by Daria Vernon
Beth tried not to look at him, but heat rose to her cheeks—the shame of not having seen this element coming.
“Big brown eyes, a lovely, if somewhat narrow, figure . . . who is near too old to wed.” The hairs on the back of Beth’s neck stood on end.
His painful soliloquizing went on.
“I could get the money in the gentlest way possible, through marrying the lady I’ve been in love with for over ten years.”
Beth might have retched. Her face shot up to deliver such a look of fiery disdain that she hoped it might cut through the darkness.
“In love? What do you know about that? You’re not going to convince me to marry you, and you’re not going to convince my father when we get there either. What game are you at?”
“I wasn’t really thinking convince so much as threaten. And would it not be a charity? Your father might be quite thrilled to marry you off at this ripened age.”
Beth stayed quiet.
“You see, I’m not taking you straight home. I’m going to keep you in a safe location. Tom will watch after you, and Shelby and I will go make an offer to your father. If he wants to see you and your reputation safe, then he’ll have to freely give his blessing. He’ll cooperate as Ashecote is signed over to you, at which point I will absorb the estate as your husband and protector.”
Beth snorted at that and turned away as the delusional man continued.
“Come now, it won’t be so bad for you. You adore your aunt’s home. We can live out our days in that sanctuary as husband and wife.”
Husband and wife. What a disgustingly permanent phrase to hear on his serpent’s tongue. Beth tested her wrists against the fabric. The initial rush of alarm that flooded her—that had fed her energies as she’d struck out at him—was now waning. She didn’t know what to do. Her heart continued at a sickening pace even as her breath steadied. His words were coiling around her, poisoning her courage with despair.
“Get some rest, my dear. Long road ahead.” Desmarais said it in a jolly, clipped tone, clearly pleased with himself.
So this is what he sounds like when he’s not busy licking boots. She stared into the gray shadow, where a sliver of teeth flashed against the dark like a crescent moon. His true smile was much less toothy than the ingratiating grin he’d manipulated her family with for years.
The length of the journey stretched out before them. Each passing hour would be an opportunity to plan, an opportunity to run. Beth wouldn’t squander any chances.
“Yes. I think I’ll try to sleep now.” And dream up ways to cook a hatchet-faced snake.
The fall of night was complete.
In the total darkness, Beth felt the relief of no longer having to rest her eyes on the twisted face of her kidnapper. It was safest to assume that he remained awake. Every now and again, a sliver of light from the carriage lanterns would slip through the curtains and sparkle off the barrel of his flintlock, still trained on her.
Her feet were freezing. Desmarais had thrown a dark wool blanket over her, but the cold kept creeping in. She clung tightly to the blanket’s rough edge with her bound hands, trying to wriggle it upward toward her nose.
Desmarais didn’t squirm as she did. He was but a shadow in a much darker shadow.
Beth shivered from her thoughts as much as from the cold. Desmarais couldn’t kill her. The outline of his ideal future hinged upon her becoming his—
No, best not to revisit that.
If he ever set his weapon down, she likely wouldn’t notice, not in the darkness, and not over the din of their conveyance shuddering down what sounded like a poorly kept road.
What could she do anyway? Jump from a moving carriage? How much do the men up top have invested in her? Surely they’re paid, but how handsomely? Would they let her go? Would they fire at her? What good is she dead? The last question stuck in the flow of her thoughts like a boulder dropped into a stream. What good is she . . . There indeed seemed no way for Desmarais to get what he wanted if she—
Her chest rose, swelling with hope.
But—
Her thoughts returned to the men up top. Surely they weren’t willing to be hanged if something went wrong.
There it was. That was what her abductors held over her.
If she escaped, she had a story that would put them all in jeopardy. They would prefer her dead then. Desmarais would spin a yarn as fine as a spider’s silk. He’d tell the authorities and her father of some terrible disaster on the road. Accidents, highwaymen, illness—there were so many believable falsehoods to choose from when traveling dark roads on winter nights.
And such a winter night it was. She couldn’t move for fear of losing the warmest position she’d achieved yet. She couldn’t survive out there if she ran. Every avenue of ideas led to a different, more distressing end.
The alternating waves of hope and despair were wearing her thin. Perhaps opportunity would improve with the daylight once she was left at some mysterious location with this Tom fellow. She frowned. The thought of waiting to act sat with her about as well as soured milk.
She took a deep breath. Patience. She repeated the reminder over and over. Patience.
Her thoughts turned to Dahlia: Days in the garden. Refreshments by the stream. Acting out Greek plays in the library. The awe of looking up to this woman who seemed so unlike any other . . .
Beth’s eyelids flickered with exhaustion.
Dahlia who never once abandoned her. Dahlia who embraced her missteps in a way society never could . . .
Beth closed her eyes.
Dahlia would have found a way to save herself.
Beth could find a way too.
Patience.
Beth’s dreams were warm. Lovely. Far away from the present.
But then her beautiful visions were snapped apart like a wishbone—
Her heart surged to alertness before her eyelids even fluttered.
Something was different.
The rumbling vibrations of the carriage that had lulled her to sleep were gone.
