Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue Quotes

“Don't misunderstand, but how dare you risk your life? What the devil did you think, to leap over like that? You could have stayed safe on this side and just helped me over." Even to her ears, her tone bordered on the hysterical.
Beneath her fingers, the white lawn started to redden.
She sucked in a shaky breath. "How could you risk your life-your life, you idiot!" She leaned harder on the pad, dragged in another breath.
He coughed weakly, shifted his head.
"Don't you dare die on me!"
His lips twisted, but his eyes remained closed. "But if I die"-his words were a whisper-"you won't have to marry, me or anyone else. Even the most censorious in the ton will consider my death to be the end of the matter. You'll be free."
"Free?" Then his earlier words registered. "If you die? I told you-don't you dare! I won't let you-I forbid you to. How can I marry you if you die? And how the hell will I live if you aren't alive, too?" As the words left her mouth, half hysterical, all emotion, she realized they were the literal truth. Her life wouldn't be worth living if he wasn't there to share it. "What will I do with my life if you die?"
He softly snorted, apparently unimpressed by-or was it not registering?-her panic. "Marry some other poor sod, like you were planning to."
The words cut. "You are the only poor sod I'm planning to marry." Her waspish response came on a rush of rising fear. She glanced around, but there was no one in sight. Help had yet to come running.
She looked back at him, readjusted the pressure on the slowly reddening pad. "I intend not only to marry you but to lead you by the nose for the rest of your days. It's the least I can do to repay you for this-for the shock to my nerves. I'll have you know I'd decided even before this little incident to reverse my decision and become your viscountess, and lead you such a merry dance through the ballrooms and drawing rooms that you'll be gray within two years."
He humphed softly, dismissively, but he was listening. Studying his face, she realized her nonsense was distracting him from the pain. She engaged her imagination and let her tongue run free. "I've decided I'll redecorate Baraclough in the French Imperial style-all that white and gilt and spindly legs, with all the chairs so delicate you won't dare sit down. And while we're on the subject of your-our-country home, I've had an idea about my carriage, the one you'll buy me as a wedding gift..."
She rambled on, paying scant attention to her words, simply let them and all the images she'd dreamed of come tumbling out, painting a vibrant, fanciful, yet in many ways-all the ways that counted-accurate word pictures of her hopes, her aspirations. Her vision of their life together.
When the well started to run dry, when her voice started to thicken with tears at the fear that they might no longer have a chance to enjoy all she'd described, she concluded with, "So you absolutely can't die now." Fear prodded; almost incensed, she blurted, "Not when I was about to back down and agree to return to London with you."
He moistened his lips. Whispered, "You were?"
"Yes! I was!" His fading voice tipped her toward panic. Her voice rose in reaction. "I can't believe you were so foolish as to risk your life like this! You didn't need to put yourself in danger to save me."
"Yes, I did." The words were firmer, bitten off through clenched teeth.
She caught his anger. Was anger good. Would temper hold him to the world?
A frown drew down his black brows. "You can't be so damned foolish as to think I wouldn't-after protecting you through all this, seeing you safely all this way, watching over you all this time, what else was I going to do?”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“She stared at him, at his face. Simply stared as the scales fell from her eyes. "Oh, my God," she whispered, the exclamation so quiet not even he would hear. She suddenly saw-saw it all-all that she'd simply taken for granted.
Men like him protected those they loved, selflessly, unswervingly, even unto death.
The realization rocked her. Pieces of the jigsaw of her understanding of him fell into place. He was hanging to consciousness by a thread. She had to be sure-and his shields, his defenses were at their weakest now.
Looking down at her hands, pressed over the nearly saturated pad, she hunted for the words, the right tone. Softly said, "My death, even my serious injury, would have freed you from any obligation to marry me. Society would have accepted that outcome, too."
He shifted, clearly in pain. She sucked in a breath-feeling his pain as her own-then he clamped the long fingers of his right hand about her wrist, held tight.
So tight she felt he was using her as an anchor to consciousness, to the world.
