Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  And then they would leave her with a full woodbox.

  Breckenridge ducked his head even lower. “The morning, then.”

  Heather had to press her lips together to hide her smile. He looked so . . . not him, trying to make himself appear innocuous. “We’ll just go up then.”

  Mrs. Croft nodded. “I’ve a bell—I’ll ring when the plates are on the table.”

  Heather started up the stairs. At the turn she glanced back and saw Breckenridge, about to follow, angle his shoulders sideways just so he could fit. She’d never considered the difficulties associated with being so tall and broad-shouldered; continuing up the short flight, she stepped onto a tiny landing before a simple door.

  Opening the door, she walked into a small, but fastidiously neat, room. Windows at the rear looked across the rising meadow behind the cottage. The room had been built over the kitchen, spanning the space between the cottage’s original roof and the raised bank behind; the room’s floor was the kitchen’s ceiling.

  A wood-framed bed occupied the center of the room, with its head against the wall below the windows and its foot toward the blank wall of the chimney flue. There was space enough for a small chest of drawers against the far wall and a washstand against the wall beside the door.

  Heather crossed the room and set her satchel down by the chest. She turned to see Breckenridge, having closed the door, pause with his hand on the chimney.

  Seeing her looking, he said, “With the fire downstairs, we’ll be warm enough up here.”

  Slipping the satchels off his shoulder, he walked to the corner beside the washstand. As he straightened from setting the bags down, a knock sounded on the door.

  Mrs. Croft’s voice reached through the panel. “I’ve brought a pitcher of warm water—thought you might like to use the basin in there.”

  Waving Breckenridge back, Heather hurried to the door. Opening it, she smiled at their landlady. “Thank you. That was kind.”

  Handing the pitcher over, Mrs. Croft wiped her hands on her blue-striped apron and immediately turned away. “Aye, well, you’re welcome.”

  Heather watched her descend the stair, then held the heavy pitcher out for Breckenridge to take. He relieved her of it and set it on the washstand.

  Closing the door, Heather murmured, “I wonder what happened to her.”

  Breckenridge cast her a glance, then tipped still steaming water into the waiting basin. “Her husband probably beat her.”

  The way he said it, his tone, made her think he recognized something in the way Mrs. Croft reacted to him. That’s why you’ve been trying to appear harmless. She thought the words but didn’t say them, instead accepting his waved invitation to make use of the warm water.

  After rinsing the dust of the lanes from her face, then patting it dry with the thin towel hanging from the side of the washstand, she left him availing himself of the rest of the water and went to inspect the bed.

  Drawing down the coverlet, she examined the sheets, then pulled the coverlet back up and sat on the mattress, bouncing to test it. “The linens are fresh, and the bed”—slipping off her walking boots, she lay back and stretched out full length, her head on the pillow—“quite comfortable.”

  Turning from setting the towel back on its rack, Breckenridge regarded her.

  Closing her eyes, she let her muscles go lax on a surprisingly contented sigh. Now she was off her feet, lying supine in relative comfort, with dinner arranged and nothing more to do . . . she could think of what else might be, what else she might accomplish if she put her mind to it.

  Breckenridge drank in her expression, saw the smile flirting about her lips—and found himself drawn irresistibly to the bed. His legs came up against the opposite edge of the mattress; he was tempted, so tempted, to reach out and run the backs of his fingers down one delicate cheek. . . .

  Unwise. He knew where even the most innocent touch would lead, and she’d been walking all day. Better to let her catch her breath before instigating the next stage of his plan.

  His plan to ensure she married him.

  That when the time came, she wouldn’t argue but instead would happily agree.

  He might have his work cut out for him, but it was, after all, work at which he excelled. There was no need for him to be a cad and press his case immediately; he had time.

  Reluctantly turning away, he sat on the edge of the bed and, reaching out, hauled one of his satchels closer. Pulling out the map, he unfolded it.

  As he studied their route onward, beneath his feet he could hear the occasional clang of a pot, the clunk of a stove door. He concentrated on the map, estimating the distance they still had to traverse, gauging the likely terrain, adding up the hours. Despite his focus, some part of him registered the cadence of Heather’s breathing; he knew she wasn’t asleep. “We’re more or less in the middle of the passes up here—we haven’t much more climbing to do. An hour or two, and then all the rest is downhill. If the Vale is where you say it is, we should definitely reach it tomorrow, but it’ll probably be midafternoon before we get there.”

  “Hmm.”

  He heard the consideration underlying her response, decided he didn’t need to torture himself with imagining what she might be thinking.

  Staring at the map, he heard another rattle and clang from downstairs. Thought of Mrs. Croft, and the flash of alarm that had shown in her eyes. He’d seen it before, knew what it usually meant. And whenever he came across such responses . . . he was always left wondering how, let alone why, any man would hit a woman. Just the thought of hitting a woman—any woman—literally sickened him. He knew his own strength, had fought with men his own size often enough to know just how powerful, how damaging an uncontrolled blow from him might be—to a man. To a woman?

  The entire notion of beating a woman—the why of it, the how of it—was simply beyond his comprehension.

