Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (42 page)

Five minutes later, an elegantly slender lady, head crowned with a corona of fine, shimmery brown hair, swept into the room.

Heather smiled. “Caro.” She got to her feet.

Caroline Anstruther-Wetherby came straight to the bed. Her gaze fixing on the still figure lying upon it, she circled to reach Heather, then switched her silver-blue gaze to her and wrapped her in a scented embrace. “My dear! We heard and came straightaway.” Releasing Heather, Caro looked again at Breckenridge. “How is he?”

Heather paused, then said, “A lot better than he was.”

Caro leaned down and took the limp hand Heather had been holding. She chafed it lightly, as if by touch she could tell Breckenridge that she was there, then laid it down and turned to Heather. “Tell me all.”

“Tell us all.”

Both Heather and Caro turned to see Michael Anstruther-Wetherby crossing the room toward them. It was through her marriage to Michael that Caro was connected to the Cynsters, Michael’s sister, Honoria, being the Duchess of St. Ives, wife of Devil Cynster, the head of the Cynster clan, Richard’s older brother and Heather’s oldest cousin.

Michael, a tall, dark-haired, extremely well-connected gentleman deeply involved with politics, drew Heather in for a warm hug. He patted her shoulder as he released her. “I come charged to stand in place of your brothers and your father, let alone Devil and all the rest. As Caro was determined to come flying up here, and Breckenridge was apparently so low, we thought it better if the others contained their impatience and remained in London until we better understood the situation here.”

Heather fleetingly closed her eyes in relief. “Thank you.” The words were heartfelt. Dealing with her brothers’ protectiveness just now would have required effort and tact she did not have to spare. Opening her eyes, she smiled at Michael; he was indeed a politician to his toes. “I’m truly grateful.”

He smiled back. “I thought you would be. But the counterside to that is that you must tell us all. From the start.”

“Yes, all right.” After one glance at Breckenridge confirmed he was still “asleep,” she gestured to the sofa and chairs on the other side of the room.

Once they’d settled comfortably, she did as requested, started at the beginning—Lady Herford’s house—and told them all.

She left nothing out but related their journey step by stage. Neither Michael nor Caro were slow-witted; they followed the puzzling, perplexing tale of her kidnap, her reasons for remaining and trying to learn more, and the difficulties she and Breckenridge had encountered in achieving her eventual escape, with commendable ease.

When she reached the point where they’d walked into the Vale and gained refuge at the manor, she paused, then raised her head and went on, “Breckenridge and I have been discussing our future, but I would prefer not to say anything more on that score until he wakes.”

Caro and Michael exchanged a glance, one Heather couldn’t read, then Caro nodded. “Quite right. But how did he get injured? Gored, Richard said?”

That was easier to answer. However, in doing so, in reliving the moments that had led to Breckenridge’s wounding, Heather was struck—as she had been at the time, but had forgotten in the subsequent rush of events—by the oddity in the way the twins’ hands had pushed at hers, rather than grabbed. What had the pair been about?

“So how has he been since then?” Caro asked.

Shaking free of the memory, she described the initial chill. “Catriona said it was deep shock. Then came the fever.”

Glancing at the bed, Michael frowned. “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet?”

Heather looked across the room, too. “Catriona says he’s not unconscious, just in a very deep, healing sleep. The fever’s come down, but it hasn’t yet broken. She and Algaria think it soon will, and he’ll wake after that.”

“At least he was here when it happened, with expert hands close by.” Caro rose. “If you like, I’ll sit with you for a while. I’ve messages from your sisters and mother. We can chat while we watch over him.”

“Yes, of course.” Heather rose.

Michael rose, too. His and Caro’s eyes met, and he smiled, first at Caro, then at Heather. “As I’m clearly not needed here, I’ll go and find Richard.”

With a salute, he headed for the door, leaving Heather to lead Caro back to the bed.

Back to her vigil by Breckenridge’s side.

L
ater that night, Heather settled on the chair by Breckenridge’s bed. Looking down at his face, features still unanimated, rather severe in repose, she thought of her hopes, of her lingering fears. Thought of all she’d seen, through the evening, of others’ unions, others’ shared lives.

Because she hadn’t wanted to leave him unwatched, the others—Caro, Michael, Catriona, and Richard—had taken their evening meal there, in the sitting area on the other side of the room. There’d been lots of conversation, even some laughter; she’d hoped the sound might draw Breckenridge free of whatever held him to sleep, but he hadn’t stirred.

His condition hadn’t changed, but hers had clarified.