His tone, when he spoke, was harsh. "Oh, yes-after I'd expended so much effort keeping you safe all these years, safe even from me, I was suddenly going to stand by and let you be gored by some mangy bull." He snorted, soft, low. Weakly. He drew in a slow, shallow breath, lips thin with pain, but determined, went on, "You think I'd let you get injured when finally after all these long years I at last understand that the reason you've always made me itch is because you are the only woman I actually want to marry? And you think I would stand back and let you be harmed?"
A peevish frown crossed his face. "I ask you, is that likely? Is it even vaguely rational?"
He went on, his words increasingly slurred, his tongue tripping over some, his voice fading. She listened, strained to catch every word as he slid into semi delirium, into rambling, disjointed sentences that she drank in, held to her heart.
He gave her dreams back to her, reshaped and refined. "Not French Imperial-good, sound, English oak. You can use whatever colors you like, but no gilt-I forbid it."
Eventually he ventured further than she had. "And I want at least three children-not just an heir and a spare. At least three-if you're agreeable. We'll have to have two boys, of course-my evil ugly sisters will found us to make good on that. But thereafter...as many girls as you like...as long as they look like you. Or perhaps Cordelia-she's the handsomer of the two uglies."
He loved his sisters, his evil ugly sisters. Heather listened with tears in her eyes as his mind drifted and his voice gradually faded, weakened.
She'd finally got her declaration, not in anything like the words she'd expected, but in a stronger, impossible-to-doubt exposition.
He'd been her protector, unswerving, unflinching, always there; from a man like him, focused on a lady like her, such actions were tantamount to a declaration from the rooftops. The love she'd wanted him to admit to had been there all along, demonstrated daily right before her eyes, but she hadn't seen.
Hadn't seen because she'd been focusing elsewhere, and because, conditioned as she was to resisting the same style of possessive protectiveness from her brothers, from her cousins, she hadn't appreciated his, hadn't realized that that quality had to be an expression of his feelings for her.
Until now.
Until now that he'd all but given his life for hers.
He loved her-he'd always loved her. She saw that now, looking back down the years. He'd loved her from the time she'd fallen in love with him-the instant they'd laid eyes on each other at Michael and Caro's wedding in Hampshire four years ago.
He'd held aloof, held away-held her at bay, too-believing, wrongly, that he wasn't an appropriate husband for her.
In that, he'd been wrong, too.
She saw it all. And as the tears overflowed and tracked down her cheeks, she knew to her soul how right he was for her. Knew, embraced, and rejoiced.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Just her luck to be abducted by kidnappers who could think.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“You've given me everything I need of you-thanks to you I have all my heart desires, all I thought I might never have. All I need for a wonderful, fulfilling future. And I nearly lost it all."
She held his gaze but was wise enough not to interrupt. If she had...
He drew breath and forged on, "Nearly dying clarified things. When you stand on the border between life and death, the truly important things are easy to discern. One of the things I saw and finally understood was that only fools and cowards leave the truth of love unsaid. Only the weak leave love unacknowledged."
Holding her gaze, all but lost in the shimmery blue of her eyes, he raised her hand to his lips, gently kissed. "So, my darling Heather, even though you already know it, let me put the truth-my truth-into words. I love you. With all my heart, to the depths of my soul. And I will love you forever, until the day I die."
Her smile lit his world. "Just as well." Happiness shone in her eyes. She pressed his fingers. "Because I plan to be with you, by your side, every day for the rest of your life, and in spirit far beyond. I'm yours for all eternity."
Smiling, he closed his hand about hers. "Mine to protect for our eternity."
Yes. Neither said the word, yet the sense of it vibrated in the air all around them.
A high-pitched giggle broke the spell, had them both looking along the path.
TO Lucilla and Marcus, who slipped out from behind a raised bed and raced toward them.
Reaching them, laughing with delight, the pair whooped and circled.
Heather glanced to left and right, trying to keep the twins in sight, uncertain of what had them so excited. So exhilarated.
Almost as if they were reacting to the emotions coursing through her, and presumably Breckenridge. Her husband-to-be.
"You're getting married!" Lucilla crowed.
Catching Lucilla's eyes as the pair slowed their circling dance, Heather nodded. "Yes, we are. And I rather think you two will have to come down in London to be flower girl and page boy."
Absolute delight broke across Lucilla's face. She looked at her brother. "See? I told you-the Lady never makes a mistake, and if you do what shetells you, you get a reward."
