Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (24 page)

Mrs. Croft blinked, but then slowly nodded. “If you’ve a mind to, I wouldn’t say no.” With her head, she indicated the pile in the basket. “I need to get that done as soon as maybe.”

Which was how Heather came to spend a strangely comfortable evening sitting beside the fire sewing up hems and repairing ripped seams. Breckenridge did wonders for Mrs. Croft’s opinion of him by offering to wash the plates and pot so she and Heather could get on with the mending.

Later, he stood, ducking his head in the doorway, and asked the widow to point him to the axe and woodpile. “I’ll be up early and get that woodbox filled for you before we leave.”

By then Mrs. Croft had largely lost her wariness of him. She readily rose and showed him where everything was, then returned to her chair alongside Heather’s.

Breckenridge followed the widow back into the sitting room. He stood in the shadows and watched for a time—watched Heather’s face as she set tiny stitches in some dandy’s shirt. She looked surprisingly domesticated.

Hiding a smile, he shifted, attracting both women’s attention. He bobbed his head. “I’ll go up, then. Good night.”

He included Mrs. Croft as well as Heather with his nod.

Reaching the stairs, he climbed, smiling again at the tableau he’d left before the fire. He was still smiling when he entered their room.

Heather felt peculiarly settled as she sewed. Whether it was the satisfaction of doing something active and helpful with her own admittedly small hands, or the knowledge that, once she finished and went upstairs, Breckenridge would be waiting for her in the comfy bed, she wasn’t sure, but she felt happier than she could logically explain.

Another half hour of dogged industry and between them she and Mrs. Croft emptied the basket.

“Well!” Mrs. Croft looked at the neatly folded linens, as if stunned they’d accomplished that much. “I have to say, mistress, that you’re quick with that needle. I truly do thank you . . .”

When the widow’s voice trailed away, Heather looked at her inquiringly.

Mrs. Croft met her eyes, then tentatively offered, “Your man—he’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“A very good man.” There was no hesitation in her answer.

“Aye, well, I had a good man, too—Croft was a simple woodsman, but he had the best of hearts.” Mrs. Croft’s lips pinched. “The one afore that, though—he was a blackguard. All smiles and honey and handsomeness, but he had a black heart. So I know the bad, but I know the good when I see it, too. Your man—he might be handsome as sin, but his heart’s true. If you’re wise, you’ll hang on to him and not let him go.”

Heather smiled but couldn’t bring herself to lie. She had every intention of parting from Breckenridge with the same matter-of-fact attitude with which he would undoubtedly view the end of their liaison. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’d best go up to him.”

Mrs. Croft nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Heather took the single candle the widow held out to her, then carefully shielded the flame as she climbed the stairs.

The door at the top had been left ajar. She nudged it open and went in. In the wavering light of the candle, she saw Breckenridge stretched out beneath the covers.

He wasn’t asleep. He turned his head to watch her as she eased the door shut, then carried the candle to the chest of drawers. Setting it down, she glanced at him. “Mrs. Croft is now convinced you have a good heart.”

He smiled and looked up at the ceiling.

She quickly stripped, debated whether or not to leave her chemise on, then hauled it off over her head, pinched out the candle, and rushed to dive under the covers Breckenridge helpfully raised for her.

She burrowed closer, and discovered, as she’d assumed—and hoped—that he was naked, too. All but plastering herself to his side, she sighed as his heat reached out and enveloped her. Being skin to skin with him was soothing on the one hand, pure temptation on the other. She felt rather than heard his deep chuckle, then he raised his arm, slid it about her shoulders, and drew her nearer yet. Pillowing her cheek on his upper chest, she sank against his strength, relaxed into his embrace.

Heaven. She was quite sure this, in its smallest-of-pleasures way, qualified.

Breckenridge’s jaw shifted against her hair, then he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep. We’ve another long day ahead of us.”

She considered the command for all of a minute, considered the subtle tension infusing his every muscle, a tension that had been there since she’d walked into the room, then shifted her head and through the moon-etched dimness looked into his face. “I’m not that sleepy. I’d rather explore more.”

