“Hmm.” Frowning, Catriona reached into a hessian bag of herbs, drew out a handful, and added the leaves to the mortar. Picking up the pestle, she looked at Heather, paused, studying her, then looked down and started grinding again. “That’s a laudable ambition, and not one I would discourage. However, you have to remember that for me, looking after stray children is but one activity that’s part of a greater whole. I’m the Lady of the Vale, and that’s my vocation—the position and the job I was destined to fill. Looking after my strays is a part of that.” She paused and met Heather’s eyes. “But it’s only one part of my larger life.”
Heather frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Catriona worked at her herbs. “What I’m saying is that before you create such secondary aspects of your life, you need to focus on the core, the central plank . . . I suppose what I’m saying is that first, you need to define and secure your destiny.”
“But can’t my destiny be to look after stray children?”
Catriona raised her head and looked at Heather. A look from vivid green eyes that searched and somehow saw beneath skin and flesh to the essence that lay beneath.
Heather held still, unflinchingly met that incisive green gaze.
After a moment, Catriona visually drew back. “That isn’t what I see, what I sense, for you.”
When Heather looked her question, Catriona’s lips curved, faintly rueful. “Your destiny is intertwined with that of some man’s.”
“You can see him?”
“Not in terms of flesh and blood, face and features—I see his . . . aura, if you like. His inner being.”
“And my destiny’s tied to his?”
“According to the Lady, your destiny lies in dealing with a man . . . if not Breckenridge, then someone like him, of his ilk.” Catriona’s lips quirked. “A man like your cousins—the Lady knows, I can recognize their like well enough.”
“So . . . I’m destined to find my hero after all?”
“Indeed. All you have to do is . . .” Catriona frowned. “The word I’m being pushed to say is ‘see’ him—perhaps that means recognize him.”
Heather thought about that. Catriona’s prophecies didn’t come often, but they had a startling propensity for coming true. “Perhaps . . . after I learn about looking after children from you and go back to Somerset—” She broke off; Catriona was shaking her head. “No?”
“To the Lady, your plan to learn about looking after stray children is a diversion . . . at least at present.” Catriona tipped her head, as if listening to something far distant. “She views it as you trying to avoid the life you’re meant to live.”
After a moment, Catriona refocused on Heather, studied her face, then wryly said, “I suspect you won’t want to hear this, but all my instincts are suggesting you should look more closely at Breckenridge.”
“He doesn’t love me. He only wants to marry me because he feels honor-bound to do so.”
“Are you sure?”
Heather frowned. “All I can go by is what he says . . .”
“Has he told you he doesn’t love you?”
“No, but . . .”
“But he’s said nothing to lead you to believe he does?” When Heather nodded, Catriona smiled. “That, I have to tell you, means nothing. Whoever your hero is, he is definitely like your cousins, and dragging an admission of love from men like them is never easy. They positively hate exposing their finer feelings, even admitting they have such things, not if they can help it. . . .” Catriona paused, looking struck.
“What is it?”
Lips curving, Catriona met her eyes. “It just occurred to me that the current situation between you and Breckenridge . . . if he was in love with you, given what I’ve just said about men of his type, don’t you think he would seek to exploit the situation so that he could marry you without ever having to declare his heart?”
Heather didn’t even have to think to know the answer. “He’s as devious and as manipulative as they come.” She grimaced. “So I truly will have to consider him more closely.”
Catriona nodded. “And in doing so you might want to remember that the love of such a man—as I and your brothers’ wives and all your cousins’ wives will freely testify—is very much worth fighting for.”
Heather humphed. “If only I had some confidence that if I scratched that oh-so-polished exterior, I might find my hero . . .”
“Love rarely comes with guarantees of any kind. And with a man like him, you’ll have to be prepared to risk your heart to have any chance of him exposing his.” Catriona paused, then added, “One observation that might stand you in good stead. Breckenridge is truly a hedonist to his toes. The counter-side to that, however, means that if he actively pursues a goal, you can be sure that goal is something he truly wants. Otherwise he wouldn’t bestir himself.”
Given what Heather knew of him, that rang very true.
She sat and considered. Catriona went back to working her herbs.
Minutes ticked by as Heather thought over all Catriona had shared, and she felt something within her settle, accept. So . . . her search wasn’t over yet. And she wasn’t finished with Breckenridge yet.
Looking up, she met Catriona’s understanding, knowing gaze.
“Lots to think about?”
Heather nodded. “Yes—and thank you for . . . reading me. I know you don’t do that for everyone.”
Catriona’s lips kicked up. “I was told to.”
“Ah.” Heather slipped off the stool. Being around Catriona when she was being the “Lady” could be a trifle disconcerting. “I think I’ll go up and see the children—”
“Wait.” Catriona checked her mortar, then set it aside. “Finally that’s done.” A faintly puzzled light in her green eyes, she looked at Heather. Then she shook her head. “For some reason, I’m supposed to give you this.” Reaching into her apron pocket, she drew out a chain, fine gold links interspersed with small, round, purple beads with a pink stone pendant, a crystal of half a finger’s length.
