An Officer, Not a Gentleman: A Traditional Regency Romance (Brethren in Arms Book 3)

by Elizabeth Johns

  “What have we here?” a gruff voice asked.

  Bridget closed her eyes trying to force air into her compressed lungs. “Please, sir, you must help me. I am being held against my will.” She turned her head as much as she was able to plead with her eyes. “Could you untie my hands?”

  “Seems to me you got in the cab willingly enough. The gent said as you were his wife.”

  “I am not his wife, but his cousin!”

  “I can help you back upright, but I don’t plan on getting between you an’ ’im.”

  “That much would be appreciated.” The man righted her and she sat on the floor of the coach, which was none too clean, while she caught her breath. The door shut with a click behind her, before she could stop it.

  It would be her own guile versus Rory’s strength, it seemed. She wriggled herself back up to the seat and was almost composed again when the door opened. Aunt Betha was standing in the opening, looking pleased with herself. She climbed in with a little help from Riordan.

  Bridget scowled at him when he entered and sat beside his mother.

  “Are you not pleased to see me, niece?”

  “I was led to believe you were at Dungarvan,” she answered in clipped tones. If Riordan was required to marry her to receive his full inheritance, then they would not kill her, at least. At this point, she would put little else past them. Her aunt had moved with more dexterity than she had in Ireland. Had it all been an act?

  “Riordan tells me you have come to your senses and agreed to marry him,” she said with a tone of satisfaction.

  “Only on the condition that it be a marriage in name only and I may live where and how I wish. Would you mind loosening the ropes, Rory? I am losing sensation in my arms and hands.”

  Bridget could feel her aunt’s eyes narrow at her while she turned her back for Riordan to undo the ropes.

  “I no longer think you are in a position to negotiate, my dear.”

  We will see about that, Bridget said to herself. She did not want to speak any more. It was difficult to maintain her composure, especially now that she realized what a horrid mistake she had made. She had never been naïve, but neither had she come across the likes of someone so deceptive as her aunt. Her mistake had been in trusting Rory and whatever hold his mother had over him. She tried to lean against the side of the carriage and ignore them, but her aunt persisted.

  “I trust you have brought all of your belongings with you?”

  Why would her aunt ask such a thing? Bridget’s mind began to work furiously. “I have very little in the way of possessions, Aunt,” she replied in a suspect manner, though accurately.

  “You will search her trunks as soon as we reach the port,” her aunt commanded.

  So they were the ones to have, at the very least, ransacked her house. Whatever they were searching for, they had not found, evidently.

  “You stole my dowry,” Bridget seethed.

  “Of course I took it, because you are to marry him,” her aunt replied.

  “When? My father had no idea.”

  “Of course he didn’t. He never thought to look. It has been gone for years. Your cousin has very expensive habits.”

  “There was never any agreement between us.”

  “That is true, Mother. I did not know you had taken money from her.” Riordan spoke up.

  “You are welcome to pay her back,” she snapped. “If it were not for you and your ways, we would not be so desperate. Do you think I want you to be forced to marry her?”

  “In a word, yes.” He did not hide his sarcasm.

  “Without the income from the other properties, Dungarvan and its name will sink.”

  “To be fair, I inherited a great deal of debt. I cannot shoulder the entire blame for it.”

  “That is true, and why I am helping you solve this now,” she retorted.

  “What is it you are searching for? I have nothing left,” Bridget said with absolute disgust.

  “You are not as bright as I took you for if you believe that. How much farther to the coast?” Her aunt glared, changing the subject. “These old bones do not enjoy cheap excuses for carriages.”

  “A fair distance, I am afraid,” Riordan muttered.

  The two of them began to argue about what had brought them to this point, and Bridget did her utmost to shut it out. How could she have been so stupid? She had walked into a trap—if not that night, he would have found her eventually. There was a little doubt in her mind that she would be forced into this marriage before anyone thought to look for her.

