Kidnapping the Duke

by Killarney Sheffield

  Chapter Three

  Felicity blinked at the pale morning sunshine dancing with the tiny flecks of dust in its beam. It was strange to awake in an unfamiliar bed. For the past ten years her Aunt Victoria’s London townhouse had been home…well sort of. It was more of a place she returned for holidays when not in school. A sigh escaped her lips and she rolled over. If I had any friends I would miss them right now.

  Shivering, she dressed in chill of the bedchamber and then hurried out to the main room. A cup of tea or chocolate would be a welcome start to the day. However, after eying the unburned remains from her last fire starting attempt she settled for a glass of cider and a bit of bread layered with cheese and a thick slice of cold ham she found in the well-stocked larder. She made her way to the window next to the front door and looked out over the little clearing.

  As she basked in the thin stream of sunlight warming her skin, it suddenly occurred to her the supplies necessary to complete her mission were still on the damaged pony cart. She groaned and lowered her head to her hands. I am such a blunderbuss. Now what am I going to do? She couldn’t go back to the cart, get the supplies, and risk her prey arriving in her absence. No, that would not do, it would ruin everything. She glanced around the room for any sign of a weapon. As luck would have it there was nothing which would suit her purpose. Leaving her cozy patch of sun, she hurried to inspect the kitchen cupboards. A couple of larger chopping knives held potential, she supposed. Her gaze traveled to the rack above the table from which hung an assortment of heavy skillets, pots, and kettles. She hoisted the heaviest-looking one down and judged its weight in her hands. It might do, provided she had the element of surprise, of course. All she had to do now was find some rope. A search of the lodge came up empty. Perhaps she should try the little stable out back. Surely there would be some rope of some kind in the little shed.

  After popping the last bite of her impromptu breakfast sandwich into her mouth, she glanced out the window by the front door and froze. It cannot be! A man rode into the clearing on a glossy chestnut horse, leading a plain bay. The chestnut pranced, showing off his four white socks and a wide white patch blazed face in style, and the man grinned as he reined the animal in. Panic seized her. I am not ready! With a squeak she snatched up the heavy iron skillet from the table and ran to stand beside the door. Peeking out the window, she watched the man dismount and then lead the two animals to the hitching post and secured them. It occurred to her as he attended the packs on the plainer horse that he was much taller than she.

  An idea came to mind and she set down the pan, sprinted to the table and carried back a small three legged stool. After placing it behind the arc the door would travel when opened, she again hefted the heavy pan and climbed onto the stool. A quick glance out the window revealed the man had removed a set of large satchels from the pack animal and was now heading for the door with them slung over his shoulder.

  Holding her breath, she raised the pan and waited. Heavy footsteps paused outside the door, and then came the thump of the pack being set down and the scrape of a key in lock. With an unsettling creak the door swung open. Last minute doubts assailed her. What am I thinking? I can’t do this. Is it too late to back out? The man grunted as if hefting the heavy satchels again, and then his footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. Unbeknownst to her presence he stepped clear of the door and reached to shut it behind him. Before she lost her courage completely, she swung. The solid skillet glanced off the back of his sandy-haired head with a dull thunk. Terrified she watched him drop the satchels, raise a hand to his head and then topple forward to lie unmoving in the entranceway.

  She dropped the pan with a loud clang at her feet and jumped down from the chair. Oh fie! What have I done? Realizing she was unarmed in the face of what was to be his fury, she scooped up the skillet again and held it in a defensive position. The man didn’t move. Cautiously she stepped to his side and nudged him with the toe of one slipper. Still he didn’t move. Oh fie and fire! Did I kill him? She poked him again and he moaned. A heavy sigh of relief escaped her as she stood there over him. Now what? Again she pondered what to use to secure him. There was not time to run to the stable to find some rope, for who knew how long he would stay unconscious? Setting the skillet on the stool, she turned to see what she had in her own packs to secure him, then thought better of it and took the makeshift weapon with her.

