Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  Heather stood and moved out of the way, blinking in surprise to find Richard and the other men back again. They’d already refilled the bath with fresh ice.

  They repeated what was now a well-rehearsed process.

  Once Breckenridge was back on the bed, his skin cold and damp, and Richard and the other men had retired once more, Heather sank back into the chair.

  Standing opposite, Catriona took Breckenridge’s pulse, then she glanced at Heather. “I’m going to return to my own bed. His temperature shouldn’t rise again before morning.” Folding her arms, she frowned down at him. “If he starts to shiver, or does get too hot again, promise me you’ll come and fetch me right away.”

  Heather nodded. “I promise.”

  Catriona turned away. “Try to nap if you can.”

  Heather sighed, took his hand once more, and settled to her vigil.

  The days that followed were the darkest of her life. Although they didn’t need the ice-bath again, Breckenridge’s temperature remained erratic, spiking unpredictably—pricking her fears every time it did.

  Then he grew restive, flinging off the covers, shifting in the bed enough to make himself groan.

  As from the first, Heather rarely left him. Her reward came toward the end of the third day, when her voice, her words, noticeably soothed him.

  Catriona, witnessing the event, humphed. “It’s as I thought—he’s not truly unconscious. He’s in a healing state.”

  She seemed relieved, more assured, after that.

  For her part, Heather couldn’t take the same comfort—she wanted to see his eyes again, wanted to see recognition and understanding.

  At the back of her mind was the unvoiced fear that after so many days “hibernating,” when he returned he wouldn’t remember. Her, or anything else.

  To counter her fears, whenever she was alone with him she talked—of their past, of their present, of their future. She put no restraint on her tongue but let her heart dictate, let her love drive her.

  More than anything else, it was those moments of letting their love shine between them that anchored her and gave her some respite.

  Everyone in the household helped in their way. Cook sent up trays regularly, and Algaria made sure she ate. Lucilla and Marcus, unusually subdued, crept in to see, to ask after Breckenridge, but didn’t stay long. Richard often looked in and stayed to chat, to tell her bits and pieces of what was going on in the world outside.

  But it was Catriona who was most often her support, especially through the long watches of the nights, even though, now that it seemed clear Breckenridge was improving, she slept in her own bed. She returned periodically to monitor Breckenridge’s condition, to reassure Heather, and provide company and respite for a little while.

  Toward the end of one such visit, with Heather seated in her customary place by the bed, Breckenridge’s hand as always in hers, Catriona sat in the rocker on the opposite side of the bed and studied her with that look Heather thought of as seeing beneath the skin.

  After a moment, Catriona asked, “So, have you and he settled your differences and agreed to share your future?”

  Heather hadn’t anticipated quite that question. Your future. Catriona made it sound as if they hadn’t really had any option bar that one, as if a shared future was the only future either of them could have.

  “Yes.” Heather frowned. “At least . . . I believe we have.” When Catriona arched her brows, she went on, “Before everyone rushed up, we talked, said things—both of us. But it was such a jumble, and at the end I don’t know if he . . .” She drew in a breath. “I don’t know how much he’ll remember.”

  “Hmm. In that case, I would strongly suggest you make your position on that subject absolutely crystal clear the instant he wakes and is in any condition to take it in.” Catriona held her gaze. “That’s important, Heather. I don’t normally tell people such things—we’re not supposed to influence—but you and he are supposed to be together. But in order to reap the harvest that is waiting for you ahead, you must believe. To your heart and soul, you must believe in your ideal for it to happen. You have to let that belief guide you in everything—your actions, your speech, your very thoughts.”

  Catriona paused, then went on, her gaze steady on Heather’s eyes, “I don’t know why that’s so vital, only that it is. For what’s between you and he to be all that it could be, you must believe, so that he can believe, too.”

  Heather drank in the words, felt their truth resonate. Logic and reason, she’d learned, didn’t always apply where love was concerned; perhaps faith—faith in love—was the only true touchstone.

  Risky, perhaps, to have blind faith in an emotion, but she no longer had anything to lose. She nodded. “Yes. I will.”

  To her surprise, her reply seemed to ease Catriona, who visibly relaxed, almost ruefully smiled.

  “Good.” Rising, Catriona drew her shawl around her, then looked down at Breckenridge. “I don’t expect you to have any trouble with him tonight. Sleep. He’s not going to leave you.” With that, she turned and walked to the door.

  Heather watched her go, watched the door shut. Replayed their conversation, then, feeling more settled, crawled onto the bed by Breckenridge’s side, laid her head down, and closed her eyes.

  The days and nights had merged; she’d lost track of time.

  The following afternoon, Heather allowed herself to be bullied into taking a relaxing bath. Into washing her hair, donning fresh clothes, refashioning her chignon. Eating a proper meal.

  Feeling significantly refreshed, she returned to Breckenridge’s bedside to relieve Algaria. Although the fever had abated and he seemed less wracked, he’d yet to awaken, but Catriona and Algaria expected he soon would.

  She’d just settled on the straight-backed chair when she, and Algaria, at the door, heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels in the forecourt.

  Algaria met her eyes. “Someone’s come running.”

  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 thou
ght 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.

  Later 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

  She 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.

  Breckenridge 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 a
s 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.