"Listen" she rasped. "Please. Listen."
"Yes, of course." The coach jerked forward as it moved out of the soft ground and back to the lane.
"She's not . . ." The wheels drowned out her tortured words, forcing Hart to lean close to her lips. "She's not there. A man . . ."
"What?"
She began to cough again as a strange, brittle pressure formed in Hart's chest. He forced himself not to grab her. "What are you saying?"
"Not there," Bess choked out, her face reddening with the effort. She let go of his wrist and pressed her hand to her throat as if to push the words out. "A man took her. Someone took her."
His heart stopped and held itself still, not daring to believe. "You saw this?"
"Yes. I saw him . . . pull her away." "Who?"
"I couldn't tell, but she . . . she said 'Matthew.'"
His heart burst back to furious life as he raised his fist to the roof. He wanted to race back to Emma's home, but he could not give chase in the carriage. He'd let the whole damn day pass. They must have gone miles.
"Stop!" Hart slammed open the door and hung himself out the opening again. "Lark! We need to get back to Whitby as quickly as possible. She's not dead. Someone took her, a man named Matthew Bromley. Get me back to Whitby before sundown and let's find out if he's been seen."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"I'll need you to get me the swiftest horse you can. I have to find her."
"Of course. Hie!" He yelled to the horses before Hart had even snapped the door shut. He was jerked back to his seat and the force slammed cold fury into his veins.
She was alive. Alive. And he would find her and make that bastard sorry he'd ever even spoken her name.
"Help her," Bess whispered, shocking Hart. He'd forgotten she was there.
"I will."
The woman choked on a sob. "She wronged you. I know that. But she's not a bad person. You must help her."
Pushing aside his need to do violence, Hart reached out to take her hand again. "I promise to find her and to keep her safe. I promise."
"Bless you."
Hart offered a false smile. Bless him. Or damn him to hell, for he was about to commit murder.
"I will freeze out here," Emma snapped, trying to wrap herself in the oiled skin that was supposed to keep the damp from seeping into her nightdress. It wasn't working. She was wet and cold and enraged. The ropes around her wrists and ankles had set fire to her skin.
Matthew looked little better. His red nose set off the crimson that shot through his eyes. '"Tis your fault, so shut your braying mouth."
"You're a murderous bastard." The slap that landed across her cheek was almost a relief. The cold was numbing her from the outside in. She needed reminding of her hatred before it seeped completely away into the damp ground.
"A modest woman minds her tongue," Matthew said through clenched teeth.
"Even in the face of evil?"
"I will not be judged by you. I have a higher judge—"
"Oh, and how did you explain my uncle's death to your Lord?"
The rage dropped away, leaving his face limp with regret. "That was an accident, I told you. I never meant for your uncle to die."
"You caused his death with your selfishness."
"I am sorry for that, Emily—"
"Don't call me that. My name is Emma. And I want to go home."
"Your place is with me."
"You killed my only family! You might have killed Bess. And now you think I will be your wife? You are even madder than I thought."
"In time you will—"
"In time I will murder you in your sleep." She kicked out at him with her bound legs and caught a solid blow to his hip. "Untie me!"
He lunged at her, grabbed her shoulders and forced her to the ground beneath him. "You want me to untie you? If I untie your legs, I will be between them, do you understand? Is that another sin you want on my head?"
"Matthew," she sobbed, afraid for the first time since he'd dragged her out of her home. His hips pushed into her. A rock dug deep into her back. "You're hurting me."
"You have hurt me for years. I love you, Emily. Despite all you've done, all your sins, I still want to honor you with marriage." His eyes closed against pleasure as he thrust himself against her. "It is . . . It is the only way I can redeem myself. By . . . redeeming you." His hands squeezed her tighter, bruising her as she wept quietly beneath him.
"Please, Matthew."
"And if I untie you, I will want to rub the marks the ropes have left. And then I'll. . . I know you have been wicked. So wicked. Men have t-touched you. Ah. . . Please Lord, I must not let her sin again. We must be married . . . Oh. Oh, Emily."
