There was no sign on the stonework — a carved stone plaque or anything similar — to give a clue as to which house it might be. Although he knew the general geography of the region, he didn’t know whose estate it was. . but he had an inkling.
Regathering Hercules’ reins, he turned the big gelding and trotted on along the lane through Knockgray. A few inquiries at the nearest tavern should give him the details he required to set his mind completely at ease.
The lane joined the Ayr road just south of the village of Carsphairn. A small country tavern in the middle of the village appeared perfect for his needs. Dismounting, he left Hercules tethered in the inn yard and went in.
Slouching on the bar, he ordered a pint of ale. A few comments on the weather, and a speculation about the upcoming harvest, delivered with a strong hint of his native brogue, and he was accepted and free to say, “Passed the entrance to an estate just a little ways back.” With a tip of his head, he indicated the road south. “Didn’t say whose it might be, but the land looked lush.”
An old codger seated on a stool along the bar nodded. “Och, aye — that’d be the Vale.”
“Vale?”
The old man exchanged a glance with the barkeep, then shrugged. “Vale o’ Casphairn, it be. Owned by the Lady, and her husband, Mr. Cynster.”
“Good man, Mr. Cynster.” The barkeep polished a glass. “Comes in here now and then.”
He nodded easily and let the subject drop, asking instead about the state of the road to Ayr. Not that he intended to go that way, but they didn’t need to know that.
He remained at the bar, slowly sipping his ale, feeling relief, now complete, slide through him. He’d studied the Cynsters enough to have stumbled across the information that Richard Cynster had married some lowland witch, who, it seemed, owned the Vale of Casphairn.
Little wonder why Heather Cynster and her protector had headed down the Vale’s drive.
And that meant they were now safe. Back in the bosom of the Cynster clan.
Setting down his empty mug, he saluted the old man and the barkeep, and left the tavern. Despite the total failure of his plan, he felt oddly lighthearted; although the outcome wasn’t what he’d planned, what he’d wanted, much less what he needed, he felt irrationally pleased that — thanks to fate — he’d avoided disaster. A disaster he wouldn’t have been able to easily live with, that would have darkened the rest of his days.
Outside, he greeted Hercules, then mounted. The gelding sensed his lighter mood and pranced, anticipating a run. Grinning, he patted Hercules’ powerful neck, then turned the horse out into the road, dropped the reins, and let him fly.
Clinging, crouched low, hands sunk in the streaming mane, the air whistling past his face, he felt the powerful bunch and release of the horse’s muscles beneath him, and for that moment simply savored the thrill.
The freedom.
Illusory though it was, he’d take what he could of it, what surcease he could find.
On one level, the most visceral level, the thought made his soul sing.
On another, more immediate plane, it brought unwelcome reminders of what waited for him there — of the chaos and catastrophe it was his lot to avert.
His role to make right.
However he could, however he might.
Whatever he had to do, he would. He had no other choice.
But that was for tomorrow. For today, he was free.
Afternoon was waning into evening, the sun dipping behind the western hills, leaving shadows lengthening and the air cooling, when Heather and Breckenridge walked up the last rise and into the wide forecourt before Casphairn Manor.
The manor was a large, many-gabled stone building with three storeys under the slate roof and three turrets reaching to the sky. Built of dark gray stone, the house was irregular in shape yet seemed somehow balanced, settled on a slight rise with a small river coursing past. Gardens, currently bursting with life, filled the gentle slope between the house and the river. Breckenridge had glimpsed a jumble of outbuildings behind the house, with all the trappings of a busy, productive farm.
They weren’t even halfway across the forecourt when the massive double front doors flew open and three children raced out.
“Heather!”
“Mama, Papa — Heather’s
Breckenridge suppressed a wince; after the silence of the wide valley, the serenity and peace, the high- pitched screech was an aural assault. But then he glanced at Heather, saw the quality of the smile that split her face as she stepped forward and opened her arms wide, and decided he would have to forgive the hooligans. Anything that gave her that much joy. .
The two eldest children slammed into her; he put his hand to her back to steady her, though she hardly seemed to notice as she fiercely hugged the pair.
“Lucilla!” Heather placed a kiss on one shining coppery-red head, then hugged the black-haired boy and released him. “Marcus.”
She transferred her attention to the youngest of the three, bending as the girl reached her so the child could fling her arms about her neck. “And Annabelle.” After exchanging another near-violent hug and kiss, Heather straightened and looked toward the door, just as her cousin Richard came striding out. “Is your mother at home?” she asked the children, her gaze on Richard.
“Yes, but she was in the nursery with Calvin and Carter,” Lucilla reported, “so she’ll still be rushing down the stairs.”
Breckenridge fixed his gaze on the tall, black-haired gentleman striding across the gravel. He knew Richard, thank God, and Richard knew him. This was going to be awkward enough as it was.
Richard’s cornflower-blue eyes rapidly assessed Heather, then he swooped and swept her up into a tight hug. “We’ve all been worried, you ninnyhammer. About time you showed up somewhere.”
“Believe me,” Heather said, returning the hug, “we came as fast as we could.”
Easing his hold on her, Richard held her at arm’s length, then, apparently reassured as to her health, he released her and turned his narrowing gaze on Breckenridge. After an instant’s hesitation, Richard nodded curtly and held out his hand. “Breckenridge.”
“Richard.” Breckenridge clasped the proffered hand, shook it. “I assume you’ve heard—”
“Heather! About time!” Relief, albeit collected and calm, rang in the words.
Glancing at the house, Breckenridge saw a vividly beautiful lady walking smoothly their way, skirts and shawl gently streaming behind her in the light breeze. Hair the color of bright copper-red lit by the sun was gathered in a knot on the top of her head, strands wreathing loose to frame a face with delicate features and a surprisingly firm chin. Richard’s witchy wife was a little taller than average, slender and curvaceous rather than svelte. Breckenridge had met Catriona only once before, at Caro’s wedding. Now, as then, she effortlessly exuded an aura of calm, of confidence and serene assurance.
Reaching Heather, Catriona enveloped the younger woman in a warm embrace, kissing her cheek.
Beaming, Heather returned the hug and kiss. “We had to come here — I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not! We’re simply thankful you’ve arrived safe and sound.” Catriona’s eyes, vibrant green flecked with gold, shifted to Breckenridge. She looked at him for a moment — truly looked as few others ever did, deeply enough to make him wonder what the devil she was seeing — then her radiant smile lit her face and she extended her hand. “Breckenridge. If Richard hasn’t already said so, we’re indebted to you for rescuing Heather and conducting her to us in safety.”
There was a certain satisfaction in Catriona’s voice. Ignoring it, Breckenridge took her fingers and — for the first time in too many days — called up his usual persona and bowed over the delicate digits. “Catriona. A pleasure, although I might wish it was in different circumstances.”
Her lips quirked. “Indeed, I imagine you might. However”—turning, she held out her arms and waved, effortlessly gathering her brood, Heather and Breckenridge, and her husband, and directing them all back toward the house—“you’re here now, so let’s get you inside before the light fails and the wind blows cold.”
Falling in beside Richard at the rear of the small company, with the children dancing ahead and shooting questions one on top of the other at Heather, Breckenridge seized the opportunity to say, “We had to walk from
