Viscount Breckenridge To The Rescue by Laurens Stephanie

Author:Laurens, Stephanie [Laurens, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Historical, Regency
ISBN: 9780748127054
Google: _YY9obOc6DYC
Amazon: 0062068601
Barnesnoble: 0062068601
Goodreads: 10724218
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2011-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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

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