"I suppose." Marcus looked up at Breckenridge. "London will be fun." He switched his gaze to Lucilla. "Come on! Let's go and tell Mama and Papa.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“One question I feel compelled to ask; Before they agreed to marry, did all the Cynster females behave as irrationally as Heather is?"
He glanced briefly up, but Richard didn't look up from the lure he was tying off as he unperturably replied, "Prickly at the best of times, then 'have-at-you' the instant you set a foot, nay, a toe, wrong?"
"Exactly."
"Then yes." Richard straightened, tipping his head as he examined his lure. "It seems to be a family failing, even when they're not Cynster-born."
Breckenridge humphed.
He was carefully placing the fresh hook into his clamp when Richard continued, "There seems to be this prevailing wisdom, not just over marrying for love, but what that actually equates to. They seem to all have it firmly in their heads that without some cast-iron assurance, preferably in the form of an open declaration from us, then no matter the reality of any love, that love won't be solid and strong."
Unwinding the vise to release his completed lure, Richard grimaced. "It's almost as if they think that unless we state our feelings out aloud, we won't know what they-our feelings-are." He snorted. "As if we somehow might not notice that our lives have suddenly shifted to revolve solely about them and their well-being."
Breckenridge grunted in masculine agreement.
"Sadly," Richard said, selecting another hook, "it appears futile to expect them to go against the familial grain.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Through the dimness she could just make him out, stretched on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. He might have been silent, but he hadn't been asleep. She could feel his frown as he looked at her.
"What are you doing?"
"Moving closer to you." Dropping her gowns, she shook out her cloak and laid it next to his.
"Why?"
"Mice."
He let a heartbeat pass, then asked, carefully, "You're afraid of mice?"
She nodded. "Rodents. I don't discriminate." Swinging around, she sat on her cloak, then picked up her gowns and wriggled back and closer to him. "If I'm next to you, then either they'll give us both a wide berth, or if they decide to take a nibble, there's at least an even chance they'll nibble you first."
His chest shook. He was struggling not to laugh. But at least he was trying.
"Besides," she said, lying down and snuggling under her massed gowns, "I'm cold."
A moment ticked past, then he sighed.
He shifted in the hay beside her. She didn't know what he did, but suddenly she was sliding the last inches down a slope that hadn't been there before. She fetched up against him, against his side-hard, muscled, and wonderfully warm.
Her senses leapt greedily, pleasantly shocked, delightedly surprised; she caught her breath and slapped them down. Desperately; this was Breckenridge-this was definitely not the time.
His arm shifted and came around her, cradling her shoulders and gathering her against him.
"This doesn't mean anything." The whispered words drifted down to her.
Comfort, safety, warmth-it meant all those things.
"I know," she murmured back. Her senses weren't listening. Her body now lay alongside his. Her breast brushed his side; through various layers her thighs grazed his. Her heartbeat deepened, sped up a little, too. Yet despite the sensual awareness, she could feel reassurance along with his warmth stealing through her, relaxing her tensed muscles bit by bit as, greatly daring, she settled her cheek on his chest.
This doesn't mean anything. She knew what he meant. This was just for now, for this strange moment out of their usual lives in which he and she were just two people finding ways to weather a difficult situation.
She quieted. Listened.
The sound of his heartbeat, steady and sure, blocked out any rustlings.
Thinking of the strange moment, of what made it so, she murmured, "We're fugitives, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"In a strange country, one not really our own, with no way to prove who we are."
"Yes."
"And a stranger, a very likely dangerous highlander, is pursuing us."
"Hmm."
She should feel frightened. She should be seriously worried. Instead, she closed her eyes, and with her cheek pillowed on Breckenridge's chest, his arm like warm steel around her, smoothly and serenely fell asleep.
Breckenridge held her against him, and through senses far more attuned than he wished, followed the incremental falling away of her tension...until she slept.
Softly, silently, in his arms, with the gentle huff of her breathing ruffling his senses, the seductive weight of her slender body stretched out against his the subtlest of tortures.
Why had he done it? She might have slept close to him, but she would never have pushed to sleep in his arms. That had been entirely his doing, and he hadn't even stopped to think.