  Not that he hadn’t met women who’d qualified as unmitigated bitches—the one who had taught him the true value of love sprang to mind—but no matter how much they might have deserved retribution in full measure, he’d always been of the mind to leave that to fate.

  In his experience, fate usually caught up with most wrongdoers, and often in exquisite ways no human agency could match.

  Despite his wishes, his thoughts circled back to the woman on the bed at his back. Her and her kind—no matter that he knew the worst of them, all the bored matrons who scratched and clawed at each other, then plastered on a false smile and tried to lure him to their beds—they were women of his class, and the protectiveness he felt toward them was inbred and innate. He could no more turn against them than he could cut out his own skeleton, his attitude to them was that deeply ingrained.

  As for Heather . . . even as his mind focused more definitely on her, he felt something in him rise. Something steely, forged, and ungiving.

  He would never raise his hand to her, but he’d kill any who did.

  That was a conundrum about himself—about him and other men like him, like the Cynsters and their ilk—for which he’d never found any rational explanation. They would never, could never, be violent toward their women but would unhesitatingly respond with unparalleled violence were any to threaten said women.

  He was perfectly aware—had been for years—that that propensity lay within him. Only now, however, with Heather, had it—it wasn’t an emotion, was it? . . . no, better to call it an ingrained attitude—achieved its full and somewhat unsettling potential.

  Unfortunately, knowing that how he felt was normal enough for men like him didn’t make dealing with the associated impulses any easier.

  The bed behind him dipped. He assumed she was turning over and settling for a nap, but then the mattress immediately behind him dipped deeply, and she was there, pressing close, her front to his back, her breasts soft mounds against the hard planes on either side of his spine as sh
e settled on her spread knees and sent her hands sliding around him.

  Without thought, one of his hands left the map to trap her questing hands against his chest. “What are you doing?”

  He raised his head, then tipped it slightly as she nuzzled beneath one ear.

  “I’m trying to seduce you into putting the hour we have before Mrs. Croft rings her dinner bell to good use.” The warm waft of her breath was followed by the gentle caress of her lips. Then she drew back and murmured in his ear, “Is it working?”

  Heather didn’t think he’d answer, at least not in words. She was operating on a combination of instinct and impulse, and had no idea if he would be willing to play. If tonight was to be their last free of all social restraint, then to her mind she needed to make the most of it. She had no idea if after they reached the Vale he would consent to continue a liaison, and even so, any affair between them would necessarily end when he returned to London, which he presumably would once she was safe under Richard and Catriona’s roof.

  He’d gone still. Not exactly frozen, but—

  Before she could blink she was flat on her back on the bed, staring up at him as he hung over her, his arms braced, his palms sunk in the mattress on either side of her, caging her. His eyes, hard hazel bright with greens and gold, held hers. “Exactly what were you thinking of?”

  Clearly her seducing had worked. “I was wondering . . .” Looking into his eyes, she wondered if she dared say the words aloud. Decided she did. “You must have had many encounters with ladies at ton balls and parties—encounters where time was limited and the risk of discovery and exposure very real.” He and she would never share such encounters; if she wanted to know, she would have to ask now. Reaching up, greatly daring, she stroked a fingertip down one lean cheek to the corner of his lips. “So here we are with an hour on our hands—a stew will take at least that long, I think—but with Mrs. Croft downstairs, we can’t afford to make much noise. . . .”

  When he didn’t respond but simply watched her, waiting, she boldly arched a brow. “So what would you do?”

  He considered; she saw calculation briefly gleam in his eyes. “First point to consider: we—me and any lady in such a situation—would necessarily keep our clothes on.”

  Why the notion sent excitement lancing through her she had no clue; she was sure she’d prefer to be naked with him, especially in the soft, late afternoon light. She summoned a pout. “I can’t see that that applies here. We’ll have plenty of time to get dressed again before Mrs. Croft rings her bell.”

  His expression was readable when he wished it; he appeared faintly patronizing. “I thought you were interested in an authentic experience—and there’s no need at all for it to be that fast.”

  Another frisson of excitement skated down her spine. She tilted her head. “Well, if you insist. So . . . ?”

  “So we most likely wouldn’t have a bed, either—and even if we did find a convenient bedroom, we couldn’t take advantage of the bed, not like this.”

  She frowned. “I suppose not. So what—”

  He rolled away from her, off the bed, capturing one of her hands and tugging her up after him. She scrambled from the bed, and he drew her up beside him. “Let’s start from the beginning—the door.”

  Breckenridge towed her to the door, then swung around. Putting his back to the panels, he pulled her into his arms—framed her face, tipped it up, and slanted his lips over hers.

  And kissed her voraciously.

  He pressed her lips wide and claimed, no by-your-leave, no hesitation.

  And she met him, eager and brazen, encouragingly wanton in her uninhibited response.

  No scented ton lady had ever been so direct. So honest.

  He took her mouth as he wished and she gave, joyously surrendered, then joined him in a heated duel of tongues.

  It wasn’t hard to summon the appropriate hunger, the scintillating edge of desperation that should infuse such moments, feeding the titillating sense of illicitness.

