Chapter Seven
I think it’s time for me to make my escape.” Heather said the words before she’d even sat beside Breckenridge on the narrow bench beneath the coat pegs in the tiny cloakroom.
She’d waited until it had been so late that there would have been no chance of the innkeeper surprising them, all the time fervently hoping that Breckenridge would not only have been waiting but would have found and lit a candle by the time she arrived.
He had; the wavering light had welcomed her. Slipping inside the confined space, pushing the door closed behind her, she’d taken in the reassuring sight of him as he’d glanced up at her.
He waited as she settled, then flicked out the cloak he’d been holding in his hands and, turning to her, swirled it about her. He hadn’t been wearing it, so it didn’t hold much of his scent, but she was grateful for the added warmth nonetheless.
“Is that woman ever going to give you back your clothes at night?”
“I doubt it. It seems to be her habitual way of controlling her charges.”
He grunted, then, his lips setting in a surprisingly grim line, met her gaze. “Escaping, I regret to say, isn’t going to be as easy as we’d thought.”
She blinked, studied his face. “Why?”
He looked down at his hands, clasped between his spread knees. “Fletcher and Cobbins stand to collect two thousand pounds when they hand you over to the laird.”
“Two thousand . . . good God!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“But . . .” She struggled to take it in. Finally said, “Clearly this laird is no penny-pinching pauper. He’s definitely not wanting me for ransom, nor yet to marry.”
“At least not to marry for your money.”
She glanced at him. “I really don’t think I’ve met this laird, so why else . . . oh, you mean for the connection to the family?”
“Who knows? But regardless of his reasons, we now face a significantly greater problem than we’d foreseen.” He met her gray-blue eyes. “Fletcher and Cobbins are no bumbling fools. They’re dangerous, and they’re not going to let two thousand pounds slip through their grasp without making a determined bid to snatch it—you—back.”
She nodded; her expression stated she understood and accepted his argument, yet she didn’t seem overly worried. After one blink, she refocused on his face. “So what now?”
Staring into her eyes, lit by the candlelight, the truth hit him like a sledgehammer. She trusted him. Trusted him implicitly to protect her and get her out of this, away from any danger. He would, of course, but he hadn’t expected her to be so . . . accepting. Lips twisting, he looked forward. “We’re going to have to find some way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins, so that they’re too busy to notice you’ve escaped, if at all possible for a day. They’re going to chase us like madmen.”
“Madmen motivated by two thousand pounds.”
“Precisely. But as well as distracting them to whatever extent we can, we need to make for the nearest safe place.”
She grimaced. “We can’t just escape and put up at some inn in Gretna, can we?”
He shook his head. “I’d assumed we would head back to London—possibly detour to the Brunswick estates on the way.” His father was at Baraclough, the earldom’s principal estate in Berkshire. If he and Heather were to marry, he wanted to tell his father first, in person. “But that’s the first direction in which Fletcher and Cobbins will look, and there’s no safe harbor along that route that we can be sure of reaching before they catch up with us.”
He hesitated, then went on, “Admittedly, once back in England, as long as we saw them coming I could use my title to have them taken up. However, if we don’t see them closing on us—and given their experience, I’m not confident we would—then that won’t save us.” Save her. If Fletcher and Cobbins caught up with them, they’d at the very least incapacitate him and steal her back—and then make absolutely certain she was without delay placed directly into the hands of their mysterious laird.
Equally undesirably, however, invoking his title would make their journey together without any acceptable chaperon public, something he would prefer not to do. He was confident the Cynsters would have covered up her absence—she’d be recovering from a hideous chill or something of that nature—and his absence wouldn’t have even been noted; if any in the wider ton wondered about him at all, they would assume he was at Baraclough. If at all possible he intended to present their necessary betrothal as something that had been arranged quietly between their families, not as something necessitated by her being kidnapped, and not even by him.
Calling attention to themselves would end all hope of keeping her reputation intact.
He stared at his hands. “And we can’t afford to let them catch us in Scotland—not at all. We have to assume this laird’s a nobleman, some arrogant and, as it happens, very wealthy highlander. If it comes to his title versus mine—and neither you nor I have anything with us to verify who we are, and there’s no one close who can vouch for us—then it’s perfectly possible he’ll be able to lay claim to you, and take you off God knows where while I protest my innocence and identity from a cell.”
That scenario was his worst nightmare.
She was frowning. “Don’t you have any cards with you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think a silver card case with cards in the name of Viscount Breckenridge will do us much good.” He met her gaze. “He’ll—they’ll—claim I stole it.”
She grimaced and looked forward.
Looking back at his hands, he continued, “So we need somewhere safe that’s reasonably close—some place we can reach within a day. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t think of anywhere.”
“Casphairn.”
He glanced at her. Her tone had been definite; her expression was confident and assured. “Where?”
“The Vale of Casphairn. It’s where Richard—my cousin Richard—and his wife, Catriona, live. It’s . . . well, a day’s journey in a carriage from Carlisle.”
“In which direction?”
