Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

with the last.

For long moments, she sat on the rail, stared at the manor, and let her brain absorb that inner succor.

Gradually, her mind cleared.

All the distracting issues faded, slid away, until she felt bedrock beneath her mental feet.

Until she saw clearly, and saw her true path. The only path she could follow and remain true to herself, true to her dream, to the ambition that had sent her to Lady Herford’s salon so many evenings ago.

That had been the start of it, and she hadn’t yet reached the end of her road.

She couldn’t—could not—give up at this point just because the way forward had become unbearably hard. She had to fight if she wanted to succeed.

The rose quartz pendant hanging between her breasts impinged on her senses.

Catriona had told her she’d have to risk her heart if she wanted to secure his. In her innocence, she’d thought that had meant she’d have to show her love for him before he would reciprocate. But that had been too easy, no real test.

She faced her real test now — to take her courage in both hands, return with him to London, accept his proposal, accept him and the possibility of his love, and then keep working, keep fighting, to lead him to love her as she loved him, to secure her envisaged golden future for them both.

That was her ultimate risk — the ultimate throw of the dice.

The ultimate committing of herself into the hands of fate.

Or, as the case might well be, of the Lady.

She blew out a breath. She felt far from sure of the hows and wheres, yet. . inside, a steady resolve, a certainty that had risen from her depths, both buoyed and anchored her.

So, what next?

She was deep in cogitation, mentally evaluating several ways in which to couch her change of mind, when the sound of piping voices drew her gaze to the side of the manor.

To Lucilla and Marcus.

Emerging from the shadows of the manor’s walls, both looked up, spotted her, and pointed.

And tugged forward the man whose hands they’d captured.

Breckenridge.

High-pitched voices chattering, the twins towed him toward her.

She stared, horrified by the thought that the twins had decided to play matchmaker and intended to haul Breckenridge to stand before her, then lecture them both. . “Oh, no.”

Yes, they needed to talk — she needed to tell him she’d changed her mind, needed to somehow find a way to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened between them, but to have a confrontation forced on them, along with an avid audience. . oh, no, no, no.

But she could hardly leap down and run away.

The trio came on, Breckenridge clearly reluctant, but with little experience of children, let alone a pair like the twins, he clearly had no notion of how to escape.

Besides, Lucilla was prattling nonstop, giving her captive no chance to protest.

Lucilla and Marcus reached the opening to the track, about twenty yards away from where Heather sat. Abruptly dropping Breckenridge’s hands, eyes shining, faces alight, the pair came running, laughing and waving, toward her.

Heather’s gaze remained on Breckenridge — and his gaze was on her.

He slowed, then halted at the opening of the track. As if uncertain of his welcome.

That uncertainty was so far removed from his customary arrogance that it struck her to the heart.

He was hurting, too.

The twins were nearly upon her; she switched her gaze to them. The pair had their hands up, waving above their heads, apparently wanting to seize her hands.

Summoning a weak smile, she released her hold on the rail to either side. Balancing precariously — it would only be for a second — she held her hands out to them, one to each side.

They reached her. Two small palms struck each of hers.

Instinctively she’d shifted her weight back, expecting them to catch and pull, but neither did.

The unexpected impacts rocked her back.

To her utter amazement, she felt herself tipping.

She shrieked.

Arms wildly flailing, she toppled back off the rail.

Heard Breckenridge shout her name as she went down.

“Oof!” She landed in a heap on a cushion of green.

The ground beyond the fence was slightly lower than the track. Dragging in a breath, she blew hair from her face. An instant’s thought confirmed she hadn’t broken any bones, that the grass by the fence, less clipped by the animals, had been sufficiently thick to save her. She was shaken and winded, but not much else. She struggled up onto her elbows and saw two pale, horrified faces staring through the slats.

She managed a wobbly smile. “I’m not hurt.”

The ground reverberated as Breckenridge raced up. Gathering her skirts, she got her feet under her, raised her voice, and said, “I’m all right.”

Straightening, she glanced again at the twins’ faces. .

They weren’t looking at her.

They were transfixed by something behind her, and looking increasingly terrified. .

Nerves suddenly jumping, senses prickling, she slowly turned, and looked across the paddock — at the massive, shaggy-coated highland bull that, head ominously lowered, huge, sharp horns pointing her way, evil yellow eyes fixed balefully on her, was pawing the ground twenty paces away.

The monstrosity snorted violently.

Even as she registered the bunching of the bull’s muscles, Breckenridge vaulted the fence and landed beside her. “Quickly.”

He grabbed her, hoisted her, and swung her over the top of the fence.

She stumbled as he released her but immediately whirled.

The bull had started his charge; the furious thuds of his heavy hooves racing toward the fence shook the ground.

Breckenridge flung one arm over the top railing.

She seized his sleeve with both hands and hauled. “Hurry! Hurry!”

He rose up one rung—

The bull struck.

The fence rocked, shuddered, bowed.

Breckenridge gasped, eyes going wide, blind with pain. .

Her gaze on his face, Heather lost her breath.

She glanced down and saw a blood-tipped horn protruding through the slats. “Oh, no.”

With a hideous snort, the bull yanked and pulled back.

Breckenridge’s eyes closed. He started to slump.

“No!” The bull was circling. Climbing halfway up the fence, Heather grabbed the back of Breckenridge’s jacket, yanked desperately. “Come on! You have to get over.”

With an horrendous effort, he gathered himself. His muscles were quivering as he managed to climb up another rung.

Hauling, tugging, Heather looked at the twins, standing with eyes wide and mouths open. “Help me!”

Marcus broke through the shock first. He came rushing up, climbed the fence on Breckeridge’s other side, grabbed and hauled, too.

Then Lucilla was there, but rather than try to assist directly, she climbed up further down the fence, pointed an imperious finger at the bull, and started singing a strange little ditty.

Heather glanced at the bull — with immense relief saw the beast watching Lucilla, distracted and no longer