  A quick rummage through her valise turned up nothing of any use besides a shawl, scarf and a sash. She returned to the main room, afraid the man might have woken up in her short absence, but he was still lying as she left him in the middle of the open doorway. Crouching beside him she set the pan down and set about securing his hands behind his back with the scarf. Satisfied he was bound tight, she repeated the procedure on his ankles with the sash. Well pleased with herself, she rocked back on her heels and smiled. There that was not so hard.

  When he groaned and stirred, she scrambled to her feet and stepped back holding the pan above her head, ready to hit him again if necessary. His large meaty arms twitched. Slowly he turned his head grimacing, and she noticed for the first time a thin trickle of blood oozing from a narrow gash where she had struck him. She bit back her remorse. He deserves it for what he has done to my father and me. Again he moaned, and this time his eyes slowly opened.

  A bleary blue gaze fixed on her and a puzzled frown wrinkled his brow. “What the…hell?”

  “Do not move.” Felicity shook the skillet with menace and then realized the absurdity of her command. “Actually, I need you to move forward so I may close the door.”

  He jerked his limbs and then rolled over, raised his head and peered down at his bound feet. “What have you done?”

  “Tied you up, of course.” She poked him with her toe and lowered the skillet as her arms began to shake with the stress of wielding the heavy weapon for so long.

  “Why the hell would you do that? Release me this instant, wench!” A red flush crept up his neck.

  She shook her head. “I am not going to do that. Now, if you do not mind, please slide forward out of the way so I might close the door. It is drafty in here without a fire going.”

  His brows rose in astonishment. “Are you serious? You whack me over the head, tie me up and now you want me to move so you can close the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you completely noddy?”

  She smirked. “No, not at all. Hurry now. I find I am quite cold with no fire going.”

  He glared at her. “And if I do not?”

  “I shall hit you over the head again.” She bluffed, raising the skillet with effort.

  With a grunt he lowered his head to the floor. “If you want me to move, wench, then you shall have to move me yourself. I refuse to be your willing victim.”

  Sighing, she dropped the skillet beside his head, satisfied when he flinched. Grasping his arms she groused, “Fine. Suit yourself.” Bracing her feet she pulled. He did not budge. She tried again, ignoring his chuckle at her expense. Finally he slid an inch and then two across the floor. “I believe…you could…stand…to eat less…my lord.”

  He grinned. “Perhaps it is you who needs to be stronger.”

  Sticking out her tongue, she heaved a couple more times until she had him clear of the entrance. With a triumphant grin, she stalked to the door and slammed it shut. “There.” She dusted off her hands and returned the skillet to the kitchen table.

  “Are you just going to leave me here on the floor?”

  She shrugged. “Unless you can maneuver yourself onto a chair, I suppose so.”

  He sighed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I have decided to make you pay for what you did.” With a flippant toss of her hair she turned her back on him and searched for a pail to draw water from the well.

  “What the hell did I ever do to you? I do not even know you.”

  “A likely story, my lord.” Once she found a pail, she headed out the back door to the well.

  “Wa
it! Where are you going?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “To draw some water to wash with.” His curses ringing in her ears, she shut the door and strolled to the well. “That went rather well, if I do say so myself.” She snickered. Looking down into the deep well, she wound the crank until the end of a frayed rope came into view. It appeared the well bucket was lost, so she tied the one she carried to the end of the rope and lowered it down to fill. A splash told her when she had lowered it enough. She waited a moment and then began to crank it back up. The bucket was almost to the rim of the stone well when she reached out to tug it over the lip. Without warning the bucket broke free and tumbled back down, landing with a splash.

  “Oh fie!” Standing on her tiptoes she peered down the hole. Nothing but blackness met her searching gaze. With a groan she stomped back to the lodge.

  * * *

  He noted her angry expression when she entered the back door of the lodge, slamming it behind her. “Is something amiss, besides the fact that you have accosted a lord and trussed him up on the floor of his own damned hunting lodge?”

  She cast him a sour look and stalked to the kitchen. “I dropped the bucket down the well.”

