Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens Page A

like
panicking at first, but . . . I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t view
this as an adventure.” She had to deflect any suspicion, so offered the one
explanation that might serve. She gestured dramatically. “A romantical
adventure, complete with mysterious villain, who might or might not prove to be
devastatingly handsome.”
    Martha snorted. “So that’s the way it is—you’re
romanticizing this blackguard who’s arranged your kidnapping.”
    “Do you actually know if he’s a blackguard?”
Heather didn’t have to manufacture her concern.
    Martha grimaced. “I can’t rightly say. I haven’t
had anything to do with the beggar. Fletcher and Cobbins were the ones that met
him. But,” she continued, “any blighter who arranges a kidnapping, and one as
coolly planned as this, take it from me, handsome or not, you won’t want to meet
him.” Martha glanced at her again. “Sure you don’t want to rethink those
hysterics?”
    Heather arched her brows. “Will they get me any
further?”
    “Not with me—and Fletcher’s more like to slap you
than come over all solicitous.”
    “Well, then.” Heather tipped up her face. “I
believe I’ll just go on romanticizing, at least until I have cause not to. You
should be grateful—I’m making your task much easier.”
    Martha snorted. “Speaking of which.” She halted.
“This is far enough. You may need the exercise, but I don’t—we head back from
here.”
    Heather halted, filled her lungs full, then exhaled
on a sigh. “Oh, very well.” Swinging around, she fell in beside Martha’s large,
darkly garbed figure, and they started back toward the inn.
    The “maid” was an inch or so taller than Heather,
and at least two of her in girth, yet despite her size and usual plodding gait,
Martha could move fast enough if she wished, and Heather had seen the size of
the arms concealed by her voluminous black sleeves. Martha might be large, but
she was mostly muscle. If Heather had to escape the woman, she’d need to ensure
Martha was incapacitated first.
    They walked slowly back to the inn—Martha because
that was the speed at which she walked, Heather because she saw no reason to cut
short her time in the crisp, late afternoon air.
    Reaching the narrow path they’d taken from the inn
to the river, they left the river path and, with the Trent at their backs,
climbed the shallow slope toward the inn.
    Raising her head, Heather looked at the gray stone
building—and saw the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who’d paused in the
shadows by one corner.
    Earlier, in Stretton, he’d worn the clothes of a
country townsman, the sort who might own a local business. Now he was garbed
more like one of his own grooms. Regardless, she recognized him instantly. Her
heart lightened considerably; she started to smile, only just remembering to
suppress the reaction.
    Glancing sideways at Martha, toiling beside her,
she was relieved to see that the maid hadn’t noticed.
    She looked at the inn again . . .
    Breckenridge had vanished.
    Not that it mattered. Now she knew he was near,
they would meet tonight somehow. She turned her mind to rehearsing her report,
to listing all she’d learned in the manner most likely to convince him to agree
to her continuing on with her captors.
    T he
Old Bell Inn was in truth a very old inn. Its bedchambers possessed latches,
with hooks on the doors to secure them, but no locks. Heather blessed the
innkeeper for not modernizing; once the inn had settled for the night and every
two-legged occupant had retired to their beds, with Martha snoring fit to drown
out any creaking boards, Heather lifted the latch on their chamber door and
slipped out into the chill darkness of the corridor.
    She hadn’t dared light a candle, but her eyes had
adjusted to the night; she could see well enough to, with one quick glance,
confirm the corridor was empty. Once again she’d been deprived of her outer
clothes, but she’d complained about the cold