Montford thought about strangling the man, but then he glanced down and cringed. He looked about as ducal as the innkeeper, in his soiled lawnshirt and bloodied breeches.
“I’ll not be givin’ ye nothing, gov. Not without proper coin,” the man stated.
Montford stalked back to the wagon and pulled out his ruined jacket. He pulled his cravat pin out of his lapel and stuck it under the innkeeper’s nose.
“Aye, an wot am I to do with that, gov?” he sneered. “Don’t look real to me.”
“Bloody hell, you idiot! It’s a ruby! It could purchase your inn ten times over.”
“That’s wot ye’d like me to believe. It’s paste.”
Montford growled at the man, frozen with impotence.
“Sir …” Charlie whispered from the floorboard, “The ale.”
Montford groaned. “We’ve no time for that, Charlie.” Good God, the man was at death’s door, and all he could think about was ale? What was wrong with everyone?
Charlie fainted again.
The innkeeper studied Charlie for a moment, then glanced towards the back of the wagon. “Ale, you say?” The innkeeper crept to the back of the wagon and lifted the awning. He whistled in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say you had ale before?”
Montford threw up his hands in defeat. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I have a man bleeding to death beside me!”
The innkeeper scowled at him. “I’ll take the ale as payment.”
Montford would have sighed in relief if he weren’t so irritated. “Fine. Take the bloody ale. But I want your fastest horse.”
The innkeeper nodded and began to hurry around the side of the building.
“And a pistol,” Montford added. The innkeeper stumbled and looked over his shoulder in horror. “Two. Make that two pistols. Loaded.”
The innkeeper disappeared without responding, shaking his head.
Montford leaned over the wagon and slapped Charlie’s cheek. The man stirred back to consciousness and stared at him through bleary eyes. “You must – hurry, fast as you can – North. Scotland – Black coach –”
Montford recalled the giant conveyance that had passed by him earlier, and his heart sank. How would he ever catch up with that?
Just then, the innkeeper appeared around the corner, leading a brown gelding by the reins. Montford investigated the animal briefly and let out a heavy sigh. “Is this the best you can do?” he bit out.
The innkeeper looked offended. “He’s a goer, that’s for sure.”
“He’d better be, for if he turns up lame, I’ll come back here and personally run you through,” he bit out. The innkeeper paled. “Now, where are the pistols?”
“You’re serious?”
“Quite. Serious.” Montford paused. “Please,” he added. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Clearly,” the innkeeper said, pulling a pair of rusty looking antiques out of his waistband and handing them over.
Montford checked them and shook his head in disgust at their poor quality, but thrust them into his breeches anyway. He pulled himself up onto the gelding, his tired legs protesting quite vehemently. He looked down at the innkeeper. “Did you see a black coach come through here?”
The innkeeper nodded. “’Bout an hour past. Tearing hell for leather northwards.”
Montford spurred his mount towards the street. He’d gone a few yards when he heard someone yelling behind him. He reined in and turned towards the innkeeper, who stood in the road, gesturing frantically. “What?” he roared, at the end of his tether.
The innkeeper pointed in the opposite direction Montford had been heading. “North’s that way, gov.”
It was hardly an auspicious start to a heroic rescue.
Chapter Twenty
IN WHICH THE VILLAIN BEHAVES IN A MOST DASTARDLY MANNER
FOR ALL that it was the worst thing to ever happen to her, being abducted was a bore. Of course she was scared. One would have to be remarkably dull-witted or foolish not to be. But ever since she’d watched Charlie fall from the wagon, bleeding, perhaps already dead, her mind seemed to dislodge from her body, floating somewhere near the carriage ceiling. She knew what was happening, and she knew she was in grave danger – she knew as well with a sort of detached clarity that she had little hope of rescue – yet she felt numb.
She must have been in shock.
Of course, she was not insensible – at least physically speaking. Her hands were tingling from having her wrists bound so tightly. The entire right side of her body, upon which she lay on the floor of the carriage at a suprememly awkward angle, felt black and blue from having been jostled by the rough road. And she felt a very pressing need to relieve herself – very pressing. She’d just finished off an entire flask of water right before she was abducted.
She’d never been so uncomfortable in her whole life.
Nor so bored. One would think that when one was abducted by gunpoint, one might be guaranteed a sustained progression of dramatic events and heart-stopping peril. One would think, at the very least, one’s abductor might do one the courtesy of explaining himself more thoroughly, or make a few menacing threats. But all Lightfoot had done was chuckle to himself, poke her with his boot a few times, then nod off. It was rather anticlimactic.
They’d been traveling for hours, and Lightfoot had snored through most of it. His snoring was the most god-awful sound she’d ever heard. It reminded her of how Montford had sounded when casting up his accounts. It went on and on, as inexorable as the squeal of the carriage wheels turning beneath her. If she’d not been bound up tighter than a Christmas goose, she’d have whacked him over the head.
She was irritated. And bored. And very uncomfortable. She knew that she was not dreaming this because she felt these things, and she knew as well that she probably should be more frightened than she was. But what use was there in that?