He shuddered above her, and she vowed not to mention the ropes again. She'd already worn her fingers raw trying to work them free. She wouldn't risk worse injury at his hands.
"Emily," he was choking on her name, sobbing as he rocked back to rest on his knees. He straddled her, pinning her down; she couldn't escape the blow when it came. "Why are you so bad? A temptress worse than Eve. But I will save you. I'll save you. When we marry, my soul will be clean and I will lead you to the Lord. A man is the shepherd of his family."
Emma turned her head and stared at the grass swaying inches from her face. The pitiful fire illuminated only those blades, beyond was pure blackness. How long before he truly raped her? It would take days to get to Scotland, more than a week if she was able to slow them down. How long before he attacked her, how long before he beat her half to death for tempting him into fornication?
Bess was alive, but what could she do? There was no one to send for, no one Bess could turn to. Emma had run from everyone she'd known, and Hart. . . well, Hart was well and truly done with her.
If only she'd let him stay as she'd wanted to. If only she'd let him tempt her with the promise in his eyes. But she could not love any more. She couldn't stand the inevitable pain, the heartbreak that crouched in unexpected corners, waiting to pounce.
This was better. This she could understand. Matthew Bromley wanted her, and so he took her. And while she was afraid and her face was swollen with hot pain, at least she knew what was coming. The same kind of hatred and lust she'd witnessed her whole life. Strange that she'd ever thought she could be free of it.
Hating her surrender, she whispered to the night, "I will see you punished."
Matthew's hands took hers gently. He checked the thick rope around her wrists. "No. You will love me, Emily. Now go to sleep." One of his hands stroked a slow line up her hip. His sigh filled the night when he reached the curve of one breast and cupped his hand around it. "I will keep you warm."
Her despair steamed instantly to rage and she knew in that moment she would fight him with every breath. "You'd best keep your hands to yourself. Every touch outside the marriage bed is an insult to your God."
His hand snapped away, and Emma rolled to her side, pushing him off her body. If she could not escape him tonight, she would escape tomorrow or the day after that. If he dared to take her to another town, she would make the same kind of scene she'd made in that village they'd passed through. She would escape him.
Matthew could find salvation for his own damned soul. She had enough trouble keeping hold of her own.
Chapter 23
Hart had started shaking with the cold about an hour ago. He'd given up trying to stop it soon thereafter. If the shivering would keep him slightly warmer, then it was welcome. A thick fog had fallen over the world around midnight, dampening everything and offering an added danger to his night. His mount had proven quick and sure-footed, but even the sturdy gelding became skittish on the misty trail. The road stayed a good ten yards from the jagged cliffs, but occasionally the sound of waves would grow loud as if a crevice had opened only feet from the horse's hooves.
The fog shrouded everything and floated strange sounds to his ears. He'd thought he'd heard a woman's cry once and had chased inland after it, but he'd found nothin
g. Likely it had been a gull or a crow. Then there had been a mysterious creaking, a flash of faint light. That had come from the east, a passing ship perhaps.
So he'd given up his search and simply urged the horse slowly forward, waiting for the sun to rise and burn off this muffling blindness.
Matthew Bromley had to have taken her north. It had seemed so simple the night before when he'd set out from Whitby. Between Hart and his driver they'd made quick work out of canvassing the small town. They'd found the run-down room Matthew had rented three nights before, but no one had seen hide nor hair of him since. So Hart had taken his horse and headed back toward Emma's home and the road beyond, determined to catch them. But now . . . after so many cold, dark hours in the saddle, it seemed they could be anywhere. The man could have taken her away in a sloop. Or they could have traveled inland over the fields. But he'd met Matthew Bromley, and he couldn't imagine the man sleeping anywhere but in a bed. He looked as if he might float away in a high wind.
A cow lowed somewhere ahead and Hart thought he heard a woman's voice murmur in response. His hunched shoulders straightened and he strained to see something. A new light was setting the fog aglow. Sunrise, he hoped, and good weather for hunting.
