Stephanie Laurens - Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

Almost as if he’d heard her question, he pushed back his chair and rose. News sheet in hand, he briefly looked her way. Her captors didn’t raise their heads, didn’t lift their eyes from their plates.

Breckenridge captured her gaze, then turned his head and looked further down the dining room. Heather followed his gaze and saw a pair of glass-paned doors at the rear of the room. From what she could see through the doors, the room beyond was the hotel bar’s snug.

Shifting her gaze carefully back, she checked her companions-still oblivious-then briefly raised her eyes to Breckenridge as he walked slowly to the dining room door. She didn’t dare nod, but she met his gaze, then he looked back at his news sheet and continued walking. He passed through the door; a second later, she heard his footsteps climbing the stairs.

“I haven’t been along this road before.” She glanced at Martha and Cobbins. “I noticed there’s a ruined castle just down the road, overlooking the bridge. Are there any other particular sights we might pass in the coach tomorrow?”

Martha shook her head but looked curiously at the other two.

Cobbins shrugged. “Couple of old castles not far from the road, and a Roman fort or two, but there’s not much left to see of those, not from the road, anyways.”

Fletcher scowled at her. “You’ll see what you’ll see.” Setting his napkin beside his plate, he pushed back his chair. “Time for you and Martha to retire, seeing you’ve another long day in the coach to look forward to.”

Heather met his eyes, then inclined her head and rose.

Escorted by the trio, she climbed the stairs and headed toward their rooms.

S he crept back down the stairs as the clocks throughout the hotel’s reception rooms bonged and chimed with a single peal. One o’clock; she hadn’t dared creep out earlier. The room she shared with Martha was this time next door to the one in which Fletcher and Cobbins slept; to get to the stairs, she’d had to pass their door.

Martha might sleep like one dead and snore like a walrus to boot, but Heather was much more wary of Fletcher, and even the taciturn Cobbins.

She descended the stairs close by the wall, careful to avoid squeaks. Gaining the foyer, she hugged the shadows and slipped into the dining room. With no curtains at the windows, there was light, faint but enough to see her way; on slippered feet she padded to the glass-paned doors. She peered through, into a room shrouded in shadows. The snug was L-shaped. The nearer section was dark, but the other arm was softly, a touch eerily, lit by the moon.

Drawing a fortifying breath, she reached for the doorknob, turned it, pushed open one door, and slid through. Eyes wide, trying to pierce the shadows, she eased the door closed, heard it click.

Holding her breath, she stepped out, heading for the better-illuminated section of the room.

Hard hands closed about her upper arms.

She started-very nearly squeaked-then once again wilted with relief as Breckenridge drew her back, closer to his large, warm body; he’d been standing in the dense shadows by the wall.

“Shssh.”

The order-despite the sibilant sound, she was quite sure it was an order-shivered across her ear.

Irritated, she glanced up and back. “If you’d stop scaring me witless, I wouldn’t make a sound.”

For a moment, their eyes met through the dimness. Their faces were close. Then he released her and eased back. “Would you rather I’d tapped you on the shoulder?”

She humphed. “No, but-” She broke off as he swiped up a large document from a nearby table, along with his cloak. “What’s that?” She nodded at the document.

“A map. I’m not as familiar with this area as I’d like.” He flicked out the cloak and draped it about her shoulders.

It was long enough to pool about her feet.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a touch surprised that he’d been so thoughtful. She had been a trifle cold in her makeshift robe, and she’d washed her stockings, so she didn’t even have them on.

“Just keep it close.” Through the cloak, he grasped her elbow. “We should be safe around the corner.”

Assuming his injunction was a warning to keep the cloak, voluminous on her, from tripping her or getting caught in the chairs, she obediently snuggled the folds closer-and felt the warmth still clinging to the material, detected a scent she associated with him-pine and very male.

The scent wreathed through her head and played havoc with her attention. Luckily, he steered her steadily on, tacking between the tables and chairs to round the corner of the bar and reach the more secluded and better-lit area.

Breckenridge released her by a table beneath one window. The moon gave them enough light to see, both each other’s faces and the map.

Heather sat, gathering the cloak about her, hiding all the distractions he didn’t need to see.

He drew out the chair opposite, placed the map on the table as he sat. “First, tell me what you learned today-I assume you made some headway?”

She nodded. “He-the man who arranged this-is a Scotsman, at least Fletcher and Cobbins believe he is. They describe him as a ‘laird,’ but on what grounds they decided he’s a large landowner, I’m not sure. He’s apparently black-haired with cold eyes-neither remember the color-and a particularly devilish black frown. And he’s large and apparently not a man they’d willingly cross.”

When she paused, he asked, “That’s all?”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “And I know there must be hundreds if not thousands of Scottish lairds who fit that description. I did try for something more distinctive-a scar, ring, injury-but Fletcher cut me off at that point.”

“He cut you off?”

“Hmm. I could be wrong, but I think my asking questions made him realize how little he actually knows about this man they’re working for. They don’t even know if he came to their meeting in Glasgow in a carriage, or if he rode, and if so, what type of horse.”

Leaning both forearms on the table, Breckenridge considered all they’d thus far learned. He debated, but in the end shifted his gaze and met her eyes. “Are you ready to escape them and return to London?”

She held his gaze for a long moment, enough to have him hoping… but then she said, evenly and reasonably, “I’ve given them no hint that I might try to escape, and they have no idea that you even exist, let alone are close by. They’re growing more relaxed, and gradually more inclined to answer my questions-even Fletcher. I haven’t really had time to work on Martha yet-I’ve been concentrating on Fletcher, as he seems the one with most knowledge, and he’s the most observant, too.”

“He’s also the most dangerous of the three.”

“Yes, I know, but he’s also unwaveringly committed to following his orders, so I’m safe from him, at least in that regard. He won’t harm me-from all they’ve said, neither he nor Cobbins are at all eager to get on the wrong side of their employer. So I am making headway, but I still haven’t learned enough to identify this laird. And so far Fletcher’s resisted telling me-even giving me a hint-about where they’re taking me to hand me over. If we learned that, we might have some chance of identifying the laird as someone who comes to that place.”

He let a moment elapse, then said, “You’re not going to escape yet, are you?”

For a moment, she held his gaze, then her lips twisted. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I can. If I did, and later Eliza, Angelica, Henrietta, or Mary was kidnapped, and perhaps hurt in the process… I don’t think I could live with that.”

He nodded. “All right.” He didn’t like it, but he’d expected it, and, indeed, understood.