Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (34 page)

“Oh, aye. It’s the washing I need to finish, and if I can get the pot on, that will be a blessing.”

Swaying slightly, Heather stood in the sunshine before the window, rocked Callum in her arms . . . and thought of how she might feel if the baby were her own.

Of course, if she followed that thought to its logical conclusion, the baby would have dark hair and hazel eyes. She couldn’t imagine having any other man’s child, which, she suspected, said quite a lot. Breckenridge had mentioned wanting children, and she’d immediately seen herself rocking his son. She’d wanted that dream, but it was only a part of the wider whole.

Of all they—he and she—might have, if only . . .

If only he loved her enough to tell her so.

During the night, in between her fitful bouts of sleep, she’d revisited her decision, as one did in the dead of night when one tried to find a way through a shifting maze, questioning at every turn. She’d wondered if, perhaps, she could manage without him declaring he loved her.

Pointless to pretend she didn’t care for him, that she wasn’t, indeed, in love with him. If she hadn’t been, she would never have been wasting so many hours thinking and obsessing about him and his inscrutable ways.

So could she agree to marrying him without knowing, without being certain, that he loved her in return?

No matter how she’d twisted and turned, the answer had remained the same.

Because she loved him, she couldn’t risk marrying him without the assurance.

Because without that assurance, she would live in constant fear, never feeling safe in her love, never certain that he wouldn’t break her heart by turning to other ladies.

She was neither blind nor witless. She knew his reputation had been wellearned.

But other rakes had changed; she knew of several who had become pattern-cards of virtue after they had wed.

But they’d all been in love; head over heels, undeniably in love.

Only love was a guarantee that he would be hers for ever more.

And she was who she was; she needed ever more.

So no, she needed to hear his love declared . . . or at least communicated in some unequivocal way. Even if he never said the words, as long as she knew.

Words were only words, after all, easy to say, easy to forget.

Actions spoke louder. . . .

Were there any actions, any undeniable clues that he did indeed love her despite his refusal to say the fateful words?

Was there any chance she might convince herself of his love without him having to make a declaration?

No immediate answers sprang to mind, but if she did find such a clue, convinced herself it was real and true, even if he never admitted to loving her, wasn’t love—securing love and building a life together based on that emotion—worth the risk? Worth almost any risk?

Catriona had warned that in order to secure Breckenridge’s heart, Heather might well have to risk hers. Was this what Catriona had meant?

When all the rest was stripped away, was she willing to risk her heart to secure the future she yearned for?

What if she risked all and didn’t win? Didn’t gain the reciprocal love, the husband, and the life she wanted?

Risk, indeed.

“There, now.” Megan came forward. “I’m all done for the morning, and m’ bonny bairn is sound asleep.” Smiling softly, she reached for the baby.

Heather relinquished the warm bundle, watched Megan’s face, so full of maternal love as she gazed down at her sleeping son. “I’ll leave you now.”

Megan looked up at the whisper, smiled. “Thank you, miss. You’ve made my day much easier—needed a helping hand I did, and there you came along.”

Heather’s smile deepened. “Thank the Lady.”

With a salute, she picked up the basket and stepped through the still open door.

The sunshine beamed down. Halting on the stoop, she closed her eyes, listened to the song of the birds, the buzz of insects, the piping voices of Lucilla and Marcus now playing in the shade of a tree by the edge of the meadow.

A moment of peace in an otherwise thought-filled, thought-provoking day.

Opening her eyes on a sigh, she stepped out, heading back along the path toward the trees. “Come along, you two. It’s time to go back.”

Lucilla waved. Marcus whooped, then led the way down the path, gamboling like a lamb, Lucilla, on his heels, calling out encouragement.

Heather laughed. Feeling much lighter, she lengthened her stride, empty basket swinging from one hand.

She’d reentered the dappled dimness beneath the trees when a flitting shadow at the edge of her vision had her turning her head sharply. Enough to catch a glimpse. Enough of a glimpse to guess.

