Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (39 page)

Couldn’t fault her for not loving him as he loved her.

He had to get out of there before his control fractured.

Where had they been? Oh, yes. He’d had the bright notion to give her an ultimatum, and she’d responded.

Leaving him with only one way to go.

One road to follow. Alone.

“Very well.” Even to his ears, his voice sounded distant, not just detached but disengaged, soulless. “If that’s what you wish, so be it.”

He told his feet to move. To his relief, they did. He could barely see as he walked to the doorway. Reaching it, he paused, then over his shoulder said, “I’ll make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

Alone
didn’t need to be said.

Against all sense, despite all that had passed between them, he paused, waited, hoped,
prayed
that she would suddenly see her mistake, suddenly speak and reverse her decision . . .

“That would probably be best.”

Hope died.

Dragging in a tight breath, he ducked under the arch and quietly started up the stairs.

Heather listened to his footsteps recede.

Wondered if she would ever feel warm again; she felt chilled to the core.

He was leaving—truly leaving. Going back to his life in the capital.

Leaving her there, alone and aching . . . as she’d wanted. That was for the best, wasn’t it?

If she’d harbored any doubt that she loved him, immutably and ineradicably, she knew better now. Nothing but love was strong enough to evoke such icy, deadening pain.

But she knew all the arguments, knew it would never have worked, that there never truly had been any different option for her. For them.

She could still feel the tug, the witless but compelling impulse to rush after him and tell him she’d changed her mind, that she would marry him regardless . . . but no. If after their wedding he turned to another . . . that, she truly wouldn’t be able to bear.

Looking down, she forced her fingers to bunch the last of the herbs. Felt bitterness at the back of her throat, the sting of tears in her eyes.

Told herself the tears, and the deadening chill inside, were a small price to pay to escape the devastation that would otherwise have come her way.

Loving him as she did to the depths of her soul, yet not being loved in return, if she’d acquiesced and allowed herself to be bound to him in marriage . . . when the inevitable happened, she might not have died, but she would have become as good as dead inside.

Despite the pain, despite any inner railing, despite all her rage and despair, she’d taken the right road; she knew it.

Better it end like this.

T
he afternoon was waning when, deep in the highlands, the laird rode into his castle bailey.

Alone he might be, yet he was glad to be home.

Swinging down from Hercules’ back, he smiled and returned the cheery greeting of the young whelp who came running to take the big gelding’s reins. He handed them over. “Give him a good rubdown and a helping of oats. He’s done well carrying me over the miles. Give the saddle bags to Mulley.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

With a last fond stroke down Hercules’ neck, he turned and crossed to the keep. Striding up the stone steps, he glanced up to the apex of the fluted arch rising above the massive, iron-studded door.

His family’s crest, now his, stood out in sharp relief, carved upon a stone shield.

Honor above all.

The motto was barely legible now; he hoped that wasn’t a portent.

Pushing open the heavy door, he crossed the threshold and felt the invisible weight of responsibility weigh on his shoulders again.

Not that he’d been in any danger of forgetting even the smallest tithe of that burden over the days he’d been away.

He heard his mother’s footsteps rushing eagerly down from her tower. Halting just inside the great hall, he exchanged greetings and a quiet word with his steward, then she was there, striding swiftly up the hall, her black skirts flaring behind her.

“Well? Where is she?” She tried to peer around him, as if he might have left Heather Cynster trussed like a bundle in the foyer.

He started walking toward the dais at the far end of the hall. “She’s not here,
but
you may well have got your wish.”

He sincerely hoped not, but . . .

After confirming there truly was no captive hidden behind him, she whirled and swept after him. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Stepping onto the dais, he walked around and down the long oak table to the massive carved chair that sat midway along, facing the great hall. “I told you the men I’d hired to capture her had brought her as far as Gretna—that they were holding her there as I’d instructed.” Pulling out the massive chair, he slumped into it, leaned back. Felt the familiar worn wood at his back, beneath his thighs. One of the things that told him he was home.