A dog barked, a light sparked to life, seeming to float above the ground. Then a figure formed like a ghost.
"Madam?"
The stout woman gasped and stepped back, fading a little. "Ye scared the wits out of me!"
"My apologies. Can you tell me if I'm nearing Rumswick Bay?"
"Why, ye're in it!" She glanced around as he did. "Or at the edge anyway. But there ain't much here. An inn at the other side of town, but he'll cheat ye if ye're not careful."
"My thanks." He started to urge the horse on, toward the sound of water slapping at boats and the faint shout of a fisherman, but pulled back on the reins after a few steps. "Have there been other travelers about this morning?"
"None, but it's early yet."
"Of course."
"But there was quite a pair last even'."
He wheeled the gelding around. "Who?"
"A man and his wayward wife, he said. She'd run away and didn't care for being fetched back it seemed. Made quite a fuss about being slung over his old mare."
"A young woman? Dark-haired?"
"I couldn't see much under her cloak, but the man was young and fair. Aside from the scratches she'd laid on his cheek."
His heart began to thunder furiously. "When did they
pass?"
"Afore dinner. Twasn't dark yet."
Hart put his heels to the horse and raced blindly into the village. The fog swirled before him, clearing the way just enough to help him avoid a lumbering cow.
A few minutes later he was shaking awake the snoring innkeeper. The man reeked of ale and sweat, but he came alert as soon as he spied a gleam of gold.
"Oh, sure, they were here. He come pounding on the door but changed his mind quick after she started in screaming."
Hart's skin prickled with gooseflesh. "Screaming."
"Screaming to wake the dead. Claimed he was a kidnapper and a murderer. He couldn't shut her up, so he just led the horse on out of town."
"And you? You let him go?"
"If a man needs to discipline his wife, it's none of my concern."
"She was screaming for help. He's not her husband, you imbecile. He is a kidnapper and likely a murderer as well. You may have sent a woman to her death."
The bastard actually snorted. "And if he was a murderer, what should I have done? Risked my own life?"
"Yes," Hart snarled. "Yes, you should have risked your worthless life." He was mounting his horse when the man came rushing out, shirttails flapping.
"You promised a coin!"
Hart was tempted to spit in the coward's face, but he reminded himself that he was a duke. Then he tossed the coin into the deep mud at the north side of the yard. "There's your coin. I suggest you use it to take a trip. If she's come to harm, I'll be back to teach you how it feels to cry for help and get no response."
The horse jumped beneath his heels, springing forward toward the road as the innkeeper yelled out some defense behind him.
They were close. Hart could feel it in his bones. They'd left this village near sunset, looking for a place to stop for the night. The next town was only a few miles ahead. They were either there or somewhere on the road in between. Surely they were just rising, surely they couldn't be far.
His muscles were coiled in painful bunches beneath his skin. He was crushed beneath terror and hope and violence and sorrow.
If he could just know she was well. . . She must be well. Matthew hadn't taken her to kill her.
Hart's brain started spitting out ideas of what she might have suffered short of death, but he shut it down with a curse. "She is all right," he whispered. "Scared, but well." He tried to swallow the fear and found that it wouldn't budge. It stayed stuck there, deep in his throat, for the next half hour.
He was nearly upon them before he realized it. It was less than a campsite; just a pile of blankets and a long-cold fire not a few feet from a crumbling edge of rock. He didn't see her, didn't see anyone, and was standing in his stirrups, searching the horizon when movement drew his eye.
A flash of billowing white at a cliff's edge, a dark band of black holding it still. His mind registered only shapes and colors for a moment, then focused with a snap on Emma and Matthew.
They stood at the edge of the rock, Matthew holding up one hand to warn Hart away, the other arm was wrapped around her neck. Emma's skin was alarmingly pale, pale except for the bruises marring her left cheek. Matthew's jaw was pressed against her darkened temple.
Hart eased his pistol from its hiding place and wondered if the roaring in his ears was the sea.
