Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online

ready to suggest that she or Martha, or even the serving girls, should
summon Fletcher and Cobbins before their meals grew cold, but then she glanced
at the door and saw Cobbins, followed by Fletcher, enter.
    She nearly sighed with relief. Reaching for her
cider, she took a calming sip.
    Cobbins sat opposite. Fletcher followed him onto
the booth’s bench seat. He met Martha’s eyes. “No one. Looks like we got clean
away.”
    Martha, mouth already full, barely looked up from
her plate to nod.
    Cobbins lifted his fork and dug into the mound
before him. Fletcher followed suit.
    Heather picked up her fork, prodded at the meat
topped with potato, then lifted a small bite. She tentatively tried it, then
went back for more. The dish was surprisingly tasty.
    She didn’t know what made her look up several
minutes later, but glancing at the door she saw Breckenridge standing just
inside the room. He was looking at her but immediately shifted his gaze,
surveying the tap as if deciding where to sit.
    Pretending to look down at her plate, from beneath
her lashes she surreptitiously watched as he stirred, then, surprisingly
silently for such a large man, tacked through the tables, heading toward their
booth.
    She blinked and lifted her head when he disappeared
behind the high panel at Fletcher’s back; he’d slipped into the next booth,
behind her male captors.
    Which almost certainly meant he would overhear
anything they said.
    Laying down her fork, fixing her gaze on Fletcher,
she took a sip of cider, then cleared her throat. “Where are you taking me?”
Looking down, she set her mug back down. Carefully, as if she were nervous and
tense.
    Fletcher shot her an assessing glance. “We’re
taking you further north.”
    She looked up, met his gaze, tried for beseeching.
“But how far? Further up the Great North Road? Or somewhere else?” She managed
to imbue the last words with an unspecified dread, as if there were something
she feared in the north, something other than her abductors’ employer.
    Fletcher frowned. “Like I said—north.”
    “But where in the
north?” Histrionically, she spread her arms. “There’s lots of places north of
here! Where—” She artistically let her breath catch, swallowed, then went on
more quietly, “Where are we stopping for the night?”
    Her tone suggested she was close to panic at the
idea they might stop too close to that something.
    Fletcher frowned harder. Leaning forward, he
lowered his voice. “I don’t know what bee’s got into your bonnet, but we’re
stopping at Carlton-on-Trent overnight.” He searched her face. “Is there any
reason we shouldn’t?”
    Breckenridge might not have heard.
    She raised her head, hauled in a breath.
“Carlton-on-Trent?” She summoned a weak smile, then shook her head. “No, no
. . . there’s no reason we can’t stop at Carlton-on-Trent.”
    “Good.” Fletcher sat back, still frowning, then he
glanced at the other two. “Eat and drink up. Let’s get back on the road.”
    The other two grumbled. Heather quickly ate a few
more bites of her nearly cold lunch. The others were still clearing their
plates; heads down, none of them noticed the large man who rose from the next
booth. Without a single glance in their direction, Breckenridge walked out of
the inn.
    “Come on.” Fletcher pushed back his plate and
stood.
    The others more slowly followed him out of the
booth.
    Heather played the obedient abductee and allowed
Martha and Cobbins to usher her outside. Stepping into the forecourt, she was
just in time to see Breckenridge, in drab, dull clothing quite unlike his usual
elegant attire, turn a plain curricle out of the inn yard and set his horses
pacing up the highway, heading north.
    She surmised he’d decided to go on ahead of
them.
    Fletcher hadn’t taken any notice of the curricle
and its driver; he’d gone straight to their own coachman and had started some
discussion. She didn’t think Cobbins had noticed Breckenridge