Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

wasn’t placing any wagers on her coming to her senses, especially not because he thought she should.

The abduction party fussed over their luggage, then Heather spoke, her voice carrying clearly into the tap. “I’m unaccustomed to being cooped up all day — I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk.”

“Not on your life,” Fletcher growled.

From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap.

“You don’t need to think you’re going to give us the slip so easily.” Fletcher again.

“My dear good man”—Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone—“just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I’m going to slip to?”

Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off.

“Oh, yes — in a round gown and evening slippers,” Heather jeered. “But I wasn’t suggesting you let me ramble on my own — Martha can come with me.”

That was Martha’s cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush.

Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. “Look you — we’re under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you.”

Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. “I’ll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me.”

Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn’t the startling information contained in Fletcher’s outburst. “Come on, Heather — follow up.”

As if she’d heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on, “But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying — or at least to helping you comply with them.”

Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh.

“All right.” Fletcher’s frustration had reached breaking point. “If you must know, we’re to keep you safe from all harm. We’re not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We’re to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when we grabbed you.”

From the change in Fletcher’s tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn’t work.

“So now you see,” Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, “that it’s entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble.”

“Hmm.” Heather’s tone was tellingly mild.

Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land.

“If, as you say, your orders are to — do correct me if I’m wrong — keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me — if you don’t wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup.” She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, “A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution.”

Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth.

A fraught moment passed, then, “Oh, very well! Martha — go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more.”

“Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha — we don’t want to waste the light.”

Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent.

The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

The river Trent flowed peacefully along, a mere hundred yards from the rear of the inn. A well-beaten path wended along the bank. Heather ambled down it, genuinely glad to have the chance to stretch her legs, to breathe fresh air, but her principal reason for insisting on the walk was to gain some inkling of whether Breckenridge was there.

Until she saw him, she had no way of knowing if he was — whether he’d arrived ahead of them or was still on his way.

One thing she did feel certain about was that he would materialize and hover close. He’d said they would have to meet every night. She was under no illusion; if he thought she was in real danger, he would intervene and rescue her, regardless of what he might have to do to accomplish that. By the same token, when they met that night — however they managed it — he would most likely try to bully her into giving up her quest and returning to London with him.

So while she walked, she reviewed all she’d learned — not enough, but a few telling facts, enough to justify persisting, and learning more if she could. She ordered the points in her mind.

She was mentally far away, absentmindedly strolling, when Martha, plodding heavily alongside, said, “You’re taking this awfully well.”

Heather glanced at her, met Martha’s shrewd gaze.

“I’d expected,” Martha continued, “to have to deal with hysterics — bouts of weeping and pleading at the very least.”

“Yes, well. .” Heather pulled an expressive face. Looking ahead, she went on, “I have to admit I did feel like panicking at first, but. . I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t view this as an adventure.” She had to deflect any suspicion, so offered the one explanation that might serve. She gestured dramatically. “A romantical adventure, complete with mysterious villain, who might or might not prove to be devastatingly handsome.”

Martha snorted. “So that’s the way it is — you’re romanticizing this blackguard who’s arranged your kidnapping.”

“Do you actually know if he’s a blackguard?” Heather didn’t have to manufacture her concern.

Martha grimaced. “I can’t rightly say. I haven’t had anything to do with the beggar. Fletcher and Cobbins were the ones that met him. But,” she continued, “any blighter who arranges a kidnapping, and one as coolly planned as this, take it from me, handsome or not, you won’t want to meet him.” Martha glanced at her again. “Sure you don’t want to rethink those hysterics?”

Heather arched her brows. “Will they get me any further?”

“Not with me — and Fletcher’s more like to slap you than come over all solicitous.”

“Well, then.” Heather tipped up her face. “I believe I’ll just go on romanticizing, at least until I have cause not to. You should be grateful — I’m making your task much easier.”

Martha snorted. “Speaking of which.” She halted. “This is far enough. You may need the exercise, but I don’t — we head back from here.”

Heather halted, filled her lungs full, then exhaled on a sigh. “Oh, very well.” Swinging around, she fell in beside Martha’s large, darkly garbed figure, and they started back toward the inn.

The “maid” was an inch or so taller than Heather, and at least two of her in girth, yet despite her size and usual plodding gait, Martha could move fast enough if she wished, and Heather had seen the size of the arms concealed by her voluminous black sleeves. Martha might be large, but she was mostly muscle. If Heather had to escape the woman, she’d need to ensure Martha was incapacitated first.

They walked slowly back to the inn — Martha because that was the speed at which she walked, Heather because she saw no reason to cut short her time in the crisp, late afternoon air.

Reaching the narrow path they’d taken from the inn to the river, they left the river path and, with the Trent at their backs, climbed the shallow slope toward the inn.

Raising her head, Heather looked at the gray stone building — and saw the tall, broad-shouldered, dark- haired man who’d paused in the shadows by one corner.

Earlier, in Stretton, he’d worn the clothes of a country townsman, the sort who might own a local business. Now he was garbed more like one of his own grooms. Regardless, she recognized him instantly. Her heart lightened