Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  Five 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 t
he 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.”

  Two 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.

  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 wi
llingly, 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.

  “Catriona 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.”