She might even be worse, God help him.
Worse because he actually wanted—possibly needed—to know what she thought.
To his mind, seducing her had shored up his right to, once they reached the end of this journey, claim her hand. Even if she hadn’t yet realized it, being intimate had tipped the scales between them. Irreversibly.
It had changed other things, too. Just the thought was enough to stir one of those other things.
Fighting not to grip her hand tighter, he willed the possessiveness that after the night had only grown more powerful to subside. To lie quiet and not unnecessarily attract her attention.
She was a Cynster female; if she got a clear view of how he now regarded her, she would guess his plan and cease cooperating. Keeping his true feelings for her—feelings and emotions he found unsettlingly intense—concealed, at least from her, was therefore essential.
He walked along, steady and sure, a part of his awareness constantly scanning their surroundings, watching for any danger, while inside he grappled with the changes the night had wrought.
In opening the door and stepping over the threshold into intimacy, he hadn’t expected anything he hadn’t encountered a thousand times before. Instead . . . all he could remember, all that was blazoned on his mind, was the shocking intensity, the unsettling vibrancy, of the moment. And the wave of emotions that had crashed through him in its wake.
Powerful emotions connected to sexual congress were an entirely novel experience for him.
Unsettling enough, but the not-so-subtle vulnerability that now ran beneath all else made him . . . nervous. That was the only word that adequately described what he now felt.
Regardless, last night had set his path in stone; she was the lady he would have as his wife . . . and if joining with her was an experience beyond anything he’d experienced with any of his previous many lovers, that might well be because in his mind he’d already decided she was his.
She was special; she was to be his wife. Understandable if he now saw her as more precious to him, and that the need to wed her now possessed a very sharp, very definite edge. Having her as his bride was now, to him, an absolute imperative; after last night, there was no other possible way forward.
They came to a section where the lane had been almost washed away by a gushing streamlet. Logs had been placed to one side of the lane to help those on foot cross the quagmire. He stepped up first, balancing, then holding Heather’s hand more tightly, sidestepped along. Holding up her skirts with her other hand, she shuffled after him. He seized the moment while she was concentrating on her feet to search her face, her expression.
Stepping off the logs onto firm ground once more, he steadied her, then assisted her off and onto the thick, damp grass. Looked again at her face, briefly met her eyes.
Then he turned, and, her hand still comfortably locked in one of his, they set out walking once more.
He couldn’t guess what, exactly, she was thinking, but that little smile that flirted about her lips, the still pleasured, pleasant, encouraging light he’d glimpsed when her eyes had met his . . . all suggested that she wouldn’t be averse to a repeat of their previous night’s engagement.
Given he was committed to having her as his wife, and as he seriously doubted she’d yet changed her mind about the future direction of her life, then patently he had more ground to make up, more work to do on that front. Clearly it behooved him to do everything possible, to use every opportunity that came his way, to both change her stubborn mind and to tie her to him as securely as he could with passion, pleasure, and desire.
The prospect was intriguing, challenging, and, given their past history, held considerable appeal.
Considering his possible options, he walked steadily on.
In the fullness of the morning, the man calling himself McKinsey rode out of Dumfries and headed north up the Glasgow Road.
He was confident of finding the Cynster chit and her escort; within a few hours at most, he should have them in his sights. Once he did . . .
He’d spent a good few hours of the night considering the best way to proceed. Given that he was increasingly sure that the man with her was no solicitor’s clerk, nor had ever been one, he’d decided that observation first would be the wisest course.
The road contained many long, open stretches; once he located them, watching them from a distance while they remained unaware of him would be easy enough.
Once he’d studied how they interacted and gained some notion of the nature of their connection, he would know what to do. It might be possible to use what had happened to his advantage; the situation might yet advance his cause, or be rejigged, redefined, to do so.
His mind awhirl with possibilities, he rode steadily on, the sun warming his back, the regular tattoo of Hercules’ hooves filling his ears. His expression, however, remained set, his lips a straight, uncompromising line.
No matter what transpired, regardless of all else, regardless of his and his people’s needs, courtesy of the disruption of his plan, his principal imperative now had to be saving Heather Cynster.
He had to make sure she was unharmed, that her future—whether with him or another—was certain, assured, and held the degree of comfort she would otherwise have had, had he not been forced to kidnap her.
A twist indeed; that certainly hadn’t been his original aim. But as matters now stood, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to follow any other course.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, he rode steadily on.
Heather and Breckenridge were nearing Kirkland when, with the sun shining high overhead, they stopped by the banks of a stream to eat some of the provisions they’d bought the day before in Dumfries.
Sitting on an outcrop of sun-warmed stones above the burbling water, they ate and looked back at the rolling hills through which the lane had slowly ascended. Even though they’d been climbing for some time, the folds of green blocked their view to the south. From all they could see, they might have been the only people in the world. Yet all around them nature bustled, rich and vibrant. Hedgerows were budding and the bare branches of trees were softening in the first flush of leaf.