Growing up within her family, with marriages firmly based on love all around, she’d thought she’d known how such unions worked. Now, however, presumably because her desire to establish such a union, a working, sharing, caring partnership with him, had made her more aware, she’d seen more deeply, had been much more sensitive to the currents flowing between Michael and Caro, and between Richard and Catriona. The constant, effortless, most often unvoiced and unremarked flow of sharing, of giving and receiving.

She’d seen that usually the giving came first.

And it was offered without stipulation, without any assumption that the act would be reciprocated, even though, between couples who shared, it inevitably was.

She now understood that love, the giving of it, was paramount to everything else, that everything else was secondary to that unconditional giving.

Taking Breckenridge’s hand in her own, she softly stated, “If you come back to me, regardless of whether you love me or not, I will marry you and love you unreservedly to the end of my days.”

The saying of the words, the commitment made, changed things; she felt steady, stable, anchored.

She knew where she stood.

Understood now that even if she got nothing in return, her honoring of the love she’d been blessed to feel, to experience, would be the real measure of her success in this life.

Leaning forward, placing her elbows on the bed, clasping his hand between both of hers, she closed her eyes.

And prayed to God and the Lady—they were in Her Vale, after all.

“If you give me the chance to make a future with him, I will seize it and rejoice, and live that future to the best of my ability. I will be true to that vow, to him, and to the love I bear for him, forever and always. Amen.”

Chapter Twenty-one

S
he woke to find dawn light, pearly silver tinged with pink, washing into the room. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her, then she glanced at Breckenridge—into his hazel eyes.

“You’re awake!” She only just managed not to squeal. The joy leaping through her was near impossible to contain.

He smiled weakly. His lids drooped, fell. “I’ve been awake for some time, but didn’t want to wake you.”

His voice was little more than a whisper.

She realized it was the faint pressure of his fingers on hers that had drawn her from sleep. Those fingers, his hand, were no longer over-warm. Reaching out, she laid her fingers on his forehead. “Your temperature’s normal—the fever’s broken.
Thank God
.”

Retrieving her hand, refocusing on his face, she felt relief crash through her in a disorienting, almost overpowering wave. “You have to rest.” That was imperative; she felt driven by flustered urgency to ensure he understood. “You’re mending nicely. Now the crisis has passed, you’ll get better day by day. Catriona says that with time, you’ll be as good as new.” Algaria had warned her to assure him of that.

He swallowed; eyes closed, he shifted his head in what she took to be a nod. “I’ll rest in a minute. But first . . . did you mean what you said out there by the bull pen? That you truly want a future with me?”

“Yes.” She clutched his hand more tightly between hers. “I meant every word.”

His lips curved a fraction, then he sighed. Eyes still closed—she sensed he found his lids too heavy to lift—he murmured, “Good. Because I meant every word, too.”

She smiled through sudden tears. “Even about our daughters being allowed to look like Cordelia?”

His smile grew more definite. “Said that aloud, did I? Yes, I meant even that, but for pity’s sake don’t tell her—she’ll never let me hear the end of it, and Constance will have my head to boot.”

His words were starting to slur again; he was slipping back into healing sleep.

Catriona’s words, her warning, rang in Heather’s head. She remembered her vow. Rising, she leaned over him; his hand still clasped between hers, she kissed him gently. “Go to sleep and get well, but before you do, I need to tell you this. I love you. I will until the end of my days. I don’t expect you to love me back, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You have my love regardless, and always will.” She kissed him again, sensed he’d heard, but that he was stunned, surprised. He didn’t respond.

She drew back. “And now you need to put your mind to getting better. We have a wedding to attend, after all.”

She knew he heard that—his features softened, eased.

As he slid into sleep, he was, very gently, smiling.

B
reckenridge finally returned to the land of the living just before noon. He opened his eyes and saw Algaria seated on the chair by the bed. She’d pushed it further back and was industriously knitting, but as if sensing his gaze, she looked up—looked at him in that unnerving way she and Catriona shared—then nodded.

“Welcome back.” Laying aside her knitting, she stood. “Now, how are you feeling?”

To his surprise and irritation, he discovered he was as weak as a newborn kitten, and the gash in his side, although healing, was still capable of generating enough pain to stop him in his tracks.

But with the aid of Henderson he was able to rise, to attend to the inevitable call of nature, then take a bath. Afterward, he managed to keep upright long enough to shave, then Algaria rebandaged his side.

Catriona, who, summoned, had looked in earlier, returned with one of Richard’s nightshirts.

“There’s no sense in getting dressed,” she informed him. “You won’t be able to leave this room—won’t be able to leave your bed for long—not until you regain your strength, and that’s not going to happen overnight.”

