Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (8 page)

Drawing a fortifying breath, she reached for the doorknob, turned it, pushed open one door, and slid through. Eyes wide, trying to pierce the shadows, she eased the door closed, heard it click.

Holding her breath, she stepped out, heading for the better-illuminated section of the room.

Hard hands closed about her upper arms.

She started—very nearly squeaked—then once again wilted with relief as Breckenridge drew her back, closer to his large, warm body; he’d been standing in the dense shadows by the wall.

“Shssh.”

The order—despite the sibilant sound, she was quite sure it was an order—shivered across her ear.

Irritated, she glanced up and back. “If you’d stop scaring me witless, I wouldn’t make a sound.”

For a moment, their eyes met through the dimness. Their faces were close. Then he released her and eased back. “Would you rather I’d tapped you on the shoulder?”

She humphed. “No, but—” She broke off as he swiped up a large document from a nearby table, along with his cloak. “What’s that?” She nodded at the document.

“A map. I’m not as familiar with this area as I’d like.” He flicked out the cloak and draped it about her shoulders.

It was long enough to pool about her feet.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a touch surprised that he’d been so thoughtful. She had been a trifle cold in her makeshift robe, and she’d washed her stockings, so she didn’t even have them on.

“Just keep it close.” Through the cloak, he grasped her elbow. “We should be safe around the corner.”

Assuming his injunction was a warning to keep the cloak, voluminous on her, from tripping her or getting caught in the chairs, she obediently snuggled the folds closer—and felt the warmth still clinging to the material, detected a scent she associated with him—pine and very male.

The scent wreathed through her head and played havoc with her attention. Luckily, he steered her steadily on, tacking between the tables and chairs to round the corner of the bar and reach the more secluded and better-lit area.

Breckenridge released her by a table beneath one window. The moon gave them enough light to see, both each other’s faces and the map.

Heather sat, gathering the cloak about her, hiding all the distractions he didn’t need to see.

He drew out the chair opposite, placed the map on the table as he sat. “First, tell me what you learned today—I assume you made some headway?”

She nodded. “He—the man who arranged this—is a Scotsman, at least Fletcher and Cobbins believe he is. They describe him as a ‘laird,’ but on what grounds they decided he’s a large landowner, I’m not sure. He’s apparently black-haired with cold eyes—neither remember the color—and a particularly devilish black frown. And he’s large and apparently not a man they’d willingly cross.”

When she paused, he asked, “That’s all?”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “And I know there must be hundreds if not thousands of Scottish lairds who fit that description. I did try for something more distinctive—a scar, ring, injury—but Fletcher cut me off at that point.”

“He cut you off?”

“Hmm. I could be wrong, but I think my asking questions made him realize how little he actually knows about this man they’re working for. They don’t even know if he came to their meeting in Glasgow in a carriage, or if he rode, and if so, what type of horse.”

Leaning both forearms on the table, Breckenridge considered all they’d thus far learned. He debated, but in the end shifted his gaze and met her eyes. “Are you ready to escape them and return to London?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, enough to have him hoping . . . but then she said, evenly and reasonably, “I’ve given them no hint that I might try to escape, and they have no idea that you even exist, let alone are close by. They’re growing more relaxed, and gradually more inclined to answer my questions—even Fletcher. I haven’t really had time to work on Martha yet—I’ve been concentrating on Fletcher, as he seems the one with most knowledge, and he’s the most observant, too.”

“He’s also the most dangerous of the three.”

“Yes, I know, but he’s also unwaveringly committed to following his orders, so I’m safe from him, at least in that regard. He won’t harm me—from all they’ve said, neither he nor Cobbins are at all eager to get on the wrong side of their employer. So I am making headway, but I still haven’t learned enough to identify this laird. And so far Fletcher’s resisted telling me—even giving me a hint—about where they’re taking me to hand me over. If we learned that, we might have some chance of identifying the laird as someone who comes to that place.”

He let a moment elapse, then said, “You’re not going to escape yet, are you?”

For a moment, she held his gaze, then her lips twisted. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can. If I did, and later Eliza, Angelica, Henrietta, or Mary was kidnapped, and perhaps hurt in the process . . . I don’t think I could live with that.”

He nodded. “All right.” He didn’t like it, but he’d expected it, and, indeed, understood.

