Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (25 page)

Chapter Thirteen

T
hey bade farewell to Mrs. Croft soon after the sun had sailed into the blue sky. Heather had woken in the ghostly light of predawn to find the bed beside her empty. Almost immediately she’d heard the distinctive
thunk
of a log being split outside.

By the time she’d risen, washed, and dressed, made the bed and packed their satchels, then finally gone downstairs, Mrs. Croft had been busy in the kitchen, tending pans on her stove, and Breckenridge had been perched on the kitchen stool, sipping from a steaming mug of coffee.

With a cheery good morning, Heather had slipped into the second kitchen chair and had promptly been regaled with a catalogue of Breckenridge’s virtues, from which she’d gathered he’d cut enough wood to last Mrs. Croft into the next week.

They’d parted from the widow on excellent terms. Heather had approved of the sizeable tip Breckenridge had left on the washstand upstairs.

They set out from Craigdarroch, striding easily into a morning that looked set to be fine, although mist still clung about the nearby peaks and shrouded their way up ahead.

Breckenridge had taken her hand again; she’d refrained from pointing out that the lane was relatively even and she was unlikely to trip.

Truth be told, she wasn’t sure why he insisted, albeit wordlessly, on holding on to her, but she wasn’t about to eschew the contact. Even as they strode along, it was pleasant to feel the connection, the implied closeness.

A hundred yards further on, it occurred to her that his hold on her hand might be read as possessive, as indicating some degree of possession . . . she was immediately distracted by her response to the thought, to the possibility—which, in her experience, with a man of his ilk was quite high—that his action, whether unthinking or deliberate, was a sign that he saw her, in that typical, inherently male way, as
his
.

Some part of her wasn’t at all bothered by the notion of him seeing her as
his
.

Given her aversion to possessively protective, ergo arrogantly high-handed males—such as her brothers and cousins—that lack of antagonism struck her as strange.

Strange, but somehow comfortable.

Their hearty breakfast of porridge and honey stood them in good stead as they marched steadily on. As Breckenridge had predicted, the lane rose for several miles, wending around the flanks of hills and through a large stretch of forest. But then they climbed a rise and, halting on the crest, saw the land and the lane gently fall away into a green valley. Beyond, in the distance, another line of hills marched in a hazy purple line across the horizon.

Heather pointed. “Those are the hills at the back of the Vale.” Lowering her arm, she searched the far side of the valley, then pointed again. “And that’s about where the Vale itself lies, but we can’t see the manor from here.”

Breckenridge nodded. While Heather looked ahead, trying to pick out familiar landmarks, he glanced back along their trail—and froze.

From where they stood, he couldn’t see much of the lane they’d walked that morning, but by a fluke of the landscape he could see all the way back to just outside Moniaive.

To the horseman riding confidently along, following their trail.

To be accurate, the man was riding along on the same narrow lane they’d followed, but they were well out in the country and as yet had seen no one else traveling the lane. . . .

Turning, Breckenridge retook Heather’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

She threw him a curious look but consented to stride along again.

If he could see the man, then if the man glanced up, he might see them. Best, Breckenridge thought, that they headed for the Vale as rapidly as they could. With Heather beside him, he could only go so fast, but he set a good pace and she obligingly kept up.

While shooting speculative glances his way.

Finally she asked, “What is it?” Her eyes narrowed on his face. “What did you see?”

He briefly met her eyes, considered not answering, or even lying . . . instead replied, “A man on a horse. A good-looking horse.”

Her eyes widened. “You think he’s the laird?”

She immediately craned her head to look back.

He tugged her forward. “He’s well back—just out of Moniaive, I think. And I can’t tell if the rider might be our villain. It’s easier to see that the horse is of good quality, but the man is dark-haired and looks to be large.”

“And he’s wealthy enough to own a good horse.”

He nodded, striding on at an increased pace, one she could only just manage. “But we’ve passed the entrance of quite a few drives, quite a few large estates. Mrs. Croft mentioned there were several about. The man could just be a local riding home. Regardless, I’d rather not meet him on such a desolate stretch.”

