“No. We are not setting a trap, or finding some place to watch as he rides by, on the off-chance he’s our villain.” He glanced at her warningly. “We need to concentrate on getting you safely to the Vale.” And he wasn’t about to let any potential villain get between them and that goal.
He was carrying one of the pistols he’d bought in his coat pocket. It was primed and ready, but if he drew it and leveled it at their pursuer. . there were far too many variables in that scenario. What if the horseman had a gun, too, or worse, a shotgun?
If it had just been him, he would have been tempted to do exactly as she wanted, but with her by his side he couldn’t afford to attempt any action that had an even long-odds risk of leaving her without protection. He couldn’t risk tangling with the man on horseback in case the rider
It went against the grain to run, but. .
He glanced at her. “Tell me if I’m going too fast for you. We’ll walk on without stopping. We can eat while we walk.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then, somewhat to his surprise — he’d expected some protest, at the very least a tart comment — she nodded and looked ahead. “All right.”
After a moment, Heather added, “I can keep up this pace for a while longer.”
He nodded and they strode on, his hand clasping hers more firmly than before.
She’d been tempted to press her point, but then she’d looked into his eyes, felt his tensed grasp. . understood. He needed to keep her safe. Yet instead of trying to shield her from the reality of the potential threat at their heels, instead of lying or spinning her some tale about why they needed to hurry on, as her brothers assuredly would have, he’d treated her like a sensible adult and shared the truth and his deductions with her.
For that alone she felt compelled to do what she could to make things easier by acceding to his wishes.
She hadn’t thought of it before, but clearly being intimate with her had rescripted his view of her; he certainly wasn’t treating her like a schoolgirl anymore.
She wasn’t about to complain about that — indeed, accepted female wisdom, the kind passed on by Lady Osbaldestone and Heather’s aunt Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, held that the correct response when a male of Breckenridge’s class improved his behavior was to reward him.
Five steps on, she abruptly halted. He immediately swung to face her, agate storm clouds in his eyes. She stepped into him, framed his face with her hands, tugged him down as she stretched up and kissed him.
Despite their situation, she sensed the leap of his response, like a hungry hound, one he quickly releashed and drew back.
Inwardly smiling, she broke the kiss; opening her eyes, she lowered her hands.
He frowned down at her. “What was that for?”
She let her smile show. “Just a thank-you.” Retaking his hand, she started on down the lane.
In two steps he was by her side again. He stared at her face — she felt his gaze — but then he humphed and looked forward.
Resettling his hand once more around hers, he strode on.
Inwardly delighted, still smiling, she set herself to keeping pace.
They reached the first landslide a mile or so on. From the crest of the rise, the lane had descended more steeply than on the way up, its surface increasingly gouged and eroded by the runoff from the thaw and the spring rains.
“Careful.” Halting Heather, Breckenridge eyed the loose shingle, a load of scree that had come loose from further up the hillside to slide over the lane, burying it. He’d crossed scree before while walking in the Peak District; he knew what to do. “Follow as closely as you can in my footsteps.”
Still holding Heather’s hand, he picked his way across.
Despite a small slip or two, they reached the other side without serious incident.
Blowing out a breath, Heather looked back over the unstable patch. “That’ll slow a horse, won’t it?”
He nodded. “He’ll have to be extremely careful, but it’s not so deep a horse won’t be able to negotiate it. The horse just won’t want to, so it depends on how good the rider is, and how well the horse knows him.”
“If the horse trusts him.” Settling her hand in his, Heather waved ahead. “Onward.”
The second landslide was a half a mile further on, another stretch of scree, rather more extensive than the last.
Breckenridge felt a lot more confident once they were across it. “If he’s still following, that will definitely slow him down.”
They set off again. The sun rose ever higher as they swung along. If anything, the surface of the lane deteriorated even further, until it was unlikely the rider would be able to ride, not if he valued his horse.
About them, spring seemed determined to take hold, to wrest the land from winter’s drab grip. Swallows and larks swooped high above; a cuckoo called from deep in the woods that formed a solid green barrier ahead.
The lane led straight on between the trees. Bushes grew thick, increasingly tall as they descended from the more desolate heights. Breckenridge glanced back several times, but the lay of the land, the twists in the lane, hid any pursuer from his sight.
They reached an intersection. A wider lane ran to both left and right. They paused and looked both ways. The tree-and bush-lined lane looked identical in both directions.
“Right, I think,” Heather said. “If I remember correctly, there’ll be a small loch on the other side of the lane just a little way along.”
Hauling out his map, Breckenridge consulted it, then nodded. “Right.”
They’d kept up a good pace, and the lane, unrideable in some places, would have slowed the rider if he was still on their trail. Nevertheless, Breckenridge felt his instincts stir as they turned onto the wider, and much better surfaced, lane.
The loch Heather remembered was soon visible through the trees on their left. Long and thin, it followed the lane, or rather the lane followed its shore, steadily heading northwest.
He had to quash the urge to keep looking behind. He would hear a rider approaching from a good distance away; he’d have enough warning to take cover, and with the bushes lining the lane now so plentiful and thick, they’d be able to find a decent hiding place.
Although he had no idea if the rider was still following, and hadn’t instead turned off along the way, his instincts kept flickering. He’d never felt so on edge, so. . protectively aware. And while the wiser part of him understood that his acute reaction was due to the fact that it was Heather walking beside him, that it was she — the lady he’d all but formally claimed as his bride — who was at risk, most of his conscious mind didn’t want to dwell on any concomitant implications.
He just wanted her safe in the Vale.
Heather walked steadily beside Breckenridge, at the fastest pace she could manage. She wondered if he thought she was oblivious of the tension gripping him, that all but hummed through him. His face, unreadable though it remained, had taken on a graven cast, the lines of the austere planes more harsh and honed.
He was totally and completely focused on the danger that potentially followed in their wake.
She, meanwhile, felt none of the fear she certainly would have felt had she been fleeing alone. She wasn’t unaware of the danger, yet with Breckenridge beside her, her mind remained clear. If danger did indeed catch up with them, she would need her wits about her — not least to ensure they both got free and he didn’t do anything recklessly and possibly unnecessarily brave.
That he might — that, if the situation to his mind called for it, he would — she had not the slightest doubt.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. As they marched on through a golden afternoon, she remembered perfectly clearly what had taken her to Lady Herford’s salon on that fateful night over a week ago.
She’d been looking for a hero.
And she’d found one.
He definitely wasn’t the hero she’d imagined finding, but he was a hero nonetheless.
Not that he was
Regardless, in the current circumstances, she would appreciate the hero she had.
