Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (16 page)

Given her previous view of him, that she’d come to the point of regarding him as “reasonable” struck her as exquisitely ironic.

By the time he returned, darkness had fallen, but the moon was half full, shedding sufficient light to make out shapes even inside the barn. When he reached the top of the ladder, she slid her feet back into her slippers, stood, and shook out her skirts. “I need to go outside. I won’t go far, and I won’t be long.”

He froze. She smiled sunnily at him, even if he probably couldn’t see well enough to appreciate the effect. She’d given him back his own words. She’d trusted him, now he had to trust her.

With obvious reluctance, he shifted, allowing her to reach the head of the ladder. “It’s dark.”

“I’ll be careful.” She started down the ladder, then glanced up at him. “Just stay there.”

Reaching the ground, she walked to the barn door, lit by light slanting down through a window high in one side wall. Pulling open the door, she glanced out, then slipped around the corner of the barn to attend to the call of nature.

She walked back inside five minutes later, only to find him waiting just inside the door. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze, simply pulled the door closed, then lifted a heavy beam and angled it across the opening.

“If anyone tries to come in, they’ll have to shift that—we’ll hear them.”

She humphed and walked toward the ladder, wondering if he’d thought of the beam before or after he’d followed her down to the ground.

He trailed close behind her, claimed her hand, and helped her onto the ladder. She climbed up, careful not to get her feet tangled in her skirts. Once she stepped free, he followed her up, then turned and, with surprising ease, hauled up the long ladder.

She settled back on her cloak and watched as, bathed in the faint moonlight, he maneuvered the ladder to lay it along the edge of the loft. Even though he was fully clothed, she still got an impression of the play of muscle necessary to achieve such a feat.

There was no denying Breckenridge was one of the ton’s favorite rakes for good reason.

Smiling to herself, she relaxed on her makeshift bed.

He looked at her, then picked up his own cloak, shook it out, and spread it on the hay, not next to her but on the other side of their satchels. She inwardly humphed. While he sat, then lay back and settled, she sat up and pulled her satchel closer. Opening it, she hauled out the other plain gown and her evening gown. The silk, she hoped, would help to keep her warm.

Breckenridge, of course, had simply wrapped his cloak about himself. Given how warm he always seemed to be, he would probably be warm enough. She fussed, laying first the evening gown, then the plain gown over her, then she lay down and wrapped the skirts of her cloak around her.

She was, she told herself, warm enough. She wasn’t likely to freeze.

Breckenridge spoke out of the thickening darkness; the moonlight was starting to fade. “We’ll head for Annan in the morning—see if we can slip into the town, get some breakfast and shoes for you at least.”

“Hmm. I suppose in a town rather than a village we’ll have a better chance of escaping attention.”

He didn’t reply.

“Good night,” he eventually murmured.

“Good night.” Settling her head on one hand, she closed her eyes.

Silence fell.

Whether it was her hearing sharpening once she’d shut her eyes, or that the sounds only began some minutes after she and Breckenridge had become silent and still, rustlings started, at some distance initially, but as the minutes stretched, she could swear the furtive shifting of the hay was growing nearer, and nearer . . .

She was suddenly wide awake.

Suddenly in a greater panic than she’d been earlier in the day.

The only thought that occurred to her, the only possible way to secure relief, involved shockingly forward behavior.

To escape mice, she could be shockingly forward.

Rising, all but leaping to her feet, she grabbed up her gowns-cum-covers, swiped up her cloak, and dashed past their mounded satchels to where Breckenridge had stretched out.

Through the dimness she could just make him out, stretched on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. He might have been silent, but he hadn’t been asleep. She could feel his frown as he looked at her.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving closer to you.” Dropping her gowns, she shook out her cloak and laid it next to his.

“Why?”

“Mice.”

He let a heartbeat pass, then asked, carefully, “You’re afraid of mice?”

She nodded. “Rodents. I don’t discriminate.” Swinging around, she sat on her cloak, then picked up her gowns and wriggled back and closer to him. “If I’m next to you, then either they’ll give us both a wide berth, or if they decide to take a nibble, there’s at least an even chance they’ll nibble you first.”

His chest shook. He was struggling not to laugh. But at least he was trying.

“Besides,” she said, lying down and snuggling under her massed gowns, “I’m cold.”

A moment ticked past, then he sighed.

He shifted in the hay beside her. She didn’t know what he did, but suddenly she was sliding the last inches down a slope that hadn’t been there before. She fetched up against him, against his side—hard, muscled, and wonderfully warm.

Her senses leapt greedily, pleasantly shocked, delightedly surprised; she caught her breath and slapped them down. Desperately; this was Breckenridge—this was definitely not the time.

His arm shifted and came around her, cradling her shoulders and gathering her against him.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” The whispered words drifted down to her.

Comfort, safety, warmth—it meant all those things.

