Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (43 page)

Make the admission he hadn’t wanted to make.

He’d been spared, by Heather, and for that he was inexpressibly grateful.

If Catriona hadn’t extracted his promise that he wouldn’t stir from his bed, from the room, until the next day, he would have been on his way to Heather’s room to demonstrate how grateful he was.

The bandages that had wrapped his torso so restrictingly for the past weeks had been removed for good that evening. The stitches Catriona had set in his flesh were tiny, and her doctoring had proved exceptional; the scar was a short, puckered seam at the side of his waist, and he no longer felt any pain. Nevertheless, Catriona had insisted that he remain within the room until tomorrow morning; she wanted to examine how the exposed scar was faring before releasing him to the wider world.

But from tomorrow, he would be free. Free to walk the gardens, then the nearby land, regaining the strength in his legs. Free to ride after that. Free to engage in all sorts of other activities that the injury had denied him.

His mind, predictably, fixated on one particular activity. Clasping his hands behind his head, he stared, unseeing, upward, unable to keep his imagination from churning . . . which really didn’t help at all. He’d given his word he wouldn’t leave the room.

Beneath his satisfaction lurked a growing restlessness, one unlike any he’d experienced before. He was impatient. Impatient to get on with his life, to take Heather’s hand and go forward into his—their—newly scripted future.

Perhaps not surprising. Since he’d regained his wits they’d spent countless hours discussing and planning. Joking and teasing often, yet steadily, element by element, refining their wishes and defining their marriage—their shared future life.

He knew he should sleep, that Catriona wouldn’t be pleased if he greeted her hollow-eyed in the morning, but impatience and sexual hunger combined to keep him wide awake.

The door latch lifted; as he turned his head, he had a flash of déjà vu.

A flash that translated into solid reality as Heather slipped into the room.

She saw him looking, smiled, closed the door, and came to the bed.

As before, she was wearing her silk robe.

As before, she halted by the bed, tugged the sash free, and let the robe slide from her shoulders to the floor, revealing nothing but Heather—all pearly soft skin and mouthwatering curves—beneath.

He might have promised Catriona not to leave his bed—he hadn’t said anything about someone joining him in it. His own smile wide, he unlaced his fingers and reached across to lift the covers; she beat him to it, quickly raising the sheets and slipping beneath.

But the instant he started to turn to face her, she pressed a hand to his shoulder. “No. You have to lie still, as you are, on your back.”

“I do?”

She nodded, chin firm. “All the way through.” As she spoke, she was sliding across beneath the sheet. Slipping one sleek thigh across his hips, she shifted and wriggled until she straddled him. The sensation of her skin touching, caressing his, the memories that evoked, poured like unadulterated ambrosia over his senses. The distraction momentarily swamped his wits. It was all he could do to keep his hands, greedy for the feel of her, at her waist, keep his suddenly slavering lust from slipping its leash and ravening.

Propping her elbows on his upper chest, she looked down into his face. And grinned. “Catriona said this should be perfectly all right as long as you remain flat on your back. You mustn’t even try to sit up, or do anything else to put pressure on the stitches, but other than that . . .”

She dipped her head and kissed him, a long, languorous promise of pleasure. The necklace she’d taken to wearing hung down, the crystal pendant warm against his skin.

When she drew back to catch her breath, he had to ask, “You discussed this with Catriona?”

Her lips curved; they brushed his. “Not specifically, you and me and this—I simply asked what physical restrictions a man with a wound such as yours would face. She understood instantly what I meant.”

He could imagine. “That, I suppose,” he murmured, his lips following hers in a series of tempting little brushes, “explains why she’s so keen to check my wound in the morning—to see if her handiwork has stood up to the strain.”

“Mmm.” Heather wasn’t interested in talking. She set her lips to his and shut him up, ridiculously thrilled that she could. Thrilled, when he kissed her back, when he followed her lead into the dance, that she actually had that power, that he would indeed consent to let her script and direct, that he—the foremost rake in the ton—was willing to indulge her and follow where she led.

This was her time, her moment to reaffirm, wordlessly yet in a language they both understood, all she’d told him on that night long ago, before they’d somehow lost their way. Before they’d thought too much, spoken too much, perhaps expected too much of the other.

That was behind them now, all misunderstandings wiped away by his selfless act, her response, and his injury.

Her commitment to him, to them, was now much stronger, tried, tested, and forged through the trauma of nearly losing him.

As she pressed him back into the billows of the bed, let her hands, then her lips, whisper over his skin, she opened her heart and let all she felt, all she now knew, tumble out. Let it flow through her hands, her lips, through her limbs as she used them to caress him. Let her love infuse every act, because that was what this was all about. Loving him.

