Behind her, the parlor door closed. She heard Martha’s large bulk ease down into the armchair.

Eyes fixed outside, Heather humphed. “The lane’s still muddy, but the verge is drying nicely. It would be perfectly possible to go for a stroll. Perhaps after lunch.”

“Forget it,” Martha advised. “You heard him. No going outside.”

“But why?” Swinging around, Heather spread her arms. “What does he think I’ll do — escape into the wilderness? If I was going to escape, I’d have tried that first night.” She let her shoulders slump. “I’m a young lady of the ton — I can play the pianoforte and waltz with the best of them, but escaping isn’t something I have the vaguest notion how to do!”

Martha eyed her, not without sympathy. After a moment, she said, “Humor him for today. I’ll have a word with him tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning. If it’s fine, perhaps he’ll let you have your walk then, but mind, I’m making no promises.”

Heather met Martha’s gaze. She felt compelled to incline her head in acceptance of the olive branch. “Thank you.”

Turning back to the window, she grimaced. That still left her with an entire day to waste, with nothing much more she could gain from it. She’d already questioned Martha; she doubted there was any more to learn from her “maid,” and further probing might instead raise suspicions in Martha’s quite sharp mind.

If there was nothing more she could learn, nothing else she could do. .

The thought that had been haunting her — that had followed her into her dreams last night and been in her mind when she’d awoken that morning — flared again. Last night, in the cloakroom, she’d almost kissed Breckenridge. It hadn’t been an accident, a mistake — she’d known exactly who he was the whole time. But she’d wanted to kiss him, would have, would have welcomed his kiss if he’d been so inclined. If he’d given the slightest sign of welcoming her advance, she would have stretched up and touched her lips to his.

The only thing that had stopped her — that had stopped the kiss from happening — was that she hadn’t been able to read his face, his expression. Hadn’t been able to see his eyes.

She’d searched, but there’d been nothing to tell her what he thought — whether he felt any attraction toward her at all, let alone something similar to what she felt for him. It was, she thought, a latent sensual curiosity — something the enforced closeness of their adventure had caused to grow from their previously strained and prickly interaction. Regardless, she’d definitely wanted to kiss him last night, and would have if she hadn’t suddenly been assailed not by missish sensibility, let alone modesty, but by the horrible thought that he might not want to kiss her.

Which led her back to her persistent fear, nay, entrenched belief, that he saw her as little more than a schoolgirl. A girl child. A female so young and inexperienced that a man of his ilk could never see her as a woman, let alone ever stoop to taking advantage of her.

Much less anything else, any consensual liaison.

Arms tightly folded, frowning unseeing out at the trees, she had to admit her attitude toward him had changed over the last days. Changed. . or perhaps clarified. Previously she would have been more likely to use her lips to berate him than kiss him, but now. .

The thought of kissing him — just seizing the moment and doing it, and getting the madness out of her system and satisfying her curiosity — was rapidly becoming an obsession.

An obsession that, for the next hours, she could do nothing about.

She humphed, inwardly pushed the subject aside.

Determinedly focusing on the trees outside, she turned her mind to the only other thing she might accomplish — evaluating ways in which she and Breckenridge could escape, but then keep watch on the inn and get a look at the mysterious laird when he arrived, sufficient to identify him.

Breckenridge spent the morning outside the inn, taking advantage of the brighter weather to avoid Fletcher and Cobbins, the better to ensure they didn’t suspect him of taking too great an interest in their business. If the laird wasn’t expected until at least the following day, then Heather would be safe enough, confined, as she was, to the inn parlor.

After breakfasting late, he strolled to the inn’s stable and checked over the old chestnut he’d hired in Carlisle, along with the ancient pony trap. The horse was faring well; it would carry him and Heather far enough to make good an escape.

But in which direction? He spent the rest of the morning ambling around the hamlet of Gretna Green, taking note of the roads and the cover afforded by the landscape in each direction, then he strode the half mile or so back down the highway to the main village of Gretna, with the Customs and Revenue Offices, and the border itself just beyond.

