Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Yes, Mama.” Coming around the table, Lucilla took Heather’s hand, then peeked down. “Good—you have your boots on. So we can go and collect the basket straightaway. Cook will have it ready.”

  “Yes, all right.” Allowing herself to be towed around and off the dais, Heather exchanged a laughing glance with Catriona, then surrendered and let the twins drag her on—all the while pretending not to notice the increasingly black frown on Breckenridge’s face.

  The instant Heather disappeared through the archway leading to the kitchen, Breckenridge cut across Richard’s dissertation about the local crops to ask, “How far is the Mitchell farm?”

  His expression mild, Richard replied, “About a mile and a half, maybe a bit more, further into the Vale.”

  In the act of swanning past, Catriona paused. “You don’t need to worry. They’ll be perfectly safe. The way’s all on Vale lands, after all—I would know if anything threatened.”

  With that, she passed on.

  Richard cast him an understanding glance. “I take it you’ll be busy this morning?”

  Breckenridge grunted and left it at that. Richard didn’t need more of a reply.

  After a few seconds’ consideration, Breckenridge rose, nodded a farewell to Richard, who smiled, but wisely said nothing, then Breckenridge left the hall and headed for the manor’s front door.

  He circled around through the herb garden; he was standing concealed in the shadows cast by one of the irregular corners of the manor when Marcus ran out of the back door, followed by a skipping Lucilla. Heather brought up the rear, a basket on her arm.

  The basket didn’t appear to be that heavy. Breckenridge reluctantly rejected using its weight and his offer to carry it as his excuse for joining the expedition. Given the situation between him and Heather, he knew well enough that this was the wrong time to push her—to press his company on her—but equally he wasn’t able to simply stand by and watch her walk out effectively unescorted.

  She might be perfectly safe, but his inner male wasn’t about to risk it.

  Once the threesome were far enough ahead, he set out in their wake, walking slowly, hands in his pockets, and making good use of any available cover.

  Heather reached the Mitchells’ farmhouse after half an hour of pleasant rambling along the winding river, then up a sloping path through a stand of trees to the small, south-facing plateau on which the farmhouse sat.

  The sun bathed the front of the whitewashed building, glinting off the windows flanking the green-painted door. One of the windows was open a crack; as Heather approached, she could hear the baby fretting.

  She paused before the door, hesitated, but then raised her hand and rapped.

  A pale face appeared briefly in the window, saw her, saw Lucilla and Marcus running up from where they’d dallied among the trees, and abruptly disappeared.

  Half a minute later, the door opened to reveal a harried-looking young woman smoothing down her skirts. “Yes?”

  Heather smiled. “Megan Mitchell?”

  The woman bobbed. “Aye, miss.”

  “I’ve brought you some things from the manor.” Heather indicated the basket on her arm. Megan Mitchell was, she judged, younger than she.

  The young mother’s gaze fell to the basket. “From the Lady?”

  “Yes. She thought you might find these things useful.” Heather saw the relief in Megan’s face as she spied the loaf of bread in the basket. “Might I come in?” Heather glanced back at Lucilla and Marcus, now playing a boisterous game of tag on the swath of grass before the farmhouse. “And if the baby—Callum, isn’t it?—is crochety, perhaps we’d best leave those two outside.” Turning back to Megan, Heather let her smile turn understanding. “Meanwhile, perhaps I can help you—at least hold Callum while you get some chores done.”

  Megan all but sagged with relief. “Thank you, miss, that would be most kind. But I wouldn’t want to impose—”

  “You won’t be. I’m happy to help.” Stepping over the threshold as Megan stepped back, Heather took in the almost painfully neat space, kitchen and sitting room rolled into one. Despite the austerity, there were small touches of warmth here and there, most to do with the baby, grumbling and grouching and waving his tiny fists in the bassinet set in the sunshine before one window.

  “Here.” She handed over the basket. “You take care of that, and I’ll make Callum’s acquaintance.”

  Megan took the basket and set it down on the table. Heather felt her watchful gaze as she went to the bassinet, leaned over to coo, then play with Callum’s batting fists.

  The baby’s eyes were wide, just coming into a definite blue. A tuft of fluffy brownish hair decorated his pink crown; with his button nose, round face, and pink cheeks, he looked very like a doll come to life.

  “I’ve helped my sisters-in-law, cousins, and my cousins’ wives with their babies.” Heather spoke without looking at Megan, as, acquaintance made, she carefully lifted Callum into her arms. “Between them, they’ve had quite a few, and I can assure you most were far more fractious than this sweet boy.”

  Callum looked into her face as if fascinated by the different cadence of her voice.

  Megan watched, but then, reassured by Heather’s confident handling of little Callum, relaxed and gave her attention to the basket. She unpacked it, briskly setting the various items about the kitchen. “Please do thank the Lady—and I ’spect Cook—for the loaf. Helps if I don’t have to bake.”

  “I will.” Heather rocked Callum in her arms. He’d settled like a lamb, still staring up at her, possibly at the curls that fell from the knot on the top of her head.

  Some minutes later, “Hmm . . . miss, do you know what this’s for?”