Loving him truly, with a whole and grateful heart.

Loving him with every breath she took, every touch, every yearning heartbeat.

With every scintilla of her soul.

When she raised up and took him in, when she sheathed him in her body and with passion and desire flaring, rode him, pleasured him, she paid homage to that reality and let it free, let it shine.

Let it fill her and overwhelm her.

Let it fill and overwhelm him.

Breckenridge gripped her hips, held her as she rode him, steady and sure and with such open devotion. Eyes nearly blind, all he could see, all he could sense, was her and the powerful currents raging through them. Driven by, carried on, the exquisite sensations she pressed on him, lavished on him.

As she loved him.

He felt the surge of emotions—hers and his—combining in a torrent powerful enough to sweep them both away.

And he was with her again, once again caught in that most giving of acts, that communion of souls. But this time he came to it willingly, wanting it not just at this time but for ever more.

Wanting the transcendent communion for what it was, with no ulterior motive.

As she threw back her head and he felt her body tighten, even as his body answered her call, he glimpsed what drove them—no purpose, no desire beyond one, beyond a deep and abiding, powerful and triumphant, exquisite and enduring love.

She reached for it, clung to it, and he was by her side.

Together they crested, touched and tasted the glory, savored it.

And let it fill them, let it swamp their senses, expand and swell until it shattered them, fragmented them, and flung them into the void.

Ecstasy rushed in and caught them, filled them, buoyed them.

Drowned them in a blissful sea of golden glory and satiation.

It left them at the last, washed up on some distant shore, wracked yet replete, safe in each other’s arms.

Night closed her soothing wings over them.

Eventually, with gentle kisses and soothing murmurs, they disengaged. With the promise of that glorious, love-inspired future enshrined and shining in their hearts, in their minds, embedded in their souls, he closed his arms about her, and she held to him, and they slept.

“C
atriona says my attack of measles would by now have run its course, so you and I are free to return to London whenever we wish.” Her arm linked with Breckenridge’s, Heather glanced up at him.

Lips curved, he shook his head in mock disbelief. “Measles. I’m amazed your mother consented to such a story.”

Having been released from his room, and all further restrictions, by Catriona that morning, he and Heather were taking the air—blessed fresh air—in a slow stroll around the herb garden. Although he felt steady enough, he was grateful for Heather’s support, the additional prop to his balance. His muscles would need a day or two to return to their usual reliable form.

“Mama and the others decided that, although your story of us coming up here to consider if we would suit away from the madding crowd explained our initial presence here, it didn’t account well enough for such an extended stay.” Meeting his eyes, she smiled. “You should be pleased—the story of you bringing me up here to recover, hidden away from the eyes of the ton, and then valiantly staying to keep me company through my convalescence, paints you in a distinctly romantic light.”

He humphed. After a moment, added, “I suppose the distraction of measles will at least have ensured none of the gossipmongers caught any whiff of your abduction.”

“Mama said they haven’t, so all’s well there.” She glanced up at him again, a soft, confident smile in her eyes. “And the news of our engagement will wipe all other thoughts from their heads.”

“True.” He couldn’t deny the surge of pure masculine satisfaction that filled him at the sight of that eminently feminine smile. When he’d dragged her out of Lady Herford’s salon on that fateful night so many weeks ago, she’d been . . . like a chrysalis waiting to unfurl. Through her abduction and their journey, through the trials they’d faced since, she’d transformed into the beautiful, assured, scintillating lady who would be his viscountess.

His lover, his wife.

She tipped her head, eyes studying his face. “What is it?”

She’d grown so much . . . what about him?

He halted. Started to think, to evaluate. Stopped himself. Drawing in a breath, he turned to her, his hand sliding to caress hers. He looked into her eyes. “You’ve given me everything I need of you—thanks to you I have all my heart desires, all I thought I might never have. All I need for a wonderful, fulfilling future. And I nearly lost it all.”

She held his gaze but was wise enough not to interrupt. If she had . . .

He drew breath and forged on, “Nearly dying clarified things. When you stand on the border between life and death, the truly important things are easy to discern. One of the things I saw and finally understood was that only fools and cowards leave the truth of love unsaid. Only the weak leave love unacknowledged.”

Holding her gaze, all but lost in the shimmery blue of her eyes, he raised her hand to his lips, gently kissed. “So, my darling Heather, even though you already know it, let me put the truth—my truth—into words. I love you. With all my heart, to the depths of my soul. And I will love you forever, until the day I die.”