Heather reached into one of the satchels and pulled out an apple. Recalled the old woman she’d bought it from, in the market at Dumfries. Now, Dumfries seemed far away, much further in her past than a mere twenty-four hours. Between then and now . . . it was as if plunging into intimacy with Breckenridge had divided her life into a “then” and a “now.”
She glanced at him and couldn’t help grinning. He was wolfing down some bread and a piece of hard cheese, his gaze scanning the fields below them. With his beard darkening his cheeks and concealing the austere, arrogant, distinctly aristocratic lines of his face, he appeared rumpled and disreputable, and oddly more human, his godlike handsomeness dimmed, veiled.
It was still there, of course. Every time she met his eyes, she saw him as he truly was. As she’d seen him last night, with the moonlight gilding every powerful line of his naked torso. His current incarnation as just another man was merely a temporary aberration. Once they were back in civilization, he would shave off the beard, revert to his usual clothes, and once again become Breckenridge, the ton’s foremost and favorite rake.
Until then, however, he was as he was . . . and what he was, was, to her mind, hers. She was the only one who would ever see him like this, in this moment. Only she would ever know how he’d behaved toward her during this journey. Quite aside from introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh, he’d behaved so very differently toward her than when in London.
Facing forward, she lifted her face to the sun, felt it combine with a wisp of breeze to caress her cheeks. She closed her eyes. Drank in the small pleasures.
She would always remember this moment, the gentle zephyr of warm wind washing past her. The London rake in clerk’s disguise sitting beside her.
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Her lips curved. Her mind ranged irresistibly on.
She’d already made up her mind about tonight. They would definitely have to stop at some cottage or find shelter in a barn. Either way, she was determined to reexperience the pleasures she’d enjoyed last night, and if possible press him to extend her horizons.
Once they regained civilization, their liaison would end, if not immediately, then very soon afterward. She didn’t have any firm idea how long it might last—how long she could stretch it out, how long she might hold his interest, widely acknowledged as peripatetic when it came to his lovers—so it was plainly in her best interests to ensure she gained as much out of the short time she would have with him.
During the short time in which he was hers.
She sat in the sun, with him beside her, and gave herself up to imagining.
Breckenridge glanced at her, took in the delight that showed in her face, then looked back down the lane—and reluctantly concluded that even if they appeared to be all alone in the landscape, they weren’t. In another place, another time, in a safer situation he would have been tempted to use the moment, seize it to further his new agenda, but her safety trumped his compulsion to do all that he could to tie her to him.
Besides . . . he hadn’t yet grown reconciled to the fact that, in doing all he could to tie her to him last night, while he might have succeeded in that, he’d simultaneously bound himself even more irrevocably to her, moreover in ways he didn’t yet fully understand.
Ways he didn’t yet want to understand.
He glanced at her again; his eyes were drawn to the ripe curves of her lips . . .
Dragging his gaze from her, he shifted, then grabbed the satchels, closed them, and got to his feet.
She looked up at him, brows rising, that odd little—sirenlike—smile still on her lips.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea how much she’d seen, how much she’d guessed.
Hardening his heart along with his expression, he held out a hand. “We should get on. We’ve some way to walk yet if we’re to be sure of reaching the Vale tomorrow.”
She tilted her head, regarded him for an instant, then nodded and set her hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. “Thank you.”
He waited while she brushed down her skirts and shook them out, then handed her the satchel she’d been carrying. “We should join a larger road up around the next bend. Kirkland should be a little further west.”
She merely nodded, reached out, and slipped her hand into his.
He grasped it lightly, settled her fingers within his clasp as he led her from the stream, back into the lane.
Hand in hand again, with her striding easily—transparently contentedly—by his side, they walked on toward Kirkland.
The man masquerading as McKinsey was in a far more deadly mood as, inwardly cursing, he rode south, heading back to Dumfries along the Glasgow Road.
If all had played out as he’d originally planned, he would have been, at that moment, back in the highlands, almost home, with Heather Cynster in tow, and his estate and all those on it would soon be safe once more. Instead . . .
Grim-faced, he was forced to halt every traveler heading north and ask after the pair, forced to stop at every cottage, barn, tavern, every possible resting place, had to sidetrack and check for any sight of them down every lane giving off the road.
He’d reached Thornhill without finding them—which had meant they’d either halted somewhere and unknowingly he’d overtaken them, or they’d turned off the road and headed elsewhere.
Where, he had no idea.
It had been no part of his plan to call attention to himself by approaching dozens of people along the road and asking questions, but he had no option. At least the stretch of road south of Thornhill didn’t have that many lanes giving off it, and most had a cottage or farm close by the corner. At that time of day, with the sun shining brightly, everyone was out in their fields; easy enough to inquire whether they’d seen his brother and his lass.
Remounting after questioning another crofter and once again getting a shake of the head, he settled in the saddle, picked up Hercules’ reins, eased the big gelding into a canter, and wondered if the Cynster chit was worth the effort.
If she hadn’t escaped with some unknown bounder . . .