  It was the forbidden, the illicit, that most fascinated and ensnared.

  He knew theory and practise so well, yet with her in his arms it seemed different, new. The well-trod path seemed fresh, exciting, enthralling, where usually faint boredom prevailed.

  He didn’t feel bored when she pushed his jacket wide and spread her small hands over his chest, then clutched, gripping the linen as if she would rip it from him.

  On a mental curse, clinging to the kiss, he surveyed their options, immediately realized there was only one. The bed was the only useable furniture, but how best to use it? How best to further his own ends while capitalizing on her curiosity?

  With an inner shrug, he let his rakish instincts free, let them provide the answer.

  Releasing her face, but refusing to release her from the kiss, he reached down and swept her up in his arms.

  He strode to the bed, turned, and sat upon it, cradling her in his lap.

  She wriggled to face him, clapped her hands to his cheeks and wildly kissed him back.

  Supporting her with one arm, after a giddy moment during which the contest could have gone either way, he reseized control of the heated kiss, then sent his free hand questing.

  Up to her throat, to tip her face to precisely the right angle for continuing a kiss that was rapidly becoming all consuming.

  Once she was fully engaged with the incendiary mating of their mouths, he let his hand slide, down to her breast.

  And fractured her concentration.

  He palmed the firm mound, then gripped lightly, squeezed . . . when she gasped through the kiss, he settled to knead, to know, to possess.

  If it had been up to him, he would have forgotten about dinner and instead bared her breasts and feasted. But she’d set the stage, and he was willing and able, and more than experienced enough, to perform as required.

  So he kneaded her breasts until both were swollen, full and heavy and aching, filling her bodice until the material drew tight and she restlessly shifted, seeking relief.

  For which there would be none, not yet.

  Releasing her breast, he sent his hand skating lower, fingers pressing, tensing on the taut curve of her belly, then sliding lower still to, through her skirts, press artfully between her thighs.

  Heather caught her breath. She couldn’t breathe but through the kiss, relied on its heat, its simmering passion, to anchor her whirling senses. His fingertips pressed again, harder, deeper, stroked evocatively, and she lifted her hips to his hand, wanting, shamelessly demanding. Her gown and her chemise shielded her flesh from his touch, but nothing could mute the sensation of his hard fingers outlining what lay beneath, tracing and knowing . . . the damned man knew too much.

  On a breathless gasp, she tried to pull back from the kiss, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her trapped within the scorching exchange, the evocative plundering she’d invited and now couldn’t pry any part of her senses from. But she needed to—

  His fingers left her. Before she could react—before she could protest—her skirts rucked slightly as he reached beneath. His fingers and palm cruised her calf, and she sighed.

  Waited.

  He gave her all she wished for—the fire, the heat, the oh-so-knowledgeable play. Until she was aching and empty and wanted him there . . . then one long finger slid deep inside her, and she shattered.

  Felt her senses implode into a million shards of bright, brilliant glory.

  As they realigned, she felt his hand working between her thighs, two large fingers stroking deep, keeping her fires smoldering, then she realized he’d finally released her lips and lifted his head. In extremis, her hands had slid into his dark hair, her fingers mindlessly tangling in the locks. Forcing open lids weighted with passion, she looked at his face—and saw that he was looking elsewhere.

  Saw that he’d rucked her skirts to her waist, and
his attention was fixed on his hand as it flexed between her widespread thighs. . . . She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  “Do you want what comes next?”

  The words reached her on a low rumble, their tone matter-of-fact, but his voice gravelly . . . She now recognized the deeper cadences of desire.

  “Yes.” Her answer wasn’t in question. Opening her eyes, she captured his. “I want the entire performance. I want you inside me—I want to feel you there, filling me. Taking me.”

  It was his turn to shudder and briefly close his eyes. Breckenridge dragged in a breath, through the pounding of his pulse in his ears heard her demand, “So how?”

  Drawing his fingers from her sheath, his hand from between her thighs, flicking her skirts down, he stood with her in his arms. Met her eyes as he turned to the bed. “Like this.”

  He tumbled her facedown onto the covers, then caught her hips and drew them up and toward him. “On your knees.”

  She obligingly settled upright on her knees. Sitting on her ankles, she glanced over her shoulder. Frowned. “How—”

  He caught her face, kissed her, held her steady for one long-drawn engagement, then released her and pressed her shoulders down, stepping between her ankles as he did.

  “Oh,” she said, and leaned forward on her hands.

  “Indeed.” He flicked up her skirts, one hand cruising the dew-damped curves of her luscious derriere as with the other he released the buttons at his waist.

  His erection sprang free, turgid and heavy. Sliding his fingers once more between her thighs, stroking the swollen, scaldingly slick folds, he parted her, then eased the broad head of his erection to her entrance, then slid slowly, heavily, home.

  All the way to paradise.

  The sound that fell from her was a shivery, thankfully breathless, moan.

  “No sound,” he reminded her. Grasping her hips, he eased slowly out, then took his sweet time easing all the way back in. As he’d told her, there was no need to make this quick.