Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 10

  “Hmm.” He resumed his position on the bench, beside her. “So what have you learned?”

  He’d spoken in a muted whisper. She did the same, leaning close, nearer his broad and distinctly comforting shoulder. That was one thing she was learning to appreciate that she hadn’t previously admired; his size was reassuring. “First, as to the question you asked—whether Fletcher and Cobbins had spent much time in Glasgow. According to Fletcher, they’ve made it their base for the last two or more years—several, he said.” She studied Breckenridge’s unshaven and strangely more ruggedly handsome face. “So what does that tell you?”

  He hadn’t been looking particularly happy—she was starting to be able to see through his mask—but on hearing her words, his lips set in an openly grim line. “It suggests that this laird of theirs might well be more than that.” He met her gaze. “You know that a laird simply means someone who owns an estate?” When she nodded, he went on, facing forward once more. “If their laird had been of the lower gentry, he would have had an accent, and if Fletcher and Cobbins had been in Glasgow for more than a year, they should have been able to pick it as either lowland or highland. Glasgow is the second-largest city in Scotland, and the largest port. Scots from all over the country congregate there. Hearing the different accents and learning to distinguish them, given Fletcher’s and Cobbins’s trade, would have been something they would have learned to do, almost as second nature.”

  He paused, then continued, “In fact, if you think about what Fletcher said, he specifically said they couldn’t pick where the man was from—so they’d tried, had expected to be able to tell, but couldn’t.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But what does that mean?”

  “It means we’re not dealing with a laird who hails from the lower gentry.” He glanced at her. “Scotland has excellent schools, in Edinburgh and elsewhere. If this laird was a nobleman’s son, he would have been sent to one for his schooling. He would have been schooled in English by En-glishmen, and encouraged to lose his accent the better to be regarded as civilized when south of the border. I’ve brushed shoulders with a few noble Scots in my time, and they speak as if they’d been to Eton.”

  She grimaced. “So our laird isn’t just any old landowner but most likely, if not certainly, a member of the aristocracy?”

  He nodded. “That’s how I’d interpret that.”

  She sighed, then said, “He’s coming here to collect me, as if I’m some package.” Feeling Breckenridge tense beside her, she hurried on. “However, Fletcher and Martha both said that he won’t be here for several more days—two more at least.” Glancing at Breckenridge, she met his stony gaze. “Apparently it’s going to take him that long at least to reach here, even though they sent their message on the night mail from Knebworth. If he’s still not here and won’t be for at least two more days . . .”

  She watched while Breckenridge did the same calculations she had.

  Watched as he pulled a very unBreckenridgelike face.

  “A highlander. He’s got to be a highlander. That message would have reached Edinburgh two days later. Even allowing for it having to be passed on by someone, it’s still been too long. I can’t imagine this laird, whoever he is, would have set this kidnapping plan in motion, and then gone off on a trip somewhere. He would have been waiting for word, and would surely set out as soon as he’d received it.”

  After a moment, Breckenridge met her gaze again. “There’s no other way to reasonably account for the delay. He must be a highlander.” He shook his head; when he spoke, his tone was faintly disgusted. “A highland nobleman. Who knows what ancient bones he might have to pick with the Cynsters?”

  She’d heard that her late uncle Sebastian and her long-dead grandfather Sylvester had both acted for the Crown in Scottish affairs at various times. Slowly, she nodded. “That might well be it—I’ve heard the Scots have long memories, especially about the wars and the clearances.”

  “Indeed.” After a moment, Breckenridge went on, “Regardless of his reasons, the fact he’s chosen this place, of all places in Scotland, to have you brought to and held until he arrives can’t mean anything good.”

  He glanced at Heather, drank in her profile, sensed the uncertainty and the instinctive aversion her expression didn’t truly show. She simply looked pale, a trifle haunted.

