she?”
He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes. Definitely.” He hesitated, then added, “I couldn’t live without her.”
Caro’s smile widened until she was beaming. “Wonderful! That’s just how it should be.”
He wasn’t so sure he needed to hear that; the sense of vulnerability and dependency took some getting used to; he wasn’t yet sure he’d mastered the knack. “Sadly, it seems that whenever I get close to a prospective wedding, I end up wounded. With you and Michael, I got shot and nearly died. This time, with me and Heather, I got gored and nearly died. I suppose I should be happy that Constance and Cordelia are already married.”
Caro laughed. “You probably escaped then because they’re so much older than you — you were only a lad when they wed.” She paused, head tilting as she studied him. Still smiling, she went on, “You’re a protector, you know. That’s what you are — that’s what you do. And now you’ve found the lady you’re supposed to protect for the rest of your life.” Her smile deepened. “Once you marry her, you’ll be safe.”
He humphed, but continued to smile, and didn’t attempt to argue.
Because she was right.
Heather was the lady he would protect for the rest of his life.
Five days later, he was up and about, but still largely confined to his room. Although he descended to the great hall to share meals with the household once more, Catriona and Algaria strongly discouraged any more extensive exercise.
As he was intent on regaining his customary rude health as soon as possible — so he and Heather could wed — he bit the bullet, held his tongue, and agreed to abide by their strictures.
Consequently, the meeting that had to be held between him, Richard, and Michael was conducted in the sitting area of his room. At least he was dressed; Caro had brought up trunks of both his and Heather’s clothes. In a loose shirt and breeches, with one of his colorful silk robes donned over all, he sat comfortably sprawled on one end of the sofa, while Richard lounged on the other end and Michael sat in an armchair facing them both.
“Right.” Michael met Breckenridge’s eyes. “What exactly do we know about this blackguard?”
Breckenridge grimaced. “Sadly, not enough.”
Richard stirred. “We do know that he’s some Scottish laird. That much seems certain.”
Breckenridge nodded. “He’s a tall, black-haired, large, and well set-up Scotsman, pale, cold eyes his most distinctive feature, and he’s at least a gentleman, almost certainly an aristocrat, and very likely a highland nobleman.”
“And he arranged to have Heather kidnapped in London and conveyed to Gretna Green, there to be handed over to him.” Michael’s face was grim.
“Actually, no,” Breckenridge said. “He arranged to have ‘one of the Cynster sisters’ kidnapped — he didn’t distinguish between at least the three of them — and according to Heather, that’s a highly pertinent fact.”
Richard frowned. “Why pertinent?”
“Because while she and Eliza are significant heiresses, Angelica is not. And Heather couldn’t tell whether Henrietta and young Mary were also possible targets.”
Michael frowned. “So whatever his motive is, it’s unlikely to be money.”
Breckenridge nodded. “And considering how much blunt he invested in the kidnapping scheme — all the wages and costs involved — I think we must conclude that he isn’t short of financial resources.”
“Definitely not money, then.” Richard caught Breckenridge’s eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask — do you think Gretna Green being nominated as the handover place was significant?”
Breckenridge grimaced. “It might have been — he might have intended to marry her as part of the plot — but equally it might have simply been convenient for some reason we don’t know.”
Richard nodded. “The man I sent to inquire in Gretna returned yesterday. No one there, including the magistrate, can add anything to the description we have. And Fletcher and Cobbins were freed by the laird — with plenty of bribes to go around — and they promptly disappeared, heading south at a good clip.”
Breckenridge humphed. “I doubt we’d find them too easily. I’d wager they’ll have been paid to go to ground. On top of that, I’m not sure they know any more than we now do — Heather did a fine job of milking them for everything they knew.”
Michael nodded. “We have to assume this man is clever enough, and has the resources, to cover his tracks well. So where does that leave us?”
“With no real clue to his identity, and even less as to his motive.” Expression grim, Breckenridge added, “And we shouldn’t forget that he knew enough about the family to describe the girls, and also to avoid coming into the Vale. Once he saw us walk in, and learned this was Cynster land, he retreated.”
All three fell silent, turning over all they knew.
Eventually, Richard said, “There’s nothing more we can deduce. We have a general description that could fit any number of highland lairds, and enough evidence to discount money as the motive. He’s clever, resourceful, and able, but beyond that, we know no more.”
Breckenridge nodded. “The point we need to address is that there are two more Cynster sisters in London, possibly four, if Henrietta and Mary are targets, too. Having failed with Heather, will this mysterious laird attempt to seize one of them?”
“Until we understand what’s behind this and nullify any threat, we need to consider that threat still extant.” Michael met Breckenridge’s, then Richard’s, eyes. “Until we know otherwise, we need to treat this as a serious, ongoing situation.”
Richard nodded. “I’ve already alerted Devil, but in general terms only.”
“Caro and I will leave tomorrow,” Michael said. “Our first stop in London will be Grosvenor Square, where I’ll report all we’ve managed to glean to Devil. He’ll make sure the other girls are protected and the rest of the family’s on guard.”
Richard winced. “I can see the battle lines forming. Us being on guard is not going to go over well with the young ladies in question.”
Breckenridge shrugged. “Be covert about it, then. Hell — enlist Wolverstone. He’ll know how to do it.”
Richard shook his head. “A sound idea, but we can’t. He — like me — has discovered his roots in the north. He’s holed up in his castle in Northumbria, and none of the grandes dames, let alone anyone else, has yet succeeded in winkling him out, not this Season.”
“He can still help,” Breckenridge said. “And, Lord knows, there are plenty of his married colleagues about who’d be happy to assist.”
Michael nodded. “That’s true enough. I’ll suggest it.” He met the others’ eyes. “And I’ll make sure the gravity of the situation is made very clear. For whatever reason, the Cynster girls appear to be under siege.”
Two nights later, Breckenridge lay on his back in his bed and stared up at the shadowy canopy.
Michael and Caro had left the day before, bearing with them news of his and Heather’s impending betrothal, along with a notice he’d crafted for the
All was well on that front.
He hadn’t even had to utter the word he didn’t want to say, swear the vow he hadn’t wanted to swear.
Make the admission he hadn’t wanted to make.
He’d been spared, by Heather, and for that he was inexpressibly grateful.
If Catriona hadn’t extracted his promise that he wouldn’t stir from his bed, from the room, until the next day, he would have been on his way to Heather’s room to demonstrate how grateful he was.
The bandages that had wrapped his torso so restrictingly for the past weeks had been removed for good that evening. The stitches Catriona had set in his flesh were tiny, and her doctoring had proved exceptional; the scar was a short, puckered seam at the side of his waist, and he no longer felt any pain. Nevertheless, Catriona had insisted that he remain within the room until tomorrow morning; she wanted to examine how the exposed scar was faring before releasing him to the wider world.
But from tomorrow, he would be free. Free to walk the gardens, then the nearby land, regaining the strength in his legs. Free to ride after that. Free to engage in all sorts of other activities that the injury had denied him.
His mind, predictably, fixated on one particular activity. Clasping his hands behind his head, he stared, unseeing, upward, unable to keep his imagination from churning. . which really didn’t help at all. He’d given his word