Smothering an oath, she stepped off the path, tramped through the low underbrush to a large tree five yards off the path.

Rounding the wide bole, she halted and glared. “What the
devil
are you doing here?”

Breckenridge opened his eyes. Eyes he’d closed in momentary exasperation. “What do you think I’m doing here?” When in doubt, turn the question back. Inspiration struck. “I’m doing what I’ve been doing since I left Lady Herford’s salon—protecting you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, anger and aggravation in every line of her face. “Has it ever occurred to you that if, in her ladyship’s salon, you’d done the sensible thing and pretended not to notice me, rather than decided to ‘protect’ me by hauling me out and sending me home, then none of this would have happened?”

Guilt washed over him, but it was a more fundamental fear that seized him by the throat and kept him silent. He stared impassively down at her as the seconds ticked by, then finally asked, his voice flat and uninflected, “Would you really rather
none
of this had hap—”

“Forget I said that.” She brusquely waved a hand as if erasing her comment. “That’s not the point. The point is that there is no danger here—there’s no need for you to be following me. I don’t need a guard in the Vale.” She waved at the surrounding hills. “I’m at no risk here!”

“You might be.” Her aggravation abraded his. “For all you know Fletcher and Cobbins might have followed us here and just be waiting for the right moment to seize you again.”

“What?” She blinked. Her face paled; she looked toward the track. “Lucilla and Marcus. They’ve run ahead—”

“No—I take it back.” Disgusted that he couldn’t even let himself scare her, he hissed out a breath through clenched teeth. “There isn’t any imminent threat.”

She frowned at him. “How can you be sure? You just said—”

“I know what I said.” Gripping her elbow, he urged her back toward the path. “But Richard sent riders—trackers—around the boundaries, and they found no evidence anyone had crossed, and all the Vale people have been alerted, but no one’s seen any stranger lurking.” They reached the path and he released her. Scanning their surroundings, he grimaced. “And much as I don’t want to dwell on whatever witchy powers Catriona wields, she says there’s currently no threat on Vale lands, and as everyone else seems to think she would know . . .” He shrugged.

He matched his stride to hers as she started back along the path. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, eyes on the path, he felt forced to concede, “It’s unlikely you’re in any danger here, but having got you this far safely, there’s no reason to take unnecessary risks.”

He felt her sharp, still annoyed gaze on the side of his face. Made no move to meet it. Instead steeled himself for her next attack.

When he refused to meet her gaze, Heather humphed, looked ahead, and tried to sort out her feelings. Tried to decide what she felt.

The trees ended and the path dipped down to the river’s edge. Ahead, the twins had paused to toss stones into a pool; they looked back, saw Breckenridge and her, waved, then ran on.

Striding freely along the more level path as it followed the burbling river, she couldn’t help but remember her earlier enjoyment in walking the other way alone. Couldn’t help but note and wonder why she felt the same enjoyment, yet a somehow deeper, more complete sense of contentment now, just because Breckenridge was walking by her side.

He wasn’t even holding her hand, yet the connection was still there, ephemeral perhaps, yet undeniable.

Even though she was annoyed with him.

She might jib at him surreptitiously “guarding her,” yet she couldn’t deny that the sense of being guarded, of being watched over, had grown on her. At least when it was him doing the watching. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate his attention in having thought to check on the kidnappers, on whether they might pose any continuing threat.

Having him walking beside her, a large, undeniably physically capable, protective male, made her feel safe. Safe in a way that reached soul-deep.

In a way that she would lose, would no longer have, and most likely would never know again, once he returned to London.

The thought sent a spike of loss lancing through her.

“You might as well start practising not following me about—you’ll be leaving for London soon, after all.” Turning her head, she met the unreadable hazel of his eyes as he glanced at her. Tipped up her chin as the long, lonely hours of the previous night replayed in her mind. “There’s nothing to keep you here, not now. So when will you be leaving?”

He held her gaze, his expression like granite, as impassive as ever.