  As if her wounds were not already open, a storm blew up and their pace was forced to slow to a crawl as the roads became soaked and muddy. The carriage rocked too and fro as wind and sheets of rain battered it. Reluctantly, she felt for the driver, but more so for the horses.

  A clap of thunder shook the earth beneath them and the horses lurched in their traces, causing the carriage to tip at an angle before righting itself. Riordan was apparently prone to feel ill with too much motion and they were forced to stop the carriage so he could be sick. He thrust open the door and a cold gust of wet wind filled the compartment. It flew shut with a bang.

  When he had finished emptying the contents of his stomach, he climbed back in drenched to the bone, holding his middle.

  Aunt Betha shook her head.

  The carriage began to lurch forward and then rocked back into a rut with a thud. Sounds of the driver yelling at the horses could be heard even through the heavy rain.

  “What is going on?” Aunt Betha demanded.

  “It appears that the horses are unable to pull the carriage from the mud,” Riordan drawled.

  “Stupid boy! What will you do when I am not here to get you out of every fix?”

  Bridget wondered how she planned to fix this.

  “I assume I will sink or swim,” he muttered with a heavy sigh. “I will go and see if there is a nearby inn or someone who can provide shelter for the night.”

  “Yes, you do that,” she said in an acerbic tone, as though he had done this purposefully.

  Bridget could almost feel sorry for him, but she had little emotion left to spare.

  Chapter 20

  Tobin and Waverley arrived at Dungarvan’s house on Albermarle Street only to find it deserted.

  “By God, he has kidnapped her!” Tobin growled. “When I get my hands on him he will pay for this and then he will pay for everything he ever did to me.”

  “Let us see if we can discover where they might have gone. With the storm brewing, they might not be far. I would not set out in this weather. The carriage would be stuck before it had covered above a stage or two.” Waverley’s voice was far too calm and composed.

  Tobin grunted. “You give Dungarvan too much credit.”

  “We are absolutely certain she went with him?” Waverley looked sideways at him.

  “According to one of the grooms. He saw her get into a hackney with Dungarvan in the back alley. I bet he decided to abscond with her back to Ireland like a spider up a drainpipe.”

  “And risk their necks in this weather?”

  “He knows I will come after her. He probably thinks they will be aboard ship before we notice she is gone.”

  “I do not fancy a trip to Portsmouth in a storm,” Waverley grumbled.

  “You do not have to go, sir. This is my battle to fight.”

  “I cannot believe you even said that to me.” Waverley looked incredulous.

  “Let us waste no more time, then.” They rode back to Waverley Place; thankfully the guests were all gone or retired for the night. Meg was waiting up for them in the study, along with Lord and Lady Wrexford.

  “You did not find her?” the Duchess asked.

  “The house was deserted. We think he is taking her to Portsmouth, with the intention of reaching Ireland as soon as possible.”

  “I will have the carriage readied,” Waverley declared, crossing to the bell-rope.

  “I am going with you,” Wrexford
said. “This is partly my fault for pushing to have matters resolved so quickly.”

  “It is hardly your fault, sir. If her relations were not rotten to the core, none of this would have happened. All I care about now is finding her before it is too late.”

  Tobin and Waverley set off on horseback since it would be easier to search that way. Wrexford was to follow more slowly in the carriage. Tobin was quite certain Dungarvan was not inventive enough to take a circuitous route, assuming he thought they had a whole night’s advantage before discovery.

  They achieved two hours in the saddle before the storm hit in earnest. “They cannot be much further ahead. A carriage could not move very fast at all in this,” Tobin shouted over the battering wind as the rain struck them in sideways sheets.

  “Perhaps they sought shelter somewhere,” Waverley reasoned, “although I have not seen anywhere for miles that would have room to stable a coach.”

  “Guildford should not be too much further. We can wait the storm out there.”

  Tobin lifted his collar and shrugged his shoulder to his ear to try to shield his bare skin from the worst of the rain. It was shocking how much it hurt when you were going at any speed. The roads were growing more treacherous by the minute as the ruts filled with water and they were forced to slow down.