  As for him . . . the situation was significantly worse than he’d anticipated. If the laird truly was a Scottish nobleman, then while Breckenridge was in Scotland, even as Breckenridge, heir to the Earl of Brunswick, he would have a hard time countermanding the enemy. The Scots, understandably perhaps, had a habit of paying more attention to their own nobles, and too often taking any opportunity to bring the arrogant sassensachs down a peg or three. As he’d mentioned, he’d crossed a few Scottish lairds in his time; they tended to fight for keeps. The warrior and strategist inside him usually appreciated their tenacity, but not when Heather was in any way involved.

  Her safety was, and would continue to be, his paramount concern.

  “I think,” he said, catching her eyes as she lifted them to his face, “that you should leave with me now and return to London.”

  Slipping a hand free of his cloak, she laid it on his arm. He fought not to tense, to react in any way; it was almost as if she didn’t truly register what she’d done but drew comfort, perhaps reassurance, from the contact.

  “I’ve definitely considered doing just that, but . . .”

  He mentally gritted his teeth; of course she would have a “but.”

  Squeezing his arm lightly, she looked away, then retrieved her hand. Perversely he wanted her to put it back.

  “The laird won’t arrive tomorrow, and they’re not expecting him the next day, either.” Glancing up, she met his eyes. “So we have two more days in which to drag something—anything—from Fletcher and Cobbins that will allow us to identify the man, this mystery laird, and . . .” She drew breath, held his gaze. “I thought if we timed my escape to just before he arrives, then we might dally in the vicinity long enough to get a glimpse of him.”

  When he just looked at her and didn’t immediately reply, she put her hand on his arm again and leaned closer. “We’ve managed to come this far without any real difficulty—neither Fletcher, Cobbins, nor Martha has any inkling you’re here to rescue me, and I’ve been deliberately lulling them into thinking I’m resigned and helpless. With a few more days, who knows what we might learn, especially now we’ve reached Fletcher’s destination, so he might start to relax, at least in respect of what he lets fall?”

  All he needed to look at was the set of her chin to know he had no chance of dissuading her. As he also had no right to order her or insist—at least none she would recognize, let alone accept—his options were severely limited. Causing any sort of scene was out of the question. He’d worked out a plan that would allow him to save her with her reputation intact and unblemished, but a public fracas would put an end to that . . . and between them, the damage was already done, the die cast, the matter settled and sealed, and a few more days would alter none of it. Regardless, he put off agreeing, capitulating. Asked instead, “What questions do you think to pursue?’

  “I had thought to press them over where they’d sent their message, the one from Knebworth. How they had been instructed to contact this laird. Of course the message would have been sent to someone else to pass on. If this laird is careful enough to give them a false name, then he’s certainly not going to give them his address. So.” She exhaled, then went on, “My other questions have to do with what the laird knows of my sisters, my cousins, and me—what did he tell Fletcher and Cobbins? He clearly told them enough to allow them to find and follow me, but what else do they know?” She met his gaze. “The answers might shed light on who this laird is—is he someone we meet in London occasionally, who goes about within the ton? Or is all his information of the sort anyone with an interest could have l
earned, even from a distance?”

  He could do nothing else but incline his head. “Not a bad tack. And you’re right—it might tell us more.”

  A moment passed—a moment in which he rapidly reassessed and came to the same conclusion he had earlier. Inwardly grim, he nodded. “All right. We’ll use the next few days to see what more we can glean.” He met her gaze. “Both of us. In my latest disguise, I’ll be able to get closer to Fletcher and Cobbins. If you find me with them, remember you don’t know me—behave as you would to a lowly, unemployed clerk.”

  She grinned. “Is that what you are?”

  He fought against returning her smile; he could almost see her thinking what an excellent tale this might be to tell of him later. “But there’s one thing you can do that I can’t—question Martha.”

  She frowned. “She wasn’t there when they met the laird.”