During the long hours he’d driven behind the lumbering coach, he’d had time enough to assess their situation. He’d already accepted that, given they’d been absent, on the road, alone as far as the ton could ever know, for two full days, then, him being him and her being her, regardless of how this adventure played out, their wedding was now an unavoidable outcome.

The realization . . . hadn’t bothered him that much. He had to marry and beget an heir, and his dear evil ugly sisters had been after him for years to make his choice. Heather would fit the bill nicely, at least in all the ways society deemed important.

What, however, had shocked him to his toes was the ease with which the notion of him and her, man and wife, had so readily slotted into his forward planning, his not-all-that-well-defined vision of his future life. The idea of her as his wife simply slipped into the center of his nebulous universe and clicked into place, acting as a catalyst, allowing associated elements to connect and clarify. Solidify.

They might not like each other, but he, at least, was perfectly well aware of the nature of the spark that had always flared between them, even from their earliest acquaintance. He knew that that spark could be fanned to a flame, one strong enough, powerful enough, to give them some hope of making a shared life work.

Such a union might not be perfect, but it could work.

Of course, he knew ladies, and her in particular, far too well to mention that issue at the present time. He wasn’t entirely surprised that she hadn’t thought of it herself; given she viewed him in a determinedly cousinly, if not avuncular, light, she wouldn’t necessarily see the danger in being—in ton terms—alone with him.

“Good.” She relaxed, softly smiled. Her blue-gray eyes shimmered silver in the moonlight. She glanced down at the map. “Given this laird is Scottish, I assume we’ll be heading into Scotland. Fletcher let fall that they couldn’t tell whether the man was a highlander or a lowlander.”

Frowning, Breckenridge spread the map on the table between them. “That’s odd. The accents are distinct, and Fletcher and Cobbins had been living in Glasgow.”

She shrugged. “We don’t know how long they’d been there. They might have just arrived.”

“If you get a chance, see if you can learn how long they’ve spent working north of the border.”

“All right.” After a moment of studying his face, she asked, “Are you going to tell me why?”

His lips curved despite the grimness he felt. “Not yet. Get me the answer, and I might.” He shifted the map, then pointed. “We’re here—Barnard Castle.”

“As this laird is Scottish, it seems safe to assume that Fletcher and company will carry me over the border at some point.” Heather traced their road onward, west across the north of England, just south of the border. There were several smaller connecting roads that led north into Scotland. “Cobbins mentioned that I’d see castles and a Roman fort or two from the coach.” She peered more closely at the map. “Is that possible if we remain on this road—or does it suggest we’ll turn north somewhere soon?”

They pored over the map, then he grunted. “There’s several castles close by the road, and at least two Roman forts. What that tells us—clever miss—is that the coach will remain on this road at least until Penrith.”

She smiled at his approbation, then examined his face. “Why are you so satisfied over that?”

He met her gaze. “I want to stop somewhere and get some provisions.” A better disguise, one good enough to allow him to get much closer to her and her captors. He also wanted a weapon or two, at least one pistol and a blade. He hesitated, then said, “I’m going to leave early tomorrow—no sense in giving them any unnecessary chance to get to know my face. I’m going to wager on them taking you into Scotland—and yes, I agree Scotland sounds a certainty—via Penrith, and then Carlisle.”

She studied the map. “That seems the most likely route.” With one finger, she traced the road running north from Carlisle, deeper into Scotland. “Given we were on the Great North Road, heading directly for Edinburgh, but have now turned off and look to be heading for Carlisle, then it seems Glasgow, rather than Edinburgh, might be their destination.”

He nodded. “Glasgow, or further north. If this laird met them in Glasgow, perhaps that’s where they’re to hand you over.” He paused, then asked, “Do you know if any of your family have any Scottish enemies?”

She looked up, her gaze arrested. A moment ticked by, then she slowly shook her head. “None that I’ve ever heard of. And I can’t see why that would be—we’ve never, as far as I know, had any real dealings north of the border. Well, except for Richard and Catriona, of course.”

He considered, then shook his head, too. “I can’t imagine why, even if Richard had fallen foul of some Scottish laird, that laird would take it into his head to target you and your sisters. The connection’s not close enough.” He refocused on her face. “Your brothers have never mentioned any problems in Scotland?”

