Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens Page B

and had used the excuse that they
wouldn’t want her to take a chill to persuade Martha to allow her to keep her
silk shawl and to spread her cloak over her bed for extra warmth.
    The cloak was wrapped about her now, and cinched at
her waist with the silk shawl. Although the makeshift gown left her ankles and
lower calves exposed, at least her skin there was screened by silk stocking, and
the gown otherwise was a significant improvement over the previous night’s
coverlet; it didn’t rely on her holding it in place to remain decent.
    Which was a pertinent consideration given she was
off to meet Breckenridge. He’d more or less made it a condition for his agreeing
to allow her to continue traveling on with her captors, and she knew him well
enough not to call his bluff, because it would be no bluff. Besides, she wanted
to share what she’d learned, and see if he might have any further insights. His
knowledge of their world, especially beyond the confines of the ton, was
significantly greater than hers.
    Silently closing the door behind her, carefully
easing the latch back into place, she turned in the direction of the stairs. For
several moments, she held still, straining her ears for any sound, allowing her
vision to better adjust to the deeper darkness of the corridor, and reminding
herself of the way.
    When she and Martha had risen from the table they’d
shared with Fletcher and Cobbins in the tap through the evening, Breckenridge,
seated across the room and closer to the door, had anticipated them; he’d risen
and left the tap ahead of them. He’d been climbing the stairs when she and
Martha had reached the foyer.
    They’d followed him up and had seen him open the
door of a room not far from the head of the stairs. He hadn’t so much as glanced
their way but had gone in and shut the door. She’d walked on with Martha, past
that door, down the corridor and around a corner to their chamber.
    Drawing in a tight—faintly excited—breath, she set
out, quietly creeping back to the corner, her evening slippers allowing her to
tiptoe along with barely a sound.
    Nearing the corner, she paused and glanced back
along the corridor. Still empty. Reassured, she started to turn, intending to
peek around the corner—
    A hard body swung around the corner and plowed into
her.
    She stumbled back. Hard hands grabbed her, holding
her upright.
    Her heart leapt to her throat. She looked up, saw
only darkness.
    She opened her mouth—
    A palm slapped over her lips. A steely arm locked
around her—locked her against a large, adamantine male body; she couldn’t even
squirm.
    Her senses scrambled. Strength, male heat, muscled
hardness engulfed her.
    Then a virulent curse singed her ears.
    And she realized who’d captured her.
    Panic and sheer fright had tensed her every muscle;
relief washed both away and she felt limp. The temptation to sag in his arms, to
sink gratefully against him, was so nearly overwhelming that it shocked her into
tensing again.
    He lowered his head so he could look into her face.
Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “ What the devil are you
doing ?”
    His tone very effectively dragged her wits to the
fore. He hadn’t removed his hand from her lips. She nipped it.
    With a muted oath, he pulled the hand away.
    She moistened her lips and angrily whispered back,
“Coming to see you, of course. What are you doing here?”
    “Coming to fetch you— of
course .”
    “You ridiculous man.” Her hands had come to rest on
his chest. She snatched them back, waved them. “I’m hardly likely to come to
grief over the space of a few yards!”
    Even to her ears they sounded like squabbling
children.
    He didn’t reply.
    Through the dark, he looked at her.
    She couldn’t see his eyes, but his gaze was so
intent, so intense that she could feel . . .
    Her heart started thudding, beating heavier,
deeper.
    Her senses expanded, alert in a wholly unfamiliar
way.
    He looked at her . . . looked at her.
    Primitive instinct