  “Up ahead!” Waverley called. “It looks like a coach.”

  Tobin prayed it was them and Bridget was unharmed. He could not say as much for Dungarvan. He would be fortunate to see the night through once Tobin was finished with him. As they pulled up alongside the coach, they saw that the horses had been unhitched. Tobin rode up to the window and peered inside.

  “It is empty,” he said, feeling his heart sink to his toes. “They cannot be too much further. No one would want to ride carriage horses very far. There would have been at least three of them, if you count the coachman, so someone had to walk.

  Waverley opened the boot. “There are trunks in here. We can come back for those.”

  They forged on to the next village that boasted a coaching inn—another two miles. Tobin was not in the mood to deal with any of this. It was somewhere in the wee hours of the morning and he was soaked to the skin. He had not been in the saddle this long since Waterloo, and his injuries were screaming from the exertion.

  Waverley dismounted and tossed Tobin the reins while he went to the door. He pounded loudly on the solid wood, but no one answered.

  “Come around the back. They cannot have been far ahead of us.”

  Waverley led his horse and Tobin followed. There was no one in the yard, so the Duke took the liberty of opening the stable door and leading his mount inside. Again, Tobin followed. There they found a soaked driver rubbing down two horses.

  “Are you the jarvey of the coach that was stuck in the mire a couple of miles past?”

  “Aye,” he grunted, looking none too pleased.

  “Were your passengers a gentleman and a lady?”

  “Two ladies.” The weathered man continued to chew on a piece of grass and did not bother to look up.

  “A gentleman and two ladies?” Waverley asked, growing impatient.

  “I just said so, didn’t I?”

  “Are they inside the inn?”

  He shrugged carelessly. “The old lady would not have gone too far.”

  Tobin led the horses to stalls while listening to this exchange and tossed both horses an armful of hay before following Waverley into the inn. The back door was unlocked and, being a Duke, he walked straight in and came face to face with a stunned innkeeper.

  “I’m sorry, your lordship, but I have no more room. I just took in some travellers who were caught in the storm.”

  “I am interested in the travellers, not a room. The young lady is being held against her will.”

  The innkeeper looked suspicious. “His lordship said as how they were married. They have an old lady with them.”

  Waverley pulled out his card and handed it to the man, whose eyes grew wide. “I don’t want no trouble, your Grace, begging your pardon.”

  “Nor do I, sir, but a grievous wrong is being committed and it is our duty to see it put right.”

  “Of course, your Grace.”

  “First, I want to know where the man is,” Tobin growled.

  The innkeeper paused with warranted hesitation before pointing across the tap-room. “He is in the parlour, having a drink.”

  Waverley put a hand on Tobin’s arm as if to restrain him.

  “He is mine,” Tobin growled and marched across the room.

  Tobin flung open the door. Dungarvan was lounging before a roaring fire, his eyes half closed, the remains of a meal cluttered a small table near the one leaded window.

  Grabbing him by the neckcloth, Tobin slammed his fist into the man’s face, drawing his cork before Dungarvan realized who or what had hit him.

  “If it isn’t O’Neill,” Riordan slurred. “You were quite unexpected.”

  “You always did underestimate me,” Tobin hissed as he took Riordan’s neck between his hands.

  “She came with me willingly and has agreed to marry me,” Dungarvan said with a gleam of satisfaction. He was remarkably calm and collected, considering Tobin could snap his neck at any moment.

  “I do not believe you.” Tobin knew all of this rogue’s tricks.

  “Suit yourself. You may ask her if you can remove your hands from my person long enough,” he choked out.

  There was just enough sincerity in Riordan’s eyes that Tobin loosened his grip. It was just long enough for his opponent to swing his arm and land a decent punch to his stomach.

  “Oof,” Tobin grunted. “Just like old times, ye devil, except this time it is two in my favour.” They circled each other like drunken sailors just before an unholy brawl broke out.

