in their business. If the laird wasn’t expected until at least the following day, then Heather would be safe enough, confined, as she was, to the inn parlor.
After breakfasting late, he strolled to the inn’s stable and checked over the old chestnut he’d hired in Carlisle, along with the ancient pony trap. The horse was faring well; it would carry him and Heather far enough to make good an escape.
But in which direction? He spent the rest of the morning ambling around the hamlet of Gretna Green, taking note of the roads and the cover afforded by the landscape in each direction, then he strode the half mile or so back down the highway to the main village of Gretna, with the Customs and Revenue Offices, and the border itself just beyond.
With clouds blowing up and the wind tending bitter, he returned to the inn at lunchtime. Pausing in the front hall, he glanced at the parlor door, but all was quiet inside.
Turning away, he walked into the tap. And fell in once again with Fletcher and Cobbins. They were joined by the usual band of locals during the meal, but once the platters were cleared and the farmers departed for their fields once more, the three of them gathered about the table by the window.
Fletcher had brought the pack of cards but seemed uninterested in any game. He picked up the pack and let it fall an inch to the table, over and over again.
Breckenridge noted it. “Are you worried about this laird of yours showing?”
“Heh?” Fletcher focused, then shook his head. “No — he’ll be here. I just wish he’d be here sooner.”
“Tomorrow, isn’t it?”
Fletcher shrugged. “Tomorrow, or the next day. He’ll definitely be here by then.” He glanced at Breckenridge. “It’s just that I don’t like sitting in one place, waiting. Sort of like being a sitting duck — it grates on my nerves.”
“Ah. I see.” The only men Breckenridge had previously encountered who chafed at being forced by unavoidable circumstances to remain in one place were felons of one stripe or another. It made them feel trapped. Glancing at Cobbins, more taciturn than Fletcher, he saw a similar edginess growing.
Unless he missed his guess, both men had at some time been very much on the wrong side of the law; they might never have been caught, but both knew what it was like to be hunted.
Which was a fact worth noting, given he intended to filch their latest prize from under their noses. He’d already learned through general conversation that Fletcher was good with knives, and had several on him at any time, while Cobbins was a true bruiser at heart, a heavy man who, once he mowed into something, wasn’t likely to stop until he was the last one standing.
“Tell me.” Relaxing back in his chair, he projected the air of someone seeking to distract the pair from their angst. “How does this sort of caper work? Seems to me it’s a capital lark — you do the job, hand over the package, get paid, and everyone’s happy.” He frowned, as if thinking it through. “But then you have to stump up the wherewithal to set up the snatch in the first place, and the cost of the travel and all the rest—” He broke off because Fletcher was shaking his head.
Setting aside the cards, Fletcher leaned his arms on the table. “No. It’s better than that. Mind you”—Fletcher sent a sharp glance his way—“it takes years and years to work up a reputation like we have. You don’t get the arrangements we do straight off, first time.”
Cobbins nodded. “Professionals, we are.”
“Exactly.” Fletcher looked back at Breckenridge. “So the way it works for us, us being professionals and well known in this work, is that we get paid wages up front — proper compensation for our time doing the job — and enough to cover all expenses, like our travel down to London and back, staying in the capital, Martha’s wages, and all the rest.”
“All up front?” Breckenridge blinked in genuine surprise. Whoever the laird was, he was not only wealthy but also willing to invest serious money for the chance of seizing one of the Cynster girls.
“Cash in hand, at the start,” Fletcher confirmed. “We don’t take the job without it.”
“But. .” Breckenridge felt a chill as the question formed in his mind. “What guarantee does your employer have that you’ll actually do the job?”
Fletcher grinned. “Our bonus, of course. There’s two thousand pounds coming our way, along with the laird.”
“
Smile deepening, Fletcher nodded. “Told you this is a really sweet job.” Fletcher hesitated, studying Breckenridge, then looked at Cobbins and exchanged a glance before turning back and adding, “If you ever get tired of being a clerk, you look us up — you’d be useful. If we brushed you up, with your looks you could pass for a gentleman. Useful, that is, in our line of work.”
Still coping with the discovery of just how much the mysterious highland laird wanted Heather, Breckenridge managed a nod. “I’ll think about it.” He stirred, then shook his head and sat up. “Two thousand! That’s. . amazing.”
Amazing, and revealing, in the worst possible way.
Chapter Seven
I think it’s time for me to make my escape.” Heather said the words before she’d even sat beside Breckenridge on the narrow bench beneath the coat pegs in the tiny cloakroom.
She’d waited until it had been so late that there would have been no chance of the innkeeper surprising them, all the time fervently hoping that Breckenridge would not only have been waiting but would have found and lit a candle by the time she arrived.
He had; the wavering light had welcomed her. Slipping inside the confined space, pushing the door closed behind her, she’d taken in the reassuring sight of him as he’d glanced up at her.
He waited as she settled, then flicked out the cloak he’d been holding in his hands and, turning to her, swirled it about her. He hadn’t been wearing it, so it didn’t hold much of his scent, but she was grateful for the added warmth nonetheless.
“Is that woman ever going to give you back your clothes at night?”
“I doubt it. It seems to be her habitual way of controlling her charges.”
He grunted, then, his lips setting in a surprisingly grim line, met her gaze. “Escaping, I regret to say, isn’t going to be as easy as we’d thought.”
She blinked, studied his face. “Why?”
He looked down at his hands, clasped between his spread knees. “Fletcher and Cobbins stand to collect two thousand pounds when they hand you over to the laird.”
“
“My sentiments exactly.”
“But. .” She struggled to take it in. Finally said, “Clearly this laird is no penny-pinching pauper. He’s definitely not wanting me for ransom, nor yet to marry.”
“At least not to marry for your money.”
She glanced at him. “I really don’t think I’ve met this laird, so why else. . oh, you mean for the connection to the family?”
“Who knows? But regardless of his reasons, we now face a significantly greater problem than we’d foreseen.” He met her gray-blue eyes. “Fletcher and Cobbins are no bumbling fools. They’re dangerous, and they’re not going to let two thousand pounds slip through their grasp without making a determined bid to snatch it — you — back.”
She nodded; her expression stated she understood and accepted his argument, yet she didn’t seem overly worried. After one blink, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”
Staring into her eyes, lit by the candlelight, the truth hit him like a sledgehammer. She trusted him. Trusted him implicitly to protect her and get her out of this, away from any danger. He would, of course, but he hadn’t expected her to be so. . accepting. Lips twisting, he looked forward. “We’re going to have to find some way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins, so that they’re too busy to notice you’ve escaped, if at all possible for a day. They’re
