Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Very well.” Even to his ears, his voice sounded distant, not just detached but disengaged, soulless. “If that’s what you wish, so be it.”

He told his feet to move. To his relief, they did. He could barely see as he walked to the doorway. Reaching it, he paused, then over his shoulder said, “I’ll make arrangements to leave tomorrow.”

Alone didn’t need to be said.

Against all sense, despite all that had passed between them, he paused, waited, hoped, prayed that she would suddenly see her mistake, suddenly speak and reverse her decision. .

“That would probably be best.”

Hope died.

Dragging in a tight breath, he ducked under the arch and quietly started up the stairs.

Heather listened to his footsteps recede.

Wondered if she would ever feel warm again; she felt chilled to the core.

He was leaving — truly leaving. Going back to his life in the capital.

Leaving her there, alone and aching. . as she’d wanted. That was for the best, wasn’t it?

If she’d harbored any doubt that she loved him, immutably and ineradicably, she knew better now. Nothing but love was strong enough to evoke such icy, deadening pain.

But she knew all the arguments, knew it would never have worked, that there never truly had been any different option for her. For them.

She could still feel the tug, the witless but compelling impulse to rush after him and tell him she’d changed her mind, that she would marry him regardless. . but no. If after their wedding he turned to another. . that, she truly wouldn’t be able to bear.

Looking down, she forced her fingers to bunch the last of the herbs. Felt bitterness at the back of her throat, the sting of tears in her eyes.

Told herself the tears, and the deadening chill inside, were a small price to pay to escape the devastation that would otherwise have come her way.

Loving him as she did to the depths of her soul, yet not being loved in return, if she’d acquiesced and allowed herself to be bound to him in marriage. . when the inevitable happened, she might not have died, but she would have become as good as dead inside.

Despite the pain, despite any inner railing, despite all her rage and despair, she’d taken the right road; she knew it.

Better it end like this.

The afternoon was waning when, deep in the highlands, the laird rode into his castle bailey.

Alone he might be, yet he was glad to be home.

Swinging down from Hercules’ back, he smiled and returned the cheery greeting of the young whelp who came running to take the big gelding’s reins. He handed them over. “Give him a good rubdown and a helping of oats. He’s done well carrying me over the miles. Give the saddle bags to Mulley.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

With a last fond stroke down Hercules’ neck, he turned and crossed to the keep. Striding up the stone steps, he glanced up to the apex of the fluted arch rising above the massive, iron-studded door.

His family’s crest, now his, stood out in sharp relief, carved upon a stone shield.

Honor above all.

The motto was barely legible now; he hoped that wasn’t a portent.

Pushing open the heavy door, he crossed the threshold and felt the invisible weight of responsibility weigh on his shoulders again.

Not that he’d been in any danger of forgetting even the smallest tithe of that burden over the days he’d been away.

He heard his mother’s footsteps rushing eagerly down from her tower. Halting just inside the great hall, he exchanged greetings and a quiet word with his steward, then she was there, striding swiftly up the hall, her black skirts flaring behind her.

“Well? Where is she?” She tried to peer around him, as if he might have left Heather Cynster trussed like a bundle in the foyer.

He started walking toward the dais at the far end of the hall. “She’s not here, but you may well have got your wish.”

He sincerely hoped not, but. .

After confirming there truly was no captive hidden behind him, she whirled and swept after him. “What do you mean? What happened?”

Stepping onto the dais, he walked around and down the long oak table to the massive carved chair that sat midway along, facing the great hall. “I told you the men I’d hired to capture her had brought her as far as Gretna — that they were holding her there as I’d instructed.” Pulling out the massive chair, he slumped into it, leaned back. Felt the familiar worn wood at his back, beneath his thighs. One of the things that told him he was home.

Halting two yards away, his mother frowned peevishly. “Yes, yes — that’s why you went south. But what happened when you reached there?”

“By the time I got there, she’d escaped.” He turned to smile gratefully at his housekeeper as she stepped onto the dais, a tray in her hands. “Thank you, Mrs. Mack — you’ve saved my life.”

“Aye, well — you’ve been gone for over a week.” Briskly, she set before him a silver tankard of ale, a bowl of rich stew, and a platter with half a loaf of coarse country bread. “You get that into you — it’ll hold you until dinnertime, at least.”

Already breaking the bread, he nodded. Stopped himself from asking after the boys; on his other side, his mother was barely restraining herself from screeching.

“Escaped?” she hissed the instant Mrs. Mack was out of easy earshot.

He nodded. Mumbled around a bite of bread, “Yes, but not alone. With a man.” He didn’t see any point in airing his view that said man had been a gentleman, if not a nobleman of similar station to himself.

His mother straightened. A gleam of pure malice lit her once fine eyes. “A man?” She turned the word over, eventually murmured, “So the silly chit might well be ruined anyway?”

He forced himself to nod. “Very possibly.” With any luck, the silly chit was even now fronting some altar. “On top of that, by the time she escaped, she’d been in the kidnappers’ hands, alone as far as anyone in London knows, for a good ten days. More than enough to irretrievably sully her reputation.” He cocked a brow at his mother. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? No real need to bring the girl up here, just as long as she suffers — isn’t that what you want?”

“No!” Crossing her arms, she quite literally pouted. “I want to watch her suffer!” She glared at him. “Men! You never understand!”

She was in the right there. “Regardless, aside from viewing her disgrace and social ignominy in the flesh, with luck, you’ll yet get all you wish for.”

She snorted derisively. “There’ll be no scandal. Her damn family will have covered up her absence.”

“Possibly for a few days. But for well over a week? Difficult enough at any time, but during the Season? She’ll have had engagements, and repeating the same excuse will have quickly worn thin. There’ll have been questions, suspicions.” He popped the last bit of bread, carrying the last of the stew’s gravy, into his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, then looked down. “For all I — or you — know, she might well have vanished from the face of the earth by now.”

He seriously doubted it; an image of the man who had escorted Heather Cynster onto Cynster lands hovered in his mind’s eye. It seemed odd to be placing such faith in a stranger, let alone an Englishman, yet situations such as the one he faced made for strange bedfellows.

Pushing back his chair, he rose. Looked down at his mother, his expression as unencouraging as he could make it. “Regardless, until we hear for certain that she’s not ruined, our bargain will remain in abeyance.”

Stepping past her, he headed for his tower.

“Wait!” Hurrying after him, she gripped his sleeve. “You could go after one of the others.” When he didn’t slow, she skipped to keep up, gabbled, “Bring one of them here and I’ll give you back the goblet. You want it back in