Her smile lit his world. “Just as well.” Happiness shone in her eyes. She pressed his fingers. “Because I plan to be with you, by your side, every day for the rest of your life, and in spirit far beyond. I’m yours for all eternity.”

Smiling, he closed his hand about hers. “Mine to protect for our eternity.”

Yes.
Neither said the word, yet the sense of it vibrated in the air all around them.

A high-pitched giggle broke the spell, had them both looking along the path.

To Lucilla and Marcus, who slipped out from behind a raised bed and raced toward them.

Reaching them, laughing with delight, the pair whooped and circled.

Heather glanced to left and right, trying to keep the twins in sight, uncertain of what had them so excited. So exhilarated.

Almost as if they were reacting to the emotions coursing through her, and presumably Breckenridge. Her husband-to-be.

“You’re getting married!” Lucilla crowed.

Catching Lucilla’s eye as the pair slowed their circling dance, Heather nodded. “Yes, we are. And I rather think you two will have to come down to London to be flower girl and page boy.”

Absolute delight broke across Lucilla’s face. She looked at her brother. “See? I told you—the Lady
never
makes a mistake, and if you do what she tells you, you get a reward.”

“I suppose.” Marcus looked up at Breckenridge. “London will be fun.” He switched his gaze to Lucilla. “Come on! Let’s go and tell Mama and Papa.”

The pair shot off, racing up the grassy path.

Along with Breckenridge, Heather stood and watched them go. Remembered . . .

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Breckenridge said, “just how you came to topple backward off that rail.” He looked at her. “What with one thing and another, the point slipped my mind.”

Heather met his gaze. “Mine, too.”

He read her eyes, then, brows rising, looked in the direction in which the twins had gone. “Ah. Perhaps that’s one of those questions that are better left unasked.”

“It’s certainly one of those better left unanswered.” Sliding her hand from his and retaking his arm, she started them strolling again.

Breckenridge was quiet for a while, then he looked up at the manor and said, “Will you think it odd of me to suggest that we should, perhaps, leave the Vale and your sometimes unnerving relatives by marriage as soon as we possibly can?”

“How about tomorrow?” She glanced up at his face.

He caught her gaze. “Immediately after breakfast. It’s too late to set out today.”

She nodded. “Indeed.” She looked ahead. “And besides, I have plans for tonight.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.” She met his gaze, her own filled with love and unexpected understanding. “The announcement you made a few minutes ago deserves an appropriate response, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head. “Indubitably.” After a moment, he added, “Who knows? With the right form of response, you might even induce me to utter the words again.”

She laughed. “A challenge.” She met his gaze. “A challenge we can wrestle with, wrestle over back and forth, for the rest of our days.”

“Indeed.” He held her loving gaze, raised her fingers to his lips. “For the rest of our days.”

Epilogue

A
week later, the laird who had arranged Heather Cynster’s kidnapping walked into his great hall.

With more than an hour before the midday meal, he debated going to his office to fill the time. Instead, seeing his copy of yesterday’s
Edinburgh Gazette
waiting on the sideboard, he picked up the news sheet, poured himself a tankard of ale from the pitcher left ready, and headed for his carver at the high table.

He was sitting, quietly perusing the latest news, when a shriek of fury rent the air. Luckily the sound was sufficiently distanced, muted by the solid stone walls, for him to ignore it. Idly he wondered what, this time, had displeased his mother, then, deciding he would no doubt hear soon enough, went back to the news sheet.

Sure enough, less than a minute later he heard her footsteps flying down her tower stairs. She burst into the great hall, saw him, and stormed onto the dais. Reaching his side, she slapped yesterday’s
London Gazette
over the Edinburgh paper.

“She’s not ruined!” She stabbed a finger at a notice in the social announcements column. Shrieked at the top of her voice, “The damned chit’s not
ruined
—she’s
engaged
! To Breckenridge!”

He picked up the London sheet, found and read the notice in question, the usual bland wording announcing the betrothal of Heather Cynster to Timothy Danvers, Viscount Breckenridge. Racking his memory for what, from his days in London, he recalled of Breckenridge, matching that with his recollection of the man who’d escorted Heather Cynster into the Vale . . . yes, Breckenridge could have been that man. The man who had so thoroughly disrupted his plans.

“Interesting,” he murmured. And instantly regretted it.

“Interesting?
Interesting
? It’s not interesting—its
infuriating
! It’s—”

He shut his ears to his mother’s diatribe. Consulted his own feelings instead. Revisited his impressions, what he’d sensed of the man—Breckenridge—and his relationship to the girl . . . would that he himself were so lucky. That being so, he couldn’t find it in him to resent Breckenridge, to rail at his claiming the Cynster girl as his.