“I know,” she murmured back. Her senses weren’t listening. Her body now lay alongside his. Her breast brushed his side; through various layers her thighs grazed his. Her heartbeat had deepened, sped up a little, too. Yet despite the sensual awareness, she could feel reassurance along with his warmth stealing through her, relaxing her tensed muscles bit by bit as, greatly daring, she settled her cheek on his chest.

This doesn’t mean anything.
She knew what he meant. This was just for now, for this strange moment out of their usual lives in which he and she were just two people finding ways to weather a difficult situation.

She quieted. Listened.

The sound of his heartbeat, steady and sure, blocked out any rustlings.

Thinking of the strange moment, of what made it so, she murmured, “We’re fugitives, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“In a strange country, one not really our own, with no way to prove who we are.”

“Yes.”

“And a stranger, a very likely dangerous highlander, is pursuing us.”

“Hmm.”

She should feel frightened. She should be seriously worried. Instead, she closed her eyes, and with her cheek pillowed on Breckenridge’s chest, his arm like warm steel around her, smoothly and serenely fell asleep.

Breckenridge held her against him, and through senses far more attuned than he wished, followed the incremental falling away of her tension . . . until she slept.

Softly, silently, in his arms, with the gentle huff of her breathing ruffling his senses, the seductive weight of her slender body stretched out against his the subtlest of tortures.

Why had he done it? She might have slept close to him, but she would never have pushed to sleep in his arms. That had been entirely his doing, and he hadn’t even stopped to think.

What worried him most was that even if he had thought, had reasoned and debated, the result would have been the same.

When it came to her, whatever the situation, there never was any question, no doubt in his mind as to what he should do.

Her protection, her safety—caring for her. From the first instant he’d laid eyes on her four years ago, that had been his mind’s fixation. Its decision. Nothing he’d done, nothing she’d done, had ever succeeded in altering that.

But as to the why of that, the reason behind it . . . even now he didn’t, was quite certain and absolutely sure he didn’t, need to consciously know.

Exhaling slowly, he let his senses expand, checking the barn for any intrusion, then settled to see out the rest of the night.

Chapter Eight

T
hey set out for Annan a little after dawn. The day was cloudy, but the wind had softened. Given the state of her slippers, Heather was grateful it wasn’t raining.

She’d woken to find herself wrapped in her gowns, her cloak, and Breckenridge’s, too, but he’d been gone. He’d walked back into the barn as she’d reached the bottom of the ladder; by the time she’d gone out and come back in herself, he’d been climbing down the ladder with their satchels already packed and her cloak over his shoulder.

Side by side, they walked steadily westward. Skirting Dornock village—a few houses lining the road to Annan—to the south took them close to the shores of Solway Firth. The water was gray, but relatively calm. As the sun rose at their backs, the surface of the water took on a rosy hue.

They’d passed Dornock and could see the roofs of Annan ahead when Breckenridge stopped her with a hand on her arm. She glanced at him, saw him looking at the road a few hundred yards to the north. Following his gaze, she saw two riders—both constables, who had been heading west—slow to meet with a pair of their comrades riding in the opposite direction. The four milled, clearly exchanging news, then formed up two by two and headed toward Annan.

She and Breckenridge were traversing a wood, one with plenty of bushes between the trees; as long as they didn’t move, they wouldn’t be spotted. They held still and watched the four constables ride on. Heather looked ahead; judging by the roofs, Annan wasn’t a large town.

As the constables reached the outlying cottages, she glanced down at her slippers. Considered, then asked, “How far to Dumfries?”

Breckenridge glanced at her. After a moment replied, “As the crow flies, which is more or less the route we’re walking, about twelve miles.”

She grimaced, raised her head. “We’d better get on, then.” Suiting action to the words, she stepped out.

Breckenridge kept pace alongside her. She appreciated that he didn’t make a fuss, or ask what she meant. She’d spoken first, intentionally absolving him of making any decision that would, as he would see it, adversely affect her well-being.

He held his tongue while they gave Annan a wide berth. For a while they walked along the firth’s shores. When the road angled more northwest, enough to allow them back into the fields while maintaining their distance from it, he glanced at her more intently, studied her face. “We could stop at one of the smaller villages and see if we can get something to eat.”

She almost smiled. His tone made it clear that he didn’t want to risk it but felt he had to make the offer. “We could, but should we?” Halting in the lee of a hedge, beside a stile over which they’d need to climb, she met his hazel gaze. “It’ll be much easier, and much safer, for us to slip into and then out of a large town like Dumfries. Any village we stop at . . . even if the people there don’t try to capture and hold us, they’ll certainly remember us and tell the next constable who rides past.”

She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Breckenridge held her gaze. “True, but at the same time, I’d rather you didn’t faint. Me carrying you into Dumfries isn’t going to make us less noticeable.”