Walking around the table, Catriona raised the chain; reaching Heather, she slipped it over Heather’s head.
Catching the hexagonally cut crystal, Heather studied it. “There’s something written on it—etched into the sides.”
“The language is so old not even Algaria knows what it is.”
Heather glanced up. “It’s old?”
Catriona nodded. “My mother’s, and hers before that. I used to wear it before I married Richard.” Reaching inside the neckline of her gown, she drew out the pendant depending from the chain she wore—a similar, delicate gold chain, but interspersed with pink beads and the pendant was purple. “But then Richard gave me this one—his mother’s—which is older still.” She pointed to the purple crystal. “This is amethyst, which invokes intelligence.” Dropping the pendant back between her breasts, she pointed to the pink pendant on the chain around Heather’s neck. “That’s rose quartz, which resonates with love.”
Chin down, examining the necklace, Heather fingered the small purple beads. “And these are amethyst, too?”
“Yes. The construction you have signifies a melding of love and intelligence, with love the principal force. It’s an appropriate charm for a young lady seeking to look into her hero’s heart.”
“Thank you, but it must be valuable.” Heather looked up. “Are you sure—”
“Yes.” Catriona smiled. “Courtesy of the Lady, I know my passing it to you is right. You’re supposed to wear it until you’ve found and secured your hero, then pass it to Eliza, then Angelica.” Catriona paused, then her brows rose. “And apparently it then goes to Henrietta, and finally Mary, before coming back here to Lucilla.” She opened her eyes wide. “It seems the Lady has quite a few destinies already in mind.”
Heather tucked the pendant inside her bodice. “I have to admit that knowing I h
ave the Lady on my side is reassuring.”
Catriona smiled. “I knew I was to hand it to you—that’s why I brought it with me this morning. But I didn’t know the rest, about the others. I suspect being told that Lucilla will indeed eventually find her hero was my reward for doing what I was supposed to for you.”
Heather fingered the necklace. “It must be a wrench, giving up something of your grandmother’s.”
“Yes, and no.” Catriona picked up her mortar and carried it to a bench. “I’ve learned over the years not to question—to just believe and obey.”
Smiling back, Heather turned to leave. “I’m going to the nursery—do you have any message?”
“Just tell the twins to stop fighting over their knucklebones. Oh.” Catriona looked up. “One other thing—remember that a man who declares his heart too easily will leave you wondering whether he truly meant it—and the converse is even more true.”
Brows arching, Heather thought, then nodded. With a wave, she started up the stairs.
In midmorning, Breckenridge rode past the spot in the manor’s drive where, the afternoon before, he’d stood and watched the man he was sure was behind Heather’s kidnapping looking down at them.
“He sat his horse at the top of the lane”—he pointed to the lane leading down from Knockgray—“and just watched us.” After a moment, he added, “I didn’t get any sense that he was interested in coming closer.” He glanced at Richard, mounted on a raking black beside him. “Is there something Catriona does to repel invaders?”
Richard snorted. “I don’t ask, but I suspect those intending harm would, these days, find it strangely difficult to cross our borders. It wasn’t always so, but she’s grown progressively stronger with the years.”
When they reached the Ayr road, Richard nodded up the lane. “Let’s see if we can pick up his trail.”
They rode quickly up the lane, slowing as they reached the top of the steep rise. Leaning from his saddle, Richard studied the ground, then smiled. “Nice big horse, with nice, extra-large hooves.” He wheeled his mount, trotting on along the lane past the cottages of the village. “This way.” When they reached the end of the tiny village, and the trail led on, Richard grinned and straightened. “Excellent. This lane rejoins the road near Carsphairn. With any luck the locals will have seen him.”
Breckenridge brought the bay he was riding up alongside. “If he’s anywhere near as large as he looked, it shouldn’t be too hard to know if they’d seen the right man.”
“How big was he?”
Breckenridge glanced at Richard, measuring his height against the height of his horse. “If his horse was larger than yours—and that might well be the case; it looked massive—then he’s at least a few inches taller than you, and broader by a considerable amount, at least in the shoulders and chest.”
“A big beggar, but as you say, that should make him easier to track. What color hair?”
“At a distance, black.”
They each glanced at the other’s head. Breckenridge’s hair was a sable brown, while Richard’s was true black. But picking the difference at any distance . . . Richard grimaced. “Dark hair, then.”
It didn’t take them long to reach the spot where the lane joined the Ayr road. Just before the junction, a neat cottage bordered the lane. An old man sitting on the porch in a rocking chair held up his hand in greeting.
“Fine day, Mr. Cynster.”
“Indeed it is, Cribbs.” Reining in his prancing black, Richard asked, “Tell me, did you see a large man on a large horse go past yesterday afternoon?”
“About four o’clock,” Breckenridge added.
But Cribbs was already nodding. “Couldna’ missed him, big as he was. Lordling or laird, by the look of him. Nice chestnut gelding he had under him. Must have been strong as an ox, the horse, to carry his weight.”