With clouds blowing up and the wind tending bitter, he returned to the inn at lunchtime. Pausing in the front hall, he glanced at the parlor door, but all was quiet inside.

Turning away, he walked into the tap. And fell in once again with Fletcher and Cobbins. They were joined by the usual band of locals during the meal, but once the platters were cleared and the farmers departed for their fields once more, the three of them gathered about the table by the window.

Fletcher had brought the pack of cards but seemed uninterested in any game. He picked up the pack and let it fall an inch to the table, over and over again.

Breckenridge noted it. “Are you worried about this laird of yours showing?”

“Heh?” Fletcher focused, then shook his head. “No — he’ll be here. I just wish he’d be here sooner.”

“Tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Tomorrow, or the next day. He’ll definitely be here by then.” He glanced at Breckenridge. “It’s just that I don’t like sitting in one place, waiting. Sort of like being a sitting duck — it grates on my nerves.”

“Ah. I see.” The only men Breckenridge had previously encountered who chafed at being forced by unavoidable circumstances to remain in one place were felons of one stripe or another. It made them feel trapped. Glancing at Cobbins, more taciturn than Fletcher, he saw a similar edginess growing.

Unless he missed his guess, both men had at some time been very much on the wrong side of the law; they might never have been caught, but both knew what it was like to be hunted.

Which was a fact worth noting, given he intended to filch their latest prize from under their noses. He’d already learned through general conversation that Fletcher was good with knives, and had several on him at any time, while Cobbins was a true bruiser at heart, a heavy man who, once he mowed into something, wasn’t likely to stop until he was the last one standing.

“Tell me.” Relaxing back in his chair, he projected the air of someone seeking to distract the pair from their angst. “How does this sort of caper work? Seems to me it’s a capital lark — you do the job, hand over the package, get paid, and everyone’s happy.” He frowned, as if thinking it through. “But then you have to stump up the wherewithal to set up the snatch in the first place, and the cost of the travel and all the rest—” He broke off because Fletcher was shaking his head.

Setting aside the cards, Fletcher leaned his arms on the table. “No. It’s better than that. Mind you”—Fletcher sent a sharp glance his way—“it takes years and years to work up a reputation like we have. You don’t get the arrangements we do straight off, first time.”

Cobbins nodded. “Professionals, we are.”

“Exactly.” Fletcher looked back at Breckenridge. “So the way it works for us, us being professionals and well known in this work, is that we get paid wages up front — proper compensation for our time doing the job — and enough to cover all expenses, like our travel down to London and back, staying in the capital, Martha’s wages, and all the rest.”

“All up front?” Breckenridge blinked in genuine surprise. Whoever the laird was, he was not only wealthy but also willing to invest serious money for the chance of seizing one of the Cynster girls.

“Cash in hand, at the start,” Fletcher confirmed. “We don’t take the job without it.”

“But. .” Breckenridge felt a chill as the question formed in his mind. “What guarantee does your employer have that you’ll actually do the job?”

Fletcher grinned. “Our bonus, of course. There’s two thousand pounds coming our way, along with the laird.”

“Two thousand?” Breckenridge didn’t have to feign his shock.

Smile deepening, Fletcher nodded. “Told you this is a really sweet job.” Fletcher hesitated, studying Breckenridge, then looked at Cobbins and exchanged a glance before turning back and adding, “If you ever get tired of being a clerk, you look us up — you’d be useful. If we brushed you up, with your looks you could pass for a gentleman. Useful, that is, in our line of work.”

Still coping with the discovery of just how much the mysterious highland laird wanted Heather, Breckenridge managed a nod. “I’ll think about it.” He stirred, then shook his head and sat up. “Two thousand! That’s. . amazing.”

Amazing, and revealing, in the worst possible way.

Chapter Seven

I think it’s time for me to make my escape.” Heather said the words before she’d even sat beside Breckenridge on the narrow bench beneath the coat pegs in the tiny cloakroom.

She’d waited until it had been so late that there would have been no chance of the innkeeper surprising them, all the time fervently hoping that Breckenridge would not only have been waiting but would have found and lit a candle by the time she arrived.