Astrid was too practical to spend her time crying herself into a stupor. She needed to preserve her energy to fight Lightwood – and she planned on putting up quite a fight. She’d never willingly marry him, and if he thought to coerce her into a union by taking her against her will, then he was in for a dreadful surprise.
She was convinced more than ever of Lightfoot’s insanity in light of his less than brilliant plan. Would he hold a gun to her head and make her swear her marriage vows? What official, even one of the so-called anvil priests in Gretna Green, would sanction that?
Besides, if it came to that, a choice to marry him or die, she’d choose death. He obviously didn’t know her at all if he thought she wouldn’t call his bluff. And she knew beyond a doubt she would rather die first than submit to Lightfoot’s wickedness. Let him kill her, if he thought that would get him what he wanted.
She thought of those she had left behind and was distantly aware of the crushing pain in her heart. She would not see them again. Yet she knew they would not suffer – they would mourn her and miss her, but they did not need her for their own survival. The past week had taught her that.
Lying bound and helpless in a coach of a madman, she suddenly saw her life with true clarity, and realized her folly. All these years she thought they needed her, when the truth was she was the one who needed them. She was hanging on to the Hall, the brewery, and her sisters, not because it was in their best interest, but because it was what she wanted. She was so terrified at the idea of change, of relinquishing control over the estate, that she had lost sight of her true goal: doing what was best for her family.
Somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of herself as well, and she’d blinded herself to truly seeing other people. She had thought she knew so much better than everyone else. She had thought she could control the actions of others, even Montford’s. Clearly, her current predicament was a testimony to how wrong she had been. She’d known Lightfoot was a villain and a bit barmy, but she never would have guessed him to be capable of such a scurrilous plot.
This was not how she had expected her life to turn out.
Hours seemed to mount to days, and onwards they drove. She was aware of the sun shifting in the sky, from east to west, and of the shadows in the coach lengthening. She tried to change positions. Her right side was completely without feeling, and she no longer had the use of her hands, much good they’d do her pinned at her back anyway. She managed to sit up against the seat. Painful needles pricked down her side as feeling returned to it.
Her need to relieve herself was quite dire now. She could no longer put it off. She kicked out her legs and managed to connect with Lightfoot’s boot.
He stirred awake with a snort. He glanced down at her, as if startled to find her there. Then his lips curled into an evil leer. He leaned forward, until his face was inches from her own, and pulled down the handkerchief binding her mouth. She jerked back and tried not to breathe. His breath stank of onions.
“Hello, my dear,” he said.
“I need to urinate,” she said bluntly.
His brow crinkled, his leer slipped.
“I said, I need to urinate,” she repeated. “It is quite urgent. Unless you wish for me to relieve myself here in the carriage.”
He looked disgusted. Clearly he’d not thought about such an inevitability. After a moment’s hesitation, he pounded on the roof of the coach and called out to the driver.
They stopped, and Lightfoot stepped from the carriage. She scooted herself towards the door. It was dusk, and a light rain was falling. Lightfoot and the giant henchman stared at her, uncertain how to proceed.
“You shall have to untie my legs,” she said calmly.
Lightfoot growled and did as she suggested. She stepped out of the carriage – or rather fell. Her legs did not seem to be working properly after their confinement. Lightfoot seized her under one arm, the giant by the other, and tugged her into the bushes beside the road.
“Shall you untie my hands, or are you to stand over me the entire time?” she demanded.
The two men glanced at each other, at a loss, but then the giant grudgingly untied the ropes at her wrists.
She nearly cried out as the blood rushed back into her hands in a painful surge.
They retreated a few paces.
“Am I expected to go while you watch me?”
Lightfoot’s face darkened. “Don’t try to run away,” he growled.
After a few moments, the men retreated to the road. Satisfied, Astrid hiked up her skirts and squatted.
A short time later, she felt significantly better, at least in one regard. She glanced around her, but she could see nothing but the dimly lit road and dark forest behind her. Nothing was familiar. She judged they were near Cumbria, if not already in that domain. She thought about simply taking off, but they were miles from anywhere, and she could see the giant eyeing her over the bushes. She’d not get far.
Lightfoot returned to her side and hauled her back towards the coach, forestalling any further notions of escape. She was tied up again and shoved into the interior of the coach. This time, she managed to pull herself onto the seat facing Lightfoot as the coach resumed its fast clip down the highway.
Lightfoot stared at her in silence for some time. She faced forwards, refusing to look at him.
“Shall we travel through the night, then?” she asked.
“We shall stop soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a bed for the night,” he said.
A prickling of apprehension went through her. The implication of his words was clear, and it was nothing she had not expected. Yet even so, her pending doom felt significantly more real, now that words had been spoken. Perhaps he would tie her down, and there would be no hope of fighting him. She had thought at least to be given that much of a chance, but perhaps that had been foolish of her.
She had never expected to be ruined, willing or otherwise. She’d never even thought to marry until this past week, when she had been shown she had no choice. She’d certainly never thought about lying with a man – until the Duke had come along and stirred up a whole host of new and unsettling feelings inside of her.