  Waverley was staying out of it—for now. He would never take away Tobin’s chance to vindicate himself. From the corner of his eye, Tobin saw him trying to remove objects from their path of destruction. He was only mildly successful as Tobin launched himself at Riordan and they went flying across a table holding the remains of Dungarvan’s supper. Crockery, glassware and cutlery crashed to the floor and Tobin found himself lying on top of his adversary in the middle of this chaos, the table legs having snapped. Riordan groaned and, caring nothing for the rules of gentlemen, Tobin dealt him a heavy blow to the jaw for good measure.

  “Get up, ye blackguard,” Tobin snarled, jumping to his feet. “It isn’t as amusing when it is one on one, is it?” He bent forward, reaching down to drag Riordan to his feet.

  In the next second his legs shot from beneath him and he went sprawling backwards, brought down by a scything kick. Dungarvan leaped to his feet, snatched up a chair and swung it at Tobin’s head. At the last moment, Tobin rolled sideways and they closed together, punches flailing wildly, each of them ducking and swerving. Riordan caught Tobin a spanker across the side of his head; responding with a doubler to the man’s abdomen, Tobin won a foot of space. Swift as an Irish leprechaun, he threw Dungarvan a cross buttock and fell on him before the devil could retaliate. He landed two knuckle-crunching blows before Waverley’s hand caught his arm.

  “I think you have made your point.”

  “A point is entirely unnecessary, isn’t it, Rory?” Tobin held his hand back ready to strike.

  “You always did fight like a gutter rat, which is where you belong,” Riordan spat.

  “The gutter is better than Hell, where I am happy to send you now so you and Kilmorgan can rot together.”

  He was breathing hard, but Dungarvan was panting the harder. They glared at each other, the years and years of hatred spilling forth unchecked. Suddenly Tobin saw the man for what he was—a miserable, spineless piece of dung. He slammed Riordan’s head down for good measure and stood up. “Ye aren’t worth it.”

  “Go hifreann leat!” Riordan spat, lying supine on the floorboards.

  “Likewise. Now where the devil is my betrothed?” Tobin barked.

&
nbsp; An unholy fracas had been taking place in the room below her, and Bridget sat shaking with fear. It had happened from time to time with men in the army, and she found such brawls almost worse than battle. She began to pray that the drunken louts would leave so she could finally try to rest. Her head was pounding, her heart was bruised, and she needed quiet to settle her mind—if that were even a possibility. Her aunt was a formidable opponent and did not play fair. She would be hard to outwit.

  The noise from downstairs grew louder, and the voice now echoing through the inn was unmistakable.

  Bridget gasped. “Tobin?” she asked out loud. Putting down her hair pins, she opened the door and ran down the stairs. She could hear them arguing.

  “Go on and ask her if I forced her,” Rory taunted and Bridget felt herself cringe. She was close enough now to see the two men as she crossed the empty tap-room. They had obviously been fighting. Riordan was holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose and Tobin was holding his fist to his chest. Bridget could see his knuckles were also bleeding. Tobin was angry and she feared he might hurt Riordan again. Bridget had not immediately noticed Waverley standing in the corner, but then he turned his head, catching her attention. He raised his brows at her in silent enquiry. She shook her head.

  “I spoke to my cousin after you evicted me from the ball. She chased after me, in fact. She said she had released you from the betrothal,” Riordan was gaining in confidence as he propped himself against the wall and folded his hands over his chest.

  “Her maid said she was to take a position in Norfolk; then we found a letter turning the position down.”

  “Yes, because she decided to come with me and marry.”

  Tobin stood rigid, glaring at her cousin. Bridget felt his pain as her own as she watched the agony in his eyes.

  “Whether or not you hate me, I need to find her. I need to know she is safe, and that she is with you of her own free will.” Tobin’s voice cracked and Bridget’s heart along with it. “If she chooses you, I will walk away.”

  “Why did she break the betrothal?” Riordan asked, as though they had not just been beating each other to flinders. Gentlemen were so strange.