What worried him most was that even if he had thought, had reasoned and debated, the result would have been the same.
When it came to her, whatever the situation, there never was any question, no doubt in his mind as to what he should do.
Her protection, her safety-caring for her. From the first instant he'd laid eyes on her four years ago, that had been his mind's fixation. Its decision. Nothing he'd done, nothing she'd done, had ever succeeded in altering that.
But as to the why of that, the reason behind it...even now he didn't, was quite certain and absolutely sure he didn't, need to consciously know.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“She woke to find dawn light, pearly silver tinged with pink, washing into the room. For a moment, she wondered what had woken her, then she glanced at Breckenridge-into his hazel eyes.
"You're awake!" She only just managed not to squeal. The joy leaping through her was near impossible to contain.
He smiled weakly. His lids drooped, fell. "I've been awake for some time, but didn't want to wake you."
His voice was little more than a whisper.
She realized it was the faint pressure of his fingers on hers that had drawn her rom sleep. Those fingers, his hand, were no longer over-warm. Reaching out, she laid her fingers on his forehead. "Your temperature's normal-the fever's broken. Thank God."
Retrieving her hand, refocusing on his face, she felt relief crash through her in a disorienting, almost overpowering wave. "You have to rest." That was imperative; she felt driven by flustered urgency to ensure he understood. "You're mending nicely. Now the crisis has passed, you'll get better day by day. Catriona says that with time you'll be as good as new." Algaria had warned her to assure him of that.
He swallowed; eyes closed, he shifted his head in what she took to be a nod. "I'll rest in a minute. But first...did you mean what you said out there by the bull pen? That you truly want a future with me?"
"Yes." She clutched his hand more tightly between hers. "I meant every word."
His lips curved a fraction, then he sighed. Eyes still closed-she sensed he found his lids too heavy to lift-he murmured, "Good. Because I meant every word, too."
She smiled through sudden tears. "Even about our daughters being allowed to look like Cordelia?"
His smile grew more definite. "Said that aloud, did I? Yes, I meant that, but for pity's sake don't tell her--she'll never let me hear the end of it, and Constance will have my head to boot."
His words were starting to slur again; he was slipping back into healing sleep.
Catriona's words, her warning, rang in Heather's head. She remembered her vow. Rising, she leaned over him; his hand still clasped between hers, and kissed him gently. "Go to sleep and get well, but before you do, I need to tell you this. I love you. I will until the end of my days. I don't expect you to love me back, but that doesn't matter anymore. You have my love regardless, and always will." She kissed him again, sensed he'd heard, but that he was stunned, surprised. He didn't respond.
She drew back. "And now you need to put your mind to getting better. We have a wedding to attend, after all."
She knew he heard that-his features softened, eased.
As he slid into sleep, he was, very gently, smiling.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“That's something for me to consider. So what else can you tempt me with?"
Breckenridge hid a wry smile; he'd guessed that, in common with her female Cynster mentors, she'd be drawn to the prospect of managing a large household and the estate's people. Organizing ran in the blood. "I believe I mentioned that I'm under sisterly edict to marry. Unsurprisingly, a large and pertinent motive behind my sisters' prodding is the desirability of me begetting an heir, or more, thus securing the succession. Perish the thought the estate might ever revert to the Crown, so you could view your pole as my future countess as in part holding the ton line against King George and his cronies."
She narrowed her eyes on his. That's the most inventive way I've ever heard of saying you want children."
His lips curved, then he let the expression fade. "I do-but do you?"
She looked forward. "Yes, of course." After a moment she added, "I can't imagine not wanting children, truth be told."
"Well, then we're in agreement on that."
"Don't get carried away-you haven't yet convinced me we should wed.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“So how are the wedding plans progressing?" Richard asked, once they were out of the village.
"They aren't." Breckenridge heard his clipped tones, heard the irritation beneath. Didn't care if Richard did, too. "She's taken some nitwit notion into her head that I don't need to marry her, that she's going to go off and manage an orphanage in the country, or some such thing, so her social ruination doesn't matter."
"Ah." Richard nodded sagely. "She's playing stubborn."