Halting two yards away, his mother frowned peevishly. “Yes, yes—that’s why you went south. But what happened when you reached there?”

“By the time I got there, she’d escaped.” He turned to smile gratefully at his housekeeper as she stepped onto the dais, a tray in her hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Mack—you’ve saved my life.”

“Aye, well—you’ve been gone for over a week.” Briskly, she set before him a silver tankard of ale, a bowl of rich stew, and a platter with half a loaf of coarse country bread. “You get that into you—it’ll hold you until dinnertime, at least.”

Already breaking the bread, he nodded. Stopped himself from asking after the boys; on his other side, his mother was barely restraining herself from screeching.

“Escaped?” she hissed the instant Mrs. Mack was out of easy earshot.

He nodded. Mumbled around a bite of bread, “Yes, but not alone. With a man.” He didn’t see any point in airing his view that said man had been a gentleman, if not a nobleman of similar station to himself.

His mother straightened. A gleam of pure malice lit her once fine eyes. “A man?” She turned the word over, eventually murmured, “So the silly chit might well be ruined anyway?”

He forced himself to nod. “Very possibly.” With any luck, the silly chit was even now fronting some altar. “On top of that, by the time she escaped, she’d been in the kidnappers’ hands, alone as far as anyone in London knows, for a good ten days. More than enough to irretrievably sully her reputation.” He cocked a brow at his mother. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? No real need to bring the girl up here, just as long as she suffers—isn’t that what you want?”

“No!” Crossing her arms, she quite literally pouted. “I want to
watch
her suffer!” She glared at him. “Men! You never understand!”

She was in the right there. “Regardless, aside from viewing her disgrace and social ignominy in the flesh, with luck, you’ll yet get all you wish for.”

She snorted derisively. “There’ll be no scandal. Her damn family will have covered up her absence.”

“Possibly for a few days. But for well over a week? Difficult enough at any time, but during the Season? She’ll have had engagements, and repeating the same excuse will have quickly worn thin. There’ll have been questions, suspicions.” He popped the last bit of bread, carrying the last of the stew’s gravy, into his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, then looked down. “For all I—or you—know, she might well have vanished from the face of the earth by now.”

He seriously doubted it; an image of the man who had escorted Heather Cynster onto Cynster lands hovered in his mind’s eye. It seemed odd to be placing such faith in a stranger, let alone an Englishman, yet situations such as the one he faced made for strange bedfellows.

Pushing back his chair, he rose. Looked down at his mother, his expression as unencouraging as he could make it. “Regardless, until we hear for certain that she’s not ruined, our bargain will remain in abeyance.”

Stepping past her, he headed for his tower.

“Wait!” Hurrying after him, she gripped his sleeve. “You could go after one of the others.” When he didn’t slow, she skipped to keep up, gabbled, “Bring one of them here and I’ll give you back the goblet. You want it back in your hands as soon as possible, don’t you?”

He halted, looked down at her. “Madam—if it transpires I’ve already ruined one Cynster sister, I will consider our bargain fulfilled.” He searched her dark eyes, then quietly, but no less forcefully, stated, “Unless and until we learn otherwise, I will not make a move on any other Cynster girl.”

Barely managing not to curl his lip, he shook free of her hold, turned, and walked away.

As far as Heather Cynster was concerned, what would be would be. Meanwhile, he would use every hour of the necessary hiatus to scour the castle yet again for the goblet his mother had stolen away. Where the hell she’d hidden it . . . neither he nor his most trusted retainers had any clue. It had to be here somewhere, but the castle was massive; an eight-inch-tall, five-inch-wide, jewel-encrusted ceremonial goblet could have been concealed in a thousand different places.

Getting it back had to remain his paramount focus. If he didn’t, he would lose the castle and all his lands—and all those dependent on him would lose everything. Their homes, their jobs, their heritage. They would be left truly destitute, and while he personally would have enough money to get by, he wouldn’t be in any position to help them—and seeing them disperse, seeing them leave this glen and loch, would destroy him as much as it would destroy them.