She pulled a face. “I’ve never heard of any difficulty from either, but”—she lifted one shoulder—“it’s possible Rupert’s been involved in exposing some fraudulent Scottish scheme. You know how he is. Or Alasdair might have snaffled some precious artifact from under the nose of some avid Scottish collector.”

“Hmm—I’ve a suspicion that if either of your brothers thought there was the least threat to you or your sisters, you’d already know of it.”

She smiled. “True. There would have been blood on the floor in Dover Street when they tried to hem us in.”

They sat quietly for a moment, both thinking their separate thoughts, then he reached for the map. Refolding it, he stored it in his coat pocket, then rose and held out his hand. “Come on—I’ll see you back to your room and the estimable Martha.”

She put her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

“Tomorrow . . . don’t worry,” he murmured, as he ushered her back through the darker side of the snug. “I’ll be waiting in Carlisle to fall in behind the coach when you go past.” Through the dimness he met her eyes. “I won’t lose you.”

Her lips softly curved. “I didn’t imagine you would.”

Chapter Five

H
eather had spent a restless night. She’d risen before dawn and had stood at the window, looking east over the inn’s rear yard. As the sky had softened to a pearly gray streaked with faint streamers of gold and pink, she’d seen Breckenridge come out, get into his curricle, and, with a flourish of his whip, drive away.

Several hours later, she climbed back into the coach in no good mood. As they rumbled out of Barnard Castle, she looked out of the window and acknowledged a trepidatious uncertainty that they might turn north along some other road, and Breckenridge would miss their trail. She couldn’t discount the possibility, but, determined not to let it unnerve her more than it already had, she shoved it to the back of her mind and concentrated instead on what more she might learn about her captors’ employer—the mysterious laird. Reviewing Fletcher’s answers of the day before, she sensed that she was nearing the limit of his knowledge regarding the man. Recalling Breckenridge’s question, she considered, then fixed Fletcher—once again sitting opposite—with a direct look.

She openly studied him, until, shifting under her gaze, he arched a grumpy brow.

“What?”

“I was just wondering . . . I presume we’re heading over the border, that the place we’re to meet this laird will be in Scotland. You said you’d met him in Glasgow. Although I’ve been to Edinburgh, I’ve never been to Glasgow before—what’s it like?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Much like any other city with a big port.” He considered, then said, “More like London—no, more like Liverpool, I’d say.”

“I take it you live there.”

“On and off.” Fletcher met her gaze, then smiled knowingly. “We’ve moved about over the years, going wherever business was best. We’ve been quartered in Glasgow for the last several years, but I’m thinking, once we hand you over, it might be time to relocate.”

As if his plans were of no interest to her, which they weren’t, Heather shrugged and looked out of the window again. She had the answer Breckenridge had wanted, but she’d have to wait until she saw him again to understand its portent.

Cobbins sat forward and drew her attention to a castle on a nearby hill.

She looked, and exchanged observations on the structure with Cobbins and Martha. Sitting back again, she felt rather more confident that they’d interpreted Cobbins’s comments of the day before correctly. They were currently on the road to Penrith—the one with several castles and Roman forts flanking it.

What else could she ask? What else might she learn?

Fletcher responded better to short bursts of questions, and to tangential approaches. Yet no matter how she wracked her brains, she couldn’t think of any other way to ask, “Where are we to meet this laird? I can’t see why you won’t tell me.”

“Well, now.” Fletcher exchanged a glance with Martha, one heavy with some unspoken communication.

From the corner of her eye, Heather saw Martha shake her head.

Fletcher shifted his gaze to Heather. “No need for you to know that I can see. You’ll find out when we get there.”

“But—”

She pushed, pressed, badgered, and pestered, all to no avail. From Fletcher’s thin-lipped smile, she got the distinct impression they were playing with her.

Finding Fletcher immovable, she appealed to Martha. “Surely you understand—knowing would help.”

Martha snorted. She resettled her voluminous cloak, then folded her arms and shut her eyes. “No point in carrying on so. You’ll learn where we’re taking you soon enough. No reason for you to know ahead of time—it won’t make any difference to you.”

Martha lapsed into silence. When Heather turned her gaze back to Fletcher, she discovered he, too, had closed his eyes.

With every appearance of high dudgeon, she slumped back against the seat, crossed her arms, and settled in her corner.

