Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  Handed down to the pavement by Cobbins, she glanced, inwardly desperate, about.

  “Come along.” Martha prodded her on. “Let’s get inside, out of this chill.”

  Heather climbed the hotel’s front steps slowly. Increasingly reluctantly. Then over the bustle caused by their arrival, the sound of hooves ringing on the cobbles reached her. Gaining the raised porch, she quickly turned and looked—and saw Breckenridge, looking like a lowly traveler, driving a curricle along the main street. He didn’t look her way. She quickly turned toward the hotel’s door so Martha, toiling up the steps behind her, wouldn’t see her relief.

  But oh, what relief.

  Walking a great deal more calmly into the hotel foyer, she couldn’t help but acknowledge it. Couldn’t help but admit that her nemesis had indeed lost that hat. While she might not truly view him as her savior, she knew she could rely on him, could have faith that he would in all circumstances do the very best he could to keep her safe.

  She trusted him explicitly and implicitly; despite their previous history, that had never been in question.

  Raising her head, drawing in a revivifying breath, feeling immeasurably more confident, she swept toward the reception counter where Fletcher was discussing their accommodations. The more she knew of where they’d all be that night, the more readily she’d be able to meet with Breckenridge.

  She next saw Breckenridge when, preceded by Fletcher and flanked by Martha, with Cobbins bringing up the rear, she walked into the hotel’s dining room that evening.

  He was seated at a table in the corner by one window, head down, his attention apparently fixed on a news sheet. He evinced not the slightest interest in their party.

  For their part, neither Fletcher nor Cobbins, both of whom surveyed the room, seemed to truly notice him. They saw him but instantly dismissed him.

  Heather was frankly amazed. Breckenridge might be wearing yet another disguise, this one making him appear less scruffy and more like a gentleman traveler, yet how anyone could miss the steely strength in those broad shoulders, let alone the arrogance in the set of his head, she had no idea.

  To her he always appeared as he truly was. Dangerous and unpredictable. Not the sort of man one should ever take for granted, let alone dismiss.

  Shown to a table for four across the room, she deftly claimed the chair that would allow her to keep Breckenridge in sight from the corner of her eye. Martha, the least observant of her captors, sat alongside her. Fletcher and Cobbins sat opposite, from where they could see the door and through it part of the hotel foyer.

  Unbeknown to them, the real danger lay behind them.

  Increasingly assured, increasingly buoyed, she set herself to winkle further details that might shed some light on the identity of the mysterious laird from her dinner companions.

  “Did you dine with this laird—the one who hired you?” She widened her eyes at Fletcher.

  He gave her a look. “We met him in a tavern, and food wasn’t on any of our minds. It wasn’t a social meeting.”

  “Hmm . . . how did he arrive at the tavern?”

  Fletcher blinked.

  Cobbins, frowning, answered. “Don’t know—we were there when he walked in the door, and he left before we did.” He glanced down as the serving girl placed a plate piled with pie and steamed parsnip before him. “We stayed for a pint, to celebrate like.”

  Heather held her tongue while they all started to eat.

  A minute later, Fletcher looked up from his plate, a frown in his eyes. “I don’t know why you want to know more about the man—seems like you’ll know all you’ll want to once we hand you over to him.”

  “But when will that be?” When no answer was forthcoming, she pointed the tines of her fork at Fletcher. “See? That’s why I’m asking. If you’ll simply tell me what to expect, I won’t be so curious.”

  Fletcher grunted. “You’ll learn all soon enough. Until then, you’d do best to let it be.”

  Heather subsided and gave her attention to her plate. To assembling all she’d dragged from her unwilling sources during that day into a cogent report. Breckenridge would want to know all, of course, and she was keen to share her discoveries.

  Working her way steadily through her baked fish, she thought of Fletcher’s response, his tone. Cobbins’s words. She had to wonder just how much they knew of their employer.