Inwardly sighing resignedly, he rode on. No matter what arguments he wove, there was simply no way he could let the silly chit run off into the wilds and come to harm, given the blame for her being in the wilds at all and not safely in the bosom of her family in London lay entirely at his feet. His fault. Her potentially perilous circumstance was undeniably and solely an unintended outcome of his tortuous plan.
It was up to him to set things right.
Jaw firming, he tapped his boot heels to Hercules’ side and shifted into a gallop.
Chapter Twelve
In the late afternoon, with Heather beside him, Breckenridge walked into a tiny hamlet that, according to his map, gloried in the name of Craigdarroch. In unspoken accord, without a word or even a glance exchanged, he and Heather halted and considered the three cottages clustered just ahead of them on the slight upslope above the lane.
“I don’t suppose there’s a larger village around the next bend?” With her head, Heather indicated the next curve in the lane, the next outcrop of hill that hid their way onward.
“Not according to the map. It doesn’t show a larger settlement for quite some way, so we can’t risk going on.” He glanced at the western sky. “The sun might still be shining, but it won’t be for long.”
They’d reached Kirkland a little after midday and had continued on along a larger lane that ran over the hills joining Thornhill and New Galloway. That lane had been better surfaced, but it had still tacked and turned, climbed and descended, albeit never steeply. Nevertheless, the going had been slow—there was no chance they could reach the Vale that day. They’d passed through the village of Moniaive an hour or so ago, and following the route they’d selected, they’d turned off onto the much narrower, pitted lane-cum-track that had brought them to Craigdarroch.
He hoped their taking a less obvious route out of the hills would throw any pursuer off their trail.
At his side Heather stirred. “Let’s try the last cottage. It looks to have an extra room added at the rear.”
He looked, then nodded. Grasping her hand more firmly, he walked with her to the red-painted door of the whitewashed cottage at the end of the short row. They halted on the stoop. He adjusted the satchels on his shoulder, then raised his hand and rapped.
A moment passed, then a woman opened the door. She looked surprised to see them. Alarm briefly flared in her eyes as she looked at him; she quickly moved the door closer to closed before asking through the narrower gap, “What is it?”
Before he could respond, Heather stepped forward; slipping her left hand from his grasp, she gripped his sleeve, pressed . . . in warning? “We were just wondering, mistress, if you have a room we might hire for the night. We’re on our way to visit my family, but the going was harder than we’d thought, so we need a bed for the night.”
Breckenridge saw the woman’s eyes drop to Heather’s hand on his sleeve—the hand on which his signet ring still gleamed—and held his tongue.
The woman looked at Heather in her rumpled gown, her hair escaping from the bun she’d fashioned that morning, her normally alabaster skin faintly pinkened by the sun, then considerably more carefully looked at him. She looked him down, then up, then she returned her gaze to Heather. “He’s your man?”
“Yes. He’s mine.”
“He” managed not to glance inquiringly at Heather. Her answer had been instant, assured and absolute; from the corner of his eye, he watched her chin tilt upward a fraction, as if challenging the woman to comment unfavorably on him.
He couldn’t remember the las
t time he’d been viewed by any woman in a less-than-favorable light, but he wasn’t slow. Clearly the woman distrusted large and physically strong men. Ducking his head, doing his best to lower his shoulders and seem less intimidating, he shifted his feet and murmured, “I’d be happy to cut wood for you, mistress. Did that for the couple we stayed with last night, back down by Gribton. In addition to the coin, of course.”
The woman glanced again at Heather, then she nodded and stepped back. Holding the door wider, she waved them in. “I’m Mrs. Croft. I’m a widow, so I have to be careful, you see. But I won’t deny the coin—and the wood—will come in handy.”
Heather glanced around the cottage’s tiny sitting room. An open door in the middle of the rear wall led into a lean-to kitchen, a deal table at its center. A door in the wall to the right of the front door no doubt gave onto the cottage’s main bedroom. The hearth and chimney were built into the rear wall, to the right of the kitchen door. Further to the right, a narrow stairway led upward, turning to disappear behind the chimney.
After shutting the stout front door and slipping a heavy iron latch into place, Mrs. Croft waved to the staircase. “The spare room’s up there. Take a look, set down your things. The washroom’s out the back through the kitchen.” She hesitated, her gaze skating over Breckenridge to fix on Heather’s face. Then she nodded as if she’d made some decision. “You’ve come at the right time—I was just starting in on filling the pot. If you fancy, I can do you a decent dinner and a good breakfast, too, as well as the room.”
“Thank you.” Heather smiled in honest relief. “That would be most welcome.” Remembering what they’d paid the Cartwrights, she suggested the same sum.
Mrs. Croft all but beamed. “That’ll do nicely—if you’re sure you can spare it.”
Breckenridge, head bowed because he was standing beneath one of the low ceiling beams, rumbled, “Seems fair. And I can start filling your woodbox before the light goes, if you like.”
A small fire was already burning in the hearth.
Mrs. Croft glanced at the wooden crate beside the fireplace. It was half full of logs. Without meeting Breckenridge’s eyes, she waved. “Oh, you can leave that til morning. You’ve been walking all day by the sounds of it, if you’ve come up from Gribton, and the light’s already fading.”