Having been laid low once before, he knew she was right. He held up a hand in surrender. “All right. I’ll behave.”

Nightshirt donned, he allowed Henderson to help him back into the freshly made bed. Catriona and Algaria were conferring on the other side of the room. Glancing at the door, he asked, “Where’s Heather?”

Catriona looked at him. “She’s sleeping. She’s been by your side day and night through the last six days. Now that you’re compos mentis again, I insisted she rest. I’ll wake her for dinner, but not before.”

He nodded absentmindedly.
Six days
? That couldn’t be right.

“But as you’re wide awake, I’ll send Caro up to sit with you.”

“Caro?” If Caro had reached here, then six days might well have passed.

“She and Michael arrived yesterday.” Turning back to Algaria, Catriona exchanged a last comment, then headed for the door.

Algaria returned to pick up her knitting. “Caro won’t be long—she’s just finishing luncheon. I’ll organize a tray and have it brought up to you. What would you like?”

He was famished but knew from experience he wouldn’t be able to eat too much to begin with. Algaria approved his choice of broth and bread, and went off to arrange it.

Five minutes after the door closed behind her, it swung open again, and Caro glided in. Her pale blue gaze immediately fixed on his eyes. Then she smiled. “Thank heavens. You’re all right.”

He raised a hand and—weakly—gestured to the rocker. “Welcome to the sickroom. I understand I’m to be confined here for some time yet.”

“Indeed.” Coming forward, she swept up her skirts and sat, her bright eyes searching his face, her continuing smile stating she was happy with what she saw. “You’re looking much improved, even from yesterday. Awake is a definite improvement over comatose.”

Lips curving, he settled back on the pillows.

Caro, too, leaned back in the rocker. “I’ll have you know that you should be abjectly grateful—by coming all this way myself, I’ve saved you from having to suffer the ministrations of your sisters. Both Constance and Cordelia were hot to set off the instant they heard—I had to exert my powers of persuasion to the fullest to restrain them.”

“For which I most sincerely thank you.” His smile was wry. “Much as I love them, they’re overpowering, and, as you can see, I’m in no state at present to hold my own.”

Caro’s smile was understanding. “I promised to keep them informed and have duly sent reports south, so I believe you’re not in imminent danger of having them descend on you.”

“Hmm. Thinking back, I suspect you, and Michael, too, owe me for the last time. Then, you left me to my fate.” Four years ago, he’d been shot while he and Michael had been trying to protect Caro.

She inclined her head. “That time we were in London—there was little we could do.”

He humphed, but he was smiling.

After a moment of studying him, Caro said, “I’m pleased—very pleased—that you’ve finally made your choice. It’s about time you came to your senses.”

He arched a brow. “Even if it took a kidnapping to do it?”

She nodded sagely. “Even so.” She paused, then more gently asked, “She’s the right one for you, isn’t she?”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes. Definitely.” He hesitated, then added, “I couldn’t live without her.”

Caro’s smile widened until she was beaming. “Wonderful! That’s just how it should be.”

He wasn’t so sure he needed to hear that; the sense of vulnerability and dependency took some getting used to; he wasn’t yet sure he’d mastered the knack. “Sadly, it seems that whenever I get close to a prospective wedding, I end up wounded. With you and Michael, I got shot and nearly died. This time, with me and Heather, I got gored and nearly died. I suppose I should be happy that Constance and Cordelia are already married.”

Caro laughed. “You probably escaped then because they’re so much older than you—you were only a lad when they wed.” She paused, head tilting as she studied him. Still smiling, she went on, “You’re a protector, you know. That’s what you are—that’s what you do. And now you’ve found the lady you’re supposed to protect for the rest of your life.” Her smile deepened. “Once you marry her, you’ll be safe.”

He humphed, but continued to smile, and didn’t attempt to argue.

Because she was right.

Heather was the lady he would protect for the rest of his life.

F
ive days later, he was up and about, but still largely confined to his room. Although he descended to the great hall to share meals with the household once more, Catriona and Algaria strongly discouraged any more extensive exercise.

As he was intent on regaining his customary rude health as soon as possible—so he and Heather could wed—he bit the bullet, held his tongue, and agreed to abide by their strictures.

Consequently, the meeting that had to be held between him, Richard, and Michael was conducted in the sitting area of his room. At least he was dressed; Caro had brought up trunks of both his and Heather’s clothes. In a loose shirt and breeches, with one of his colorful silk robes donned over all, he sat comfortably sprawled on one end of the sofa, while Richard lounged on the other end and Michael sat in an armchair facing them both.