  From beneath her lashes, she studied Fletcher. His expression was tightly closed, almost pinched. She doubted he’d tell her any more that night. It would, she sensed, be better not to ask. He was more likely to be forthcoming tomorrow if she let the matter slide for now.

  Breckenridge was sitting too far away, and the dining room was too noisy, for him to have overhead even the most recent exchange. Indeed, he wasn’t making the smallest effort to eavesdrop; he was leaving the interrogation completely to her, trusting that she would report later. So . . . where to meet with him?

  Almost as if he’d heard her question, he pushed back his chair and rose. News sheet in hand, he briefly looked her way. Her captors didn’t raise their heads, didn’t lift their eyes from their plates.

  Breckenridge captured her gaze, then turned his head and looked further down the dining room. Heather followed his gaze and saw a pair of glass-paned doors at the rear of the room. From what she could see through the doors, the room beyond was the hotel bar’s snug.

  Shifting her gaze carefully back, she checked her companions—still oblivious—then briefly raised her eyes to Breckenridge as he walked slowly to the dining room door. She didn’t dare nod, but she met his gaze, then he looked back at his news sheet and continued walking. He passed through the door; a second later, she heard his footsteps climbing the stairs.

  “I haven’t been along this road before.” She glanced at Martha and Cobbins. “I noticed there’s a ruined castle just down the road, overlooking the bridge. Are there any other particular sights we might pass in the coach tomorrow?”

  Martha shook her head but looked curiously at the other two.

  Cobbins shrugged. “Couple of old castles not far from the road, and a Roman fort or two, but there’s not much left to see of those, not from the road, anyways.”

  Fletcher scowled at her. “You’ll see what you’ll see.” Setting his napkin beside his plate, he pushed back his chair. “Time for you and Martha to retire, seeing you’ve another long day in the coach to look forward to.”

  Heather met his eyes, then inclined her head and rose.

  Escorted by the trio, she climbed the stairs and headed toward their rooms.

  She crept back down the stairs as the clocks throughout the hotel’s reception rooms bonged and chimed with a single peal. One o’clock; she hadn’t dared creep out earlier. The room she shared with Martha was this time next door to the one in which Fletcher and Cobbins slept; to get to the stairs, she’d had to pass their door.

  Martha might sleep like one dead and snore like a walrus to boot, but Heather was much more wary of Fletcher, and even the taciturn Cobbins.

  She descended the stairs close by the wall, careful to avoid squeaks. Gaining the foyer, she hugged the shadows and slipped into the dining room. With no curtains at the windows, there was light, faint but enough to see her way; on slippered feet she padded to the glass-paned doors. She peered through, into a room shrouded in shadows. The snug was L-shaped. The nearer section was dark, but the other arm was softly, a touch eerily, lit by the moon.

  Drawing a fortifying breath, she reached for the doorknob, turned it, pushed open one door, and slid through. Eyes wide, trying to pierce the shadows, she eased the door closed, heard it click.

  Holding her breath, she stepped out, heading for the better-illuminated section of the room.

  Hard hands closed about her upper arms.

  She started—very nearly squeaked—then once again wilted with relief as Breckenridge dr
ew her back, closer to his large, warm body; he’d been standing in the dense shadows by the wall.

  “Shssh.”

  The order—despite the sibilant sound, she was quite sure it was an order—shivered across her ear.

  Irritated, she glanced up and back. “If you’d stop scaring me witless, I wouldn’t make a sound.”

  For a moment, their eyes met through the dimness. Their faces were close. Then he released her and eased back. “Would you rather I’d tapped you on the shoulder?”

  She humphed. “No, but—” She broke off as he swiped up a large document from a nearby table, along with his cloak. “What’s that?” She nodded at the document.

  “A map. I’m not as familiar with this area as I’d like.” He flicked out the cloak and draped it about her shoulders.

  It was long enough to pool about her feet.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, a touch surprised that he’d been so thoughtful. She had been a trifle cold in her makeshift robe, and she’d washed her stockings, so she didn’t even have them on.

