I should have seen this coming, Hammilton scolded himself as he gazed at his friend pouring whiskey into a glass until it almost overflowed. He wasn’t right that day he came into my office, and it has only gotten worse.
“Jacob, might I suggest being cautious with the drink? You seem a trifle overset, my friend, and I’m not sure that whiskey will do you any good.”
“Whisky!” Jacob scoffed as he downed half his glass. “No whiskey in this house. Vile Scottish stuff. I won’t have it in my house, not after seeing what its makers are like. This is good French brandy, Hammilton. The very finest,” he said, raising his glass and drinking the rest of the liquid down.
Hammilton knew that his friend’s mind truly was addled if he had dispensed with the whole of his whiskey collection, which dated back to the early years of the century. It was worth a fortune, and Hammilton winced as he thought of it being poured out into the garden, all because Nibley had it in his mind that Donnan was evil, and therefore all other Scots must be, as well.
Sensing that perhaps it was time for him to go, since there was clearly nothing to be done to calm Jacob down, Hammilton pushed himself off the mantle he had been leaning on and prepared to bid his friend adieu. He was stopped, however, by the entrance of a footman into the library.
The servant in question looked scared out of his wits as he stood in the doorway, balancing on one foot and then the other. His eyes shifted everywhere about the room, landing on paintings, tables, and chairs, anywhere, really, except the faces of the two men standing in front of him.
How very odd.
His actions became clear a moment later, however, when he delivered his news. “Miss Nibley is missing, My Lord.”
The footmen winced after he spoke, as though anticipating Nibley’s reaction, and he was not disappointed.
The scream of rage that came out of his friend’s mouth was truly otherworldly. It gave Hammilton chills that ran all the way up his spine, making his hair stand on end.
Looking toward the door, he saw the footman practically faint at the sound of Nibley’s yell of rage.
The scream went on for some time, after which Nibley reverted to more common speech, though barked in a tone that was so rude, so insolent, so grating, that Hammilton found he nearly preferred the screaming.
“Round up every footman, stable boy and male servant in this house, along with enough torches to set fire to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I will find that scoundrel, mark my words, and when I do, I will set him alight!” he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
“Y-yes, m-my lord,” James muttered, turning around and tripping in his haste to vacate his master’s presence.
“Jacob, don’t you think you’re being a bit—” Hammilton started, but he was interrupted before he could finish his comment.
“Nicholas, if you call me unreasonable again, I will trounce you so soundly that you will not be able to walk, talk, or sleep when I am done,” his friend said, his voice low and more menacing than Hammilton had ever heard.
“If you will not join me in the fight against that brutal Scot, leave me.”
“Jacob…” Hammilton said, his voice soft and gentle, like he would use if trying to calm down an agitated animal, to which Nibley at that very moment bore a striking resemblance.
“Leave me!” His friend roared, his eyes going wide, his pupils so large he looked demonic.
Lord Hammilton did not need to be asked twice. He quit the room immediately, though he did look back as he exited. The man he saw glowering by the fireplace was not one he recognized. It most certainly was not the man he had been friends with for over two decades.
That man is gone now. That much, at least, was clear to Hammilton as he left Harrow House, praying that Bernadine was able to escape her father’s clutches before he found her. It was clear her father no longer had her best interests at heart, and Hammilton could only hope that Donnan and the girl were on their way back to Scotland at that very moment, for if they were anywhere in England, Hammilton had no doubt that Nibley would find them. He would not rest until he had done so.
* * *
Donnan looked down at his right hand, which was linked with Bernadine’s left, the feel of her wedding ring a foreign sensation against his fingers. He had brought his mother’s wedding band with him and had slid it on Bernadine’s finger at the appropriate moment. It fit her perfectly, band snug against her finger. The colors were perfect. The gold of the band picked up the golden tones in her skin and hair, the ruby was a perfect match for the blush of her cheeks and the pink of her lips.
“Are ye happy, lass?” he asked, bringing her hand up to his and kissing her ring finger, his lips brushing against the warm metal of the band.
Bernadine looked up at him and nodded, her smile so wide her cheeks were round like apples. “So happy. I just feel so –”
But she never got to finish that sentence, because at that moment, the chapel door burst open. Seamus was standing there. His eyes were wide with fear the likes of which Donnan had only seen when they were in battle some years ago.
“Donnan!” he yelled, dispensing with Donnan’s official title in his haste to communicate his message. “Nibley’s men! They’re here! They’ve got torches!”
They were the words Donnan had been dreading all day. He had known it was a possibility that Nibley would look for them, but he had thought with the chapel so far removed from Nibley’s area of London, with the wedding so swift, and with his men guarding them just outside, that he would be able to avoid interference, or at the very worst, fight against it. That Seamus, the best and most ferocious of his men, was scared, was not a good sign. It was a very bad one, indeed.