"Why are you here?" the man shouted, dragging Emma back a step. Hart's gaze fell to her feet, unshod and tied at the ankles. Then he noticed her captor's boots. They were only inches from the edge. A rock, disturbed by his shifting, clattered away and dropped from sight.
Hart slid from the saddle and strode toward them. "Let her go."
"Stop!" Matthew's boot slid farther back.
Hart skidded to a stop, heart tripping in alarm. "Let her go! Are you mad? If you get any nearer that cliff, you will both be killed."
Matthew glanced behind him, seeming unconcerned. "Why are you here?"
Hart met her hazel eyes, wild now with fear. "I've come for Emma."
"She's not your concern." His arm tightened around Emma's neck, and her bound hands rose briefly in protest.
"Of course she is. I've asked her to be my wife."
"Hart," she gasped, trying to shake her head.
"No," Matthew shouted. "No, she is mine. Meant for me!"
Hart eased forward, trying to get close enough to snatch her away. "She does not want you, Matthew."
"You know nothing. I love her and she will be my wife. She promised. Promised when she let me put my hands on her, tempted me to all kinds of sin."
Hart's pulse fluttered, but he ignored it. Instead of lashing out, he raised a calming hand. "Think about it, Matthew. What kind of life can you provide? You set fire to her uncle's home, didn't you?"
Shock sparked in the man's eyes.
Hart nodded. "You killed a man and you'll go to jail for that. How will you provide for a wife?"
"No! It was an accident! I won't go back to jail!" "Matthew—"
"Move back!" he shouted, just as his boot slid right over the edge. Emma stiffened at the movement.
Hart lunged, trying to catch her. She was helpless against the man dragging her backward. Her heels scraped over-moss and rocks as she reached out with her bound hands.
"Hart, I'm so sorry," she whispered, the words seeming to float up as she fell.
Hart dropped the pistol and dove forward, grabbing nothing but air. He fell to the ground, felt the jolt of rocks and unforgiving ground, thought of Emma's body falling even farther, too far�
��
But her fall had been stopped. He was staring at her, looking into her eyes, her shoulders and face still visible above the edge. She wasn't lost.
He vaulted to his feet and rushed forward, kicking rocks out into the salt wind.
"Do you want her to die?" Matthew screamed. He'd dragged them both onto a narrow ledge that trailed down at a steep angle. He wrapped an arm tight around her waist and tugged her a little farther down. "Leave us!"
"I won't. Just let her go. She's cold and she's hurt. Let me take her someplace safe."
"She will be safe enough once we're married. At least her soul will be in God's hands."
"Even in Scotland they will not marry you to an unwilling woman."
"Oh, she will be willing by then."
Struck with fury, Hart jumped down and landed with a great clatter of sliding rock and grit. Emma gasped and fell backward, tugged down by Matthew's violent jerk.
"Pleased Hart ground out, "you are going to hurt her. Just release her. It's too steep here, you cannot drag her down the cliff face. Let her go. I won't follow you, I give you my word."
Matthew shouted, "I love her!" and pulled her along the narrow ledge. His body began to disappear around a curve as Emma's feet kicked futilely against stone and gravel. "Why can you not just go away? She is mine!"
Stay calm, Hart reminded himself, keeping his eye on Emma as she was pulled backward. Stay calm. If he got too close, he'd make it worse, put Emma in more danger. So instead of lunging, he crept. Instead of screaming with rage, he held his breath.
Emma's gaze locked with his. One fat tear fell, tracing a track through her dusty face. I'm sorry, she mouthed, and Hart was shaking his head just as she disappeared around the angled jag of rock that blocked his view.
He tried to move faster and stay quiet, but his foot slipped on loose sand and he crashed to one knee. Pain shot straight to his spine. He dug his nails into his palms and forced himself up to inch forward. Slowly, slowly, slowly.
"Tell him to go away," Matthew was sobbing. "He has shamed you. Do you think I don't know? Even after all that, I've offered you my name. Why can you not see me?"
A Rakes Guide to Pleasure Page 24