Her lips tightened. “I promise I won’t faint. I can make it to Dumfries without food, and there’s plenty of fresh water, at least.”

They’d crossed numerous small streams; the area was riddled with them, and in this season most were in full spate. “If you’re sure . . .” He waved her to the stile.

“I am.” She reached up and grasped one of the rungs; the stile was a high one, the top higher than his head. She started to pull herself up, but her feet, still clad in her leather-soled dancing slippers, slid on the wet grass.

He caught her about the waist, steadied her.

“Damn!” She huffed, blowing errant strands of hair off her forehead. “You’ll have to help me up.”

Mentally gritting his teeth, he didn’t let himself think, just slid his hands to her hips, gripped, and hoisted her up.

She stifled a gasp, seized the stile’s highest bar, and quickly clambered up.

But then she stopped. On the top step of the stile, looking down the other side. After a moment, she said, “The ground’s further down on this side than on that.”

“Wait there.” He climbed up, then swung around her, his long legs making the maneuver easy enough. He climbed down, dropped down to the ground on the other side, glanced quickly around, then turned to her and beckoned. “Come on.”

She started climbing down. When she reached the last step, still too far from the ground for her to jump down, he gripped her hips again, lifted her clear, and set her down.

When he released her, she wobbled.

He caught her waist, steadied her. Glanced at her face. “All right?”

Her cheeks were a trifle pink, but whether from the exertion or something else he couldn’t tell.

She nodded as he released her. “Yes, thank you.” Raising her head, she faced forward, drew breath, then exhaled. “Come on.”

Straightening his lips before she saw them twitching, he dutifully fell in beside her.

Halfway across the field, he said, “The reason I wondered whether you would faint is because my sisters would have. When they were your age they used to starve themselves. If they didn’t eat something of a morning, they’d be sure to fall limp before luncheon.”

She met his eyes. “Your sisters are significantly older than you. Which makes them very much older than me.” She faced forward again, nose elevating. “Fashions change.”

“I know.” He hesitated, then said, “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t imagine you would faint because I think you’re weak.”

She looked almost as surprised by the explanation as he was. She recovered first, crisply nodded. “Duly noted.”

And continued walking.

He kept pace, wondering at himself—wondering why he’d wanted to reassure her. He told himself it was because his sole aim that day was to keep her safe, and that would be much easier if she was speaking to him.

Despite their tonnish lives, both of them spent at least some time each year in the country; it showed as they strode along, both relatively long-legged, their pace an easy, swinging stride that ate the miles to Dumfries.

While they walked, he had plenty of time to dwell on the irony in the situation. A situation that now left him truly appreciative of the very aspects of her nature that had previously irritated him to a near-insufferable degree. Her inner strength of purpose, of will, her independence of thought, and the confidence that showed in her ability to think and act. Previously he’d found those qualities not so much challenging as abrasive.

He was thankful for them now. If she’d been a different sort of female, the sort he might previously have wished her to be, their situation now would have been infinitely worse.

Then again, if she’d been that other, meeker, milder sort of female, she’d have allowed him to haul her out of the inn at Knebworth and take her straight home.

He considered that, weighed it against the outcome of the path they’d taken instead . . . despite all, he couldn’t find it in him to disapprove of her stance. Her insistence that she needed to learn all she could of the laird who had sent men to kidnap her or one of her family.

That sort of loyalty, of family protectiveness, was bred in the bone—in him and in her. He could hardly disapprove of something he himself considered sacrosanct.

He glanced at her. Wondered when she would realize what the outcome of this adventure of theirs would be. There was no alternative, none at all. Would she accept it? Or would she try to fight it?

Or would she, as he had, realize that there were far worse fates?

His lips kicked up briefly. Looking ahead, he saw another hedge, another stile.

This one was lower. When they reached it, he climbed over first, then took her hand to help her over.

Didn’t release it when she joined him on the ground, instead sliding his fingers fully around hers before turning and walking on.

She shot him a glance, but then settled her fingers in his.

Hand in hand, they walked on to Dumfries.

F
letcher and Cobbins were sitting on rude bunks in a stone-walled cell at the rear of the Customs and Revenue Office in Gretna, slumped, resigned, and praying for deliverance, when the sound of a deep voice, cultured and even-toned, reached them.

Their heads rose. They straightened, straining to hear, to make out words, but the thick stone walls defeated them.

Cobbins met Fletcher’s gaze. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Slowly, still listening to the distant rumble, Fletcher nodded. “Yes. Thank God.” After a moment, he added, “Let’s hope he sees his way to getting us out of this.”

On the words, a groaning grating told them the heavy door leading to the cells was being opened. As the sound died, they heard, “Thank you. This won’t take long.”

Someone mumbled something in reply, and the door groaned shut again.

Both Fletcher and Cobbins got to their feet. Both straightened their jackets, smoothed down their hair, rubbed their palms on their thighs.