  “Just keep it close.” Through the cloak, he grasped her elbow. “We should be safe around the corner.”

  Assuming his injunction was a warning to keep the cloak, voluminous on her, from tripping her or getting caught in the chairs, she obediently snuggled the folds closer—and felt the warmth still clinging to the material, detected a scent she associated with him—pine and very male.

  The scent wreathed through her head and played havoc with her attention. Luckily, he steered her steadily on, tacking between the tables and chairs to round the corner of the bar and reach the more secluded and better-lit area.

  Breckenridge released her by a table beneath one window. The moon gave them enough light to see, both each other’s faces and the map.

  Heather sat, gathering the cloak about her, hiding all the distractions he didn’t need to see.

  He drew out the chair opposite, placed the map on the table as he sat. “First, tell me what you learned today—I assume you made some headway?”

  She nodded. “He—the man who arranged this—is a Scotsman, at least Fletcher and Cobbins believe he is. They describe him as a ‘laird,’ but on what grounds they decided he’s a large landowner, I’m not sure. He’s apparently black-haired with cold eyes—neither remember the color—and a particularly devilish black frown. And he’s large and apparently not a man they’d willingly cross.”

  When she paused, he asked, “That’s all?”

  “Yes.” She grimaced. “And I know there must be hundreds if not thousands of Scottish lairds who fit that description. I did try for something more distinctive—a scar, ring, injury—but Fletcher cut me off at that point.”

  “He cut you off?”

  “Hmm. I could be wrong, but I think my asking questions made him realize how little he actually knows about this man they’re working for. They don’t even know if he came to their meeting in Glasgow in a carriage, or if he rode, and if so, what type of horse.”

  Leaning both forearms on the table, Breckenridge considered all they’d thus far learned. He debated, but in the end shifted his gaze and met her eyes. “Are you ready to escape them and return to London?”

  She held his gaze for a long moment, enough to have him hoping . . . but then she said, evenly and reasonably, “I’ve given them no hint that I might try to escape, and they have no idea that you even exist, let alone are close by. They’re growing more relaxed, and gradually more inclined to answer my questions—even Fletcher. I haven’t really had time to work on Martha yet—I’ve been concentrating on Fletcher, as he seems the one with most knowledge, and he’s the most observant, too.”

  “He’s also the most dangerous of the three.”

  “Yes, I know, but he’s also unwaveringly committed to following his orders, so I’m safe from him, at least in that regard. He won’t harm me—from all they’ve said, neither he nor Cobbins are at all eager to get on the wrong side of their employer. So I am making headway, but I still haven’t learned enough to identify this laird. And so far Fletcher’s resisted telling me—even giving me a hint—about where they’re taking me to hand me over. If we learned that, we might have some chance of identifying the laird as someone who comes to that place.”

  He let a moment elapse, then said, “You’re not going to escape yet, are you?”

  For a moment, she held his gaze, then her lips twisted. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can. If I did, and later Eliza, Angelica, Henrietta, or Mary was kidnapped, and perhaps hurt in the process . . . I don’t think I could live with that.”

  He nodded. “All right.” He didn’t like it, but he’d expected it, and, indeed, understood.

  During the long hours he’d driven behind the lumbering coach, he’d had time enough to assess their situation. He’d already accepted that, given they’d been absent, on the road, alone as far as the ton could ever know, for two full days, then, him being him and her being her, regardless of how this adventure played out, their wedding was now an unavoidable outcome.

  The realization . . . hadn’t bothered him that much. He had to marry and beget an heir, and his dear evil ugly sisters had been after him for years to make his choice. Heather would fit the bill nicely, at least in all the ways society deemed important.

  What, however, had shocked him to his toes was the ease with which the notion of him and her, man and wife, had so readily slotted into his forward planning, his not-all-that-well-defined vision of his future life. The idea of her as his wife simply slipped into the center of his nebulous universe and clicked into place, acting as a catalyst, allowing associated elements to connect and clarify. Solidify.