She remained distantly amazed that she found it so easy to make such immodest demands, yet with him she felt assured, confident in a connection that made such directness acceptable, that made the usual veiled references to passion irrelevant, if not absurd.

Studying his shadowed eyes, she didn’t doubt that he would be happy to oblige.

The faint moonlight lit her face. Breckenridge read her expectation in her eyes, the queenly assumption that he would fall in with her suggestion—followed by the shift of her attention inward as she formulated what she would ask him for this time—

Raising one hand, cupping her head, he raised his and kissed her.

His turn, this time, but he was wise enough not to give her any chance to debate the point.

He kissed her deeply, slowly reclaiming the slick sweetness of her mouth, heavily stroking her tongue with his, luring her deeper into an exchange that progressed to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

Steady.

Sure.

An exchange that escalated slowly, keeping time with that elemental beat that built on the rising tide of desire. He fought to hold back the sharp edge of need, of greedy hunger, and give her pleasure undiluted, uninhibited, unrestricted, unrestrained.

She wanted to know, so he showed her.

He led her into a landscape of sensual lushness created by touch, by tactile sensation, by long-drawn intimate exploration capped by sexual revelation. He guided her on through valleys of pleasure colored by rainbows of glitteringly sharp delight, onto plateaus where untempered passion ran so luxuriously and deliciously deep that it swamped their senses and left hers reeling.

His senses were too well drilled to reel, yet even he found his breath catching, found himself momentarily caught in the wonder. By the wonder.

A glorious, shimmering, glimmering wonder heightened by every erotic caress, every illicit, longed-for, yearned-for touch.

When he rolled and rose, tipping her beneath him, cradling her bottom and settling her under him, her thighs pressed wide by his, it was all he could do to deny the impulse to let his reins fall and simply gorge . . . but he had his plans, his own agenda, and even as he clung to both and, looming over her, his head bowed as he continued to fill her mouth, kept the tempo rigidly reined, he knew to his soul that this was the way.

That new entity within him that she called forth glowed like a beacon, a guiding light that led him, that invested every sweep of his hands, every possessive touch, with emotional meaning.

An emotional element he’d never before played with, worked with, bent to his will. It seemed to flow through him, coloring and heightening, lacing the tantalizing with the riveting to call forth and hold her fascination. To hold her.

They were both learning tonight. He as well as she.

The long-experienced lover that was so much a part of him, a cynical, world-weary part, saw and acknowledged that novel element, regarded it with unalloyed suspicion, but the rest of him didn’t care. The rest of him, the better part of him, the part of him that was the man behind the reputation, was too immersed in savoring the sharper delight, the heightened pleasure, the brighter, scintillating glory of their passion.

His mouth locked with hers, he flexed his spine and entered her, long, slow, and easy.

She closed around him, scalding and slick, taking him in, hips tipping in wordless entreaty, accepting and ready, wanting and needing.

Giving, surrendering.

Claiming.

What followed was nirvana, pleasure beyond pleasure.

Heather followed blindly where he led. She was no longer herself but a creature of passion, infused with it, awash with it, buoyed by it as she rose to his call and embraced him, took him in and rode with him, clung and shared the indescribable delight . . . with him.

They moved together, joined in passion, wrapped in heated desire, linked by a seductive ribbon of emotion stronger than forged steel.

If she’d been able she would have examined that binding, that elemental linkage, more closely, but her senses weren’t hers and her mind was suborned by the cataclysmic pleasure of his loving.

His mouth remained locked on hers, drinking in her inarticulate moans. He’d taken his weight on his elbows, his shoulders and heavily muscled upper arms caging her beneath him. His chest, the raspy hairs that adorned it, abraded her tightly furled nipples with every powerful, surging thrust. His hips were wedged between hers, pinning her to the bed, her body surrendered, his to fill, his erection, heavy, rigid, hot silk over steel, buried deep inside her; with every repetitive, rhythmic motion, he withdrew only so far, then pushed solidly, forcefully, powerfully back, filling her more deeply, and ever more deeply.