Who could Nibley have gathered that would be a match for his men?
Donnan dropped Bernadine’s hand and shoved his bride behind him to protect her as they continued down the aisle. Donnan could feel Bernadine quaking in fear, and he longed to offer her comfort, but there was not time. He needed all his senses focused on the skirmish outside, to prepare himself for what was to come.
They hurried to the doorway to find that the garden in front of the chapel had erupted in pandemonium. Donnan’s forty men were fighting against what looked like footmen and servants. At first, the scene looked comical as the servants were clearly unskilled in the ways of battle. But what they lacked in skill they made up for with their tools. For dirks and knives were no match for the fire they were wielding. Donnan’s men were cowed, unsure what to do to fight against the flames. They had all gathered around the chapel, trying to protect it, but Nibley’s men were encroaching.
The bastard. It is not a fair fight, not by any means.
“Dear lord, what is happening? Why is James here? And Frank, and George, and…” Bernadine scanned the scene, her mouth agape as realization settled over her.
“Donnan, my father has taken every one of our male servants with him and given them torches. Some of them are just children! What on earth is he thinking?”
“He is nae thinkin’, lass,” Donnan said, his voice coming out like a growl. Lord Nibley had truly gone too far this time. It was bad enough that he had locked Bernadine away against her will; at least no one had been harmed then. But now, making young boys, servants, with no choice or free will, wield dangerous torches—that was true insanity.
Someone was liable to get hurt, and Donnan would not have anyone dying in this fight. Nibley had to be stopped.
“Bernadine,” he said, turning to his bride. “I need ye to go find Guinevere and get yerselves somewhere safe while I find yer father and make him stop this stupidity.”
“No! Donnan, I can’t leave you,” Bernadine cried, gripping his arm with her hands. “I can’t. Not again, when we’ve only just reunited. My father’s men will see me running!” she said, looking at the crowd of servants only feet away from them. She knew they would follow her father’s orders. They might care for her, but they cared for their continued employment far more. “They’ll take me back to London and
I won’t be able to escape again. I just know it. I’ll be trapped there forever. Please, don’t make me go.”
“Lass,” Donnan said, fear and impatience making him short. “Do as I say. I’ll not have ye and Guinevere getting hurt because of yer barmy father, ye hear me? Yer father’s men willnae find ye. I’ll make sure of it. But go. Go now.”
“But Donnan -”
“I said go, lass!” Donnan barked, wincing when he saw Bernadine’s eyes widen in shock.
Donnan gathered a few of his men together and, though it pained him to request it, asked them to storm the fleet of servants and torches. The distraction would be enough for Bernadine to slip into the woods, hopefully with her father being none the wiser.
The distraction worked, mainly because Nibley’s men were so scared of Donnan’s that they fled, scattering in all directions. Clearly, they did not understand that their torches gave them the upper hand.
Donnan looked to the woods and saw a flash of Bernadine’s golden hair in the woods. He knew it was a mark of just how truly dire the situation was when his lass cowed to him without a fight, following his orders with hardly any protest. And that, more than anything else, stoked the fire of his anger.
How dare Nibley do this, he thought as he took the dirk from his boot and entered the fray, his movements causing more servants to scatter. Donnan saw lads no older than Camdyn wielding some of the torches, their arms barely big enough to support the weight of the things. Did the man have no regard for anyone but himself? Was he truly willing to risk the lives of so many men just to prove he was still in control?
For this was no longer about Bernadine. That much had been made clear back at Harrow House, when Lord Hammilton’s perfectly logical questions about the effects of imprisonment on Bernadine had been met with irrational rage. Nibley did not care about his daughter, her happiness, or welfare. He cared about what her falling in love and leaving meant for him.
If Bernadine was making her own decisions, marrying whom she chose and living where she liked, then Nibley felt impotent, at a loss for what to do. He thrived on control – that much was clear to Donnan from what he had heard and observed of the man.
As long as Nibley was able to control his daughter, his family, he had power. But if Bernadine left him to live her own life, then Nibley lost any semblance of authority. He was no longer a lord of his house, and it was clear that that lordship, far more than his seat in Parliament and his place in society, was what was most important to him.
But Donnan did not care about the man’s feelings. He never had, and he was most certainly not inclined to do so now when the man was so clearly amenable to wreaking havoc for his own selfish purposes. Donnan did not feel one bit guilty at the idea of taking away the man’s control, his daughter, his life. He deserved all that and more, prejudiced coward that he was.
Donnan continued his way through the garden. When he finally found Nibley, the man was clearly looking for Bernadine. His body was tight with tension, his clothes dishevelled, and there was a mad glint in his eyes that Donnan did not like one bit.
“Nibley!” Donnan shouted as he approached, his voice laced with derision.
Lord Nibley raised his eyes from the ground, locking gazes with Donnan. His face, once it registered Donnan’s visage, immediately contorted into a grimace that Donnan was now very familiar with. It was the same expression Nibley had worn throughout the whole of their conversation earlier that morning.