  A snicker slipped from his lips. “One usually ties the bucket on the end of the rope so they can pull it back up before throwing it down the well.”

  The look she cast him this time contained daggers. “A fact that I already know, my lord. The rope broke, or came undone.”

  “There are buckets in the stable. Untie me and I will gladly fetch you a pail of water.” He favored her with a winning smile in hopes she would believe his ruse.

  With an un-ladylike snort, she turned and marched back out the door.

  He stared up at the beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Just what was it she thought him responsible for? Had she mistaken him for another, or was she just noddier than a June bug? He wiggled his hands behind his back in effort to loosen the bonds. To his annoyance her knot remained tight. Now what? A week he was to stay here, which meant no one would be expecting him for at least that amount of time. If he did not arrive back within a day or two of his expected return, someone would come looking for him. What did the noddy wench intended to do with him? If her intent was to harm him, the deed would be long done before anyone was the wiser. He groaned. Just what kind of predicament had he gotten himself into this time?

  The back door opened and the woman returned carrying a pail of water, slopping a trail across the floor to the wash basin on the table. He grimaced as some of the icy drippings damped his pants leg. “You could at least have the decency to tell me why you have accosted me and tied me up,” he groused.

  She rolled her eyes at him as she tipped the heavy pail into the basin, splashing water across the tabletop and down the front of her simple wool skirt. With a groan she set the pail under the table and dabbed at the dark blue spot forming against the lighter blue of her skirt. “Oh fie,” she mumbled.

  He raised an eyebrow. Though her tone bespoke a lady of gentle breeding, her words and manner seemed more reminiscent of a tavern wench. “Would you mind telling me who the hell you are?”

  “Felicity Beinfait, as you well know.” With a toss of her long blonde hair she turned away and doused her face with the cold water. A shiver stole down her at the water’s coolness, but she continued her ministrations.

  He played the name over and over in his mind. “I am afraid the name does not ring a bell. Have we met before?”

  “No.” She reached for a towel hanging on the back of one of two chairs at the table, her cheeks tinged a rosy pink. After She dried her hands and face, hung the towel back neatly, and faced him, arms akimbo. “You should know my name. Your wretch of a father ruined my life!”

  “What are you talking about? My father is long dead.” He stared at her.

  “Exactly why I am going to take my revenge on you.” She smiled sweetly and sauntered off toward the bedchamber.

  “Your revenge? What the hell are you talking about?” Raising his head, he glared at her retreating back.

  She glanced back at him over her shoulder, a small frown puckering her lips. “Now, now, my lord, there is no need to use such vulgar language in the presence of a lady.” With that she stepped into the bedchamber and closed the door.

  “Lady?” He scowled at the door, and then returned his head to rest on the floor. “I see no lady here, wench!” He listened, waiting for an answer, but none was forthcoming from behind the door. What was she doing in his bedchamber? Annoyed he rolled over onto his belly and wiggled up onto his knees. Shimmying forward he painstakingly inched his way toward the door. Sweat broke out along his brow despite the coolness of the lodge by the time he made it. Panting he leaned against it for a moment. He listened for a sign of her return before pinning the door latch between his shoulder and chin. The feat was harder than he thought, but finally he managed a good enough grip to shrug his shoulder and pop the latch out of its cradle. Twisting he hooked his fingers in the gap and scooted backward to open the door wide enough to escape.

  “Where do you think you are going?”

  He looked up.

  The lady in question stalked from the bedchamber and slammed the door closed, almost pinching his fingers in the process.

  “Look, wench, if you have some sort of beef with my father you can take it up with the magistrate, but since he is dead and gone you are out of luck. Whatever it is you hope to gain from this absurd kidnapping I assure you it will be wasted, for there is no one to care what happens to me.”

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Oh, but there is someone who will care what happens to you, my lord. I am sure your brother will pay handsomely to get you returned to him.”

