Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (7 page)

As things stood . . .

“Very well.” Halting, he met her eyes, a darker
gray in the lamplight. “If you’re stubbornly determined on this?”

Up went her chin. “I am.”

“In that case, we’ll continue on, more or less as
we have been, at least for tomorrow.” He frowned. “We’ll have to play it by
ear.” He’d have to trust her to do so. “If you’ll give me your promise that the
instant you learn either the employer’s name or his direction—or even the place
where they plan to hand you over—you’ll tell me, give me some sign at least so I
can arrange to whisk you out of their clutches . . . if you promise
that, we’ll go on as we have been.”

She smiled, pleased. “I promise. As soon as I learn
anything useful, I’ll give you some sign so we can meet and discuss it.”

He noted the difference between what he’d asked and
what she’d promised, but that, he suspected, was the best he could hope for. He
nodded in acceptance, then waved her to the door.

She rose, slid the coverlet from her shoulders and
laid it back on his bed, then walked to the door.

Keeping his gaze on her face, he waved her to a
halt. He opened the door and looked out. The corridor was empty. Reaching back,
he took her arm and drew her through the door. He escorted her quickly and
silently back to her room.

She opened the door, and the sound of robust
snoring issued forth. She turned to him, grinned, and mouthed, “Good night.”

Slipping through the door, she quietly closed it
behind her.

He stepped back, put his back to the corridor wall
opposite the door, and waited, listened. After enough time had elapsed for her
to have slipped back into bed, and the sonorous snoring hadn’t ceased, he pushed
away from the wall and headed back to his room.

Inside, he stripped and slid beneath the covers—and
was immediately enveloped in a subtle scent he had no difficulty
identifying.

It was hers, the scent that clung to her hair and
had transferred to the coverlet. The airy, delicate, vibrantly female scent
instantly evoked the vision of her stockinged ankles, the way the sheer silk had
sheened over the curves . . .

He groaned and closed his eyes. Clearly he wasn’t
destined to get much sleep.

Accepting that, dampening his reaction as well as
he could, he sought distraction in the pragmatic details of the adventure they’d
somehow embarked on. He was going to have to devise ways of staying close to her
while remaining invisible to her captors. Appearing inconspicuous wasn’t a skill
he’d had much cause to develop.

No more than he’d had cause to learn the ways of
dealing with her on a rational basis.

Keeping her safe on her quest was a task that
looked set to tax his ingenuity in ways it had never before been challenged, yet
no matter how he turned the puzzle of her kidnapping over in his mind, no matter
what perspective he took, in one respect she was incontestably correct.

This was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill
abduction.

Chapter Four

A
t one o’clock the following afternoon, Breckenridge sat at one of the trestles set up outside the White Horse Inn in the small town of Bramham. Leaning his shoulders against the inn’s stone wall, he sipped a pint of ale and watched the archway leading into the yard of the Red Lion Inn further up the road.

The coach carrying Heather and her captors had turned into the yard more than an hour ago. After scouting the place and confirming that there was only one exit from the Red Lion’s yard, namely under the archway, he’d retreated here to keep watch while simultaneously keeping his distance and, he hoped, staying out of Fletcher and company’s sight. He was fairly certain they hadn’t yet seen him, or if they had, hadn’t noticed him enough to recognize him again, especially given he was varying his disguise.

Today he’d reverted to the outfit he’d acquired in Knebworth. The ill-fitting jacket and loose cloth breeches made him look like a down-on-his-luck salesman; as long as he remembered to modify his posture, he’d pass a cursory inspection.

He took another sip of ale. He increasingly misliked how far north they were heading. They’d traveled all morning further up the Great North Road. Bramham was nearly as far north as York. Yet despite his misgivings, he, too, was finding this abduction and the challenge of learning who and what was behind it increasingly intriguing. Now he’d had time to digest all Heather had learned yesterday, he had to admit it was a most peculiar puzzle.

A pair of horses appeared beneath the Red Lion’s arch, followed by a second pair, then the kidnappers’ coach. The coach turned ponderously out of the inn yard, still heading north.

Breckenridge watched it lumber on, then drained his pint, set the mug down, rose, and headed for the side yard of the White Horse where he’d left his hired curricle.

Five minutes later, bowling along the highway once more, he glimpsed the coach ahead and slowed the bays he currently had between the shafts. He rolled slowly on in the coach’s wake, far enough back that they’d be unlikely to spot him even on a long straight stretch. Not that they’d shown any signs of searching for pursuers. They might have looked back once or twice, but since he’d caught up with them at Knebworth, they’d seemed unconcerned about pursuit.

Of course, as far as they knew there had been no immediate chase given from Lady Herford’s house; no doubt they assumed they’d got clean away. And indeed, if he hadn’t seen them seize Heather, any pursuit the Cynsters would have mounted would have been days behind. It most likely wouldn’t have even started yet, because her family would have had to search extensively to determine in which direction she’d been taken—even that she’d been taken out of London at all. As she’d pointed out, if she’d been kidnapped for ransom, then it would have been assumed her kidnappers would keep her in the metropolis; so much easier to hide a woman among the teeming hordes, in the crowded tenements, where no one would ask awkward questions.

