The cobbler looked pleased. He came out from behind his counter. Wiping his hands on a rag, he nodded to Breckenridge, then eased past them to reach into the window. “Good eye, you have.” He turned with the boots in his hand. “These are a fine pair. Did all the work myself, so I know.”
“It’s the size that concerns me.” Heather turned to look for somewhere to sit.
“Have a seat on the bench there, mistress.” The cobbler pointed to a narrow bench along part of the side wall. “And we’ll see if these will do for you.”
Heather sat and slipped off her evening slippers, quickly pushing them back behind her stockinged feet and her skirts the better to hide them. If the cobbler saw. . she doubted many ladies came walking into his shop in all- but-destroyed London ballroom slippers.
Breckenridge saw. Realized. He reached out and lifted the walking boots from the cobbler’s hands. “I’ll help her.”
Going down on one knee, letting his back and shoulders shield Heather’s legs and feet from the cobbler, he set one boot down, took the other in one hand, and with his free hand reached for her foot.
Found it — closed his hand around a slender arch encased in the sheerest of silk stockings.
She jumped at the contact.
A part of him did, too.
A blush rising to her cheeks, she somewhat breathlessly said, “Don’t forget I’m ticklish.”
He glanced at her, met her gaze, and knew she was lying. She wasn’t ticklish, but she was sensitive, especially when he was touching, cradling, all but stroking her as-close-to-naked-as-made-no-difference foot.
One part of him cursed; the rest was fascinated.
Looking down, he steeled himself and slipped the boot he held onto her foot, braced the sole as she pushed her foot in and settled her toes. He glanced at her face. “All right?”
Holding his gaze, she moistened her lips, then nodded. “Yes. Let’s try the other.”
They managed getting her other foot shod with rather less sensual drama. He got her to stand and hold her hems up a trifle so he could lace the boots. Then, swiping up her discarded slippers, surreptitiously crushing them in one hand, he rose and stepped back.
She walked the three paces across the small shop.
While the cobbler was distracted, Breckenridge shoved the slippers into one of his satchels. Heather turned, saw, paused until he reclosed the satchel, then walked back.
He met her gaze. “How are they?”
She nodded. “They’ll do.”
The cobbler, initially put out at having his role in fitting a young lady usurped, rediscovered his smile.
While Breckenridge negotiated the price, then paid, Heather walked back and forth, ostensibly to break the boots in as best she could, in reality to try to calm the surging tide of sensual awareness that had, at Breckenridge’s touch, all but swamped her.
Even now, she could feel the seductive warmth of his large, hard palm, the reined strength that had sent shards of thrilling sensation lancing through her.
Ridiculous in a way, but who would have thought her foot could be so sensitive? So sensitive in such a very improper way?
She was still dwelling on the revelation when he escorted her from the shop, back into the midafternoon bustle.
As they started along again, merging with the shoppers, he lowered his head and grumbled, “Didn’t Martha have the sense to provide you with thicker hose?”
She nodded. “But they were so coarse I couldn’t bear to wear them — they scratched.”
Breckenridge fleetingly closed his eyes. The image her words conjured — of the finest, most delicate silken skin lining sleek, feminine inner thighs — wasn’t one he needed to dwell on.
Opening his eyes, he looked ahead, then nudged her toward another alley. “There’s two constables wandering slowly this way. We’ll have to go around.”
The street they came out on was lined with market stalls selling all manner of fresh produce. They exchanged a glance, then he stood watch while she selected and bargained for apples, some dried fruits, a loaf of seed bread, and a large bag of nuts. He saw a stall selling water skins and added one to their haul. Satchels bulging, they continued on, keeping a wary eye out for ambling constabulary.
They eventually found themselves on Buccleuch Street. “We should get off the pavements.” He nodded toward the window of a coffeehouse opposite. “Let’s go in there and check the map, and work out our best way forward.”
Crossing the street, they entered the coffeehouse, which proved to be quite large and helpfully ill lit. Heather led the way to a table in the shadows along one wall and toward the rear.
A girl came bustling up. He ordered coffee, and after some discussion, Heather ordered a pot of tea and two large plates of scones.
He arched a brow as the girl departed. “Still hungry?”
Heather shrugged. “I’m sure their jam and scones will be lovely — country-made usually are.” She suddenly looked conscious, then fixed her eyes on his. “We have enough money, don’t we? I mean, don’t you?”
He nearly laughed at her look, then waved. “Plenty. I got more when I stopped in Carlisle. Money isn’t on our list of concerns.”
“Good.” She propped her chin in one palm and met his eyes across the table. “We have concerns enough as it is.”
He nodded. “How are the boots?”
“Quite good. He was right, the cobbler. They are well made.”
“All right. So. .” He pulled the map from his coat pocket, unfolded, then refolded it so the section they needed was exposed. He set it against the wall between them, so they could both see it. “We’re here.” He pointed to Dumfries. “And Carsphairn — the village — is there. How to get from here to there is what we need to decide.”
The girl returned with his coffee, Heather’s tea, and two plates piled high with buttery scones. For ten minutes, they were silent, but after polishing off his second scone loaded with blackberry jam and cream, he picked up his coffee mug, sipped, and returned his attention to the map. “Nice scones.”
“Hmm.”
The sound made his lips twitch. It was one of the things he was learning to like about her; she appreciated the small pleasures.
How she would react to larger, more intense pleasures. .
He blinked, and forced himself to refocus on the map. “Let’s list all our options first. We could hire a gig and drive — the most obvious way to get from here to there.”
Heather poked a bit of jam-laden scone past her lips. “Or we could hire horses and ride — and if we did that, we could go cross-country, not by the major roads. We could take this route.” With one fingertip she traced a minor road — more like a country lane — that went across and over the hills.
He considered it. “That route looks shorter, but it’ll almost certainly take longer because of the climbing and switching back and forth through the passes. Against that, it will almost certainly be free of patrolling constables, and at this time of year, there’s little likelihood of the passes being blocked — the way should be clear.”
Heather took a long, revivifying sip of her tea, then sighed and set down the cup. “But we can’t risk hiring a gig or any carriage, not even horses, can we?”
Breckenridge met her eyes, then grimaced. “I’ve been toying with the notion, but I can’t see how to do it without leaving some trace. The constabulary isn’t foolish — they’ll have alerted all the stables. And we have to assume we have the mysterious laird on our heels, too. He must have arrived in Gretna by now. We can’t afford to assume we’re free of him, and he’ll certainly check every possible place we might try to hire from.”
Heather nodded briskly. “If we can’t hire horses, then we’ll have to walk.”
Breckenridge hesitated, his eyes on hers, then quietly asked, “Are you up for that?”
Not, she noted, could she manage that; he really was remarkably attuned to women.
Suppressing a smile, she nodded. “I walk quite a lot when at home. These hills may be higher than the Quantocks, but they’re not horribly mountainous, either. I’ll manage.”
He looked at her, then said, “If you can, then I’d prefer to play safe — to do everything we possibly can to