“That sounds like the man we’re after—did you see which way he went?”
“On toward the village.” Cribbs nodded north, toward Carsphairn.
“Thank you.” Both Richard and Breckenridge saluted and trotted on.
Once on the better-surfaced road, they let their horses stretch their legs, on and up around the next bend. When they reached the parish church, Richard reined in. “There’s only one watering hole—Greystones.”
Breckenridge followed Richard to a neat, low, whitewashed building a little way along the road. Richard rode down a narrow alley alongside, and they dismounted in the gravel yard behind the tavern. Leaving their horses tethered to a post, Richard led the way through an open rear door. Both he and Breckenridge had to duck beneath the low lintel. Straightening once inside, Breckenridge found himself in a cozy tavern bar.
With walls half paneled in dark wood, and dark wood tables and chairs, and a long bar running along one side, all lit by the fire in a stone hearth and the sunlight pouring through twin windows facing the road, the long, narrow room was comfortably warm and full of good cheer.
“Mr. Cynster, sir! And what can I get ye?” The barman’s gaze tracked past Richard to Breckenridge. The man nodded in smiling greeting. “And your friend, too.”
“Two ales, Henry—and your ear.” Grinning, Richard fronted the bar, leaning on the raised counter.
Breckenridge ranged alongside, his gaze scanning the other occupants. Four old codgers with nothing better to do than sit indoors, sip ale, and watch the road—just what he and Richard were looking for.
The barman set down two pint pots filled to the brim with frothing ale. Breckenridge turned to accept his with a murmured thanks. He sipped, then cast Richard a glance Richard had been waiting for. Breckenridge grinned and wordlessly toasted Richard. “Your secret?”
The ale was ambrosia.
Richard shrugged, swallowed. “I’ve just never seen the need to mention it at the manor, at least in female hearing.”
The barman returned from carrying the fresh pints Richard had sent to the four older men, all of whom called their thanks and toasted Richard before gratefully drinking.
Henry, the barman, pulled out a cloth and industriously wiped the counter. “So what can I help you with, sir?”
“A large man on a big chestnut gelding rode past yesterday afternoon.” Richard turned to include the four older men. “Did any of you get a good look?”
“Better’n that,” Henry said. “Came in here, he did. Stopped for a pint.”
“Aye,” one of the older men said, “and asked after the manor. Wanted to know what lay down the drive.”
Henry nodded. “That’s right. Good looking gentl’man, he was.”
“Taller than me,” Breckenridge said, “and broader, too?”
Henry and the others gauged Breckenridge, who was a touch taller than Richard.
“Aye, that’d be right,” one of the older crew opined. “Handsome, he was, too, but not as handsome as you.”
Breckenridge good-naturedly lifted his pint at the resulting laughter.
“So was he lowland or highland?” Richard asked.
“Highland, definitely, or me mother’s an Englishwoman,” one of the regulars called.
The others all nodded.
“Never seen him ’round here before,” Henry said, “and he did say he was just passing through.”
“Rode on away to the north,” the old man closest to the window offered. “And that horse of his was something to see. Massive in the chest, and strong, I’d warrant.”
“Close to, what did he look like?” Richard asked Henry.
“Black hair—black like yours. Eyes . . .” Henry paused, then shivered. “To tell the truth, if he hadna been such a personable chap, those eyes woulda given me the willies.”
Breckenridge lowered his pot. “How so?”
“Pale they were—put me in mind of the ice that forms on yon burn in winter. Cold and pale, but with something flow
ing underneath.”
A moment of silence gave due note to Henry’s poetic turn.
“What about his features?” Richard asked.
Henry grimaced, looked to the others. “Pretty much what you’d expect from a laird, I’d say.”
“Aye—clean-cut, well-shaven. His clothes were quality, too. And his boots.”
No matter how they angled their questions, they learned nothing more.
After draining a second pint each, Breckenridge joined Richard in bidding the five men in the tavern farewell, then walked back out into the rear yard.
Both he and Richard halted in the yard, looking up at the sloping field behind the tavern while they pulled on their riding gloves.
“Not much to go on, beyond confirming he’s a laird—they wouldn’t have got that wrong.”
“And his eyes,” Breckenridge said. “Of everything we’ve learned about him, his eyes are the one thing that’s most distinctive. That, combined with his size, combined with his being a laird . . . it might not be enough for us to identify him, but it should be enough to recognize him if he comes after Heather again, or goes after one of the other girls.”
“True.” Richard caught his horse’s reins and swung up to the saddle.
Breckenridge mounted more slowly, juggling possibilities in his mind. Settling in his saddle, he met Richard’s eyes. “There’s an outside possibility that the man who stopped here was simply what he claimed—a highland laird passing by on his way north. He might have simply been curious about us walking ahead of him.”
“But you don’t believe that.” Richard held his skittish black in.
“No.” Breckenridge turned his bay into the alley back to the road. “Because I can’t deny the similarities between the descriptions Heather and I independently wrung from Fletcher and Cobbins, and what we just heard.”
Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Page 30