heather smiled. “Megan Mitchell?”

The woman bobbed. “Aye, miss.”

“I’ve brought you some things from the manor.” Heather indicated the basket on her arm. Megan Mitchell was, she judged, younger than she.

The young mother’s gaze fell to the basket. “From the Lady?”

“Yes. She thought you might find these things useful.” Heather saw the relief in Megan’s face as she spied the loaf of bread in the basket. “Might I come in?” Heather glanced back at Lucilla and Marcus, now playing a boisterous game of tag on the swath of grass before the farmhouse. “And if the baby—Callum, isn’t it?—is crochety, perhaps we’d best leave those two outside.” Turning back to Megan, Heather let her smile turn understanding. “Meanwhile, perhaps I can help you—at least hold Callum while you get some chores done.”

Megan all but sagged with relief. “Thank you, miss, that would be most kind. But I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be. I’m happy to help.” Stepping over the threshold as Megan stepped back, Heather took in the almost painfully neat space, kitchen and sitting room rolled into one. Despite the austerity, there were small touches of warmth here and there, most to do with the baby, grumbling and grouching and waving his tiny fists in the bassinet set in the sunshine before one window.

“Here.” She handed over the basket. “You take care of that, and I’ll make Callum’s acquaintance.”

Megan took the basket and set it down on the table. Heather felt her watchful gaze as she went to the bassinet, leaned over to coo, then play with Callum’s batting fists.

The baby’s eyes were wide, just coming into a definite blue. A tuft of fluffy brownish hair decorated his pink crown; with his button nose, round face, and pink cheeks, he looked very like a doll come to life.

“I’ve helped my sisters-in-law, cousins, and my cousins’ wives with their babies.” Heather spoke without looking at Megan, as, acquaintance made, she carefully lifted Callum into her arms. “Between them, they’ve had quite a few, and I can assure you most were far more fractious than this sweet boy.”

Callum looked into her face as if fascinated by the different cadence of her voice.

Megan watched, but then, reassured by Heather’s confident handling of little Callum, relaxed and gave her attention to the basket. She unpacked it, briskly setting the various items about the kitchen. “Please do thank the Lady—and I ’spect Cook—for the loaf. Helps if I don’t have to bake.”

“I will.” Heather rocked Callum in her arms. He’d settled like a lamb, still staring up at her, possibly at the curls that fell from the knot on the top of her head.

Some minutes later, “Hmm . . . miss, do you know what this’s for?”

Heather turned to see Megan holding up a bottle of what looked to be medicine. Still gently rocking and jiggling Callum, Heather walked over. The bottle contained a pale syrup. “Can you open it for me?”

When Megan obliged, Heather touched a finger to the rim of the bottle, then tasted. “Ah, yes. Dill essence in syrup.” She smiled. “Catriona—the Lady—is looking ahead. It’s for when the colic sets in.” Realizing from Megan’s mystified expression that she didn’t know of the joys awaiting her, Heather explained.

Megan looked at the bottle with new respect. “She’s a wonder, the Lady. Do please give her my most humble thanks.”

Heather inclined her head, then wandered back to the shaft of sunlight. Looking down at Callum, still wide awake, but utterly quiet, she said, “He seems quite settled.”

“Aye—he likes to move a little, just as you’re doing.” Megan set the empty basket down by the door. Then hesitated.

Without looking up, Heather murmured, “If you’d like to attend to any chores, I’m happy to keep him amused.”

“If you’re sure . . . ?”

Heather smiled. “Yes. Will we be out of your way here?”