going to chase us like madmen.”
“Madmen motivated by two thousand pounds.”
“Precisely. But as well as distracting them to whatever extent we can, we need to make for the nearest safe place.”
She grimaced. “We can’t just escape and put up at some inn in Gretna, can we?”
He shook his head. “I’d assumed we would head back to London — possibly detour to the Brunswick estates on the way.” His father was at Baraclough, the earldom’s principal estate in Berkshire. If he and Heather were to marry, he wanted to tell his father first, in person. “But that’s the first direction in which Fletcher and Cobbins will look, and there’s no safe harbor along that route that we can be sure of reaching before they catch up with us.”
He hesitated, then went on, “Admittedly, once back in England, as long as we saw them coming I could use my title to have them taken up. However, if we don’t see them closing on us — and given their experience, I’m not confident we would — then that won’t save us.” Save her. If Fletcher and Cobbins caught up with them, they’d at the very least incapacitate him and steal her back — and then make absolutely certain she was without delay placed directly into the hands of their mysterious laird.
Equally undesirably, however, invoking his title would make their journey together without any acceptable chaperon public, something he would prefer not to do. He was confident the Cynsters would have covered up her absence — she’d be recovering from a hideous chill or something of that nature — and his absence wouldn’t have even been noted; if any in the wider ton wondered about him at all, they would assume he was at Baraclough. If at all possible he intended to present their necessary betrothal as something that had been arranged quietly between their families, not as something necessitated by her being kidnapped, and not even by him.
Calling attention to themselves would end all hope of keeping her reputation intact.
He stared at his hands. “And we can’t afford to let them catch us in Scotland — not at all. We have to assume this laird’s a nobleman, some arrogant and, as it happens, very wealthy highlander. If it comes to his title versus mine — and neither you nor I have anything with us to verify who we are, and there’s no one close who can vouch for us — then it’s perfectly possible he’ll be able to lay claim to you, and take you off God knows where while I protest my innocence and identity from a cell.”
That scenario was his worst nightmare.
She was frowning. “Don’t you have any cards with you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think a silver card case with cards in the name of Viscount Breckenridge will do us much good.” He met her gaze. “He’ll — they’ll — claim I stole it.”
She grimaced and looked forward.
Looking back at his hands, he continued, “So we need somewhere safe that’s reasonably close — some place we can reach within a day. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t think of anywhere.”
“Casphairn.”
He glanced at her. Her tone had been definite; her expression was confident and assured. “Where?”
“The Vale of Casphairn. It’s where Richard — my cousin Richard — and his wife, Catriona, live. It’s. . well, a day’s journey in a carriage from Carlisle.”
“In which direction?”
“To the west. We pass through Gretna, then go west to Annan and Dumfries. . ” She grimaced. “I’m not sure of the road after that. I know we go through a town called St. John’s of Dalry. That’s about an hour from the Vale.”
“If I get us a map, could you find it?”
She nodded. “And I know Richard and Catriona are there. They don’t come down for the Season, not usually, and they weren’t expected in London this year.”
“Good.” He knew Richard Cynster. He nodded. “We’ll make for there.”
Heather embraced the notion with relief. The thought of Breckenridge being slung in a cell while she was dragged off by some loutish highlander. . she gave an inward shudder, then determinedly banished the thought. “So how do I escape?” She turned to look at Breckenridge. “And when?”
He considered, then shook his head. “Not tomorrow. According to Fletcher, he’s not really expecting the laird until the following day. That gives us tomorrow to plan.”
He glanced at her, then rose.
She rose, too.
He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll find us a map, for a start. Meanwhile, both of us should put our minds to thinking of a way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins long enough for us to get safely away.”
She nodded, then remembered and slipped his cloak off her shoulders. Once again, she immediately felt the loss. “Martha said that if tomorrow is fine, she’ll try to get Fletcher to let us go for a walk, so I might have a chance to learn something useful.”
He took the cloak from her, but caught and held her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t jeopardize how they currently view you. We don’t need them to realize what you’re capable of and decide to keep you under lock, key, and tighter guard.”
The acknowledgment that she wasn’t some meek and mild — helpless and gormless — fashionable miss had her smiling. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
He grunted and reached for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob. He caught her gaze, looked at her. . long enough to have her lungs tightening and thoughts far removed from escape rising in her mind. . but then he grimaced and looked away. “Regardless of what we find, we’ll have to get you out of Fletcher’s clutches by the day after tomorrow.” His voice was a bare whisper as he added, “That’s when the laird is supposed to arrive.”
She felt a sudden chill and told herself it was simply the effect of losing the protection of his cloak.
He blew out the candle, then opened the door, looked out, and stepped through and to the side. She slipped out of the cloakroom and, with a last glance his way, headed straight up the stairs.
Lecturing herself that she couldn’t at this point give in to the impulse to simply walk into his arms and see what came next.
It hadn’t happened that morning, as Heather had hoped, but after lunch Martha finally convinced Fletcher that he needed to allow both her and Heather out for a walk. The day had been sunny since morning, and the grass was no longer wet, just damp. Fletcher hadn’t been happy, but he’d grudgingly agreed that they could walk across the fields to a nearby grassy hillock.
Martha had eyed the slight mound, a goodly distance away, then told Fletcher not to expect them back for at least two hours. “We’re going to have a sit in the sunshine.”
As Martha had become quite belligerent over the whole question of their walk, Fletcher had gritted his teeth and waved them off.
Heather took the opportunity afforded by the walk to get a better sense of the surrounding land. They passed the stables at the side of the inn, to the west of the main building, then tramped southwest. The fields were largely flat; what hedges there were weren’t thick or dense. At this time of year, with all the branches bare, there was precious little cover to be found. The faint hope she’d harbored that they might lurk close enough after her escape to glimpse the laird when he arrived died.
The hillock wasn’t that far. When she halted on its crest and looked south, she could see the glint of sunlight off the waters of Solway Firth.
Martha looked, then set down her knitting bag and shook out a large rug she’d carried under her arm. Laying it on the grass, she pointed to one end. “Sit you down there, and don’t make me regret taking up for you and getting you out in the fresh air.”
Remembering Breckenridge’s warning not to step out of her assumed character, Heather dutifully subsided. Martha sat, too, and pulled out her knitting.
Although the fresh air was welcome, within ten minutes, Heather was thoroughly bored. The last thing she needed was time to dwell on Breckenridge and the unruly impulses that increasingly came to the fore when he was near.
She definitely didn’t need to think about those, and even less about him, and her steadily changing opinion. It had been much easier to deal with him, and her misguided attraction to him, when she’d thought him a too- handsome-for-his-own-good, far-too-experienced-to-look-in-her-direction, arrogant, indolent, and self-indulgent rake of the first order.