A little way along, she predictably said, “What if we—”

“No. We are not setting a trap, or finding some place to watch as he rides by, on the off-chance he’s our villain.” He glanced at her warningly. “We need to concentrate on getting you safely to the Vale.” And he wasn’t about to let any potential villain get between them and that goal.

He was carrying one of the pistols he’d bought in his coat pocket. It was primed and ready, but if he drew it and leveled it at their pursuer . . . there were far too many variables in that scenario. What if the horseman had a gun, too, or worse, a shotgun?

If it had just been him, he would have been tempted to do exactly as she wanted, but with her by his side he couldn’t afford to attempt any action that had an even long-odds risk of leaving her without protection. He couldn’t risk tangling with the man on horseback in case the rider
was
their villain and he—Breckenridge—lost the encounter.

It went against the grain to run, but . . .

He glanced at her. “Tell me if I’m going too fast for you. We’ll walk on without stopping. We can eat while we walk.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then, somewhat to his surprise—he’d expected some protest, at the very least a tart comment—she nodded and looked ahead. “All right.”

After a moment, Heather added, “I can keep up this pace for a while longer.”

He nodded and they strode on, his hand clasping hers more firmly than before.

She’d been tempted to press her point, but then she’d looked into his eyes, felt his tensed grasp . . . understood. He needed to keep her safe. Yet instead of trying to shield her from the reality of the potential threat at their heels, instead of lying or spinning her some tale about why they needed to hurry on, as her brothers assuredly would have, he’d treated her like a sensible adult and shared the truth and his deductions with her.

For that alone she felt compelled to do what she could to make things easier by acceding to his wishes.

She hadn’t thought of it before, but clearly being intimate with her had rescripted his view of her; he certainly wasn’t treating her like a schoolgirl anymore.

She wasn’t about to complain about that—indeed, accepted female wisdom, the kind passed on by Lady Osbaldestone and Heather’s aunt Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, held that the correct response when a male of Breckenridge’s class improved his behavior was to reward him.

Five steps on, she abruptly halted. He immediately swung to face her, agate storm clouds in his eyes. She stepped into him, framed his face with her hands, tugged him down as she stretched up and kissed him.

Despite their situation, she sensed the leap of his response, like a hungry hound, one he quickly releashed and drew back.

Inwardly smiling, she broke the kiss; opening her eyes, she lowered her hands.

He frowned down at her. “What was that for?”

She let her smile show. “Just a thank-you.” Retaking his hand, she started on down the lane.

In two steps he was by her side again. He stared at her face—she felt his gaze—but then he humphed and looked forward.

Resettling his hand once more around hers, he strode on.

Inwardly delighted, still smiling, she set herself to keeping pace.

T
hey reached the first landslide a mile or so on. From the crest of the rise, the lane had descended more steeply than on the way up, its surface increasingly gouged and eroded by the runoff from the thaw and the spring rains.

“Careful.” Halting Heather, Breckenridge eyed the loose shingle, a load of scree that had come loose from further up the hillside to slide over the lane, burying it. He’d crossed scree before while walking in the Peak District; he knew what to do. “Follow as closely as you can in my footsteps.”

Still holding Heather’s hand, he picked his way across.

Despite a small slip or two, they reached the other side without serious incident.

Blowing out a breath, Heather looked back over the unstable patch. “That’ll slow a horse, won’t it?”

He nodded. “He’ll have to be extremely careful, but it’s not so deep a horse won’t be able to negotiate it. The horse just won’t want to, so it depends on how good the rider is, and how well the horse knows him.”

“If the horse trusts him.” Settling her hand in his, Heather waved ahead. “Onward.”

The second landslide was a half a mile further on, another stretch of scree, rather more extensive than the last.

Breckenridge felt a lot more confident once they were across it. “If he’s still following, that will definitely slow him down.”