  Heather turned to see Megan holding up a bottle of what looked to be medicine. Still gently rocking and jiggling Callum, Heather walked over. The bottle contained a pale syrup. “Can you open it for me?”

  When Megan obliged, Heather touched a finger to the rim of the bottle, then tasted. “Ah, yes. Dill essence in syrup.” She smiled. “Catriona—the Lady—is looking ahead. It’s for when the colic sets in.” Realizing from Megan’s mystified expression that she didn’t know of the joys awaiting her, Heather explained.

  Megan looked at the bottle with new respect. “She’s a wonder, the Lady. Do please give her my most humble thanks.”

  Heather inclined her head, then wandered back to the shaft of sunlight. Looking down at Callum, still wide awake, but utterly quiet, she said, “He seems quite settled.”

  “Aye—he likes to move a little, just as you’re doing.” Megan set the empty basket down by the door. Then hesitated.

  Without looking up, Heather murmured, “If you’d like to attend to any chores, I’m happy to keep him amused.”

  “If you’re sure . . . ?”

  Heather smiled. “Yes. Will we be out of your way here?”

  “Oh, aye. It’s the washing I need to finish, and if I can get the pot on, that will be a blessing.”

  Swaying slightly, Heather stood in the sunshine before the window, rocked Callum in her arms . . . and thought of how she might feel if the baby were her own.

  Of course, if she followed that thought to its logical conclusion, the baby would have dark hair and hazel eyes. She couldn’t imagine having any other man’s child, which, she suspected, said quite a lot. Breckenridge had mentioned wanting children, and she’d immediately seen herself rocking his son. She’d wanted that dream, but it was only a part of the wider whole.

  Of all they—he and she—might have, if only . . .

  If only he loved her enough to tell her so.

  During the night, in between her fitful bouts of sleep, she’d revisited her decision, as one did in the dead of night when one tried to find a way through a shifting maze, questioning at every turn. She’d wondered if, perhaps, she could manage without him declar
ing he loved her.

  Pointless to pretend she didn’t care for him, that she wasn’t, indeed, in love with him. If she hadn’t been, she would never have been wasting so many hours thinking and obsessing about him and his inscrutable ways.

  So could she agree to marrying him without knowing, without being certain, that he loved her in return?

  No matter how she’d twisted and turned, the answer had remained the same.

  Because she loved him, she couldn’t risk marrying him without the assurance.

  Because without that assurance, she would live in constant fear, never feeling safe in her love, never certain that he wouldn’t break her heart by turning to other ladies.

  She was neither blind nor witless. She knew his reputation had been wellearned.

  But other rakes had changed; she knew of several who had become pattern-cards of virtue after they had wed.

  But they’d all been in love; head over heels, undeniably in love.

  Only love was a guarantee that he would be hers for ever more.

  And she was who she was; she needed ever more.

  So no, she needed to hear his love declared . . . or at least communicated in some unequivocal way. Even if he never said the words, as long as she knew.

  Words were only words, after all, easy to say, easy to forget.

  Actions spoke louder. . . .

  Were there any actions, any undeniable clues that he did indeed love her despite his refusal to say the fateful words?

  Was there any chance she might convince herself of his love without him having to make a declaration?

  No immediate answers sprang to mind, but if she did find such a clue, convinced herself it was real and true, even if he never admitted to loving her, wasn’t love—securing love and building a life together based on that emotion—worth the risk? Worth almost any risk?

  Catriona had warned that in order to secure Breckenridge’s heart, Heather might well have to risk hers. Was this what Catriona had meant?

  When all the rest was stripped away, was she willing to risk her heart to secure the future she yearned for?

  What if she risked all and didn’t win? Didn’t gain the reciprocal love, the husband, and the life she wanted?

  Risk, indeed.

  “There, now.” Megan came forward. “I’m all done for the morning, and m’ bonny bairn is sound asleep.” Smiling softly, she reached for the baby.

  Heather relinquished the warm bundle, watched Megan’s face, so full of maternal love as she gazed down at her sleeping son. “I’ll leave you now.”

  Megan looked up at the whisper, smiled. “Thank you, miss. You’ve made my day much easier—needed a helping hand I did, and there you came along.”

  Heather’s smile deepened. “Thank the Lady.”

  With a salute, she picked up the basket and stepped through the still open door.

  The sunshine beamed down. Halting on the stoop, she closed her eyes, listened to the song of the birds, the buzz of insects, the piping voices of Lucilla and Marcus now playing in the shade of a tree by the edge of the meadow.

  A moment of peace in an otherwise thought-filled, thought-provoking day.

  Opening her eyes on a sigh, she stepped out, heading back along the path toward the trees. “Come along, you two. It’s time to go back.”

  Lucilla waved. Marcus whooped, then led the way down the path, gamboling like a lamb, Lucilla, on his heels, calling out encouragement.

  Heather laughed. Feeling much lighter, she lengthened her stride, empty basket swinging from one hand.

  She’d reentered the dappled dimness beneath the trees when a flitting shadow at the edge of her vision had her turning her head sharply. Enough to catch a glimpse. Enough of a glimpse to guess.