Cobbins still had his eyes open, idly watching over her. The trio had, she realized, been unobtrusively vigilant; one or more of them was always watching against her escaping, even in moments like this. Only when they believed she was secured, either because she was hemmed in by them at some table, or shut in a room with Martha during the night with no outer clothing to hand, did they take their eyes off her.

They rolled past another two castles, which Cobbins took pains to point out. A few miles later, she saw a sign declaring Penrith to be seven miles on. Relief flooded her, easing some of her building tension. If they were going through Penrith, and intended to take her over the border into Scotland, then they were certain to pass through Carlisle, where Breckenridge would be waiting.

She’d definitely changed how she viewed her “nemesis.” Indeed, she doubted she’d ever think of him as that again. To her mind, he now represented safety, security, and regardless of all else he might be, she knew he was a man she could rely on.

Confidence of a sort returned, buoying her.

With nothing else to do, she reviewed all she knew about the lands over the border. It was already late morning, nearing noon. Traveling at this rate, they had to be planning to halt for the night somewhere not too far over the border; there was no chance they could reach Glasgow that day.

That much she knew, but not much else. On all her previous journeys into Scotland she’d veered west soon after Carlisle, turning off the highway at Gretna onto the road to Dumfries and so on to New Galloway, and from there north to the Vale of Casphairn, Richard and Catriona’s home. She knew those roads, those towns, that landscape, but beyond that, and Edinburgh, which she’d visited once with Richard and Catriona, Scotland remained a mist-shrouded, mizzle-veiled, damp and cold unknown.

In the circumstances, the prospect of seeing Glasgow, or even traveling further north into the highlands, didn’t fill her with eager excitement.

Meeting with a mysterious laird who had arranged to have her kidnapped was, she felt, something she truly didn’t need to do.

Learning who he was would be quite sufficient.

The coach rolled into Penrith, turned north onto the main highway toward Carlisle, and rattled on.

She was feeling faintly light-headed, definitely in need of sustenance, when, after several more ponderous miles, the coach rolled into the village of Plumpton Wall and, at last, slowed. The coachman turned into the yard of a small inn and halted his horses.

Descending into the cool sunshine, Heather drew in a deep breath, then glanced around. Martha appeared by her shoulder and urged her on, into the inn. As Heather climbed the shallow steps and followed Fletcher into a tiny taproom, she thought back over their halts, inwardly acknowledging how quietly careful her captors had been.

Believing her to be too lacking in resolution and too inhibited by their well-thought-out charade to attempt any scene in public, they’d treated her reasonably, yet they hadn’t taken any chances, either. Everywhere they’d stopped—Knebworth, Stretton, Carlton-on-Trent, Bramham, Barnard Castle, and now Plumpton Wall—had been either a very small town or an out-of-the-way place, the sort where it had been highly unlikely they would have encountered anyone who would have known her well enough to have recognized her. That was the only real weakness in their plan, and they’d taken steps to reduce the threat.

In reality, with the ton busy in London with the Season just commencing, the risk of a chance encounter with anyone she knew was as near to nonexistent as made no odds.

She preserved a tight-lipped silence while they ate; she saw no reason to even try to extract more information, at least not at present.

When, an hour later, she climbed back into the coach and sat in her usual corner, she was conscious of a sharpening edge of tension, of trepidatious expectation welling once more. She waited until they were back on the road, rolling steadily north, then reassessed her captors, only to realize that her sharpening anticipation was merely a reflection of theirs.

Fletcher was no longer slouching, but sitting upright and alert, his gaze trained mostly outside, a frown on his face, as if he were calculating. Cobbins sat with his hands on his thighs, eyes staring across the carriage, but, Heather would swear, not seeing. He was thinking, imagining; until now he’d shown little sign of indulging in either activity.

A sideways glance showed that Martha, too, was wide awake.

Heather tried to imagine what might be causing all three to remain so watchful. The border itself lay beyond Carlisle . . . perhaps it was simply that the border town was by far the largest they’d passed through since London, and was usually awash with soldiers and officials, Customs and Revenue agents, and the like.

Perhaps her captors’ vigilance was merely reaching new heights.

She looked away, staring out of the window at the spring fields rolling past. Despite the tension, she felt inwardly settled. Calm and ready to meet whatever lay ahead.

Because, regardless of all else, they were definitely going through Carlisle.