Her ears rang in silence.
Chapter 2
The dull glow of the driver’s side lantern lit the gap at the curtain’s edge. It was enough light to illuminate Beth’s careful breaths as they suspended in the cold air before her.
A wheezing inhale broke the silence. Desmarais. Was he awake? Or was this some pathetic sound of slumber?
Something glittered across from her, catching just enough light—
His pistol.
More silence. She didn’t know what had stopped the carriage, but the little star of light that gleamed off the firearm was luring her in, tempting her to gamble for an opportunity.
She lowered the blanket from her face. Held her breath. Leaned forward—
Another gentle wheeze.
Asleep.
The blanket fell to her lap, and she reached her arm carefully across the space, keeping her eyes locked on that sterling barrel—
“There are four of us! Do not move!”
She lurched back against the squabs as though struck by a blow and scrambled to rearrange her blanket.
The shouting outside continued. “Do not even try to move!” Hooves beat the road around them chaotically. The cabin shook gently as the driving horses spooked and stirred.
Each of Beth’s senses rose to a full, overwhelming alertness. She blinked over and over, as though she could blink the darkness away. Surely Desmarais was awake now.
Another strange voice, much closer than the first, spoke more calmly. “Set your weapons slowly on the edge of the seat and step down.” She heard the bench outside squeak with the shuffling of Tom and Mr. Shelby. One of them grumbled a swear.
Perhaps someone at Dahlia’s household had suspected something, perhaps—
Might these be rescuers?
Beth didn’t dare to mo
ve without being certain. Not until the loaded weapon across from her had been dealt with.
She pressed an ear up to the wall. More horses kicked gravel onto the road. There were thuds as men dismounted. Footsteps.
“Kneel here and wait.” The voice was coarser than the others. “Harry, check ’em fer coin.”
Beth’s racing hopes capsized.
Highwaymen.
Beth pulled the blanket all the way up past her lips, which moved silently with prayers she’d not uttered since she was a little girl kneeling at the bedside.
Heavy bootsteps neared. Beth pressed herself deeply against the squabs. The thumbs of her bound hands tightened on the blanket, as though it could shield her from whatever transpired next.
The door to her left swung open with a great clack and—
CRACK
Smoke filled the small space as a shot rang out.
“Curse it all, ya bastard!” The coarse voice outside went shrill with complaints as the spent flintlock fell to the floor.
Beth had barely settled her eyes on Desmarais in the moonlight before an arm reached inside the compartment to brutally drag him out by the ankle. She clung to the shadows, opposite where the door hung ajar on its hinges. Lost in the commotion and protected by the darkness, she escaped notice.
Outside, the man with the ugly voice didn’t let up.
“You fish-boned cull!” There was a blunt sound of impact, followed by a brutal expulsion from Desmarais’ lungs. “I ought’a show you the pit o’ the fine Bristol Newgate for try’na murder me.” The scuffing sounds of the kicks were interrupted, between impacts, by Desmarais’ gasps and pleas.
“Enough of it, Lionel!”
“He shot at me, Captain! What am I supposed to do?”
“Search him, for one thing. Bring him there with the other two. Tie him up. Harry, see what’s on the back of the carriage.”
Beth leaned her ear toward the open door to better listen as Desmarais was seemingly dragged to someplace beyond.
She stiffened as the carriage suddenly creaked and moved—as this “Harry” began to fiddle with the straps on her trunk, outside.
“I’m bleedin’,” moaned the whining accomplice, from farther off.
“Bleedin’ stupid,” mumbled the youthful voice of the man unloading the boot.
“The ball barely tore your sleeve.” It was the same voice that the sniveler had referred to as Captain. The voice was commanding and calm, yet . . . weary.
There was no more shouting. From the sound of it, most of the men had moved a little ways down the road to conduct their business.
The younger voice mumbled from behind her again. “Can’t see a cursed thing.” Beth held her breath as light footsteps crossed the closed side of the carriage. One of the lanterns was taken from its hook and the dim light swung wildly, casting orange flickers through the cracks in the curtains as the lad passed by with it. Moments later, the compartment swayed again as the trunk was lugged from the boot and dragged away.
The open door creaked on its hinges, casting light on the opposite bench. How fortunate Beth was to be in the forward-facing seat, where the interloper hadn’t spotted her first.
Her mourning attire cloaked her like a bat, and for the moment, she felt safe. Desmarais himself wouldn’t give up her position, would he? That would be like giving up the gold. But the thieves would surely search the compartment before absconding.
She kicked off the blanket and tested the fabric that wrapped roughly around her wrists. Too tight. Nothing she could do about that now.
Outside, the coarse one was swearing again in his gravely tongue.
Beth twisted herself to kneel on the bench seat and peeked beneath the curtain of the carriage’s small back window. There they were. Six figures, some ten yards beyond. Tom, Shelby, and Desmarais all knelt, their hands tied behind them.
See how well you all like it. Beth couldn’t suppress the thought as her wrists tensed against her fabric binds. At least her hands were bound in front.