  Smothering an oath, she stepped off the path, tramped through the low underbrush to a large tree five yards off the path.

  Rounding the wide bole, she halted and glared. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Breckenridge opened his eyes. Eyes he’d closed in momentary exasperation. “What do you think I’m doing here?” When in doubt, turn the question back. Inspiration struck. “I’m doing what I’ve been doing since I left Lady Herford’s salon—protecting you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, anger and aggravation in every line of her face. “Has it ever occurred to you that if, in her ladyship’s salon, you’d done the sensible thing and pretended not to notice me, rather than decided to ‘protect’ me by hauling me out and sending me home, then none of this would have happened?”

  Guilt washed over him, but it was a more fundamental fear that seized him by the throat and kept him silent. He stared impassively down at her as the seconds ticked by, then finally asked, his voice flat and uninflected, “Would you really rather none of this had hap—”

  “Forget I said that.” She brusquely waved a hand as if erasing her comment. “That’s not the point. The point is that there is no danger here—there’s no need for you to be following me. I don’t need a guard in the Vale.” She waved at the surrounding hills. “I’m at no risk here!”

  “You might be.” Her aggravation abraded his. “For all you know Fletcher and Cobbins might have followed us here and just be waiting for the right moment to seize you again.”

  “What?” She blinked. Her face paled; she looked toward the track. “Lucilla and Marcus. They’ve run ahead—”

  “No—I take it back.” Disgusted that he couldn’t even let himself scare her, he hissed out a breath through clenched teeth. “There isn’t any imminent threat.”

  She frowned at him. “How can you be sure? You just said—”

  “I know what I said.” Gripping her elbow, he urged her back toward the path. “But Richard sent riders—trackers—around the boundaries, and they found no evidence anyone had crossed, and all the Vale people have been alerted, but no one’s seen any stranger lurking.” They reached the path and he released her. Scanning their surroundings, he grimaced. “And much as I don’t want to dwell on whatever witchy powers Catriona wields, she says there’s currently no threat on Vale lands, and as everyone else seems to think she would know . . .” He shrugged.

  He matched his stride to hers as she started back along the path. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, eyes on the path, he felt forced to concede, “It’s unlikely you’re in any danger here, but having got you this far safely, there’s no reason to take unnecessary risks.”

  He felt her sharp, still annoyed gaze on the side of his face. Made no move to meet it. Instead steeled himself for her next attack.

  When he refused to meet her gaze, Heather humphed, looked ahead, and tried to sort out her feelings. Tried to decide what she felt.

  The trees ended and the path dipped down to the river’s edge. Ahead, the twins had paused to toss stones into a pool; they looked back, saw Breckenridge and her, waved, then ran on.

  Striding freely along the more level path as it followed the burbling river, she couldn’t help but remember her earlier enjoyment in walking the other way alone. Couldn’t help but note and wonder why she felt the same enjoyment, yet a somehow deeper, more complete sense of contentment now, just because Breckenridge was walking by her side.

  He wasn’t even holding her hand, yet the connection was still there, ephemeral perhaps, yet undeniable.

  Even though she was annoyed with him.

  She might jib at him surreptitiously “guarding her,” yet she couldn’t deny that the sense of being guarded, of being watched over, had grown on her. At least when it was him doing the watching. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate his attention in having thought to check on the kidnappers, on whether they might pose any continuing threat.

  Having him walking beside her, a large, undeniably physically capable, protective male, made her feel safe. Safe in a way that reached soul-deep.

 
In a way that she would lose, would no longer have, and most likely would never know again, once he returned to London.

  The thought sent a spike of loss lancing through her.

  “You might as well start practising not following me about—you’ll be leaving for London soon, after all.” Turning her head, she met the unreadable hazel of his eyes as he glanced at her. Tipped up her chin as the long, lonely hours of the previous night replayed in her mind. “There’s nothing to keep you here, not now. So when will you be leaving?”

  He held her gaze, his expression like granite, as impassive as ever.

  Breckenridge didn’t misinterpret her challenge, didn’t miss the flash of stubborn pride in her eyes. But they both had a surfeit of that particular emotion. “You’ll know when I know.” He kept his tone even, his gaze level—meeting her challenge with his own. “Of that, you can be absolutely sure.”

  Her chin rose another notch as, with a faint arching of her brows, she looked ahead.

  Facing forward, too, he concentrated on walking on unaffectedly, unthreateningly, by her side, subduing—denying—the compulsion to halt, haul her into his arms, and make clear in unequivocal fashion that he had no intention of ever letting her go, of ever permitting her to escape him. His inner male didn’t appreciate that she’d even entertained the thought, much less given it voice.

  But his civilized self was too experienced to give into such reckless impulse. She’d backed away from implying that she wished their liasion had never been . . . he needed to tread warily, to give her time to come around. This was not the moment to pressure her.

  Not yet.

  As they walked back to the manor, the morning bright about them, he turned his mind to planning the next stage in a conquest unlike any other, one from which he could no longer walk away.

  A conquest he couldn’t afford to lose.

  After lunch, Breckenridge joined Richard in his library. They’d discovered they shared a passion for fly-fishing; tying lures was an occupation whose attraction never waned.