The miles slid by. Initially he kept pace with the coach, but the further north they rolled he gradually closed the distance. Their steady push north was making him increasingly nervous about where they were headed and, especially, why.

H
eather forced herself to wait until they’d been traveling north for at least an hour after their luncheon halt before recommencing her interrogation of her captors.

She’d been acquiescent, and had made no fuss through the morning. Other than casting a quick glance around the inn where they’d stopped for lunch, searching for Breckenridge—but they hadn’t known that—she’d played the part of gently bred and, therefore, relatively helpless kidnappee.

Although she hadn’t sighted Breckenridge, she felt reasonably confident that he’d be somewhere near. Leaving him to his self-appointed but now gratefully accepted role of watching over her, she’d applied herself to encouraging her captors to relax and, she hoped, grow less careful and more talkative.

By way of introduction, she heaved a huge sigh and glanced out of the window.

Fletcher, seated opposite as usual, looked at her consideringly. Assessingly.

Facing him again, she caught his eye, grimaced. “If you won’t tell me where we’re going, or your employer’s name, can you at least tell me what he looks like? Seeing I’ll be meeting him, I presume sometime soon, then you’ll hardly be revealing anything vital, and it would certainly help my nerves to know what sort of man you’ll be handing me to.”

Fletcher’s lips curved a little. “Not sure how knowing what he looks like is going to help you, but . . .” He glanced at Cobbins, who shrugged. Looking back at her, Fletcher asked, “What do you want to know?”

Everything you can tell me.
She widened her eyes. “Hair color?”

“Black.”

“Eyes?”

Fletcher hesitated, then said, “Not sure about the color, but . . . cold.”

Black-haired, cold-eyed. “How old, and handsome or not?”

Fletcher pursed his lips. “I’d say in his thirties, but exactly where I couldn’t guess. And as for handsome”—Fletcher grinned—“you’d probably think so. Bit rugged for my taste, though, and with a blade of a nose.”

She frowned, not entirely liking the image.

Fletcher continued, his tone tending teasing, “One thing I do remember—he had a black frown. Devilish, it was. Not the sort of man to get on the wrong side of.”

“How tall was he?”

“Big bloke. Large all around. Lots of Scottish brawn.”

“So he’s Scottish?”

Fletcher hesitated, then shrugged. “Like you said, you’ll meet him soon enough. We took him for some laird—lord knows, they’ve plenty of those—but where exactly he hailed from, lowlands or highlands or anywhere in between, we couldn’t say.”

She was even more puzzled, but she didn’t want to waste Fletcher’s attack of loquaciousness. “Is there anything physically that sets him apart—a scar, a particular ring, a gammy leg?” Anything to identify him.

Fletcher met her eyes. A moment passed, then he said, “Think I’ve told you enough to settle your nerves.”

She looked at him, then sighed and subsided back against the seat. “Oh, all right.” One step at a time.

C
ontrary to Fletcher’s belief, her nerves were distinctly unsettled, indeed, decidedly jangling, when, in the fading light of late afternoon, the coach drew up outside the King’s Head Hotel in Barnard Castle.

They were no longer on the Great North Road. They’d turned west off the highway in Darlington, and there’d been no way she’d been able to think of to ensure Breckenridge noted the change in direction.

The possibility that he was no longer there, at her back to save her, had blossomed and burgeoned in her mind. By the time the coach rocked to a halt, trepidation danced along her nerves and her stomach was tied in knots.

Handed down to the pavement by Cobbins, she glanced, inwardly desperate, about.

“Come along.” Martha prodded her on. “Let’s get inside, out of this chill.”

Heather climbed the hotel’s front steps slowly. Increasingly reluctantly. Then over the bustle caused by their arrival, the sound of hooves ringing on the cobbles reached her. Gaining the raised porch, she quickly turned and looked—and saw Breckenridge, looking like a lowly traveler, driving a curricle along the main street. He didn’t look her way. She quickly turned toward the hotel’s door so Martha, toiling up the steps behind her, wouldn’t see her relief.

But oh, what relief.

Walking a great deal more calmly into the hotel foyer, she couldn’t help but acknowledge it. Couldn’t help but admit that her nemesis had indeed lost that hat. While she might not truly view him as her savior, she knew she could rely on him, could have faith that he would in all circumstances do the very best he could to keep her safe.

She trusted him explicitly and implicitly; despite their previous history, that had never been in question.

Raising her head, drawing in a revivifying breath, feeling immeasurably more confident, she swept toward the reception counter where Fletcher was discussing their accommodations. The more she knew of where they’d all be that night, the more readily she’d be able to meet with Breckenridge.

S
he next saw Breckenridge when, preceded by Fletcher and flanked by Martha, with Cobbins bringing up the rear, she walked into the hotel’s dining room that evening.

He was seated at a table in the corner by one window, head down, his attention apparently fixed on a news sheet. He evinced not the slightest interest in their party.