"Playing?" Breckenridge shot him an irate look. "She's the definition of the word. I've already tried talking her around. Twice."
"I hate to break it to you, old son, but it won't be your honeyed words that change her mind."
Breckenridge snorted. "I've tried that, too-so far all that's gained me is..." An even deeper sense of being irrevocably linked to her.
Richard glanced at him curiously. "What?"
Breckenridge pulled a face, growled, "Damned if I know."
Richard grinned. "Well, whatever it takes, just console yourself with the thought that the end result will be worth it."
Breckenridge cast Richard a sharp glance, saw the open contentment in his face. Felt compelled to ask, "So what did you have to do?"
Richard's smile deepened. "The same thing we've all have to do-prostrate ourselves at their dainty feet, swear undying love, and mean it.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“I'm pleased-very pleased-that you've finally made your choice. It's about time you came to your senses."
He arched a brow. "Even if it took a kidnapping to do it?"
She nodded sagely. "Even so." She paused, then more gently asked, "She's the right one for you, isn't she?"
He held her gaze, then nodded. "Yes. Definitely." He hesitated, then added, "I couldn't live without her."
Caro's smile widened until she was beaming. "Wonderful. That's how it should be."
He wasn't so sure he needed to hear that; the sense of vulnerability and dependency took some getting used to; he wasn't yet sure he'd mastered the knack. "Sadly, it seems that whenever I get close to a prospective wedding, I end up wounded. With you and Michael, I got shot and nearly died. This time, with me and Heather, I got gored and nearly died. I suppose I should be happy that Constance and Cordelia are already married."
Caro laughed. "You probably escaped them because they're so much older that you-you were only a lad when they wed." She paused, head tilting as she studied him. Still smiling, she went on, "You're a protector, you know. That's what you are-that's what you do. And now you've found the lady you're supposed to protect for the rest of your life." Her smile deepened. "Once you marry her, you'll be safe."
He humphed, but continued to smile, and didn't attempt to argue.
Because she was right.
Heather was the lady he would protect for the rest of his life.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Have faith. Believe.
She did.
She understood now what fate asked of her-to have the strength to hold on regardless. To acknowledge that, even if he died, even if he left her, she would still love him until the day she died.
Love didn't care. Love simply was.
Love was unconditional.
Love was for ever more.
She had faith in love. She believed in love.
She would love him in life and in death.
And if the chance came again she would convince him of that.
As the night closed around her, she closed her eyes and prayed.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“I'm going to have a nice little nap in this sun. Don't think to wander off-I'll know if you move. A very light sleeper, I am."
Heather stared, speechless, at the woman who slept so soundly every night that she'd never heard Heather slip out of their room, or back in. Heather managed not to shake her head in disbelief, just in case Martha was watching through her lashes.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Come on-I'll see you back to your room and the estimable Martha."
She put her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.
"Tomorrow...don't worry," he murmured, as he ushered her back through the darker side of the snug. "I'll be waiting in Carlisle to fall in behind the coach when you go past." Through the dimness he met her eyes. "I won't lose you."
Her lips softly curved. "I didn't imagine you would.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk."
"Not on your life," Fletcher growled.
From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap.
"You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again.
"My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?"
Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off.
"Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me."
That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush.
Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you."
Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me."
Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up."
As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them."
Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh.
"All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you."
From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work.
"So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble."
"Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild.
Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land.
"If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution."
Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth.
A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more."
"Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light."
Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent.
The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“I've been meaning to ask," Breckenridge said, "jus how you came to topple backward off that rail." He looked at her. "What with one thing and another, the point slipped my mind."
Heather met his gaze. "Mine, too."
he read her eyes, then, brows rising, looked in the direction in which the twins had gone. "Ah. Perhaps that's one of those questions that are better off left unasked."
"It's certainly one of those better left unanswered." Sliding her hand from his and retaking his arm, she started them strolling again.
Breckenridge was quiet for a while, then he looked up at the manor and said, "Will you think it odd of me to suggest that we should, perhaps, leave the Vale and your sometimes unnerving relatives by marriage as soon as we possibl can?"
"How about tomorrow?" She glanced up at his face.
He caught her gaze. "Immediately after breakfast. It's too late to set out today."