Reaching for his tankard, he sipped, silently toasting the pair. Good luck to them. They, at least, had escaped this nightmare.

“You!” His mother jabbed a fingernail into his upper arm, effectively jolting him back to his reality. She leaned close to hiss, “You were supposed to bring her here and make sure she was ruined. Ruined in the eyes of the entire ton. Instead, she’s getting married to one of the most eligible noblemen in En-gland! So you’ve failed with her, but you know my price. My nonnegotiable price. So what are you going to do about it?”

When he didn’t rush to reply but instead raised his tankard and, gaze forward, took a long sip of ale, she leaned even closer to say, “Correct me if I’m wrong,
my dear
”—the endearment dripped with latent scorn and fury—“but for you, time is running out.”

She was right, but he wasn’t going to let her guess at the chill that gripped his innards at the thought of what was at stake. Keeping his posture relaxed, he almost languidly shrugged. “You’ll just have to settle for one of her sisters.
One
of the Cynster sisters was our bargain, and either one of the others will do just as well to fulfill it.”

He’d used every last hour while they’d waited to hear the fate of Heather Cynster to search, again, high and low, for the goblet his mother had stolen and hidden. The goblet he needed to save all he held dear. His mother had never been able to bend him to her will, any more than she’d been able to influence his father. But she’d learned of the goblet, and of its importance to him, and had seized her chance.

She now had an exquisitely honed weapon she could wield, and was intent on wielding, to get him to do as she wished.

Her wish, her obsession, was insane. He knew it.

He also knew he had no choice but to carry out her manic dictates.

Still . . . sipping his ale, he allowed himself to indulge the recurring fantasy of simply telling her to do her worst and be damned. . . .

A door deep in the keep slammed open. Two pairs of small feet came clattering over the flags.

Lifting his head, he set down his tankard as two tousle-headed young boys came rushing in, bringing the fresh air of the loch, the scent of pines and firs, and three water spaniels galloping in with them.

The boys saw him, and wide grins split their faces.

If they saw his mother standing beside him, they gave no sign as, with a cheer and a whoop, they raced up the great hall, clambered up onto the dais, and flung themselves at him.

He’d shifted his carver back enough to grab them, to tumble them in his arms, wrestle them about, then settle them in his lap.

They clung like monkeys, chattering nonstop, filling his ears with the highlights of their morning’s excursion with his gamekeeper, Scanlon.

Their warmth wrapped about him, settled to his bones, dispelling the chill that dealing with his mother had evoked.

For her part, although she glared at the boys, furious at the interruption, and even more over his turning away from her to them, she knew better than to say a word against them. They were all he had left of a family he’d held dear. His cousin Mitchell had grown up alongside him, but Mitchell and his sweet wife Krista were now dead, and the boys, five and six years old, were all he had left of them. . . .

He drew in a deep breath. Struggled to harness the sudden rage that ripped through him—rage that the woman standing at his side should dare to threaten the boys, their future, and the future of every other soul under his care.

The dogs milled, whined, more attuned to his hidden emotions than the boys wriggling in his lap. One dog, the eldest, Gwarr, came to sit between him and his mother, dark eyes fixed on her, tongue lolling from between long jaws lined with strong white teeth.

His mother edged back a step, thin-lipped and tense.

He forced himself to look at her, the smile he’d summoned for the boys draining from his face. Keeping the anger, the sheer ire and fury she and her scheme provoked, from his voice—so the boys wouldn’t sense it and be disturbed—he met her eyes and nonchalantly shrugged. “One of the Cynster sisters, brought here and thus effectively ruined—that was our bargain. I’ll keep my end of it.” He held her gaze. “And you’ll keep yours.”

Eyes narrowed, her face pinched, her expression, as always, sour, she held his gaze for a pregnant moment, then humphed, swung on her heel, and stalked off.

His fury drained from him.

Idly reaching out to stroke Gwarr’s head, he turned back to the imps in his lap. Utterly trusting, their bright blue eyes looked out on the world with unalloyed hope and untarnished expectations.

He would give a great deal to ensure they had all the best in life he could give them.

Glancing at the large circular clock on the wall, he confirmed there was still half an hour before the meal. Summoning his broadest brogue, he looked down at the boys. “Shall we nae gae oot an’ luk in on the horses, then?”

Later he could think about kidnapping Eliza Cynster.

First, he would remind himself of why he would.