heavier, denser, and laced with contentment, with that simple peace he’d never known.
Resistance wasn’t possible.
With a muted groan, he summoned the strength to lift from her, disengaging only to slump half over her, still wrapped in her arms.
His place.
Closing his eyes, he surrendered.
The moon was riding the sky when McKinsey walked Hercules into Kirkland.
He’d picked up the trail of his fugitive pair at New Bridge. They’d turned off the Glasgow Road there, and for some godforsaken reason had headed this way. Luckily, given how late it had been by the time he’d found their trail, the lane they’d chosen had had few turnoffs and had been bordered by numerous small crofts and farms all along the way. He’d been able to verify the pair’s progress without having had to waste too much time.
He’d pushed hard — they were on foot, and even with his delay they couldn’t have been that far ahead of him — but the failing daylight had forced him to slow.
Now it was all but pitch, too dark to risk riding on.
He paused to look along the narrow road, saw the lights burning in what appeared to be an inn in the middle of the short row of cottages. Stifling a sigh, he trudged on.
He’d get a room at the inn and start afresh at first light. He’d have to cast around and make sure they’d come this way — that they’d passed through Kirkland and headed on. After losing them this morning, he wasn’t going to make any assumptions about where they might be heading.
But he wished he knew why.
Heather Cynster’s reputation was, he judged, irretrievably ruined by now. Once he confirmed that, his mother would have got her wish, and he and his would be safe once more, but that wasn’t as he would have had it.
The best-laid plans. . too often went awry.
Especially when women were involved.
He truly hadn’t wished the silly chit any harm, but. . regardless of what had occurred between her and the man who was traveling with her, his intentions remained unchanged. He would follow, catch them up, and make sure she was protected — either by that opportunistic bastard, or by himself.
Whichever way she preferred it.
Drawing near the inn, he raised his head, drew in a tired breath, and made a mental vow. Tomorrow, one way or another, he would make atonement for his recent sins. He’d find the fleeing pair, and then he’d learn what fate had planned for Heather Cynster — and what fate, fickle female, had planned for him.
Chapter Thirteen
They bade farewell to Mrs. Croft soon after the sun had sailed into the blue sky. Heather had woken in the ghostly light of predawn to find the bed beside her empty. Almost immediately she’d heard the distinctive
By the time she’d risen, washed, and dressed, made the bed and packed their satchels, then finally gone downstairs, Mrs. Croft had been busy in the kitchen, tending pans on her stove, and Breckenridge had been perched on the kitchen stool, sipping from a steaming mug of coffee.
With a cheery good morning, Heather had slipped into the second kitchen chair and had promptly been regaled with a catalogue of Breckenridge’s virtues, from which she’d gathered he’d cut enough wood to last Mrs. Croft into the next week.
They’d parted from the widow on excellent terms. Heather had approved of the sizeable tip Breckenridge had left on the washstand upstairs.
They set out from Craigdarroch, striding easily into a morning that looked set to be fine, although mist still clung about the nearby peaks and shrouded their way up ahead.
Breckenridge had taken her hand again; she’d refrained from pointing out that the lane was relatively even and she was unlikely to trip.
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure why he insisted, albeit wordlessly, on holding on to her, but she wasn’t about to eschew the contact. Even as they strode along, it was pleasant to feel the connection, the implied closeness.
A hundred yards further on, it occurred to her that his hold on her hand might be read as possessive, as indicating some degree of possession. . she was immediately distracted by her response to the thought, to the possibility — which, in her experience, with a man of his ilk was quite high — that his action, whether unthinking or deliberate, was a sign that he saw her, in that typical, inherently male way, as
Some part of her wasn’t at all bothered by the notion of him seeing her as
Given her aversion to possessively protective, ergo arrogantly high-handed males — such as her brothers and cousins — that lack of antagonism struck her as strange.
Strange, but somehow comfortable.
Their hearty breakfast of porridge and honey stood them in good stead as they marched steadily on. As Breckenridge had predicted, the lane rose for several miles, wending around the flanks of hills and through a large stretch of forest. But then they climbed a rise and, halting on the crest, saw the land and the lane gently fall away into a green valley. Beyond, in the distance, another line of hills marched in a hazy purple line across the horizon.
Heather pointed. “Those are the hills at the back of the Vale.” Lowering her arm, she searched the far side of the valley, then pointed again. “And that’s about where the Vale itself lies, but we can’t see the manor from here.”
Breckenridge nodded. While Heather looked ahead, trying to pick out familiar landmarks, he glanced back along their trail — and froze.
From where they stood, he couldn’t see much of the lane they’d walked that morning, but by a fluke of the landscape he could see all the way back to just outside Moniaive.
To the horseman riding confidently along, following their trail.
To be accurate, the man was riding along on the same narrow lane they’d followed, but they were well out in the country and as yet had seen no one else traveling the lane. .
Turning, Breckenridge retook Heather’s hand. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
She threw him a curious look but consented to stride along again.
If he could see the man, then if the man glanced up, he might see them. Best, Breckenridge thought, that they headed for the Vale as rapidly as they could. With Heather beside him, he could only go so fast, but he set a good pace and she obligingly kept up.
While shooting speculative glances his way.
Finally she asked, “What is it?” Her eyes narrowed on his face. “What did you see?”
He briefly met her eyes, considered not answering, or even lying. . instead replied, “A man on a horse. A good-looking horse.”
Her eyes widened. “You think he’s the laird?”
She immediately craned her head to look back.
He tugged her forward. “He’s well back — just out of Moniaive, I think. And I can’t tell if the rider might be our villain. It’s easier to see that the horse is of good quality, but the man is dark-haired and looks to be large.”
“And he’s wealthy enough to own a good horse.”
He nodded, striding on at an increased pace, one she could only just manage. “But we’ve passed the entrance of quite a few drives, quite a few large estates. Mrs. Croft mentioned there were several about. The man could just be a local riding home. Regardless, I’d rather not meet him on such a desolate stretch.”
A little way along, she predictably said, “What if we—”