She nodded. "Indeed." She looked ahead. "And besides I have plans for tonight."
"Do you?"
"Of course." She met his gaze, her own filled with love and unexpected understanding. "The announcement you made a few minutes ago deserves and appropriate response, don't you think?"
He inclined his head. "Indubitably." After a moment, he added, "Who knows? With the right form of response, you might even induce me to utter the words again."
She laughed. "A challenge." She met his gaze. "A challenge we can wrestle with, wrestle over back and forth, for the rest of our days."
"Indeed." He held her loving gaze, raised her fingers to his lips. "For the rest of our days.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Perhaps..." Resuming his rake's persona, investing every movement with languid grace, he shifted forward, closer. Held her gaze. "You could teach me what it is you need." He let his gaze drift from her eyes to her lips. "I've always been considered a fast learner, and if I'm willing to learn, to devote myself to the study of what you truly want..."
Her lips parted slightly. He raised his gaze once more to her eyes, to the stormy blue. Read her interest, knew he had her undivided attention.
Inwardly smiled. "If I swear I'll do all I can to meet your requirements, shouldn't you accept the...challenge, if you like, to take me as I am and reshape me to your need?"
Holding her gaze, resisting the urge to lower his to her tempting lips, he raised a hand, touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek in a tantalizingly light caress. "You could, if you wished, take on the challenge of taming the ton's foremost rake, of making me your devoted slave...but you'd have to work at it, make the effort and take the time to educate me-arrogantly oblivious male that I am-all of which will be much easier, facilitated as it were, by us marrying. After all, nothing worthwhile is ever attained easily or quickly. If I'm willing to give you free rein to mold me to your liking, shouldn't you be willing to engage?"
She was thinking, considering he could see it in her eyes. She was following his arguments, her mind following the path he wanted it to take.
Shifting his fingers to lightly frame her chin, he held her face steady as if for a kiss.
"And just think," he murmured, his eyes still locked with hers, his lips curving in a practiced smile, "of the cachet you'll be able to claim as the lady who captured me.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“So what, then"-his voice deepened, softened, the suave tones sliding over her skin-"will it take to convince you that you should-indeed, ought to-marry me?"
He let her look into his eyes, for once didn't keep his mask between them.
Let her see he was in earnest, sincere in wanting to know.
She drew in a long breath, then looked back at the river and let out a long, slow sigh. Wondered why she was bothering. If he truly didn't know...
Perhaps she should tell him.
"Very well. As you're so determined to hear them, these are my reasons." She'd never voiced them before, not all of them, yet if Catriona was right and he might be her hero...it behooved her to try to find the words. "I long ago decided that the one element I would never agree to marry without was true...affection." Recalling Catriona's views, she substituted the less specific, less, for men, frightening word. "An affection strong enough to last the years, powerful enough to guide and inform, deep and broad enough to be the foundation of a shared life. I want passion and laughter, interest and inclusion, a partnership at least on a practical level, and something even deeper on the personal.
"I want...to be wanted, to feel necessary and needed, to know I feel a role that only I can fill." She paused, then forced herself to go on. "But even more that that, I want that depth of affection to be offered to me, Heather Cynster, not because I am Heather Cynster, well-connected heiress and"-she flicked a glance his way-"considered by some to be more than passably attractive, but because I'm me." She tapped her chest, felt the pendant beneath her bodice. "I want to be wanted, needed-and married-because of who I am, not what I am."
Suddenly seeing the parallel, she caught his gaze. "In light of your query regarding your birth, you should understand how I feel-how important to me it is to be valued for myself, and to know it.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Very well-why don't you make your case?" And perhaps if she listened and closely observed, she might get some hint of what, beneath the words, behind his so often impassive mask, was really going on inside him. "Your case beyond the obvious social imperatives, that is."
"Difficult given my case is based on the obvious social imperatives."
"Nevertheless, you might at least try to find a broader foundation."
From the corner of her eye, she saw him look up as if imploring divine aid-or perhaps more prosaically asking why me?-and had to hide a smile.
Eventually he lowered his head and leveled his hazel gaze at her. "All right-let's try for a broader perspective. You're a Cynster, well bred, well connected, well dowered, and more than passably attractive."