They set off again. The sun rose ever higher as they swung along. If anything, the surface of the lane deteriorated even further, until it was unlikely the rider would be able to ride, not if he valued his horse.

About them, spring seemed determined to take hold, to wrest the land from winter’s drab grip. Swallows and larks swooped high above; a cuckoo called from deep in the woods that formed a solid green barrier ahead.

The lane led straight on between the trees. Bushes grew thick, increasingly tall as they descended from the more desolate heights. Breckenridge glanced back several times, but the lay of the land, the twists in the lane, hid any pursuer from his sight.

They reached an intersection. A wider lane ran to both left and right. They paused and looked both ways. The tree- and bush-lined lane looked identical in both directions.

“Right, I think,” Heather said. “If I remember correctly, there’ll be a small loch on the other side of the lane just a little way along.”

Hauling out his map, Breckenridge consulted it, then nodded. “Right.”

They’d kept up a good pace, and the lane, unrideable in some places, would have slowed the rider if he was still on their trail. Nevertheless, Breckenridge felt his instincts stir as they turned onto the wider, and much better surfaced, lane.

The loch Heather remembered was soon visible through the trees on their left. Long and thin, it followed the lane, or rather the lane followed its shore, steadily heading northwest.

He had to quash the urge to keep looking behind. He would hear a rider approaching from a good distance away; he’d have enough warning to take cover, and with the bushes lining the lane now so plentiful and thick, they’d be able to find a decent hiding place.

Although he had no idea if the rider was still following, and hadn’t instead turned off along the way, his instincts kept flickering. He’d never felt so on edge, so . . . protectively aware. And while the wiser part of him understood that his acute reaction was due to the fact that it was Heather walking beside him, that it was she—the lady he’d all but formally claimed as his bride—who was at risk, most of his conscious mind didn’t want to dwell on any concomitant implications.

He just wanted her safe in the Vale.

Heather walked steadily beside Breckenridge, at the fastest pace she could manage. She wondered if he thought she was oblivious of the tension gripping him, that all but hummed through him. His face, unreadable though it remained, had taken on a graven cast, the lines of the austere planes more harsh and honed.

He was totally and completely focused on the danger that potentially followed in their wake.

She, meanwhile, felt none of the fear she certainly would have felt had she been fleeing alone. She wasn’t unaware of the danger, yet with Breckenridge beside her, her mind remained clear. If danger did indeed catch up with them, she would need her wits about her—not least to ensure they both got free and he didn’t do anything recklessly and possibly unnecessarily brave.

That he might—that, if the situation to his mind called for it, he would—she had not the slightest doubt.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. As they marched on through a golden afternoon, she remembered perfectly clearly what had taken her to Lady Herford’s salon on that fateful night over a week ago.

She’d been looking for a hero.

And she’d found one.

He definitely wasn’t the hero she’d imagined finding, but he was a hero nonetheless.

Not that he was
her
hero, the one she’d been seeking. He was hers only temporarily, not hers for life. Once she was safe in the Vale, they would part, and the connection they now had would come to an end.

Regardless, in the current circumstances, she would appreciate the hero she had.

The long, narrow loch eventually ended. They walked on in silence. The lane emerged from the trees to cross an open stretch, then a wood closed in on the lane from the left. The lane was leveling out. Just ahead, a roof appeared through the trees, then another roof became visible on the other side of the lane.

“That must be Knockgray.” She picked up her pace, conscious of an impulse to rush ahead. “Once we reach it, the entrance to the Vale is close.”

Breckenridge glanced back, looked hard as they once more passed into shadow. No sound reached him, no telltale drum of hooves, yet his instincts prickled, ruffling and rising in warning.

He could see nothing among the trees back beyond the open stretch. Facing forward, he strode on, senses alert. Just a little way further and she would be safe.

They strode rapidly into the tiny village. A farm worker and a woman in a cottage garden turned their heads and watched their progress, then went back to their toil.