  They might not like each other, but he, at least, was perfectly well aware of the nature of the spark that had always flared between them, even from their earliest acquaintance. He knew that that spark could be fanned to a flame, one strong enough, powerful enough, to give them some hope of making a shared life work.

  Such a union might not be perfect, but it could work.

  Of course, he knew ladies, and her in particular, far too well to mention that issue at the present time. He wasn’t entirely surprised that she hadn’t thought of it herself; given she viewed him in a determinedly cousinly, if not avuncular, light, she wouldn’t necessarily see the danger in being—in ton terms—alone with him.

  “Good.” She relaxed, softly smiled. Her blue-gray eyes shimmered silver in the moonlight. She glanced down at the map. “Given this laird is Scottish, I assume we’ll be heading into Scotland. Fletcher let fall that they couldn’t tell whether the man was a highlander or a lowlander.”

  Frowning, Breckenridge spread the map on the table between them. “That’s odd. The accents are distinct, and Fletcher and Cobbins had been living in Glasgow.”

  She shrugged. “We don’t know how long they’d been there. They might have just arrived.”

  “If you get a chance, see if you can learn how long they’ve spent working north of the border.”

  “All right.” After a moment of studying his face, she asked, “Are you going to tell me why?”

  His lips curved despite the grimness he felt. “Not yet. Get me the answer, and I might.” He shifted the map, then pointed. “We’re here—Barnard Castle.”

  “As this laird is Scottish, it seems safe to assume that Fletcher and company will carry me over the border at some point.” Heather traced their road onward, west across the north of England, just south of the border. There were several smaller connecting roads that led north into Scotland. “Cobbins mentioned that I’d see castles and a Roman fort or two from the coach.” She peered more closely at the map. “Is that possible if we remain on this road—or does it suggest we’ll turn north somewhere soon?”

  They pored over the map, then he grunted. “There’s several castles close by the road, and at least two Roman forts. What that tells us�
��clever miss—is that the coach will remain on this road at least until Penrith.”

  She smiled at his approbation, then examined his face. “Why are you so satisfied over that?”

  He met her gaze. “I want to stop somewhere and get some provisions.” A better disguise, one good enough to allow him to get much closer to her and her captors. He also wanted a weapon or two, at least one pistol and a blade. He hesitated, then said, “I’m going to leave early tomorrow—no sense in giving them any unnecessary chance to get to know my face. I’m going to wager on them taking you into Scotland—and yes, I agree Scotland sounds a certainty—via Penrith, and then Carlisle.”

  She studied the map. “That seems the most likely route.” With one finger, she traced the road running north from Carlisle, deeper into Scotland. “Given we were on the Great North Road, heading directly for Edinburgh, but have now turned off and look to be heading for Carlisle, then it seems Glasgow, rather than Edinburgh, might be their destination.”

  He nodded. “Glasgow, or further north. If this laird met them in Glasgow, perhaps that’s where they’re to hand you over.” He paused, then asked, “Do you know if any of your family have any Scottish enemies?”

  She looked up, her gaze arrested. A moment ticked by, then she slowly shook her head. “None that I’ve ever heard of. And I can’t see why that would be—we’ve never, as far as I know, had any real dealings north of the border. Well, except for Richard and Catriona, of course.”

  He considered, then shook his head, too. “I can’t imagine why, even if Richard had fallen foul of some Scottish laird, that laird would take it into his head to target you and your sisters. The connection’s not close enough.” He refocused on her face. “Your brothers have never mentioned any problems in Scotland?”

  She pulled a face. “I’ve never heard of any difficulty from either, but”—she lifted one shoulder—“it’s possible Rupert’s been involved in exposing some fraudulent Scottish scheme. You know how he is. Or Alasdair might have snaffled some precious artifact from under the nose of some avid Scottish collector.”