  “No, but they’ll have told her about the meeting, and about the man. If I know women—and I do—she’ll have formed a view of this laird based not just on what Fletcher and Cobbins told her but how they’d felt and reacted. They might well have communicated more to her than they themselves are aware of. Regardless, I’d put more faith in Martha’s view of the man than in theirs.”

  She was nodding slowly. “Yes—I understand.” She briefly met his gaze. “Women are more observant in that regard.”

  He grunted. “Possibly.” She might be more observant in that sense, but she hadn’t yet realized that courtesy of this adventure of hers, he and she were doomed to wed. The prospect of how she might react when she did realize flitted through his brain. He shifted restlessly. “So you ask your questions, and then see what you can extract from Martha. I’ll concentrate on drawing close enough to encourage Fletcher and Cobbins to confide in me man-to-man.” He met her gaze. “Even more importantly, however, I’ll put my mind to arranging your escape.”

  She nodded, quite brightly. “All in all, that’s a sound plan.”

  He drank in her approval, the eagerness and agreement investing her face, her eyes, and registered the novelty of her looking at him like that. This adventure of hers had had its beneficial aspects. Quite aside from allowing him to see her in a considerably different light, he’d found himself challenged by the situation in ways that were entirely outside the norm; meeting each new testing of his mettle and his mind left him with a sense of triumph he’d forgotten he enjoyed.

  And while his primary objective was to keep her safe, like her, he was increasingly intrigued over who the mystery laird might be and his reasons for such a strange action; he felt increasingly certain that the Cynsters would be grateful for whatever he could learn, just as long as he kept Heather safe.

  Heather studied his eyes; the melding colors appeared softer, less crystalline. She realized her hand still rested on his arm; she’d somehow just left it there. Administering a quick pat, she retrieved her hand; facing forward, she tucked it back under the cloak.

  His cloak; she could smell the subtle scent of him insidiously wrapping about her.

  It was altogether peculiar, this shift in her view of him. She’d always been attracted to him, but then what lady of the ton wasn’t? According to the gossipmongers, not even seventy-year-old dowagers were immune to his charms. Yet that didn’t explain why she now felt far more attracted than previously.

  From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him sidelong, took in the shabby coat, the evolving beard, the much rougher appearance. If, in London, cloaked in sophisticated elegance, he held the power to fascinate, here, now, appearing one step up from a laborer, he exuded a raw masculine appeal that was much more potent. . . .

  She looked forward, fighting the impulse to fan herself.

  Conscious of the prickly awareness that, as always when he was near, crawled over her skin. She’d managed to ignore it, block it out, until then.

  Ridiculous. This was Breckenridge. A point she should strive not to forget. He might be her savior now, but no doubt he would later revert to being her nemesis.

  He might be treating her, dealing with her, as if he viewed her, trusted her, as an adult, an equal partner, but when this was all over he would doubtless go back to his usual ways, viewing her and treating her as if she were some silly young girl.

  Just because some inner demon was prompting her to thank him with a kiss—to seize the excuse just to see what it would feel like—didn’t mean she should surrender to the impulse.

  Forcing her limbs to function and take her away from his warmth, his magnetic strength, she rose. “I’d better get back upstairs. Thank you for the cloak.”

  She slipped it off her shoulders and immediately felt its loss.

  He’d looked up the instant she’d moved. He got to his feet and took the cloak from her. He met her eyes, hesitated for a moment, then murmured, “Let’s meet here tomorrow night.”

  She nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  Turning away, she slipped through the door before her demon got the better of her. While creeping up the stairs, she reminded herself of another pertinent consideration. At the moment she was dealing with Breckenridge reasonably well. If she kissed him, and he responded . . . she wasn’t at all confident that she would be strong enough to pull back.

  The lowering truth was she might not even try.

  And then where would they be?