With a strange sense of detachment, as if viewing someone else’s life, she thought of that night in the drawing room, when Montford had nearly succeeded in seducing her. She’d been quite willing – at least her body had been. Even her mind had been strangely compelled. She remembered thinking that she didn’t want him to stop. Even when he had stopped, she hadn’t wanted him to.
Her detachment slipped. Feeling surged through her, hot and urgent, and filled with poignant sorrow. If only he hadn’t stopped. At least she’d have that memory now. At least she’d have known what it would have been like when there was passion. Even if afterwards she had been filled with regret and self-loathing, it wouldn’t have mattered.
Now she’d never know. She’d never see the Duke again.
For the first time, tears pricked her eyes. And to think Montford was the cause of them! Not her sisters, not even what lay in store for her this night. She would never see Montford again, or touch him, or smell him, or harangue him, and her heart wanted to wither and die. She remembered his last words quite clearly. I hope I never see you again, screamed at her back. Well, his wish had certainly come to pass.
She wondered if he’d truly meant it.
Of course he had.
He was probably at Rylestone by now, perhaps even on the road back to London. She held out no false hope that he’d come for her, or even that he’d heard her scream.
When he heard of her fate, he’d probably be relieved, or at least filled with satisfaction. He’d probably think she’d brought this upon herself, that it was nothing less than she deserved for behaving so outrageously.
He’d probably be right.
“Vile coward,” she bit out at Lightfoot, her patience with her captivity expired. “Too afraid of what I might do to you without tying me up. You know that if my hands were free, I’d pluck out your eyes and shove them down your throat.”
He laughed again, sounding more pleased than worried. He reached for her, and something inside of her snapped. She lashed out with her legs, catching her bootheels in his gut.
He doubled over with pain, then glared at her with glinting coal black eyes. “You little bitch,” he breathed, moving towards her. She kicked him again and caught him on the shin. He howled in pain and brought up his hand to strike her.
She threw herself against the window to avoid the blow, and the coach jolted over something in the road, throwing off his aim. He struck her on the shoulder instead of the face, but it hurt. A lot.
“Pig. You’ll have to kill me before I’ll marry you,” she spat.
Lightfoot too seemed to have lost his patience. He grabbed her by the legs and shoved her back on the seat. She struggled against him as he began to tear at her clothes. Her vision swam, her head felt as if it were on fire. She turned her face away as he attempted to kiss her, pressing it up against the glass on the window, gasping for air. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker of movement on the road outside the window. A rider.
A giddy, ridiculous hope rose up inside of her as she watched the rider approach. He was coat-less and riding at a furious pace. She could not quite make out his features, but something about the shape of him, the slope of his broad shoulders, was familiar.
She wanted to cry out with joy, she wanted to cry out with terror. It was Montford. She would have known him at a thousand paces. He’d come to rescue her. But her hope was tempered by the very slim chance of his success.
He’d die, the fool.
Astrid turned away from the window. She needed to make this easier for Montford. She spotted a pistol tucked under the opposite seat and kicked out with her foot, knocking it into the farthest corner. But then Lightfoot gripped her by the arms, pulling her beneath him, and jerked her skirts up her legs, intent on his task.
She bit his arm as hard as she could, and he howled in disbelief.
Then a gunshot exploded outside the coach, and Astrid’s heart surged with hope. Montford was not
such a fool after all, if he’d come armed.
Lightfoot raised himself off of her and peered out the window. He swore under his breath and moved to retrieve his pistol.
Astrid threw herself against Lightfoot, knocking him against the seat. But in the process, she jarred her head against the squabs, sending such an acute pain lancing through her skull that she dropped to her knees. She tried to focus, but saw nothing but shining stars twinkling before her eyes. She was aware of angry shouts beyond the coach window, and Lightfoot’s furious oaths. The carriage jerked abruptly right, then left, sending Astrid flailing wildly from side to side. She braced her feet against the opposite seat for purchase and tried to shake the stars out of her eyes.
Her vision cleared, and what she saw sent a chill down into the very depths of her soul. Lightfoot had jerked the left window open and was leaning out, cursing profusely and aiming his pistol in the direction of Montford, who was trying frantically to control his horse a few paces off.
Astrid shrieked in terror. The carriage was listing wildly, impairing Lightfoot’s attempt to aim the gun. But if he succeeded in his intent, Montford was done for. She gathered what was left of her wits and threw herself forward, hoping she was not too late. But Lightfoot shot his pistol before she could reach him.
Montford’s horse bucked in response to the shot, unseating the Duke. But he was not thrown entirely. His foot was caught in a stirrup. The horse shot forward, dragging Montford along the dusty road. Astrid cried out in dismay, just as Lightfoot smashed his fist into her cheek, sending her into a gray void of unconsciousness once more.
Chapter Twenty One
IN WHICH THE HERO MOUNTS A DARING RESCUE ALONG THE NORTH ROAD
MONTFORD MANAGED to pull his recalcitrant horse alongside the coach long enough to wave his pistol at the driver. He was a huge beast of a man, with a scarred face and not a hint of fear in his dark eyes. He snarled and whipped his team into a sprint.
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