Relentlessly rocking her to ecstasy.

Breathing was beyond her. Nothing mattered but the sensual communion. The meeting of the physical and the sensual in which she and he were so deeply engrossed.

Never had Breckenridge experienced such absorption, such depth of sensual abandon. Normally he always had a part of his awareness monitoring his surroundings, on watch, keeping guard . . . not tonight.

Not with her.

He was as ensnared as he knew her to be.

They moved together in an intimate harmony he’d never before known, never before experienced, never dreamed could be.

Beneath the covers, they danced in the darkness, bodies joined in hot, slick, breathless desperation as passion escalated in a rising crescendo.

Long, voracious, rapacious kisses built their hunger until it was raging.

Explicit caresses, intimate and uninhibited, drove desire higher still, until passion became a whip.

Until possession reared and seized. Gripped and held.

And hurled them to the peak.

Desperate and yearning, striving and wanting, they shuddered and clung, his body plunging one last time into hers.

Glory erupted. Scintillating and brilliant, it flashed down every nerve. Pleasure indescribable surged through every vein.

And they shattered.

Fractured.

Lost touch with the physical plane.

Lost themselves in the void . . . then ecstasy swept in and claimed them.

Renewed and remade them.

Leaving them floating, slowly sinking back to earth, to a reality that had altered, changed.

Head bowed, he hung over her, their kiss finally broken, their bodies slowing, then halting, muscles quivering.

In that instant he knew, had a moment of blinding clarity. Through the sound of his sawing breaths, her softer pants, he heard the inner truth. Knew it.

He’d intended her to be caught—to be captured by the sensual delight so she would yearn for it, want more of it, so that when he offered for her hand, when he offered the prospect of constant indulgence, she would agree.

He’d intended to fashion a net from the silken ropes of passion, one with which he might hold her.

He’d intended to trap her.

He hadn’t intended to become ensnared, too.

Yet he was.

Even as the knowledge resonated in his brain, satiation slammed into him, rolled inexorably over him, heavier, denser, and laced with contentment, with that simple peace he’d never known.

Resistance wasn’t possible.

With a muted groan, he summoned the strength to lift from her, disengaging only to slump half over her, still wrapped in her arms.

His place.

Where he should be.

Closing his eyes, he surrendered.

T
he moon was riding the sky when McKinsey walked Hercules into Kirkland.

He’d picked up the trail of his fugitive pair at New Bridge. They’d turned off the Glasgow Road there, and for some godforsaken reason had headed this way. Luckily, given how late it had been by the time he’d found their trail, the lane they’d chosen had had few turnoffs and had been bordered by numerous small crofts and farms all along the way. He’d been able to verify the pair’s progress without having had to waste too much time.

He’d pushed hard—they were on foot, and even with his delay they couldn’t have been that far ahead of him—but the failing daylight had forced him to slow.

Now it was all but pitch, too dark to risk riding on.

He paused to look along the narrow road, saw the lights burning in what appeared to be an inn in the middle of the short row of cottages. Stifling a sigh, he trudged on.

He’d get a room at the inn and start afresh at first light. He’d have to cast around and make sure they’d come this way—that they’d passed through Kirkland and headed on. After losing them this morning, he wasn’t going to make any assumptions about where they might be heading.

But he wished he knew why.

Heather Cynster’s reputation was, he judged, irretrievably ruined by now. Once he confirmed that, his mother would have got her wish, and he and his would be safe once more, but that wasn’t as he would have had it.

The best-laid plans . . . too often went awry.

Especially when women were involved.

He truly hadn’t wished the silly chit any harm, but . . . regardless of what had occurred between her and the man who was traveling with her, his intentions remained unchanged. He would follow, catch them up, and make sure she was protected—either by that opportunistic bastard, or by himself.

Whichever way she preferred it.

Drawing near the inn, he raised his head, drew in a tired breath, and made a mental vow. Tomorrow, one way or another, he would make atonement for his recent sins. He’d find the fleeing pair, and then he’d learn what fate had planned for Heather Cynster—and what fate, fickle female, had planned for him.