“To the west. We pass through Gretna, then go west to Annan and Dumfries. . . .” She grimaced. “I’m not sure of the road after that. I know we go through a town called St. John’s of Dalry. That’s about an hour from the Vale.”
“If I get us a map, could you find it?”
She nodded. “And I know Richard and Catriona are there. They don’t come down for the Season, not usually, and they weren’t expected in London this year.”
“Good.” He knew Richard Cynster. He nodded. “We’ll make for there.”
Heather embraced the notion with relief. The thought of Breckenridge being slung in a cell while she was dragged off by some loutish highlander . . . she gave an inward shudder, then determinedly banished the thought. “So how do I escape?” She turned to look at Breckenridge. “And when?”
He considered, then shook his head. “Not tomorrow. According to Fletcher, he’s not really expecting the laird until the following day. That gives us tomorrow to plan.”
He glanced at her, then rose.
She rose, too.
He held her gaze for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll find us a map, for a start. Meanwhile, both of us should put our minds to thinking of a way to distract Fletcher and Cobbins long enough for us to get safely away.”
She nodded, then remembered and slipped his cloak off her shoulders. Once again, she immediately felt the loss. “Martha said that if tomorrow is fine, she’ll try to get Fletcher to let us go for a walk, so I might have a chance to learn something useful.”
He took the cloak from her, but caught and held her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t jeopardize how they currently view you. We don’t need them to realize what you’re capable of and decide to keep you under lock, key, and tighter guard.”
The acknowledgment that she wasn�
��t some meek and mild—helpless and gormless—fashionable miss had her smiling. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
He grunted and reached for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob. He caught her gaze, looked at her . . . long enough to have her lungs tightening and thoughts far removed from escape rising in her mind . . . but then he grimaced and looked away. “Regardless of what we find, we’ll have to get you out of Fletcher’s clutches by the day after tomorrow.” His voice was a bare whisper as he added, “That’s when the laird is supposed to arrive.”
She felt a sudden chill and told herself it was simply the effect of losing the protection of his cloak.
He blew out the candle, then opened the door, looked out, and stepped through and to the side. She slipped out of the cloakroom and, with a last glance his way, headed straight up the stairs.
Lecturing herself that she couldn’t at this point give in to the impulse to simply walk into his arms and see what came next.
It hadn’t happened that morning, as Heather had hoped, but after lunch Martha finally convinced Fletcher that he needed to allow both her and Heather out for a walk. The day had been sunny since morning, and the grass was no longer wet, just damp. Fletcher hadn’t been happy, but he’d grudgingly agreed that they could walk across the fields to a nearby grassy hillock.
Martha had eyed the slight mound, a goodly distance away, then told Fletcher not to expect them back for at least two hours. “We’re going to have a sit in the sunshine.”
As Martha had become quite belligerent over the whole question of their walk, Fletcher had gritted his teeth and waved them off.
Heather took the opportunity afforded by the walk to get a better sense of the surrounding land. They passed the stables at the side of the inn, to the west of the main building, then tramped southwest. The fields were largely flat; what hedges there were weren’t thick or dense. At this time of year, with all the branches bare, there was precious little cover to be found. The faint hope she’d harbored that they might lurk close enough after her escape to glimpse the laird when he arrived died.
The hillock wasn’t that far. When she halted on its crest and looked south, she could see the glint of sunlight off the waters of Solway Firth.
Martha looked, then set down her knitting bag and shook out a large rug she’d carried under her arm. Laying it on the grass, she pointed to one end. “Sit you down there, and don’t make me regret taking up for you and getting you out in the fresh air.”
Remembering Breckenridge’s warning not to step out of her assumed character, Heather dutifully subsided. Martha sat, too, and pulled out her knitting.
Although the fresh air was welcome, within ten minutes, Heather was thoroughly bored. The last thing she needed was time to dwell on Breckenridge and the unruly impulses that increasingly came to the fore when he was near.
She definitely didn’t need to think about those, and even less about him, and her steadily changing opinion. It had been much easier to deal with him, and her misguided attraction to him, when she’d thought him a too-handsome-for-his-own-good, far-too-experienced-to-look-in-her-direction, arrogant, indolent, and self-indulgent rake of the first order.
Now . . . he might still be all that, but he’d also shown himself to have qualities she knew enough to recognize as admirable. Protective males could be difficult to manage; against that, they were likely to be there when one needed them, and when one was in danger, their presence was comforting. More, he’d shown a—to her—surprising ability to deal with her as a partner. That, she most definitely hadn’t expected, especially from him.
The thought reminded her of what they were both supposed to be assessing that day—means of escape. She glanced at Martha. The older woman’s head was nodding, but she felt Heather’s gaze and looked up.
Heather glanced back at the inn, clearly visible across the fields.
Martha misinterpreted and chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. He won’t come charging out to drag us back.” Setting down her knitting, Martha, too, looked back at the inn. “Mind you, I’d wager he watched for the first ten minutes or so, but he’ll have seen by now that there’s no risk to you.” Martha waved her arms at the fields around them. “No chance anyone could creep up and steal you away.”
