Hercules’ hooves filling his ears. His expression, however, remained set, his lips a straight, uncompromising line.
No matter what transpired, regardless of all else, regardless of his and his people’s needs, courtesy of the disruption of his plan, his principal imperative now had to be saving Heather Cynster.
He had to make sure she was unharmed, that her future — whether with him or another — was certain, assured, and held the degree of comfort she would otherwise have had, had he not been forced to kidnap her.
A twist indeed; that certainly hadn’t been his original aim. But as matters now stood, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to follow any other course.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, he rode steadily on.
Heather and Breckenridge were nearing Kirkland when, with the sun shining high overhead, they stopped by the banks of a stream to eat some of the provisions they’d bought the day before in Dumfries.
Sitting on an outcrop of sun-warmed stones above the burbling water, they ate and looked back at the rolling hills through which the lane had slowly ascended. Even though they’d been climbing for some time, the folds of green blocked their view to the south. From all they could see, they might have been the only people in the world. Yet all around them nature bustled, rich and vibrant. Hedgerows were budding and the bare branches of trees were softening in the first flush of leaf.
Heather reached into one of the satchels and pulled out an apple. Recalled the old woman she’d bought it from, in the market at Dumfries. Now, Dumfries seemed far away, much further in her past than a mere twenty-four hours. Between then and now. . it was as if plunging into intimacy with Breckenridge had divided her life into a “then” and a “now.”
She glanced at him and couldn’t help grinning. He was wolfing down some bread and a piece of hard cheese, his gaze scanning the fields below them. With his beard darkening his cheeks and concealing the austere, arrogant, distinctly aristocratic lines of his face, he appeared rumpled and disreputable, and oddly more human, his godlike handsomeness dimmed, veiled.
It was still there, of course. Every time she met his eyes, she saw him as he truly was. As she’d seen him last night, with the moonlight gilding every powerful line of his naked torso. His current incarnation as just another man was merely a temporary aberration. Once they were back in civilization, he would shave off the beard, revert to his usual clothes, and once again become Breckenridge, the ton’s foremost and favorite rake.
Until then, however, he was as he was. . and what he was, was, to her mind, hers. She was the only one who would ever see him like this, in this moment. Only she would ever know how he’d behaved toward her during this journey. Quite aside from introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh, he’d behaved so very differently toward her than when in London.
Facing forward, she lifted her face to the sun, felt it combine with a wisp of breeze to caress her cheeks. She closed her eyes. Drank in the small pleasures.
She would always remember this moment, the gentle zephyr of warm wind washing past her. The London rake in clerk’s disguise sitting beside her.
Her lips curved. Her mind ranged irresistibly on.
She’d already made up her mind about tonight. They would definitely have to stop at some cottage or find shelter in a barn. Either way, she was determined to reexperience the pleasures she’d enjoyed last night, and if possible press him to extend her horizons.
Once they regained civilization, their liaison would end, if not immediately, then very soon afterward. She didn’t have any firm idea how long it might last — how long she could stretch it out, how long she might hold his interest, widely acknowledged as peripatetic when it came to his lovers — so it was plainly in her best interests to ensure she gained as much out of the short time she would have with him.
During the short time in which he was hers.
She sat in the sun, with him beside her, and gave herself up to imagining.
Breckenridge glanced at her, took in the delight that showed in her face, then looked back down the lane — and reluctantly concluded that even if they appeared to be all alone in the landscape, they weren’t. In another place, another time, in a safer situation he would have been tempted to use the moment, seize it to further his new agenda, but her safety trumped his compulsion to do all that he could to tie her to him.
Besides. . he hadn’t yet grown reconciled to the fact that, in doing all he could to tie her to him last night, while he might have succeeded in that, he’d simultaneously bound himself even more irrevocably to her, moreover in ways he didn’t yet fully understand.
Ways he didn’t yet want to understand.
He glanced at her again; his eyes were drawn to the ripe curves of her lips. .
Dragging his gaze from her, he shifted, then grabbed the satchels, closed them, and got to his feet.
She looked up at him, brows rising, that odd little — sirenlike — smile still on her lips.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how much she’d seen, how much she’d guessed.
Hardening his heart along with his expression, he held out a hand. “We should get on. We’ve some way to walk yet if we’re to be sure of reaching the Vale tomorrow.”
She tilted her head, regarded him for an instant, then nodded and set her hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. “Thank you.”
He waited while she brushed down her skirts and shook them out, then handed her the satchel she’d been carrying. “We should join a larger road up around the next bend. Kirkland should be a little further west.”
She merely nodded, reached out, and slipped her hand into his.
He grasped it lightly, settled her fingers within his clasp as he led her from the stream, back into the lane.
Hand in hand again, with her striding easily — transparently contentedly — by his side, they walked on toward Kirkland.
The man masquerading as McKinsey was in a far more deadly mood as, inwardly cursing, he rode south, heading back to Dumfries along the Glasgow Road.
If all had played out as he’d originally planned, he would have been, at that moment, back in the highlands, almost home, with Heather Cynster in tow, and his estate and all those on it would soon be safe once more. Instead. .
Grim-faced, he was forced to halt every traveler heading north and ask after the pair, forced to stop at every cottage, barn, tavern, every possible resting place, had to sidetrack and check for any sight of them down every lane giving off the road.
He’d reached Thornhill without finding them — which had meant they’d either halted somewhere and unknowingly he’d overtaken them, or they’d turned off the road and headed elsewhere.
Where, he had no idea.
It had been no part of his plan to call attention to himself by approaching dozens of people along the road and asking questions, but he had no option. At least the stretch of road south of Thornhill didn’t have that many lanes giving off it, and most had a cottage or farm close by the corner. At that time of day, with the sun shining brightly, everyone was out in their fields; easy enough to inquire whether they’d seen his brother and his lass.
Remounting after questioning another crofter and once again getting a shake of the head, he settled in the saddle, picked up Hercules’ reins, eased the big gelding into a canter, and wondered if the Cynster chit was worth the effort.
If she hadn’t escaped with some unknown bounder. .
Inwardly sighing resignedly, he rode on. No matter what arguments he wove, there was simply no way he could let the silly chit run off into the wilds and come to harm, given the blame for her being in the wilds at all and not safely in the bosom of her family in London lay entirely at his feet. His fault. Her potentially perilous circumstance was undeniably and solely an unintended outcome of his tortuous plan.
It was up to him to set things right.
Jaw firming, he tapped his boot heels to Hercules’ side and shifted into a gallop.
Chapter Twelve