For their part, neither Fletcher nor Cobbins, both of whom surveyed the room, seemed to truly notice him. They saw him but instantly dismissed him.

Heather was frankly amazed. Breckenridge might be wearing yet another disguise, this one making him appear less scruffy and more like a gentleman traveler, yet how anyone could miss the steely strength in those broad shoulders, let alone the arrogance in the set of his head, she had no idea.

To her he always appeared as he truly was. Dangerous and unpredictable. Not the sort of man one should ever take for granted, let alone dismiss.

Shown to a table for four across the room, she deftly claimed the chair that would allow her to keep Breckenridge in sight from the corner of her eye. Martha, the least observant of her captors, sat alongside her. Fletcher and Cobbins sat opposite, from where they could see the door and through it part of the hotel foyer.

Unbeknown to them, the real danger lay behind them.

Increasingly assured, increasingly buoyed, she set herself to winkle further details that might shed some light on the identity of the mysterious laird from her dinner companions.

“Did you dine with this laird—the one who hired you?” She widened her eyes at Fletcher.

He gave her a look. “We met him in a tavern, and food wasn’t on any of our minds. It wasn’t a social meeting.”

“Hmm . . . how did he arrive at the tavern?”

Fletcher blinked.

Cobbins, frowning, answered. “Don’t know—we were there when he walked in the door, and he left before we did.” He glanced down as the serving girl placed a plate piled with pie and steamed parsnip before him. “We stayed for a pint, to celebrate like.”

Heather held her tongue while they all started to eat.

A minute later, Fletcher looked up from his plate, a frown in his eyes. “I don’t know why you want to know more about the man—seems like you’ll know all you’ll want to once we hand you over to him.”

“But when will that be?” When no answer was forthcoming, she pointed the tines of her fork at Fletcher. “See? That’s why I’m asking. If you’ll simply tell me what to expect, I won’t be so curious.”

Fletcher grunted. “You’ll learn all soon enough. Until then, you’d do best to let it be.”

Heather subsided and gave her attention to her plate. To assembling all she’d dragged from her unwilling sources during that day into a cogent report. Breckenridge would want to know all, of course, and she was keen to share her discoveries.

Working her way steadily through her baked fish, she thought of Fletcher’s response, his tone. Cobbins’s words. She had to wonder just how much they knew of their employer.

From beneath her lashes, she studied Fletcher. His expression was tightly closed, almost pinched. She doubted he’d tell her any more that night. It would, she sensed, be better not to ask. He was more likely to be forthcoming tomorrow if she let the matter slide for now.

Breckenridge was sitting too far away, and the dining room was too noisy, for him to have overhead even the most recent exchange. Indeed, he wasn’t making the smallest effort to eavesdrop; he was leaving the interrogation completely to her, trusting that she would report later. So . . . where to meet with him?

Almost as if he’d heard her question, he pushed back his chair and rose. News sheet in hand, he briefly looked her way. Her captors didn’t raise their heads, didn’t lift their eyes from their plates.

Breckenridge captured her gaze, then turned his head and looked further down the dining room. Heather followed his gaze and saw a pair of glass-paned doors at the rear of the room. From what she could see through the doors, the room beyond was the hotel bar’s snug.

Shifting her gaze carefully back, she checked her companions—still oblivious—then briefly raised her eyes to Breckenridge as he walked slowly to the dining room door. She didn’t dare nod, but she met his gaze, then he looked back at his news sheet and continued walking. He passed through the door; a second later, she heard his footsteps climbing the stairs.

“I haven’t been along this road before.” She glanced at Martha and Cobbins. “I noticed there’s a ruined castle just down the road, overlooking the bridge. Are there any other particular sights we might pass in the coach tomorrow?”

Martha shook her head but looked curiously at the other two.

Cobbins shrugged. “Couple of old castles not far from the road, and a Roman fort or two, but there’s not much left to see of those, not from the road, anyways.”

Fletcher scowled at her. “You’ll see what you’ll see.” Setting his napkin beside his plate, he pushed back his chair. “Time for you and Martha to retire, seeing you’ve another long day in the coach to look forward to.”

Heather met his eyes, then inclined her head and rose.

Escorted by the trio, she climbed the stairs and headed toward their rooms.

S
he crept back down the stairs as the clocks throughout the hotel’s reception rooms bonged and chimed with a single peal. One o’clock; she hadn’t dared creep out earlier. The room she shared with Martha was this time next door to the one in which Fletcher and Cobbins slept; to get to the stairs, she’d had to pass their door.

Martha might sleep like one dead and snore like a walrus to boot, but Heather was much more wary of Fletcher, and even the taciturn Cobbins.

She descended the stairs close by the wall, careful to avoid squeaks. Gaining the foyer, she hugged the shadows and slipped into the dining room. With no curtains at the windows, there was light, faint but enough to see her way; on slippered feet she padded to the glass-paned doors. She peered through, into a room shrouded in shadows. The snug was L-shaped. The nearer section was dark, but the other arm was softly, a touch eerily, lit by the moon.