Stephanie Laurens - Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

Loudly.

Martha’s clothes, all of them including those she’d had packed in a big satchel, along with Heather’s evening gown and shawl, and a simple round gown Martha had brought for Heather to wear the next day, resided under Martha’s large and heavy figure. The “maid” had laid the garments neatly under the sheet on the bed, and then lain down upon it.

For tonight, Heather was stuck with her captors.

Part of her was definitely inclining toward panic, not least because thus far said captors had proved adept at guessing what she might do and had taken steps to nullify each option before she’d taken it. Against that, another, rather more intrepid part was pointing out that perhaps her current predicament was fate’s way of ensuring she stayed with her abductors long enough to learn what lay behind the threat to her and her Cynster sisters.

She was debating-panic versus fatalistic pragmatism-when a skittery scraping on the windowpane sent horrible shivers down her spine.

Frowning, she glanced at the window-and saw a shadow looming beyond it.

A man-sized shadow-head and shoulders. Broad shoulders.

Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed the coverlet, wound it about her, then hurried across the bare floor. Reaching the window, she looked out-

Straight into Breckenridge’s face.

For an instant, shock held her immobile. He was quite the last person she’d expected to see. Then again…

His exasperated expression as with one hand he brusquely gestured for her to lift the sash window shook her into action. The room was, after all, on the second floor. He seemed to be hanging onto a pipe.

Reaching up, she struggled with the window latch. Perhaps she should have realized he’d appear. He had been watching her walk to her parents’ carriage. He must have seen her seized and bundled into Fletcher’s coach. Finally forcing the latch free, she eased up the sash, glancing over her shoulder at the lump that was Martha as the wood scraped and slid.

Martha’s snoring continued unabated, rhythm undisturbed.

Breckenridge had seen the glance. “Is there someone there?”

The question reached her as the barest whisper. She nodded and leaned on the sill so her head was level with his. “Yes. A large and strong maid, but she’s sound asleep. Those are her snores you can hear.”

He listened, then nodded. “All right.” Then he frowned. “Where did you get her-the maid?”

“My captors-Fletcher and Cobbins-are working for some man who has employed them to bring me to him, but said employer has instructed them to provide me with every comfort along the way. Hence Martha. She was in the carriage when they grabbed me.”

No matter what else one might say and think about him, Breckenridge most assuredly was neither stupid nor slow.

“Your abductors have provided you with a maid.”

She nodded. “To see to my needs and lend me countenance. Fletcher, the thin, wiry one-he seems to be the leader-actually said so while introducing me and Martha to the innkeeper. They’re calling me Miss Wallace.”

Breckenridge hesitated, then asked, “Is there some reason you haven’t told the innkeeper your real name and demanded his assistance in escaping Fletcher and company?”

She smiled tightly. “Indeed there is.” She told him of Fletcher’s story, the tale of her guardian, Sir Humphrey, her supposed flight to the wicked streets of London, and the letter of authority Fletcher had, presumably, forged.

When she finished, Breckenridge remained silent for some time.

Heather peered over the sill, confirming that he was indeed clinging to a lead downpipe, one booted foot wedged on a support. Given his size and undoubted weight, gaining that position, let alone maintaining it, had to be counted an impressive feat.

If she’d been in a mood to be impressed.

Which made it even stranger that every last iota of her incipient panic had vanished. Raising her gaze, she met his eyes-found him staring, then he looked deep into hers. Then he blinked, shook his head slightly, then eased a hand from the pipe and beckoned. “Come on-time to leave.”

She stared at him, then looked over the sill again-at the ground far below. “You have to be joking.”

“I’ll keep you before me and steady you down the pipe.”

She looked at him. He’d steady her down the pipe by holding her against him, trapping her body between his and the pipe? The notion… made her inwardly shiver. “I haven’t got any clothes-Martha’s lying on them.”

His gaze dropped to her throat, bare, then lower, to the coverlet she’d wrapped about her. “You’re naked under that?”

His voice sounded strained. Or was it disbelieving?

“Just my chemise, which, as you no doubt can imagine, is as good as naked.”

He briefly closed his eyes, then opened them again. His expression had grown a touch grimmer. “All right. In that case, go out of the door and I’ll meet you downstairs-”

“The door’s locked, Martha’s sleeping with the key, and although I could pick the lock, I suspect I’d wake even her-and even if I didn’t, do you really think I should risk bumping into some sleepless bumpkin downstairs en deshabille ?”

He actually thought about it.

“Besides, I haven’t told you all of it.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he suspected her of playing some game. “What haven’t you mentioned?”

She ignored his look and related the instructions Fletcher had been given. “So he could have seized any one of the three, or perhaps five, of us.”

Breckenridge frowned uncomprehendingly. “So? In terms of ransom, any one of you would do.”

“Yes, but if this employer was merely seeking to ransom me, why take me out of London? Why go to all this trouble and expense? Why provide me with a maid? None of that makes sense.”

Breckenridge hesitated, then said, “The maid makes sense if the reason he’s kidnapped you is to force you into marriage and so get his hands on your dowry.”

“True. But if that was his aim, then his orders don’t make sense-anyone who made even the most superficial inquiries would readily learn that while Eliza and I have inherited considerable wealth, Angelica hasn’t. She wasn’t born when our great-aunts died, so she missed out on the inheritances.” In her eagerness to explain, Heather leaned even further forward over the sill.

Breckenridge, with the knowledge of her all-but-naked state high in his mind, would have liked to ease back, but there was nothing but thin air behind him. He had to mentally grit his teeth, not so figuratively gird his loins, and bear with her naked nearness.

“So you see,” the bane of his life continued, utterly oblivious, “that can’t be the reason behind the abduction either.” Her eyes met his, held them. “Whatever the reason, if there’s any chance of learning the truth of it-learning if there’s some continued threat against not just me but Eliza and Angelica, perhaps Henrietta and Mary, too-then I have to go along with Fletcher and company, at least while matters continue as they are and I am under no immediate personal threat.”

She was presently under more personal threat from him than from her captors. The realization made him wince, an expression she saw and took to signal his understanding.

Reaching out from under the coverlet, extending one slender arm, she briefly touched his hand where it gripped the windowsill. “If you would consent to take a message home for me, let the family know that I’m in no immediate danger, and that I’ll send word the instant I get free?”

He looked at her. She actually thought he would… “Don’t be daft.” He glowered at her. “I can’t leave you like this, in your captors’ hands, and simply drive away.”