She inclined her head. "Thank you, kind sir."
"Don't thank me yet. You're also opinionated, willful to a fault, argumentative, and at times irrationally stubborn. Be that as it may, for some reason I don't comprehend, we managed to run along reasonably well through the last week or so, when we had a common goal. I take that as an indication that, were we to marry and jointly take on the common goal of managing my father's estate, the estate that will in time be ours, we would again find ourselves on common ground, enough at least to make a marriage work."
He'd surprised her.
Leaning back, she looked at him. He'd angled his shoulders into the curve of the wall, stretching one arm along the upper edge, long legs stretched out so that his boots brushed her hems. At ease, relaxed and debonair, he appeared the epitome of the sophisticated London rake, which, of course, he was.
He was also an enigma.
At some point during their hike through the mountains, she'd realized that no matter what he allowed her to see, there was something different, something even more attractive, beneath his polished veneer.
"You'd share the responsibilities of running the estate?" She hasn't expected him to speak of such matters.
"If you wished to involve yourself with it.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“He collapsed half on top of her, too wrung out to move, his lungs working like bellows, his heart thundering, pounding.
Gradually, it slowed. Sensation, muted awareness returned, enough to register the gentle stroking of her hand, the soothing touch calming, strangely claiming.
He wanted to find his sophisticated armor and put it back on-before he faced her, before she saw...
Before he could move, she did; turning her head to his, pushing back the damp hair from the side of his face, she touched her lips to his jaw, then, her lips curving sleepily, touched those swollen lips to the corner of his.
"Thank you." The words were a sigh, the softest of feminine exhalations. "That was...thrilling. And...so very fine."
He nearly humphed. Fine? The intensity had damned hear killed him, and she labeled the moment "fine?"
She fell back, fully relaxed on her back in the bed.
After a moment, he turned his head and looked at her. Studied the madonnalike expression that had claimed her face, the bliss that infused her features.
He filled his lungs, then managed to summon sufficient strength to disengage and lift from her. Slumping on his back alongside her, he stared up at the ceiling, but there were no hints or clues written there.
For the first time in his extensive career, he didn't feel, even now, in control. He felt...exposed. Uncertain. Not his usual polished, urbane, somewhat boredly smug self.
Yet he was the one who was supposedly used to this, accustomed to all the nuances. Who knew all the appropriate moves to make, and when to make them.
She...he glanced at her again, at her face.
Hesitated, then gave into impulse and reached for her. Drawing her to him, he pulled the covers over them, then settled her against them, cradled within his arm, her head pillowed on his chest.
She made a humming sound, then her limbs eased against him.
He dipped his head, placed a kiss on her forehead. "Sleep."
He felt her lips curve, but she didn't reply.
Instead she slid her hand up, curling her fingers against the side of his throat, and relaxed into his arms.
Inexplicably satisfied now as well as sated, he closed his eyes. And found slumber waiting, dreamless and deep.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Do you ride?" The question was out of his mouth before he'd thought.
She glanced at him, surprised by the comment coming out of nowhere, but then she nodded and looked ahead. "I love to ride. I don't get as much opportunity as I'd like what with being in London so much, but whenever I can manage it, I'll get on a horse." Her lips twitched and she glanced up at him. "Preferably one of Demon's."
He grinned. "His are the best."
"Do you have any?"
He nodded. "One definite benefit of being connected to the family."
"I love the exhilaration one gets when pounding along-I think that's what I enjoy the most."
He blinked. Decided hard riding wasn't the best choice of conversational topics. At least not for him. Especially not with her. "What about dancing?"
"I love to waltz. I even enjoy the older forms, the quadrilles and cotillions. They might be less fashionable now, but there's a certain...reined power in them, don't you think?"
"Hmm." Where was an innocent topic when he needed one?
"Have you ever danced the gavotte?"
"Years ago." And he still remembered it. And of course the thought of dancing that particular measure with her, in full flight, instantly filled his mind.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Holding her breath, she stepped out, heading for the better-illuminated section of the room.
Hard hands closed about her upper arms.
She started-very nearly squeaked-then once again wilted with relief as Breckenridge drew her back, closer to his large, warm body; he'd been standing in the dense shadows by the wall.