“Right.” Michael met Breckenridge’s eyes. “What exactly do we know about this blackguard?”

Breckenridge grimaced. “Sadly, not enough.”

Richard stirred. “We do know that he’s some Scottish laird. That much seems certain.”

Breckenridge nodded. “He’s a tall, black-haired, large, and well set-up Scotsman, pale, cold eyes his most distinctive feature, and he’s at least a gentleman, almost certainly an aristocrat, and very likely a highland nobleman.”

“And he arranged to have Heather kidnapped in London and conveyed to Gretna Green, there to be handed over to him.” Michael’s face was grim.

“Actually, no,” Breckenridge said. “He arranged to have ‘one of the Cynster sisters’ kidnapped—he didn’t distinguish between at least the three of them—and according to Heather, that’s a highly pertinent fact.”

Richard frowned. “Why pertinent?”

“Because while she and Eliza are significant heiresses, Angelica is not. And Heather couldn’t tell whether Henrietta and young Mary were also possible targets.”

Michael frowned. “So whatever his motive is, it’s unlikely to be money.”

Breckenridge nodded. “And considering how much blunt he invested in the kidnapping scheme—all the wages and costs involved—I think we must conclude that he isn’t short of financial resources.”

“Definitely not money, then.” Richard caught Breckenridge’s eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask—do you think Gretna Green being nominated as the handover place was significant?”

Breckenridge grimaced. “It might have been—he might have intended to marry her as part of the plot—but equally it might have simply been convenient for some reason we don’t know.”

Richard nodded. “The man I sent to inquire in Gretna returned yesterday. No one there, including the magistrate, can add anything to the description we have. And Fletcher and Cobbins were freed by the laird—with plenty of bribes to go around—and they promptly disappeared, heading south at a good clip.”

Breckenridge humphed. “I doubt we’d find them too easily. I’d wager they’ll have been paid to go to ground. On top of that, I’m not sure they know any more than we now do—Heather did a fine job of milking them for everything they knew.”

Michael nodded. “We have to assume this man is clever enough, and has the resources, to cover his tracks well. So where does that leave us?”

“With no real clue to his identity, and even less as to his motive.” Expression grim, Breckenridge added, “And we shouldn’t forget that he knew enough about the family to describe the girls, and also to avoid coming into the Vale. Once he saw us walk in, and learned this was Cynster land, he retreated.”

All three fell silent, turning over all they knew.

Eventually, Richard said, “There’s nothing more we can deduce. We have a general description that could fit any number of highland lairds, and enough evidence to discount money as the motive. He’s clever, resourceful, and able, but beyond that, we know no more.”

Breckenridge nodded. “The point we need to address is that there are two more Cynster sisters in London, possibly four, if Henrietta and Mary are targets, too. Having failed with Heather, will this mysterious laird attempt to seize one of them?”

“Until we understand what’s behind this and nullify any threat, we need to consider that threat still extant.” Michael met Breckenridge’s, then Richard’s, eyes. “Until we know otherwise, we need to treat this as a serious, ongoing situation.”

Richard nodded. “I’ve already alerted Devil, but in general terms only.”

“Caro and I will leave tomorrow,” Michael said. “Our first stop in London will be Grosvenor Square, where I’ll report all we’ve managed to glean to Devil. He’ll make sure the other girls are protected and the rest of the family’s on guard.”

Richard winced. “I can see the battle lines forming. Us being on guard is not going to go over well with the young ladies in question.”

Breckenridge shrugged. “Be covert about it, then. Hell—enlist Wolverstone. He’ll know how to do it.”

Richard shook his head. “A sound idea, but we can’t. He—like me—has discovered his roots in the north. He’s holed up in his castle in Northumbria, and none of the grandes dames, let alone anyone else, has yet succeeded in winkling him out, not this Season.”

“He can still help,” Breckenridge said. “And, Lord knows, there are plenty of his married colleagues about who’d be happy to assist.”

Michael nodded. “That’s true enough. I’ll suggest it.” He met the others’ eyes. “And I’ll make sure the gravity of the situation is made very clear. For whatever reason, the Cynster girls appear to be under siege.”

T
wo nights later, Breckenridge lay on his back in his bed and stared up at the shadowy canopy.

Michael and Caro had left the day before, bearing with them news of his and Heather’s impending betrothal, along with a notice he’d crafted for the
Gazette,
to which Heather had happily agreed.

All was well on that front.

He hadn’t even had to utter the word he didn’t want to say, swear the vow he hadn’t wanted to swear.