The castle was his home. His roots were here, sunk deep in the rich highland soil. To lose castle, land, people . . . he might as well die trying to protect them, because losing them would be worse than any death.

Reaching his tower, he swung up the spiral stairs.

He was fairly certain that the only way he would avoid having to kidnap and attempt to ruin another Cynster girl was to find the damn goblet his mother was holding like Damocles’ sword over his head.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he skies over the Vale were shading into pinks and the soft violets of encroaching dusk. Catriona stood just back from the west-facing window in her turret sitting room and, arms folded, watched Heather walk slowly away from the manor.

She walked as if she was tired, as if the day had dragged her down.

“Something’s very wrong.” Beside Catriona, Algaria watched, too, her face set in disapproving lines. “It was all going so well. What the devil did they do?”

“A moot point. Whatever it is, they’ve done it. The question is, what now?”

They’d spoken quietly, well aware of the pair of overly sharp ears attached to Lucilla and Marcus, playing knucklebones on the floor some yards behind them.

Far below, Heather walked past the stables and out along the track between the paddocks.

Algaria sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me that intelligent people can be such fools when it comes to love, at least while they’re in the throes of it.”

Catriona humphed, remembering her own throes, her own fears. She watched as Heather paused beside the high-railed paddock fence, then, still moving like an old woman, climbed up to perch on the top rail and look back at the manor. Catriona shook her head. “Regardless of whatever’s happened between them, they must come around.”

Algaria glanced at her. “You’re sure? There’s no mistake?”

“None. I wasn’t
absolutely
sure at first, but I am now. They’re fated for each other.” She worried her lower lip. After a moment, added, “I wish I knew what to do.”

“You don’t know?”

“I haven’t received any instructions—not yet.”

Sitting on the rug ten paces behind the women, Lucilla and Marcus were engrossed in their game.

Marcus, seated comfortably cross-legged, took his turn, then held out the bones to his sister. When she didn’t scoop them from his palm, he looked up, into her face, then softly sighed.

Laying the bones down between them, he propped his elbows on his knees and slumped his chin into his palms.

And waited.

Kneeling, sitting back on her ankles facing him, Lucilla held utterly still. She had a faraway, strangely distant look in her eyes. A look Marcus recognized.

He wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, Lucilla blinked, snapped back into her usual vital state, then started to get up.

Tipping her head toward the door, she whispered, “Come on.” With a careful glance at their mother’s back, she added, “There’s something we’re supposed to do.”

Marcus didn’t argue. It wasn’t his role to argue. After their mother, Lucilla would be the next Lady of the Vale. Even though he was slated to take up the mantle of Guardian of the Lady, he knew his place.

Without making a sound, he followed Lucilla from the room and silently shut the door.

H
eather balanced on the top rail of the empty cattle pen and stared, unseeing, at the manor.

She felt wretched. Beaten down, disheartened in every sense of the word. She’d woken with such hope flooding her heart, an expectation that their joint future was assured and brilliantly bright.

Now . . . she felt dead and desolate inside.

What to do next? Were there any options?

Or was this truly the end?

He would leave, and she would remain here. They would part, and possibly never see each other again.

This time, it seemed, Catriona and the Lady had been wrong. Not even the necklace-charm had helped.

The thought of Catriona had her focusing on the manor. Hands spread to either side, lightly gripping the upper rail, she studied the fanciful gray stone building, honey tinted by the waning sunshine. It was a house filled with love, with an energy that was impossible to miss, a nurturing, caring atmosphere that embraced and infused all who lived within it.

That was the creation, the outcome, the outward expression of Richard and Catriona’s love. A home filled with that sustaining glow, with laughter and a vibrant, vital sense of life. Of life continuing, past, present, and future.

Of family, and joys, and duties shared.

That—exactly that—was what she’d wanted to create with Breckenridge. They’d discussed it, yes, but she hadn’t truly allowed the reality to take shape in her mind.

Now she had, now she had the manor as a solid example planted in front of her eyes, the resonance was too strong to be denied, as was the recognition, the realization that that future had always been her ultimate dream, a dream that had lived in her heart and her soul, that had always been so much a part of her she’d never bothered to examine it before, had never had reason to study it. Or acknowledge it.

She couldn’t shut her eyes to it now.

If she let Breckenridge leave alone, if she let him go, let him walk out of her life, she would never have even another chance at realizing her dream.

Because her dream could only come true, could only be made real, with the man she loved.

Without him in it, her future would be unrelentingly bleak, devoid of love, lacking that vital, living spark.

It was tempting to simply wallow in despair, to let go and sink into the mire of emotional gloom, yet somewhere deep in her mind she could hear—literally hear—a chiding chorus.

She could almost distinguish the voices: her aunt Helena, Lady Osbaldestone, her aunt Horatia, her mother, and at lower volume, all the rest.

Are you simply going to give up? Do you truly want your dream? If so, how much are you willing to risk to secure it? To sacrifice to secure it—your pride, for instance? Are you truly going to just let him go and so let the prospect of a golden future exactly as you’ve dreamed simply slip through your fingers?

Or are you going to fight for what you want?

In her mind’s eye, she could see the shocked expressions, the ready-to-be-astonished-and-disappointed-if-she-answered-the-wrong-way looks that would accompany the questions. The firming of the chins that would go with the last.

For long moments, she sat on the rail, stared at the manor, and let her brain absorb that inner succor.

Gradually, her mind cleared.

All the distracting issues faded, slid away, until she felt bedrock beneath her mental feet.

Until she saw clearly, and saw her true path. The only path she could follow and remain true to herself, true to her dream, to the ambition that had sent her to Lady Herford’s salon so many evenings ago.

That had been the start of it, and she hadn’t yet reached the end of her road.

She couldn’t—
could not
—give up at this point just because the way forward had become unbearably hard. She had to fight if she wanted to succeed.

The rose quartz pendant hanging between her breasts impinged on her senses.

Catriona had told her she’d have to risk her heart if she wanted to secure his. In her innocence, she’d thought that had meant she’d have to show her love for him before he would reciprocate. But that had been too easy, no real test.

She faced her real test now—to take her courage in both hands, return with him to London, accept his proposal, accept him and the possibility of his love, and then keep working, keep fighting, to lead him to love her as she loved him, to secure her envisaged golden future for them both.

That was her ultimate risk—the ultimate throw of the dice.

The ultimate committing of herself into the hands of fate.

Or, as the case might well be, of the Lady.

She blew out a breath. She felt far from sure of the hows and wheres, yet . . . inside, a steady resolve, a certainty that had risen from her depths, both buoyed and anchored her.

So, what next?

She was deep in cogitation, mentally evaluating several ways in which to couch her change of mind, when the sound of piping voices drew her gaze to the side of the manor.

To Lucilla and Marcus.

Emerging from the shadows of the manor’s walls, both looked up, spotted her, and pointed.

And tugged forward the man whose hands they’d captured.

Breckenridge.

High-pitched voices chattering, the twins towed him toward her.

She stared, horrified by the thought that the twins had decided to play matchmaker and intended to haul Breckenridge to stand before her, then lecture them both . . . “Oh, no.”

Yes, they needed to talk—she needed to tell him she’d changed her mind, needed to somehow find a way to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened between them, but to have a confrontation forced on them, along with an avid audience . . . oh, no, no, no.

But she could hardly leap down and run away.

The trio came on, Breckenridge clearly reluctant, but with little experience of children, let alone a pair like the twins, he clearly had no notion of how to escape.

Besides, Lucilla was prattling nonstop, giving her captive no chance to protest.

Lucilla and Marcus reached the opening to the track, about twenty yards away from where Heather sat. Abruptly dropping Breckenridge’s hands, eyes shining, faces alight, the pair came running, laughing and waving, toward her.

Heather’s gaze remained on Breckenridge—and his gaze was on her.

He slowed, then halted at the opening of the track. As if uncertain of his welcome.

That uncertainty was so far removed from his customary arrogance that it struck her to the heart.

He was hurting, too.

The twins were nearly upon her; she switched her gaze to them. The pair had their hands up, waving above their heads, apparently wanting to seize her hands.

Summoning a weak smile, she released her hold on the rail to either side. Balancing precariously—it would only be for a second—she held her hands out to them, one to each side.

They reached her. Two small palms struck each of hers.

Instinctively she’d shifted her weight back, expecting them to catch and pull, but neither did.

The unexpected impacts rocked her back.

To her utter amazement, she felt herself tipping.

She shrieked.

Arms wildly flailing, she toppled back off the rail.

Heard Breckenridge shout her name as she went down.

“
Oof!
” She landed in a heap on a cushion of green.

The ground beyond the fence was slightly lower than the track. Dragging in a breath, she blew hair from her face. An instant’s thought confirmed she hadn’t broken any bones, that the grass by the fence, less clipped by the animals, had been sufficiently thick to save her. She was shaken and winded, but not much else. She struggled up onto her elbows and saw two pale, horrified faces staring through the slats.

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m not hurt.”

The ground reverberated as Breckenridge raced up. Gathering her skirts, she got her feet under her, raised her voice, and said, “I’m all right.”

Straightening, she glanced again at the twins’ faces . . .

They weren’t looking at her.

They were transfixed by something behind her, and looking increasingly terrified . . .

Nerves suddenly jumping, senses prickling, she slowly turned, and looked across the paddock—at the massive, shaggy-coated highland bull that, head ominously lowered, huge, sharp horns pointing her way, evil yellow eyes fixed balefully on her, was pawing the ground twenty paces away.

The monstrosity snorted violently.

Even as she registered the bunching of the bull’s muscles, Breckenridge vaulted the fence and landed beside her. “
Quickly
.”

He grabbed her, hoisted her, and swung her over the top of the fence.

She stumbled as he released her but immediately whirled.

The bull had started his charge; the furious thuds of his heavy hooves racing toward the fence shook the ground.

Breckenridge flung one arm over the top railing.

She seized his sleeve with both hands and hauled. “Hurry!
Hurry
!”

He rose up one rung—

The bull struck.

The fence rocked, shuddered, bowed.

Breckenridge gasped, eyes going wide, blind with pain. . . .

Her gaze on his face, Heather lost her breath.

She glanced down and saw a blood-tipped horn protruding through the slats. “Oh, no.”

With a hideous snort, the bull yanked and pulled back.

Breckenridge’s eyes closed. He started to slump.

“
No
!” The bull was circling. Climbing halfway up the fence, Heather grabbed the back of Breckenridge’s jacket, yanked desperately. “Come on! You
have
to get over.”

With an horrendous effort, he gathered himself. His muscles were quivering as he managed to climb up another rung.

Hauling, tugging, Heather looked at the twins, standing with eyes wide and mouths open. “
Help me
!”

Marcus broke through the shock first. He came rushing up, climbed the fence on Breckeridge’s other side, grabbed and hauled, too.

Then Lucilla was there, but rather than try to assist directly, she climbed up further down the fence, pointed an imperious finger at the bull, and started singing a strange little ditty.

Heather glanced at the bull—with immense relief saw the beast watching Lucilla, distracted and no longer about to charge. “Thank God. Or the Lady.”

Breckenridge was rapidly losing strength. Even with Marcus’s and her help, he’d only managed to reach the second rung down from the top of the fence—then he sagged, and tipped over it. She flung her arms around him, with Marcus battled to slow his descent, then he was lying in a sprawl on the thinly grassed track.

And she finally saw the jagged wound in his right side. “Oh, God.”

Blood was pouring from the gaping tear. Falling to her knees, she slapped her hands over the gash, pressed hard. One glance at his face, at his pinched eyelids, at the white lines bracketing his mouth, told her he was still conscious.

She flung a glance at the twins. “Race to the house and get your mother and Algaria. Tell them what happened. Quickly!”

They’d turned before she’d uttered the final word. They pelted back along the track, then around the corner of the stable toward the manor’s back door.