"Shssh."
The order-despite the sibilant sound, she was quite sure it was an order-shivered across her ear.
Irritated, she glanced up and back. "If you'd stop scaring me witless, I wouldn't make a sound."
For a moment, their eyes met through the dimness. Their faces were close. Then he released her and eased back. "Would you rather I'd tapped you on the shoulder?"
She humphed.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“And every mile we go further from London makes the notion of ransom even more unlikely. So we're still no closer to learning what's behind this-neither the who for the why of it." She waited until he swung around again and caught his eye. "I believe we need to consider the wider implications."
His lips twitched-she was almost certain of it-but he didn't stop pacing. "Meanwhile you want to continue on with this"-he gestured-"quest of yours."
She tipped up her head. "Of course. I'm here, already kidnapped, but they've provided me with a maid and are under strict orders to see to my health and safety, orders they're clearly committed to obeying. On top of that"-she waved at him-"you're here. If you continue to follow our party, when it comes to the point where escaping becomes necessary, I'll be able to do so and hide behind you. God knows, you're large enough."
He quirked a black brow.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“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 hell 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.
Breckenridge halted her outside the door to his bedchamber; he would have preferred any other meeting place, but there was no safer place, and regardless of all and everything else, he needed to keep her safe. Reaching around her, he raised the latch and set the door swinging. "In here."
He'd left the lamp burning low. As he followed her in, then reached back and shut the door, he took in what she was wearing. He bit back another curse.
She glanced around, but there was nowhere to sit but on the bed. Quickly he strode past her, stripped off the coverlet, then autocratically pointed at the sheet. "Sit there."
With a narrow-eyed glare, she did, with the haughty grace of a reigning monarch.
Immediately she'd sat, he flicked out the coverlet and swathed her in it.
She cast him a faintly puzzled glance but obligingly held the enveloping drape close about her.
He said nothing; if she wanted to think he was concerned about her catching a chill, so be it. At least the coverlet was long enough to screen her distracting angles and calves.
Which really was ridiculous. Considering how many naked women he'd seen in his life, why the sight of her stockinged ankles and calves should so affect him was beyond his ability to explain.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“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 won'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.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“His first stop was the local branch of Child's Bank; once he replenished his supply of cash, he followed the bank manager's directions to the town's premier bootmaker, and was lucky enough to find an excellent pair of riding boots that fit him. His next stop was the best gentleman's outfitters, where he created a small furore by demanding they assemble for him outfits suitable for a groom and for a north country laborer.
The head tailor goggled at him and the assistants simply stared; holding onto his temper, he brusquely explained that the outfits were for a country house party where fancy dress was required.
Then they fell to with appropriate zeal.
It still took longer than he would have liked. The tailor fussed with the fitting until Breckenridge declared, "Damn it, man! There's no prize for being the most perfectly dressed groom in the north!"
The tailor jumped. Pins cascaded from between his lips and scattered on the ground. His assistants rushed in to gather them up.
The tailor swallowed. "No, of course not, sir. If Sir will remain still, I will endeavor to remove the pins...although really, such shoulders...well, I would have thought..."
"Never mind about showing off my damned shoulders-just make sure I have room to move.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue

“Deciding that at the moment it behooved her to, as Wiry had put it, behave, Heather inclined her head, first to the woman alongside her, "Martha," then to the barrel-chested man, shorter than Wiry but of heavier build, who'd remained quietly seated in the far corner of the coach. "Cobbins."
She turned her gaze on Wiry. "And you are?"
He smiled. "You may call me Fletcher, Miss Wallace."
Heather thought of a few other epithets she might call him, but she merely inclined her head. Settling on the seat, she leaned her head back against the squabs and ventured nothing more. She sensed that Fletcher expected her to protest, perhaps beg for mercy, or try to subvert him and the others from their goal, but she saw no point in lowering herself to that.
No point at all.
The more she thought of all Fletcher had let fall, the more she felt certain of that. This had to be the strangest abduction she'd ever heard of...well, she hadn't heard the details of any abduction attempts, but it seemed distinctly odd that they were treating her so considerately, so...sensibly. So terribly calmly and confidently.”
― Stephanie Laurens, Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue