Kidnapping the Duke

by Killarney Sheffield

  This time he couldn’t help laughing. “I assure you it has more to do with your runny nose, glazed eyes and hacking.”

  “Do I look that awful?” She moaned.

  “Most definitely.”

  She scowled at him. “Thank you for your tact.”

  “You are most welcome.” Snickering, he strained the brewed tea into a cup and passed it to her.

  After taking a sip she asked, “Where will you sleep?”

  He pointed to the chair. “I have slept in worse places, I assure you. After all, you were going to leave me trussed up like a roasting pig on the floor our first night together.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she turned her attention to her tea. “I will sleep in my bed where it is safer, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Stretching out his legs he leaned back in the chair and took a sip of tea. His own muscles ached from lack of exercise, and boredom was beginning to set in. He glanced at the sniffling woman beside him oozing all manner of secretions. Normally a good romp between the sheets was great for stretching muscles and deterring boredom, but in this case maybe not so much. Inwardly he chuckled. Perhaps he should try seducing the chit into releasing him once she was well again. Oozing aside, she was certainly attractive enough to interest him. As if agreeing, his manhood swelled and he crossed his legs to prevent it from tenting his breeches and giving his thoughts away.

  He cleared his throat and set the cup back in its saucer. “You should apply some more lard to your hand before retiring for the night.”

  She got to her feet and set her empty cup on the hearth ledge. “I am far too tired tonight. I will see to it on the morrow.”

  With a frown he noted her wobbly legged progress to the bedchamber. He should insist she care for her wound now rather than later, but she looked so done in, he decided to leave it be. With little else to do he picked up the newspaper to read the society sections he normally ignored.

  * * *

  A few hours later the bedchamber door creaked open and the orange cat wandered out. He paid her little mind until she rubbed against his legs with a soft meow. Folding the last newspaper he set it aside and reached down to scratch the feline’s head. “What do you want?”

  “Meow.”

  Scooping the cat up, he set it on his lap. “If you are looking for a meal I cannot reach the larder.”

  The cat settled on his lap and began to purr.

  “Well, just make yourself comfortable,” he drawled with sarcasm clearly lost on the orange ball of fur. A sound from the bedroom caught his attention. Cocking his head he listened close.

  “Oh…no! Papa? Please….”

  He puzzled the mumbled words for a moment. Was Felicity having a nightmare? “Felicity?”

  Instead of an answer, more mumbling and moaning came from the bedchamber.

  “Felicity, are you all right?”

  When she didn’t answer, he put the cat back on the floor and got to his feet. He shuffled as close to the bedchamber door as his shackles would allow and called louder this time, “Felicity?”

  Still no answer but a moan.

  Looking around, he spied the broom up against the wall beside the fireplace. Using it to reach the bedchamber door he pushed it open. The candle on the bedside table still burned, casting flickering shadows against the wall.

  “Felicity? Is everything all right?”

  Again she moaned. She rolled toward him in her sleep, one hand sliding from the covers and dangling over the edge of the bed. A sheen of perspiration on her forehead gleamed in the meager light.

  “Nick-ninny woman. I told her to sleep by the fire. How am I to help her chained to this bloody post?”

  The cat rubbed against his legs. “Meow.”

  He ignored it and pondered his predicament. If the woman’s fever ran unchecked, she could die. He had to do something, but what? Using the broom he banged on the doorjam to rouse her. “Felicity you have to wake up.”

  “I will get the door…. Papa….” she mumbled and then turned over to face the wall.

  Groaning, William leaned the broom against the wall. Now what? He couldn’t wake her and, secured to the wall, he was helpless to see to her. He tugged on the chain shackling him. There was no way to break such thick, well forged metal. His gaze wandered to the pots and pans hanging from the rafters above the food preparation counter. Could he hit the links on his shackles hard enough to bend and eventually force one open? It was worth a try. Retrieving the broom he stretched far enough to catch the rim of the heaviest skillet. It took a couple tries to wiggle the skillet from its hook before it bounced off the counter and clattered to the floor. He dragged it closer with the broom, picked it up, and went to work smashing the iron links.

  Ten minutes later he tossed the skillet on the table, disillusioned with his lack of progress. Obviously the chain was too well crafted to be broken. A large meat cleaver dangling from the rafters caught his attention. It was no saw, but perhaps it was sharp enough to chop through the four inch support post he was shackled to. He knocked the cleaver off its hook with the broom, cringing as it sailed through the air and impaled itself in the planks scant inches from his feet. It was definitely sharp, he mused. He set to work chopping at the pole. Little by little it bit into the wood, chipping away chunks of it to fall to the floor just above the shackle. Twenty minutes later he had chopped far enough through the support to hit it with his shoulder and break the remaining bit free. It creaked and the railing groaned as he forced it aside enough to slip the chain from around it.

  Dragging the length of chain behind, he approached the bedchamber. He stood on the threshold for a moment. The bed covers were in a state of disarray. Only part of the quilt covered one leg, the other limb sprawled of its own accord in the opposite direction. The thin cotton nightdress she wore rode up to rest about her creamy white thigh. He swallowed at the sight of the shapely leg. His gaze traveled up over the twisted swath of material covering her slim waist. The tie closing the neck of the simple garment had come undone, gaping open to expose the swell of one breast and the crevice between the set. His manhood twitched and he willed it to go back to sleep with reluctance.

  “Felicity, wake up.”

  She sighed in her sleep, her fingers clutching the rumpled sheets as she shifted restlessly, the movement completely baring the peeking breast. The sight of her rosy nipple jolted him from his stupor. Clearing his throat and adjusting his breeches, he crossed to the bedside and ran a hand across her flushed face. Her soft skin was hot to the touch and clammy from sweat, despite the chill in the room.

  He rummaged in her satchel until he found the key to the shackles. After freeing himself, he dropped them to the floor and headed for the kitchen to make a fresh batch of willow bark tea. When he returned with the tea, a basin of water mixed with a handful of snow and a clean washcloth, he found she hadn’t moved.

  The first thing he did was tug down her night skirt and strip off the heavy quilt. He covered her lower body with a sheet for modesty and eased the open neck of her nightdress over to hide the exposed breast. She mumbled something and he drew back as if burned, peering closer at her face. He hadn’t meant to offend her. It was then he realized it was simply the fever speaking and she had no notion of his touch.

  He pulled up a chair and dunked the cloth in the cold water, wrung it out, and gently laid it across her forehead. She moaned in response, and he mumbled soft words to sooth her, “Shh, it will make you feel better.” She relaxed and drew a deep raspy breath.

  The rattle in her chest as she breathed worried him. He ran through the list of horse remedies in his head to find something that might help. The little mare he purchased a few years ago had come down with a case of pneumonia when she got caught in a flooded creek. He and his stable master, Reynard, had nursed her day and night for almost a week until they finally eased her breathing and got her back on her feet. They used a mustard plaster Reynard taught him to make. Perhaps it would help in this situation?


  He rewet the now warm cloth from her forehead, wrung it out, and replaced it before heading back to the kitchen. Among the herb pouches hanging from the rafters he found the mustard powder and other ingredients he needed for the plaster, making a mental note to thank the cook upon his return to London for keeping the hunting lodge so well supplied with anything that might be needed.

  He mixed the mustard powder, mint and warm water together in a bowl until it made a thick yellowish green paste. Wrinkling his nose at the pungent odor, he tossed a clean dish drying towel across his shoulder and headed back to the bedchamber.

  Felicity was sprawled as he left her. After refreshing the cloth on her forehead and replacing it he settled down in the chair beside the bed. With trembling fingers he pulled open the neck of her nightdress to expose her entire chest. Viewing her immodest position was unacceptable, but there was naught to be done about it, with no maid to properly attend her. Taking a deep breath, he willed his fingers to steady and then set to work spreading the paste across her chest, between her sumptuous breasts and along her ribcage. When he was finished he wiped his fingers on the cloth, laid it across her torso and then patted it down gently to seal in the healing warmth of the mustard pack.

  Taking the already warm cloth from her head, he frowned at his shaking hand. Why did touching one prone woman make him shake like an untried school boy? Pushing the thought of her womanly virtues from his mind, he focused on bathing her limbs in the cool water to reduce her fever. Each stroke of the wet cloth grew more and more difficult, until with immense relief he dipped it into the cold water one last time and laid it once across her forehead. Disgusted with his own inner lack of decorum, he pulled the sheet up to her neck. Who knew bathing one woman would be so mentally challenging?

  The only thing left to do was try and get some of the willow bark tea into her to help ease the fever more. He poured half a cup, blew on it to be sure it was cool enough and held it to her chapped lips. “Felicity, you must drink.”

  When she sighed he tipped the cup to allow some tea to trickle into her mouth. She coughed and then swallowed. Little by little he managed to get her to drink most of the tea. As he set the cup back on the bedside table, the cat hopped up onto the bed, curled up at Felicity’s feet and began to purr. He patted the sleepy-eyed feline and settled back to keep watch over his patient.

  Chapter Ten

  Was she dreaming, or were birds chirping? Her sluggish mind tripped over the sounds of birds tweeting, the mantle clock above the fireplace ticking, the crackle and pop of wood in the hearth and…someone snoring? She opened her eyes, blinking at the intrusion of light. It took effort to lift her hand and brush the hair and sleep from her eyes. When the obstructions were cleared, she dropped her hand back to the bedcovers and turned her head to the window. A bright blue sky greeted her sleepy gaze. She sat up in surprise. The storm was over! Then she looked down. Her gasp filled the room upon discovery of her nakedness from the waist up. The snoring invaded her shock. Snatching the bed covers around her neck, she looked up.

  The duke sprawled in the chair next to the bed. Head tipped back, eyes closed and arms dangling over the arms of the chair, he slept.

  A horrified screech slipped from her lips

  With a start the duke jolted awake and scrambled from the chair. Wide eyed, he stared at her. “You scared the dickens out of me howling like that.”

  “I am naked!”

  He blinked. “Yes, I suppose you are…um, not completely….”

  In utter disbelief, she stared at him. “You defiled me in my sleep?”

  Two spots of color darkened his tanned cheeks. “No! No, no, no, no. I assure you I did nothing of the sort. You were running a fever—”

  “You ogled me while I lay sick? You cad! Get out!”

  He cleared his throat. “No, I mean, I had to spread the mustard plaster on your chest and—”

  “You touched me? How dare you!” It suddenly dawned on her; if he was in her bed chamber then he had somehow freed himself from his shackles. “You are loose.” She swallowed and looked past him out the open door into the main room. “Are the constables here to arrest me?”

  “No, it is just us here.” He picked up a tea cup from the bedside table. “Here, drink this.”

  Pulling the covers tighter around herself, she glared at him. “Get out of my room.”

  To her utter dismay he stood his ground. “Actually I believe it is my room and not until you drink the tea. It will keep your fever down.”

  To get rid of him, she swallowed when he put the cup of bitter liquid to her lips. When she forced down half the cup, she drew back. “Now get out.”

  With a half-smile he left the room and shut the door behind.

  Felicity scrambled on shaky legs from the bed to her valise to get a fresh dress. How dare he practically undress her in her delirious state? Why, it was highly improper and indecent! Weak limbed she struggled to dress. Why were her limbs so rubbery? Had he drugged her tea to keep her unaware of her surroundings and his every sick-minded whim? In horror she stared at her reflection in the mirror with the dress half donned. Had he defiled her? Was she still virginal? She looked closer at her body. It didn’t look any different, except for the yellow stain on her torso from the mustard plaster. Other than being weak and foggy-brained, she didn’t feel any different. There was certainly no soreness or swelling of her womanhood, as she heard from the girl at her finishing school who was impure, unbeknownst to the instructors.

  Confused and unsettled she finished dressing and then sat on the bed. What was she going to do now? The duke was free; no longer could she control, or ransom him. The tables had turned, and now she was at his mercy. There was no doubt he would send for the constables as soon as possible.

  “Oh Felicity, you have messed it all up again.” She dropped her head to her hands in despair. Why couldn’t she do anything right? The cat sat up from its place at the foot of the bed with a meow. Sighing she stroked its soft fur. “I am such a blunderbuss, Pumpkin. What am I going to do now?”

  The birds’ sing song outside drew her to the window. A layer of white blanketed the ground, sparkling in the sun. There was no other option, but to run while she had a chance. She tossed a few things in her valise, donned a thick velvet walking dress, and snatched up the quit from the bed. There was no way she could risk creating suspicion by retrieving her cloak from the hook, or boots by the kitchen door, so her bedding and slippers would have to suffice to keep the winter chill at bay. Ear to the door she listened. The clink of china and the slosh of water told her the duke was likely washing dishes in the kitchen. She returned to the window. It was a struggle to get the sticky sash up; however she managed with only a small squeak of weathered wood. She tossed her valise out, climbed onto the windowsill, eased her legs out, and dropped to the ground below. Icy snow encased her lower legs making her gasp.

  After closing the window, she picked up her bag and made her way around the side of the lodge. She paused under the back overhang by the woodpile and peered in the kitchen window. The duke hung the towel on a peg by the wash basin, picked up the kettle and turned to the fire. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, she darted through the snow drifts to the barn. Out of breath and shaking with fatigue, she slipped inside. Both horses whinnied when they saw her.

  “Shh, he will hear.” With a grimace at the idea she was talking to naught but a dumb animal, she crossed to Joe’s stall. “You and I are getting out of here.”

  She eyed the two saddles. The pack saddle was the lighter of the two and, since it seemed less complicated to put on, she set down her bag and hoisted the bundle of wood and leather from the divider. It was heavier than she remembered, and she staggered under its weight. By the time she managed to get it up on the horse, her arms where shaking. She only hoped in her weakened state she could manage to get it on the docile beast. After she secured the straps she unclipped the horse and backed him out of the stall. She opened the barn door wider, hooked her valise
on one of the back forks of the saddle, and then stood on an over turned pail and clawed her way aboard.

  Taking a deep breath she took hold of a handful of mane and the rope lead she had fashioned into reins. Leaning forward she kicked Joe as hard as she could. The horse threw up his head and lurched out the door. At first he floundered in the deep snow until he got his footing. Felicity clung to the stirrup-less saddle with every ounce of strength she had. A shout rang out, and she looked over her shoulder as they fled the clearing. The duke bolted out the door. He would be after her; however it would take him time to get saddled, so she would have a head start.

  She returned her attention to staying on the horse just as it came to an especially deep and hard topped drift. Midway through the drift Joe bogged down. When he came to a sudden halt, Felicity was flung forward onto the front forks. Joe half reared and then launched forward to clear himself from his entrapment of snow. With a desperate squeal, she tried to hang on. She slipped sideways. On the second lurch of the horse she lost her grip. Terrified she tucked her head to her chest and landed in the snow. Her ‘umph’ of breath as she hit was matched by the horse as he cleared his predicament and fled back to the barn. Unable to move, or breathe, she lay there spread eagle and closed her eyes at the approach of the duke’s footsteps.

  “Just what in the hell did you think you were doing?”

  She opened her mouth and gasped for breath. The pain in her chest when she inhaled the cold air made her moan.

  “For God sakes, come on.”

  Startled, she opened her eyes as she was lifted from the snowbank.

  With a grunt, William settled her against his chest and waded back to the lodge. “What were you thinking?”

  “You will send the constables for me.” A fit of coughing seized her, cutting off any further explanation. By the time she composed herself, the duke kicked open the lodge door, entered, kicked it shut, and carried her back to her room.