  “My brother? Ha! My younger brother is too busy gambling his blunt away and spending his nights between any wench’s thighs he can find to give a fig what might befall me. Besides, with me disposed of he will inherit all.” He pierced her with a suspicious stare. “Perhaps you are in cahoots with him?”

  Her face fell. “You are the older brother?”

  He smirked. “Yes, I am William Carnduff, the third Duke of Lancastor. You were expecting my brother Christian, I take it?”

  “Oh fie and fire!” In comical fashion she slapped her forehead. “How could I be such a blunderbuss? Oh!”

  “You intended to kidnap my brother?” He gaped at her incredulously when she nodded. “Well, you certainly did not do your research, for my dandy of a little brother would not be caught dead anywhere near the country, let alone spend a week in a hunting lodge without an army of servants to cater to his every whim.” He laughed, amused at her crestfallen expression. “Now, since you are aware of your mistake, you may untie me and be on your merry way before I have the constables and the dogs on your trail.”

  She wandered to the chair the towel hung over and slumped onto it. “Oh dear. Well, I suppose you will just have to do then.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose one of you is as good as the other, though I am not sure if your brother would have access to all I would require.”

  He shook his head. “You are noddy.”

  “I am not!” Her eyes snapped with fury at his accusation. “I am simply after what is rightfully mine.”

  “Rightfully yours?” he yelped. “How is my father’s fortune, now mine by birthright, rightfully yours?”

  Anger lined her brow. “Your father wrongfully accused my father of seducing and killing your mother and then gathered a mob together and hung him for it without cause! He robbed me of my life, my inheritance, and my future. Do you know what it is like hearing others whisper behind your back that your father was a murder? Do you know what it was like for me to know that all the fancy finishing schools in London would not garner me a husband? One by one all the other girls went off to make splendid matches, while I sat there and tried to content myself with knowing I would never be anything more than a spinster, and maybe if I was lucky s
omeone might overlook my tarnished lineage enough to hire me on as a tutor, or governess.”

  He cast aside the small pang of empathy needling him. “None of that was my doing, therefore not my problem. Besides, I fail to see how holding me for ransom is going to help your reputation.”

  “I was going to make you right the wrong of my father’s death and clear his name before you repaid what I lost.” She sighed. “I am not sure Christian is the one to complete such a task.”

  “Christian?” He snorted. “A very unlikely taskmaster, for sure. What do you know of my wastrel brother?”

  “All of London knows of Christian’s exploits. Why, I heard tell they call him ‘the anti-savior of the ton.’” She blushed. “I hear he is quite the notorious rake, among other things.”

  William shook his head. “Yes, well, it seems every family has a black sheep, as it were.” He chuckled. “Did you actually think I would pay any amount to get the likes of him back?”

  “I had hoped you would.” She looked down at her hands. “That is, I would do anything to rescue him if he were my brother.”

  William rolled his eyes. “Are you telling me you are sweet on him?”

  “Oh, dear lord no!”

  Her face turned an alluring shade of pink, which told him the truth she denied. Why did all the ladies swoon over the likes of his brother? He just didn’t see the attraction. Christian was the bane of his existence. “I am telling you your ploy to gain my brother’s attention will not work. I doubt that he will ever consider such a wet behind the ears debutante such as yourself worthy of one of his flings, and God forbid he ever considers marriage to any unlucky flower.”

  “Marriage?” A very unbecoming snort echoed throughout the little cottage. “As if I would ever be interested in marriage to any get of my father’s killer.” Abruptly she stood and crossed to the fireplace.

  He pondered her as she picked up the flint and struck it repeatedly, trying to light the logs in the cradle of the pit. The woman was definitely of noble blood, judging by the inexperienced way she held and struck the flint. A commoner would know to hold it at an angle touching the pile and ensure the basket of tinder sitting on the hearth was stuffed under and between the logs. With amusement he let her carry on with her futile task. Perhaps if she was unsuccessful at starting a fire, the cold and hunger would drive her to give up her ridiculous kidnapping attempt and she would set him free. It appeared, in light of the situation, he had little choice except to wait her out.