Tom was spitting a slew of nasty words, and the coarse one was giving as well as he got. Desmarais sat still while being searched by a lumbering man. Was that the one whose voice she’d heard before? The Captain?
The lad, Harry, was rifling through her luggage on the ground. He appeared grown, yet his voice had a youthful smoothness to it.
Beth’s shoulders jumped as another man joined the group, seemingly out of nowhere. A cape falling to his shins gave him the appearance of a mast hung with a black sail. A rather tall mast. If not for the blue glow of moonlight at his back, he’d be invisible. The menacing shadow was crowned by the shape of a tricorn, pulled low. Only the flash of his eyes could be seen over his high collar and muffler. Before he even spoke, she knew she was wrong about the other man. This was the one they called Captain.
“Hush!”
His words brought on obedient silence, even from Tom. He sauntered up to Desmarais and reached down to pinch the lapel of his frock coat.
“You all seem the sort that I’d expect to see on a crowded stagecoach, not in a fine berline.”
Mr. Shelby chimed in. “We’re solicitors. Riding on someone else’s business.”
“Hmm.” The stranger didn’t sound convinced. “Does your client often trust you to ride around in their fine carriage on dangerous, lightly traveled roads at night?”
“There’s a purse in the bottom of that trunk, if your man keeps digging there.”
Beth had never heard such shaky discomfort in Desmarais’ voice. She’d always imagined she might enjoy hearing such a thing, but now it only made her heart beat faster with the fear of her own circumstance.
The captain called out to his man. “Harry?”
“It’s just a bunch of ladies’ dresses so far,” said Harry, with a mix of disdain and amusement as he pulled up one of Beth’s gowns.
“The plot thickens.” The captain’s voice was so strong and clear that Beth could make it out easily, even from behind the scarf bundled around his lower face.
The sight of the man tearing through her things made Beth’s nails dig like claws into the wooden trim above the seat. She knew that the discovery of the dresses would stir curiosity. She needed to act soon, if ever she was going to.
She slid, liquid-like, from the bench, her skirt and cloak pooling around her. Where was that bloody pistol? She groped about with her bound hands, sifting through the volumes of fabric that nearly filled the small floor. She wondered if it might have been dragged out with Desmarais.
She almost didn’t notice when she touched it beneath his bench. Her icy fingertips could hardly register the feel of cold silver.
Gripping it by its muzzle, she raised it overhead.
Anxious shivers ran up her arms. Her heart skipped and thudded as she thought back to her childhood friend, Dyckson, who had teased her for her poor aim of snowballs. She hoped this went better.
Before the shivers could rattle the damn thing from her hands, she flung it as hard as she could through the gaping door.
It clacked and skidded across the gravel at the road’s edge.
At first, she thought no one had heard it, yet all had gone quiet outside. She chanced to take a peek. The captain pointed in the direction of the sound. His men looked to the forest’s edge.
Desmarais and his men did not look to the woods, but instead, looked surreptitiously to one another.
Beth watched as Shelby wound himself up to strike the lumbering man who guarded him. An elbow to the back of the big man’s knees saw him felled like an oak, and all three captives staggered to their feet.
After that, it was chaos. Scattering, grunting, cursing, stumbling—like animals, all of them.
“Stop them!” The captain’s order did nothing to curtail the anarchy.
Tom, Shelby, and Desmarais had all beaten differ
ent paths into the trees, and a brief confusion as to who should chase whom doomed Captain’s men to failure.
It was more disorder than Beth ever could have hoped for. She slithered out of the carriage.
As best she could, with two hands acting as one, she gathered up her skirts and hurried toward the two hackney horses. The icy mist dug its sharp teeth into her ankles, but she had to take her chance and run, as the others had.
Then, in the scant light of the remaining lantern, she saw it—the reason they had stopped. A tree was fallen across the narrow road. A clever trap set by the highwaymen.
She went alongside it, investigating it with her hands. She wondered how quietly she could unhitch a driving horse, or if she could even manage it at all in such low light. She heard the captain call back his men.
Every heartbeat felt like a grain of sand falling through the smallest timeglass. No time to take a horse. She just had to get past the tree and run. But even as she thought it, the fallen tree reached out a branch in the dark to trip her.
She kept a sharp inhale from becoming a shriek as she caught herself, but her tied hands had reached out to the nearest thing for balance—
The horse she fell into reared against its harness, sending her down. The other horse joined its mate in distress, creating a horrible cascade of striking hooves and jangling tug chains.
The timeglass in Beth’s chest shattered apart.
Rhys Bowen chewed on his lip and waited for his men to reemerge from the tree line. No other night on the road had gone so truly fuck’t as this.
The cry of a horse drew his eyes back to the carriage. What now?
An out-of-breath Harry returned to his side. “I’m sorry, Captain. They’re gone.”
Rhys could hardly peel his thoughts away from the ominous stir of the driving team. It didn’t sit well.
“Were they all searched?”
“They were.”
“Then it’s no matter. We should pack what we’ve found and leave.”
“I agree,” huffed Harry.
Rhys put a hand on the lad’s shoulder without turning to him.