“Where is she, brute? Is it true you married her? My men say there was a ring on her finger,” he bit out, jumping down from his saddle and stalking toward Donnan, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Safe. And aye. She’s mine now,” was Donnan’s answer.
He did not dare look to the woods, worried Nibley would catch on that Bernadine was somewhere buried in there. If he sent his men with their torches into the woods, all hell truly would break loose. Donnan would not risk Bernadine being caught in such a fiery trap, so he kept his eyes glued to Nibley’s, despite how cold the man’s glare made him feel inside.
“She is not safe as long as she is with you,” Nibley retorted. “No one is safe with a beast like you. Bring her to me at once.”
“I’ll thank ye to keep the insults to yerself, Nibley,” Donnan said. “I need ye to stop this madness. Tell yer servants to put out their torches and retreat. Ye ken me and my men are far more skilled in the art of battle than the men ye ‘ve brought with ye, and I dinnae want innocent lives bein’ taken for a quarrel that can be settled far better with words than knives and fire.”
“Bring my daughter to me and I will call off my troops immediately,” Nibley replied, crossing his arms and smirking with confidence.
Och, but he is an aggravatin’ bampot, Donnan thought as he felt the frustration beginning to overtake him. He was bone-tired, so exhausted he could hardly stand, let alone argue with the man. His head hurt, his body ached, and all he wanted was to be tucked up safely in an inn somewhere with Bernadine, enjoying a relaxing meal with his wife before retiring early to bed with her in his arms.
Though he did not have the energy to think on how exactly he was going to convince Nibley to give up his daughter to him, he persevered, wracking his brain for options while Nibley glared at him.
Donnan was about to open his mouth, hoping that some brilliance would fall from his lips, when his opponent decided to take matters, or rather, a torch, into his own hands.
His reflexes slowed by too little sleep and sustenance, Donnan had only just raised his hands when Nibley stuck the torch close enough to his face to singe his beard.
“I will not hesitate to burn you, brute,” Nibley growled, inching the torch closed to Donnan’s face. Donnan tried to back away, but found the man had him in a vicelike grip his tired muscles could not fight against.
He was powerless as Nibley dragged him toward the chapel, tripping behind the lord as they walked toward his men, who were raising their eyebrows at him, clearly confused about what they were seeing.
Nibley threw Donnan against the door of the chapel where he and Bernadine had gotten married only minutes previously. It almost looked like a different building, absent its country charm and lustre now that his back was pinned to it, his body filled with abject terror.
“Go!” he shouted to his men, not wanting them to get caught in the flames should Nibley actually torch the wooden structure. The results would be disastrous, and he did not want anyone getting hurt if he could help it.
“If you do not tell me where my daughter is and release her into my care, this chapel and everything around it, everyone around it, will go up in flames. Do you understand me?” Nibley asked.
He shook Donnan by his collar, tightening the cloth around his neck until he could feel the breath being squeezed out of him. When Donnan tried to pry the man’s fingers off him, Nibley just held the torch closer to the walls, and Donnan’s hands immediately dropped. He had been well and truly bested. He was trapped, and so was Bernadine.
Donnan looked from the walls at his side to the grass below, which led directly to the forest, the trees shrouding his love safely among them. It would take barely minutes before the fire travelled from the chapel to the woods, and that was not nearly enough time to ensure Bernadine and Guinevere were taken to safety. They would die a slow and painful death and he would be powerless to stop it.
Donnan’s men and Nibley’s would be at risk as well, the latter of whom had not signed up for a fight and all its repercussions. The carnage would be horrific. Donnan could not let it happen.
There was, therefore, only one option. Donnan knew this, but it did not make it any easier to stomach. He would lose Bernadine, again, and this time, possibly for good. But he would rather lose her to her father, who would at least keep her alive and reasonably well, then lose her to a fire that would kill her and so many others.
“Fine,” Donnan said, shoving Nibley roughly away from him, his voice filled with hatred for the selfish man. “I’ll take ye t
o Bernadine, but first ye’ll call off this stupid fight ye ‘re makin’ yer servants wage against my men. And get all those torches doused out. They’re a danger out here, with so much wood and grass about.”
Nibley smiled a truly frightening triumphant grin as he called to his men to put out the fires and stop their fighting, for “the battle was won.” He did not take his eyes off Donnan as he declared victory, and Donnan had to curl his fists into his sides to keep from lunging for the man and hitting him so hard he was knocked to the ground. Donnan had never lost a battle, not until today, and it left a bitter, acrid taste in his mouth knowing he had done so to such a coward.
It’s for the lass, he reminded himself as he stared at the villain in front of him.
“Take me to her,” Nibley commanded him once the men with torches had been sent to the nearby river to put out the flames.
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