Heaving a huge sigh, Martha lay down full length on her end of the rug. “I’m going to have a nice little nap in this sun. Don’t think to wander off—I’ll know if you move. A very light sleeper, I am.”
Heather stared, speechless, at the woman who slept so soundly every night that she’d never heard Heather slip out of their room, or back in. Heather managed not to shake her head in disbelief, just in case Martha was watching through her lashes. Instead, she drew in a deep breath and looked around with more interest.
Considered the firth, not more than a mile away. Could they possibly escape by water? Surely they could find a fisherman who might . . . but no. Travel by small boat at this time of year wouldn’t necessarily be fast—faster than going by land—and she was fairly sure there would be no benefit to them in trying to get closer to Casphairn by sea. The Vale lay well inland, that much she knew.
While Martha’s snores kept the birds at bay, she wondered what possible distraction they might stage. It had to be something to keep Fletcher and Cobbins occupied—
The soft sound of a footstep had her turning quickly, to see Breckenridge quietly walking up. He looked at Martha, then nodded politely at Heather. “This looked like a good place to get some air. Do you mind if I join you?”
Understanding they were to continue to play their fictitious roles, she inclined her head. “If you wish.”
He sat on the grass a little way away. Drawing a map from his pocket, he opened it and spread it out—laying it between them, where she could see it.
Pointing to Gretna, Breckenridge murmured, “I thought I’d work out the best road to Glasgow.”
He’d spoken quietly, but distinctly. He waited, but Martha’s snores didn’t break rhythm.
Looking at Heather, he arched a brow.
Leaning closer, she extended one tapered finger, with it traced the main road from Gretna to Annan and on to Dumfries. There, she halted, lifted her finger while with her eyes she searched further north and west. . .
“There,” she breathed, her finger descending to point to a small village.
He looked, then looked up at her questioningly.
“That’s Carsphairn village.” Her words reached him on a thread of sound. “The road to the Vale heads west, less than a mile south of the village.”
He nodded and drew the map closer. He studied the area she’d indicated, then checked the roads between Dumfries to that point. He glanced at Martha, then murmured, “Even though my trap is old and rickety, I should make it in a day.”
She nodded. “Assuming the way is clear.”
He flicked her a glance. “I believe it will be. But I’ll need to get a good night’s sleep.”
She frowned, then turned her head away from Martha and mouthed, “Tonight?”
Certain no one could snore that deeply without being asleep, he risked murmuring, “No meeting. I’m working on our distraction. Be ready tomorrow—I’m not sure exactly when.”
Gathering the map, he stood and refolded it. Sliding it into his pocket, he nodded politely, then turned and walked back to the inn.
Heather didn’t immediately turn and watch him, but when she judged he would be most of the way back, she shifted and looked, and saw him striding along, nearing the stables.
When he disappeared into the inn, she stifled a sigh and faced forward once more. What was he up to? And why was there to be no secret meeting in the cloakroom to look forward to, and to reassure her, that night?
The following twenty-four hours were the longest Heather had ever endured. She slept fitfully, tossing and turning and wondering what Breckenridge was doing. The only reason
he would have cancelled their nightly meeting was that he wasn’t going to be in the inn. And if he wasn’t, where the devil was he?
From the moment the new day dawned, she was tense, on pins. This was the day Fletcher expected the laird to arrive—the dangerous, mysterious, highland nobleman who had ordered her kidnapped and brought to Gretna Green. Both Fletcher and Cobbins had taken pains with their ablutions and attire. Even Martha had spruced herself up. Heather felt thoroughly rumpled in comparison, in her dull round gown and clashing shawl, but her appearance didn’t even feature on her list of concerns.
Breckenridge was playing least in sight. He hadn’t been in the tap for breakfast, at least not while she and Martha had been there. Of course Fletcher had insisted they retire to the parlor and remain in seclusion there, so she had no idea if Breckenridge appeared later, but he didn’t join the company for lunch, either. She didn’t dare inquire directly, but to her relief Martha asked Cobbins where their friend was. Cobbins replied that Timms was preparing to leave, to drive on to Glasgow in easy stages.
The information settled her. The Glasgow road wasn’t the one they would take. Laying a false trail was a sound, very Breckenridgelike idea.
The weather had turned bleak, the wind biting. When a group of sailors came into the tap, closely followed by three farmhands, Fletcher ordered her and Martha back to the parlor.
With ill-grace, she went.
An hour later, she was standing before the parlor window and staring across the inn’s graveled forecourt, tempted to bite a nail although she’d broken the habit years ago, when three men came striding swiftly and purposefully down the lane.
They turned into the inn’s forecourt and headed without pause for the front door.
Their uniforms stated they were from the local constabulary.
Their pugnacious expressions declared they were on the trail of some villain.
The first reached the door, opened it, and strode in. His companions followed on his heels.
Heather headed for the parlor door, risks and options colliding in her mind.