Relaxed footsteps with a long, easy stride came down the flagged corridor. A second later, the man they knew as McKinsey appeared on the other side of the iron bars that formed the front of the cell.

He appeared even more powerful than they remembered him—as tall, broad-shouldered, as impressively strong, with a face hewn from granite, all harsh planes and sharp cheekbones, and pale, wintry, icy eyes. He was dressed for riding in boots and corduroy breeches, a well-tailored coat hugging his heavy shoulders.

After surveying them for a moment, he arched his winged black brows. “Well, gentlemen? Where’s my package?”

Fletcher swallowed. “At the inn—the Nutberry Moss, like you told us.”

McKinsey shook his head. “No, not so. I’ve already been there.”

“She’s gone?” Cobbins’s shock was too genuine to mistake.

McKinsey noted it, then nodded. “She hasn’t been seen since before your unfortunate arrest.” He transferred his cold gaze to Fletcher. “Incidentally, how did that come about?”

“We don’t know.” Fletcher knew beyond doubt that their only hope lay in convincing McKinsey of their innocence. “We didn’t steal the wretched candlesticks—why would we?” He snorted. “Let alone hide the blessed things in our room.”

McKinsey considered him for a moment, then glanced at Cobbins. Then he nodded. “I believe you. I did a reasonably thorough check into your pasts before hiring you, and you’ve never before shown any inclincation to rank stupidity.”

“Exactly.” Fletcher let his irritation—something close to offense at being taken for a simple thief—show. “Someone must have put the damned things there.”

“Indeed,” McKinsey said. “The question is who, and even more importantly, why.”

Fletcher dared to meet his eyes. “The police?”

“No. I spoke with the innkeeper. The sergeant found the candlesticks where he claimed—in your bags in your room. And the innkeeper isn’t aware of anyone else going upstairs that morning. His staff know nothing.”

“What about Martha?” Cobbins looked at McKinsey. “The maid we hired, like you asked.”

“Ah, yes—she, too, appears to have vanished.”

“It wouldn’t have been her got the candlesticks,” Fletcher said. “Not her style either, and the idea of her finding the magistrate’s house and creeping in of a night . . .” He made a scoffing sound. “That’s nonsense.”

Cobbins nodded. “She’s not one for going out at the best of times.”

McKinsey studied them, then murmured, “The choice of the magistrate as the victim of the burglary is, I suspect, revealing. Had it been anyone else, the constables would have been much less likely to leap into action as they did. In terms of getting you two out of the way—I am, of course, assuming that that was the purpose of the candlesticks, to remove you both so that the package you were holding for me could be spirited away—the ploy was carefully and very cleverly thought out. So . . . who knew about the girl and was clever enough to devise and effect such a scheme?”

A moment passed, then Cobbins looked at Fletcher. “Timms?”

McKinsey’s brows rose. “Who is Timms?”

Fletcher was frowning. “An unemployed solicitor’s clerk. Said he was on his way to Glasgow and stopped at the inn—he came in a few hours after us, I think.”

“And he stayed?”

Fletcher nodded. “Seems he had a wound—war wound possibly—that was playing up.”

“He said because of driving so far in his rattly old pony trap,” Cobbins said. “And that was true enough. His trap was ancient.”

“So he arrived after you, and was still at the inn when you were arrested?” McKinsey asked.

“Not sure if he was still there.” Fletcher exchanged a glance with Cobbins. “He said he was getting ready to leave and drive on to Glasgow in easy stages. He’d waited around long enough.”

“What does this man look like?”

“Not as tall as you,” Fletcher said. “Not as big. A bit slighter all around. Brown eyes.”

“Hazel,” Cobbins corrected. “And dark hair—very dark brown. Dressed like a clerk, dark clothes, ordinary stuff. Always appeared a bit scruffy—like he needed a new razor and had lost his hairbrush.”

Fletcher nodded agreement.

“How did he speak?” McKinsey asked.

Fletcher shrugged. “Well spoken enough, like you’d expect a London solicitor’s clerk to speak.” He frowned, and looked at McKinsey. “No real accent, now I think on it. A bit like . . .”

McKinsey smiled chillingly. “A bit like me?” After a moment, he murmured, softly, to himself, “I sincerely hope not.” More loudly he asked, “Did Timms get to know the girl?”

Fletcher pulled a face, shook his head. “Not that I saw. He nodded to her—knew she was with us—but he swallowed our story and kept his distance.” He glanced at Cobbins.

“Saw him stop beside her and speak with her . . .” Cobbins screwed up his face in thought. “Day before yesterday, it’d be—when she and Martha went for a short walk. We kept watch—one of us—from the inn. Timms was out walking. He stopped beside the girl and sat down—not close—to look at his map. But Martha was right there, next to them, the whole time.”