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, Breckenridge, in his guise of Timms, unemployed solicitor’s clerk, was already in the tap, sipping a mug of coffee and reading a news sheet at a table by the window, when Fletcher and Cobbins, followed by Heather and Martha, came in. As he’d expected, Fletcher led his party to the same corner table they’d occupied the previous evening—the table next to his. He looked up as they neared, nodded to Fletcher and Cobbins, then, evincing no interest in Heather or Martha, returned his gaze to the news from Edinburgh.

  And listened.

  He knew better than to approach Fletcher and Cobbins, to show any further overt interest in them or their business. But it was cloudy and drizzly outside, and if they were waiting for their employer to arrive, it seemed unlikely the pair would venture forth, which meant they’d be seeking entertainment, most likely in the tap.

  Most likely with the only fellow guest, namely him. The three other travelers who’d stayed overnight had already breakfasted and gone on their way.

  His story of an old wound in his side would account for his continuing presence, especially given the inclement weather; turning over the news sheet, he sipped his coffee, and waited.

  The serving girl came bustling out to take their orders. Heather opted for the oatmeal porridge. Martha, Fletcher, and Cobbins gave their selections.

  Heather barely waited for the serving girl to leave before stating, “I need to get some air. A short walk after breakfast, just along the lane and back—”

  “Nope.” Fletcher cut her off. “Not here.”

  “Nonsense. Martha can come with me.”

  “Out in that wet muck?” Martha sounded faintly scandalized. “Thank you, miss, but I’m not stirring out of here.”

  “Too right,” Fletcher stated. “You aren’t going out of the inn today, nor yet tomorrow.”

  “Why?” Heather protested. “It’s not as if I’m likely to make a break for the hills.”

  “Don’t know, do we?” Fletcher responded. “But we have to wait here at least for two days, and I can’t see any sense in letting you get too acquainted with the lie of the land. I’ve already hired the private parlor.”

  Apparently idly, Breckenridge glanced up in time to see Fletcher nod in the direction of the closed door on the other side of the inn’s front hall.

  He looked down again as Fletcher continued, “You and Martha can just sit tight in there until your guardian’s man comes to collect you.”

  From beneath his lashes, Breckenridge saw Heather lean across the table to
ward Fletcher. Voice lowered, she hissed, “We both know there’s no guardian, and—”

  “We also both know that there’s nothing you can do.” Fletcher’s voice had hardened. “If you make a scene, I’ll tell the innkeeper our story, and I swear we’ll tie you up and sit you in the parlor. Your choice.”

  Even though he was no longer watching, Breckenridge could sense Heather’s fulminating glare.

  When silence reigned, heavy but unbroken, he felt a moment’s admiration for Fletcher; he’d succeeded in standing fast against Heather’s wheedling, which was more than he’d been able to do, and she hadn’t even wheedled at him.

  The serving girl returned with their breakfasts.

  Breckenridge called for more coffee and pretended to read the front page of the news sheet for the third time.

  Eventually, breakfasts consumed, Heather, prodded by Martha, rose and, nose in the air, swept huffily out of the tap. He couldn’t see her cross the hall, but he tracked her by her footsteps; she marched past the stairs, paused, presumably to open the parlor door, then went on. Martha’s heavier, shuffling footsteps followed in her wake. A second later, the parlor door softly shut.

  Fletcher and Cobbins resettled in their seats to savor their coffee.

  After ten minutes of desultory talk between the pair, Fletcher straightened, glanced around the empty tap, then turned to face Breckenridge.

  Breckenridge looked up, met Fletcher’s gaze.

  “Are you heading off, then?” Fletcher asked.

  Breckenridge shook his head. “Not for a few days.” He grimaced. “Getting back into that trap of mine would be torture. I’ll need a few days at least before the pain eases off.” He glanced toward the window. “Not that this weather’s helping, but it’d be worse if I was out driving in that.”

  “So you’re at loose ends?” Fletcher asked.

  “Until I can drive on again.”

  Fletcher grinned. “In that case, can I interest you in a game of cards?”

  Breckenridge smiled. “Why not?”