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 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.

The 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 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 riffled the delicate hairs at her nape.

Abruptly he raised his head, straightened, stepped back. “Come on.”

Grabbing her elbow, he bundled her unceremoniously around the corner and on up the corridor before him. Her temper — always close to the surface when he was near — started to simmer. If they hadn’t needed to be quiet, she would have told him what she thought of such cavalier treatment.