B
reckenridge stood in the shadow where the curved outer wall of one of the towers of Carlisle Castle met one of the straight side walls. The red stone at his back, he watched the carriages coming north along the highway from Penrith. To enter Carlisle proper, all conveyances had to pass his position. Cloaked as he was in deepening shadows, no passenger in any of the passing parade of coaches was likely to see him, not unless they peered specifically at him.

He was satisfied with all he’d accomplished by way of preparation for whatever dangers lay beyond the border. His first purchase had been a pair of pistols, short-barreled and silver-mounted, small enough to fit in a coat pocket. The coat and breeches, plain shirt and waistcoat, had come next. He’d had to visit more than one tailor to find garments already made up in his size, especially as he was so adamant on appearing faintly shabby. His latest disguise of a solicitor’s clerk, down on his luck and presently unemployed, was expressly designed to allow him to draw closer, openly so, to Heather’s three captors.

Although he’d purchased a shaving kit in Newark, he’d omitted to shave that morning. His beard now darkened his cheeks and jaw, making him appear rougher, less polished, more disreputable. With the scarred and well-used writing desk and implements he’d subsequently found in a secondhand shop, with the ink he’d worked into his right middle finger and the pad of his right thumb, he was intent on appearing as one with Fletcher, Cobbins, and Martha—an equal, someone for whom they would feel no instant, instinctive distrust.

If the lack of attention he’d subsequently garnered when, making an effort to suppress his innate, born-to-the-purple arrogance and demeanor, he’d walked through the town was any guide at all, he’d succeeded. He’d been able to purchase a rackety old trap with a close to broken-down horse without having to insist that yes, he really did want that horse, that trap.

If any of his friends could see his new equipage, they’d laugh themselves into stitches.

Shifting against the wall, pleasantly warm with the heat retained from the earlier sunshine, he continued to watch the carriages, outwardly the soul of patience, inwardly increasingly restless.

He’d considered sending another missive south to the Cynsters. Had debated it for more than an hour, but in the end, he hadn’t. For a start, if Heather’s cousins reacted and charged north, as they were very likely to do, they would almost certainly achieve the opposite of what he’d striven thus far to do, namely keep Heather’s presence with her captors a secret.

If the ton ever learned that she’d been in the hands of Fletcher and Cobbins for even one night, her reputation would be irretrievably shredded, Martha’s presence notwithstanding. Nothing he could say or do afterward would serve to rectify that, not in the censorious eyes of the ton. Those close to her, and him, would accept the truth; society at large would not.

On top of that, it was too hard to explain the situation simply to someone who didn’t know the full story, to convey that Heather was still in the hands of the kidnappers, but that she was safe. That he would ensure she continued to be safe.

It was that last that was most difficult to communicate, especially when placed alongside the information that they were on the brink of crossing into Scotland. No matter what words he devised, what glib explanation, the result read as a thinly veiled acknowledgment that he would marry her.

But what if she refused? Until he knew what direction she would take, making any statement would be unwise.

Of course, given the situation, compounded by his reputation as one of London’s most notable rakes, and hers as a well-connected, well-bred, and largely well-protected young lady, there was no other option. Especially as both their families moved within the most rarefied circle of the ton. And while one part of him felt he should rail at such a socially dictated fate, the larger part was surprisingly acquiescent. He suspected that was at least partly due to her being “the devil he knew.”

Even as the appellation crossed his mind, he was recalling all the things he hadn’t known about her but had learned courtesy of the past days.

She’d proved surprisingly quick-witted. She’d been resolute and loyal. She’d observed and acted where many other ladies would have sunk into a helpless funk. Weak she wasn’t, neither in will nor in character.

He could do a lot worse for his bride.

Neither of their families would raise a fuss; while it might not be a love-match, currently all the rage, after the last days he was reasonably certain that, should they agree to, he and she could rub along well enough.

Which was more than he could say of any other lady of his acquaintance.

Love-matches might have currently been the vogue, but he, personally, had given up on love long ago. Fifteen years ago, to be precise. And while he suspected Heather would prefer a love-match, she was twenty-five, and at this Season’s close would be formally considered on the shelf. Clearly her Prince Charming hadn’t appeared to sweep her off her feet. Given what he’d seen of her pragmatism recently, he suspected that, when he offered for her hand, once she thought the matter through, she would accept.