Loudly.

Martha’s clothes, all of them including those she’d had packed in a big satchel, along with Heather’s evening gown and shawl, and a simple round gown Martha had brought for Heather to wear the next day, resided under Martha’s large and heavy figure. The “maid” had laid the garments neatly under the sheet on the bed, and then lain down upon it.

For tonight, Heather was stuck with her captors.

Part of her was definitely inclining toward panic, not least because thus far said captors had proved adept at guessing what she might do and had taken steps to nullify each option before she’d taken it. Against that, another, rather more intrepid part was pointing out that perhaps her current predicament was fate’s way of ensuring she stayed with her abductors long enough to learn what lay behind the threat to her and her Cynster sisters.

She was debating-panic versus fatalistic pragmatism-when a skittery scraping on the windowpane sent horrible shivers down her spine.

Frowning, she glanced at the window-and saw a shadow looming beyond it.

A man-sized shadow-head and shoulders. Broad shoulders.

Slipping out of the bed, she grabbed the coverlet, wound it about her, then hurried across the bare floor. Reaching the window, she looked out-

Straight into Breckenridge’s face.

For an instant, shock held her immobile. He was quite the last person she’d expected to see. Then again…

His exasperated expression as with one hand he brusquely gestured for her to lift the sash window shook her into action. The room was, after all, on the second floor. He seemed to be hanging onto a pipe.