Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (6 page)

Heather halted, filled her lungs full, then exhaled
on a sigh. “Oh, very well.” Swinging around, she fell in beside Martha’s large,
darkly garbed figure, and they started back toward the inn.

The “maid” was an inch or so taller than Heather,
and at least two of her in girth, yet despite her size and usual plodding gait,
Martha could move fast enough if she wished, and Heather had seen the size of
the arms concealed by her voluminous black sleeves. Martha might be large, but
she was mostly muscle. If Heather had to escape the woman, she’d need to ensure
Martha was incapacitated first.

They walked slowly back to the inn—Martha because
that was the speed at which she walked, Heather because she saw no reason to cut
short her time in the crisp, late afternoon air.

Reaching the narrow path they’d taken from the inn
to the river, they left the river path and, with the Trent at their backs,
climbed the shallow slope toward the inn.

Raising her head, Heather looked at the gray stone
building—and saw the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who’d paused in the
shadows by one corner.

Earlier, in Stretton, he’d worn the clothes of a
country townsman, the sort who might own a local business. Now he was garbed
more like one of his own grooms. Regardless, she recognized him instantly. Her
heart lightened considerably; she started to smile, only just remembering to
suppress the reaction.

Glancing sideways at Martha, toiling beside her,
she was relieved to see that the maid hadn’t noticed.

She looked at the inn again . . .

Breckenridge had vanished.

Not that it mattered. Now she knew he was near,
they would meet tonight somehow. She turned her mind to rehearsing her report,
to listing all she’d learned in the manner most likely to convince him to agree
to her continuing on with her captors.

T
he
Old Bell Inn was in truth a very old inn. Its bedchambers possessed latches,
with hooks on the doors to secure them, but no locks. Heather blessed the
innkeeper for not modernizing; once the inn had settled for the night and every
two-legged occupant had retired to their beds, with Martha snoring fit to drown
out any creaking boards, Heather lifted the latch on their chamber door and
slipped out into the chill darkness of the corridor.

She hadn’t dared light a candle, but her eyes had
adjusted to the night; she could see well enough to, with one quick glance,
confirm the corridor was empty. Once again she’d been deprived of her outer
clothes, but she’d complained about the cold and had used the excuse that they
wouldn’t want her to take a chill to persuade Martha to allow her to keep her
silk shawl and to spread her cloak over her bed for extra warmth.

The cloak was wrapped about her now, and cinched at
her waist with the silk shawl. Although the makeshift gown left her ankles and
lower calves exposed, at least her skin there was screened by silk stocking, and
the gown otherwise was a significant improvement over the previous night’s
coverlet; it didn’t rely on her holding it in place to remain decent.

Which was a pertinent consideration given she was
off to meet Breckenridge. He’d more or less made it a condition for his agreeing
to allow her to continue traveling on with her captors, and she knew him well
enough not to call his bluff, because it would be no bluff. Besides, she wanted
to share what she’d learned, and see if he might have any further insights. His
knowledge of their world, especially beyond the confines of the ton, was
significantly greater than hers.

Silently closing the door behind her, carefully
easing the latch back into place, she turned in the direction of the stairs. For
several moments, she held still, straining her ears for any sound, allowing her
vision to better adjust to the deeper darkness of the corridor, and reminding
herself of the way.

When she and Martha had risen from the table they’d
shared with Fletcher and Cobbins in the tap through the evening, Breckenridge,
seated across the room and closer to the door, had anticipated them; he’d risen
and left the tap ahead of them. He’d been climbing the stairs when she and
Martha had reached the foyer.

They’d followed him up and had seen him open the
door of a room not far from the head of the stairs. He hadn’t so much as glanced
their way but had gone in and shut the door. She’d walked on with Martha, past
that door, down the corridor and around a corner to their chamber.

Drawing in a tight—faintly excited—breath, she set
out, quietly creeping back to the corner, her evening slippers allowing her to
tiptoe along with barely a sound.

Nearing the corner, she paused and glanced back
along the corridor. Still empty. Reassured, she started to turn, intending to
peek around the corner—

A hard body swung around the corner and plowed into
her.

She stumbled back. Hard hands grabbed her, holding
her upright.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She looked up, saw
only darkness.

She opened her mouth—

A palm slapped over her lips. A steely arm locked
around her—locked her against a large, adamantine male body; she couldn’t even
squirm.

Her senses scrambled. Strength, male heat, muscled
hardness engulfed her.

Then a virulent curse singed her ears.

And she realized who’d captured her.

Panic and sheer fright had tensed her every muscle;
relief washed both away and she felt limp. The temptation to sag in his arms, to
sink gratefully against him, was so nearly overwhelming that it shocked her into
tensing again.

He lowered his head so he could look into her face.
Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “
What the devil are you
doing
?”

His tone very effectively dragged her wits to the
fore. He hadn’t removed his hand from her lips. She nipped it.

With a muted oath, he pulled the hand away.

She moistened her lips and angrily whispered back,
“Coming to see
you,
of course. What are
you
doing here?”

“Coming to fetch you—
of
course
.”

“You ridiculous man.” Her hands had come to rest on
his chest. She snatched them back, waved them. “I’m hardly likely to come to
grief over the space of a few yards!”

Even to her ears they sounded like squabbling
children.

He didn’t reply.

Through the dark, he looked at her.

She couldn’t see his eyes, but his gaze was so
intent, so intense that she could feel . . .

Her heart started thudding, beating heavier,
deeper.

Her senses expanded, alert in a wholly unfamiliar
way.

He looked at her . . . looked at her.

Primitive instinct riffled the delicate hairs at
her nape.

Abruptly he raised his head, straightened, stepped
back. “Come on.”

Grabbing her elbow, he bundled her unceremoniously
around the corner and on up the corridor before him. Her temper—always close to
the surface when he was near—started to simmer. If they hadn’t needed to be
quiet, she would have told him what she thought of such cavalier treatment.

Breckenridge halted her outside the door to his
bedchamber; he would have preferred any other meeting place, but there was no
safer place, and regardless of all and everything else, he needed to keep her
safe. Reaching around her, he raised the latch and set the door swinging. “In
here.”

He’d left the lamp burning low. As he followed her
in, then reached back and shut the door, he took in what she was wearing. He bit
back another curse.

She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit
but on the bed. Quickly he strode past her, stripped off the coverlet, then
autocratically pointed to the sheet. “Sit there.”

With a narrow-eyed glare, she did, with the haughty
grace of a reigning monarch.

Immediately she’d sat, he flicked out the coverlet
and swathed her in it.

She cast him a faintly puzzled glance but
obligingly held the enveloping drape close about her.

He said nothing; if she wanted to think he was
concerned about her catching a chill, so be it. At least the coverlet was long
enough to screen her distracting ankles and calves.

Which really was ridiculous. Considering how many
naked women he’d seen in his life, why the sight of
her
stockinged ankles and calves should so affect him was beyond his
ability to explain.

Turning, he sat alongside her, with a good foot of
clear space between them. “So what have you learned?”

She studied him for a moment, then said, “Not as
much as I would have liked, but they did let fall that their employer hired them
in Glasgow, that he’s paying for everything, and they seem happy with the
financial arrangements, suggesting that he’s at least reasonably wealthy, but as
yet I haven’t been able to drag from them any further detail about where they’re
taking me.” Huddling into the coverlet, she frowned across the room. “The only
other thing I dragged from them was more by way of an impression.”

When she didn’t go on, he prompted, “What
impression?”

The line between her brows deepened. “They—Fletcher
and Cobbins, at least, they’re the ones who met him—view him, their employer,
with a certain . . . I suppose you’d say wariness.”

“Respect?”

Her lips twisted. “Yes, but more in the physical
sense. He might simply be a nasty, dangerous sort.”

Breckenridge thought for a moment. “Where in
Glasgow did they meet him?”

“In some tavern. Apparently they do work like this
for others, for hire. He heard of them from someone else they’d worked for, and
approached them through some contact they have in place.”

“So they don’t necessarily know much about
him?”

“I gathered not—they gave me a name, but before you
get excited, Fletcher made it clear that they’re certain it’s not his real
name.”

“What was it?”

“McKinsey.”

“Scottish—so he’s most likely a Scot.” Still far
too aware of her perched on the bed—his bed—beside him, Breckenridge stood. He
started to pace back and forth.

Heather looked up at him. “I’m not sure we can
assume that. It might be that the reason Fletcher’s so certain McKinsey isn’t
his real name is because he—their employer—is English.”

Breckenridge grimaced. “True. And there are
Englishmen aplenty in Glasgow.”

Beneath the coverlet, she straightened.
“Regardless, it’s clear I need to learn more.”

The dark look Breckenridge slanted her wasn’t
encouraging. “We’re already a long way from London, and we’re still on the Great
North Road. We have no notion how far north they intend taking you, but every
mile takes you further from your family, further from safety.”

Her lips tightened, but she held to her composure.
So far he’d been reasonable and supportive. For once she’d try reason with him
and see where it got her. “As to that, strange though it seems, they have
orders—strict orders—to keep me safe. Safe, unharmed, and healthy. I used those
orders to insist on being allowed to walk by the river, so it seems they’re
taking them seriously.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Breckenridge nodded. “I was
in the tap, on the other side of the partition separating it from the foyer. I
heard it all.” He kept slowly pacing, his face set in its usual impassive mien,
then shot her glance. “I admit that this is decidedly strange.”

She nodded. “Indeed. And every mile we go further
from London makes the notion of ransom even more unlikely. So we’re still no
closer to learning what’s behind this—neither the who nor the why of it.” She
waited until he swung around again and caught his eye. “I believe we need to
consider the wider implications.”

His lips twitched—she was almost certain of it—but
he didn’t stop pacing. “Meaning you want to continue on with this”—he
gestured—“quest of yours.”

She tipped up her head. “Of course. I’m here,
already kidnapped, but they’ve provided me with a maid and are under strict
orders to see to my health and safety, orders they’re clearly committed to
obeying. On top of that”—she waved at him—“you’re here. If you continue to
follow our party, when it comes to the point where escaping becomes necessary,
I’ll be able to do so and hide behind you. God knows, you’re large enough.”

He quirked a black brow.

Before he could respond verbally she went on,
“Given the threat extends beyond me to my sisters, and possibly even to my
cousins, and that as yet we have insufficient information with which to counter
or nullify that threat, then while remaining with Fletcher and the other two
exposes me to no additional danger, it’s patently my duty to stay with them at
least until we learn enough to identify who’s behind this, and, if possible, his
motives.”

Fixing her eyes on Breckenridge’s, she concluded,
“In my estimation, the reasons against continuing on with my captors are
outweighed by the reasons that I should.”

Breckenridge studied her as he paced. He wanted to
inform her that she was wrong, that in
his
estimation the imperative of keeping her totally and absolutely safe—which to
his mind meant taking her back to London and depositing her under her father’s
roof—by far outweighed every other consideration. And for him, it did. But for
her . . . the damned thing was he could understand her stance. And he
could hardly accuse her of being a headstrong, willful, heedlessly selfish
female when she was driven by such a selfless, family-duty-derived motive.

One he would feel were he in her shoes.

Halting, he raked a hand through his hair, then
realized what he was doing and lowered his arm. He glanced at her, sitting on
his bed wrapped in his coverlet, her head high, chin tilted upward, but the
angle was not yet an outright challenge.

He knew that challenge would come if he didn’t
agree with her direction and tried to pull her from it. He could, very easily—he
was Viscount Breckenridge after all—but she would fight him every step of the
way and hate him forever after. All of which he would accept without a qualm if
he could only be certain that he was, indeed, acting in the best interests of
her and her family.