Breckenridge didn’t misinterpret her challenge, didn’t miss the flash of stubborn pride in her eyes. But they both had a surfeit of that particular emotion. “You’ll know when I know.” He kept his tone even, his gaze level—meeting her challenge with his own. “Of that, you can be absolutely sure.”

Her chin rose another notch as, with a faint arching of her brows, she looked ahead.

Facing forward, too, he concentrated on walking on unaffectedly, unthreateningly, by her side, subduing—denying—the compulsion to halt, haul her into his arms, and make clear in unequivocal fashion that he had no intention of ever letting her go, of ever permitting her to escape him. His inner male didn’t appreciate that she’d even entertained the thought, much less given it voice.

But his civilized self was too experienced to give into such reckless impulse. She’d backed away from implying that she wished their liasion had never been . . . he needed to tread warily, to give her time to come around. This was not the moment to pressure her.

Not yet.

As they walked back to the manor, the morning bright about them, he turned his mind to planning the next stage in a conquest unlike any other, one from which he could no longer walk away.

A conquest he couldn’t afford to lose.

A
fter lunch, Breckenridge joined Richard in his library. They’d discovered they shared a passion for fly-fishing; tying lures was an occupation whose attraction never waned.

On one side of the library, they sat at either end of a narrow table reserved for the task. Tiny boxes containing hooks, beads, and feathers of every conceivable sort were spread over the tabletop, along with various coils of line and an assortment of implements.

Richard was using a viselike stand to hold the lure on which he was working. Breckenridge preferred to use a simple clamp.

Silence reigned, companionable and soothing, while they each concentrated on their creations. The long case clock in the corner ticked on.

Eventually Breckenridge tied off the lure he’d constructed, snipped the end of the line, then carefully released the lure from the clamp and set the lure aside.

Setting down the clamp, he leaned back in his chair, stretched.

Noting that Richard, too, had reached the final, less exacting stages of construction, Breckenridge hesitated, then leaned forward again. Selecting a hook, he started the process of assembling the various feathers and beads for another lure.

Eyes on his task, murmured, “One question I feel compelled to ask: Before they agreed to marry, did all the Cynster females behave as irrationally as Heather is?”

He glanced briefly up, but Richard didn’t look up from the lure he was tying off as he unperturbably replied, “Prickly at the best of times, then ‘have-at-you’ the instant you set a foot, nay, a toe, wrong?”

“Exactly.”

“Then yes.” Richard straightened, tipping his head as he examined his lure. “It seems to be a family failing, even when they’re not Cynster-born.”

Breckenridge humphed.

He was carefully placing the fresh hook into his clamp when Richard continued, “There seems to be this prevailing wisdom, not just over marrying for love, but what that actually equates to. They seem to all have it firmly in their heads that without some cast-iron assurance, preferably in the form of an open declaration from us, then no matter the reality of any love, that love won’t be solid and strong.”

Unwinding the vise to release his completed lure, Richard grimaced. “It’s almost as if they think that unless we state our feelings out aloud, we won’t know what they—our feelings—are.” He snorted. “As if we somehow might not notice that our lives have suddenly shifted to revolve solely about them and their well-being.”

Breckenridge grunted in masculine agreement.

“Sadly,” Richard said, selecting another hook, “it appears futile to expect them to go against the familial grain.”

Silence lengthened once more as they both became absorbed—Richard in making his next lure, Breckenridge letting his fingers go through the motions while his mind weighed Richard’s words against his own reading of his and Heather’s situation.

That she required, and was indeed angling for, a clear declaration of his feelings rang all too true. A bare second’s thought confirmed his continuing antipathy to giving her any such declaration. Quite aside from the vulnerability he would feel over acknowledging that she was so emotionally critical to him, to his future, to his happiness—a vulnerability shared with Richard, and all the rest, all the other men like him who’d been fated to fall in love, something akin to inviting a permanent itch between his shoulder blades, or more accurately, an exposed feeling over his heart—all of which was bad enough, there was the not-so-small matter of his experience with love, with ever having been foolish enough to utter that word.