Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

considerably; she started to smile, only just remembering to suppress the reaction.

Glancing sideways at Martha, toiling beside her, she was relieved to see that the maid hadn’t noticed.

She looked at the inn again. .

Breckenridge had vanished.

Not that it mattered. Now she knew he was near, they would meet tonight somehow. She turned her mind to rehearsing her report, to listing all she’d learned in the manner most likely to convince him to agree to her continuing on with her captors.

The Old Bell Inn was in truth a very old inn. Its bedchambers possessed latches, with hooks on the doors to secure them, but no locks. Heather blessed the innkeeper for not modernizing; once the inn had settled for the night and every two-legged occupant had retired to their beds, with Martha snoring fit to drown out any creaking boards, Heather lifted the latch on their chamber door and slipped out into the chill darkness of the corridor.

She hadn’t dared light a candle, but her eyes had adjusted to the night; she could see well enough to, with one quick glance, confirm the corridor was empty. Once again she’d been deprived of her outer clothes, but she’d complained about the cold and had used the excuse that they wouldn’t want her to take a chill to persuade Martha to allow her to keep her silk shawl and to spread her cloak over her bed for extra warmth.

The cloak was wrapped about her now, and cinched at her waist with the silk shawl. Although the makeshift gown left her ankles and lower calves exposed, at least her skin there was screened by silk stocking, and the gown otherwise was a significant improvement over the previous night’s coverlet; it didn’t rely on her holding it in place to remain decent.

Which was a pertinent consideration given she was off to meet Breckenridge. He’d more or less made it a condition for his agreeing to allow her to continue traveling on with her captors, and she knew him well enough not to call his bluff, because it would be no bluff. Besides, she wanted to share what she’d learned, and see if he might have any further insights. His knowledge of their world, especially beyond the confines of the ton, was significantly greater than hers.

Silently closing the door behind her, carefully easing the latch back into place, she turned in the direction of the stairs. For several moments, she held still, straining her ears for any sound, allowing her vision to better adjust to the deeper darkness of the corridor, and reminding herself of the way.

When she and Martha had risen from the table they’d shared with Fletcher and Cobbins in the tap through the evening, Breckenridge, seated across the room and closer to the door, had anticipated them; he’d risen and left the tap ahead of them. He’d been climbing the stairs when she and Martha had reached the foyer.

They’d followed him up and had seen him open the door of a room not far from the head of the stairs. He hadn’t so much as glanced their way but had gone in and shut the door. She’d walked on with Martha, past that door, down the corridor and around a corner to their chamber.

Drawing in a tight — faintly excited — breath, she set out, quietly creeping back to the corner, her evening slippers allowing her to tiptoe along with barely a sound.

Nearing the corner, she paused and glanced back along the corridor. Still empty. Reassured, she started to turn, intending to peek around the corner—

A hard body swung around the corner and plowed into her.

She stumbled back. Hard hands grabbed her, holding her upright.

Her heart leapt to her throat. She looked up, saw only darkness.

She opened her mouth—

A palm slapped over her lips. A steely arm locked around her — locked her against a large, adamantine male body; she couldn’t even squirm.

Her senses scrambled. Strength, male heat, muscled hardness engulfed her.

Then a virulent curse singed her ears.

And she realized who’d captured her.

Panic and sheer fright had tensed her every muscle; relief washed both away and she felt limp. The temptation to sag in his arms, to sink gratefully against him, was so nearly overwhelming that it shocked her into tensing again.

He lowered his head so he could look into her face. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “What the devil are you doing?”

His tone very effectively dragged her wits to the fore. He hadn’t removed his hand from her lips. She nipped it.

With a muted oath, he pulled the hand away.

She moistened her lips and angrily whispered back, “Coming to see you, of course. What are you doing here?”

“Coming to fetch you—of course.”

“You ridiculous man.” Her hands had come to rest on his chest. She snatched them back, waved them. “I’m hardly likely to come to grief over the space of a few yards!”

Even to her ears they sounded like squabbling children.

He didn’t reply.

Through the dark, he looked at her.

She couldn’t see his eyes, but his gaze was so intent, so intense that she could feel. .

Her heart started thudding, beating heavier, deeper.

Her senses expanded, alert in a wholly unfamiliar way.

He looked at her. . looked at her.

Primitive instinct riffled the delicate hairs at her nape.

Abruptly he raised his head, straightened, stepped back. “Come on.”

Grabbing her elbow, he bundled her unceremoniously around the corner and on up the corridor before him. Her temper — always close to the surface when he was near — started to simmer. If they hadn’t needed to be quiet, she would have told him what she thought of such cavalier treatment.

Breckenridge halted her outside the door to his bedchamber; he would have preferred any other meeting place, but there was no safer place, and regardless of all and everything else, he needed to keep her safe. Reaching around her, he raised the latch and set the door swinging. “In here.”

He’d left the lamp burning low. As he followed her in, then reached back and shut the door, he took in what she was wearing. He bit back another curse.

She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit but on the bed. Quickly he strode past her, stripped off the coverlet, then autocratically pointed to the sheet. “Sit there.”

With a narrow-eyed glare, she did, with the haughty grace of a reigning monarch.

Immediately she’d sat, he flicked out the coverlet and swathed her in it.

She cast him a faintly puzzled glance but obligingly held the enveloping drape close about her.

He said nothing; if she wanted to think he was concerned about her catching a chill, so be it. At least the coverlet was long enough to screen her distracting ankles and calves.

Which really was ridiculous. Considering how many naked women he’d seen in his life, why the sight of her stockinged ankles and calves should so affect him was beyond his ability to explain.

Turning, he sat alongside her, with a good foot of clear space between them. “So what have you learned?”

She studied him for a moment, then said, “Not as much as I would have liked, but they did let fall that their employer hired them in Glasgow, that he’s paying for everything, and they seem happy with the financial arrangements, suggesting that he’s at least reasonably wealthy, but as yet I haven’t been able to drag from them any further detail about where they’re taking me.” Huddling into the coverlet, she frowned across the room. “The only other thing I dragged from them was more by way of an impression.”

When she didn’t go on, he prompted, “What impression?”

The line between her brows deepened. “They — Fletcher and Cobbins, at least, they’re the ones who met him — view him, their employer, with a certain. . I suppose you’d say wariness.”

“Respect?”

Her lips twisted. “Yes, but more in the physical sense. He might simply be a nasty, dangerous sort.”