Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens

standing there arguing, you instead
treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with
respect to me were, I might see my way to complying—or at least to helping you
comply with them.”
    Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that
pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh.
    “All right.” Fletcher’s frustration had reached
breaking point. “If you must know, we’re to keep you safe from all harm. We’re
not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We’re to
deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when we grabbed you.”
    From the change in Fletcher’s tone, Breckenridge
could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into
backing down; he could have told him it wouldn’t work.
    “So now you see,”
Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, “that it’s entirely out of the
question for you to go out for any ramble.”
    “Hmm.” Heather’s tone was tellingly mild.
    Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut.
For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it
to land.
    “ If, as you say, your
orders are to—do correct me if I’m wrong—keep me in my customary excellent
health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that
will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a
carriage has never agreed with me—if you don’t wish me to weaken or develop some
unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup.”
She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, “A short
excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my
constitution.”
    Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher
breathing in and out through clenched teeth.
    A fraught moment passed, then, “Oh, very well!
Martha—go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more.”
    “Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha—we don’t want to
waste the light.”
    Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower
Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually,
Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously
silent.
    The instant they passed out of hearing,
Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer.
Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.
    T he
river Trent flowed peacefully along, a mere hundred yards from the rear of the
inn. A well-beaten path wended along the bank. Heather ambled down it, genuinely
glad to have the chance to stretch her legs, to breathe fresh air, but her
principal reason for insisting on the walk was to gain some inkling of whether
Breckenridge was there.
    Until she saw him, she had no way of knowing if he
was—whether he’d arrived ahead of them or was still on his way.
    One thing she did feel certain about was that he
would materialize and hover close. He’d said they would have to meet every
night. She was under no illusion; if he thought she was in real danger, he would
intervene and rescue her, regardless of what he might have to do to accomplish
that. By the same token, when they met that night—however they managed it—he
would most likely try to bully her into giving up her quest and returning to
London with him.
    So while she walked, she reviewed all she’d
learned—not enough, but a few telling facts, enough to justify persisting, and
learning more if she could. She ordered the points in her mind.
    She was mentally far away, absentmindedly
strolling, when Martha, plodding heavily alongside, said, “You’re taking this
awfully well.”
    Heather glanced at her, met Martha’s shrewd
gaze.
    “I’d expected,” Martha continued, “to have to deal
with hysterics—bouts of weeping and pleading at the very least.”
    “Yes, well . . .” Heather pulled an
expressive face. Looking ahead, she went on, “I have to admit I did feel