by Jane Feather
Chapter Fourteen
Alasdair awoke with a start. A dreadful sense of foreboding filled his head like tangled cobwebs. He was lying on his belly, one arm flung across Emma’s still form curled against him, the bedcovers tangled around their thighs. Her head was close to his on the pillow. He could hear her deep, regular breathing, feel her breath rustling against his cheek.
He knew someone was in the room before he felt the sharp, deadly prick of the knife on his back. The knowledge came with his first waking breath, while his limbs were still locked in sleep. Then came the knife. He lay rigid as a sharp line was drawn slowly down his spinal column, not breaking the skin … not yet.
“Get up slowly, Lord Alasdair.”
It was the voice of Paul Denis. But that now came as no surprise.
Alasdair pushed himself upright, turning to look at the intruders. In the gray-darkness of night, he could make out three men other than Denis. They had encircled the bed and they all regarded him without expression. Four pistols were aimed at his chest.
There was something familiar about one of the men. Something about the round-shouldered slouch. Of course … the man who’d been watching outside the house on Mount Street … who had climbed into the garden over the side wall.
Emma stirred and muttered, “What’s the matter?” She rolled onto her back, opening her eyes. She gazed, disbelieving, at the figures around the bed, then with an instinctive movement reached down to cover herself with the tangled sheets.
Alasdair laid a hand on her shoulder in what little reassurance he could offer. He was consumed with rage at himself. He had locked the door but now that seemed the most pathetic precaution. A locked door would not keep out these predators. His mind worked furiously. He was one man, and a naked one at that, facing four assassins. His hand slid backward, feeling for the pistol beneath his pillow.
A gun barrel slammed into the side of his head. Emma cried out, a short, sharp sound that was instantly silenced by a pillow pressed against her face.
“For God’s sake, leave her alone,” Alasdair gasped, wiping the blood that trickled into his eye.
“Unfortunately, my business lies with Lady Emma … as well you know, Lord Alasdair,” Denis said smoothly. He nodded to the man who held the pillow over Emma’s face.
Emma gulped in air as the suffocating pressure was removed. She sat up, holding the covers to her throat. “You brute!” she declared, her fear for the moment subsumed in anger at what they’d done to Alasdair. “You unmitigated bastard!”
Paul offered a mocking bow. “Forgive me, but Lord Alasdair made it necessary.” He turned back to Alasdair. “Would you be good enough to get up, please?”
Alasdair stood up, conscious of his nakedness, of his absolute vulnerability. Conscious now of the utterly pitiless eyes of the men he faced.
Paul Denis stepped to Emma’s side of the bed. He bent and in one swift movement picked up the pillow and pressed her back into the mattress with the pillow against her face again. She flailed, fighting for breath, and then realized that she was not being suffocated, she was being silenced. If she lay still, she could breathe.
The dreadful sounds filled the room. They were soft and vile. The sounds of flesh slamming into flesh. From Alasdair came strange, ugly, animal sounds of protest and pain … not loud, more like sighs than cries.
Now Emma kicked and fought, biting the pillow that silenced her and kept her in darkness. She didn’t know what they were doing to Alasdair … but she knew they were hurting him.
And then the sounds stopped.
When they stopped, Luiz, who held Alasdair’s arms at his back, released him. The beaten body slid unconscious to the floor.
Paul raised the pillow from Emma’s face. He held a scarf wadded in his hand and as she opened her mouth on a shriek of outrage, he crammed the wadded material into her mouth.
“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “Unless you want us to take you from here as you stand.”
Emma’s shocked eyes found Alasdair’s crumpled figure on the floor. He was bleeding, his face swollen, his torso darkening with contusions. She retched, her chest and stomach heaving. She gagged violently on the scarf in her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. She made a move to pull out the gag and reeled as Paul hit her hard on the side of the head.
“Get dressed,” he commanded again in the same quiet tones. She was aware now of the eyes of the men on her naked body. They were standing silently around the almost formless shape on the floor, two of them reflectively massaging their knuckles.
Emma stumbled to obey. Under the steady, interested gaze of her audience, she found her riding habit. She scrambled into it, desperate to cover herself, trying not to look at Alasdair because to do so would bring the dreadful nausea again and she couldn’t vomit. She didn’t dare touch the gag again, or even put her hands to her face to wipe away the tears that blocked her nose, poured down her cheeks.
Why did no one hear this horror? How could it be that in an inn full of guests and servants, no one was aware of what was going on in this chamber? But it had all been so quiet, so swift, so mercilessly efficient.
When she was dressed, Paul bound her wrists behind her with a thin leather strap. He bound them tightly and the strap bit into the tender flesh, chafing her wrist bones immediately. He moved her toward the door with a hand in the small of her back.
He bent his head to her ear and said almost pleasantly, “Lord Alasdair is still alive, I believe. He will not remain so if you do anything other than put one foot in front of you until I tell you otherwise. Is that clear?”
Emma nodded her head. She didn’t believe Paul Denis would tell her the truth, but if there was the faintest possibility that Alasdair had not died beneath those savage fists, then she could do nothing but obey her abductor.
They passed along the corridor and down the stairs like spirits through a house of dreamers. There was no sound beyond the ordinary creaking and settling of the old building. Luiz opened a side door that let them out into the street, well away from the stables, where a restless horse or a prowling dog might give the alarm.
They progressed, as silently as before, through the dark streets of the sleeping town. In front of the church, the post chaise with its six horses stood in the charge of a sleepy postilion from the Hare and Hounds.
As if following a rehearsed and well-orchestrated movement, Luiz stepped in front of Emma as Paul stepped forward to speak to the postilion. One of the other men was behind her, and she found herself bundled upward between them into the chaise, thrust into the far corner. The postilion would never have seen her.
Paul paid the postilion, who loped off to his bed, only mildly curious as to why the gent should choose to travel at dead of night. Luiz jumped from the chaise and onto the box. His two assistants sprang into the saddles of the two leading horses. Paul in leisurely fashion entered the chaise.
He sat opposite Emma, regarding her thoughtfully. She returned his stare with a baleful one of her own. Her head was clearing, her terror receding somewhat if she didn’t allow herself to think of Alasdair. She knew what Paul Denis wanted of her. She knew that he would go to any lengths to get it. But could she perhaps persuade him that she didn’t have it? As an option, it didn’t seem promising. But it was the only one she had.
The chaise rattled at breakneck speed out of Stevenage on the London road. Emma had no way of telling which direction they were taking. The blinds were drawn over the windows and she was conscious only of the speed of their progress. The strap binding her wrists was biting deep now, and her hands were beginning to tingle. She tried to spit out the gag, but her mouth was so dry she couldn’t manage to work her tongue loose.
“Don’t worry, Lady Emma,” Paul said, as he saw her struggles. “When it’s time for you to talk, you’ll be able to. And you’ll talk to good purpose. Until then, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll save your breath until you need it.” He smiled, a flicker of his mouth in the gloom, folded his arms, and closed
his eyes.
Jemmy threw down the dice with an exclamation of disgust. “Lord, but you was always a devil wi’ the dice, Sam.”
Sam grinned and reached for his ale pot. “Anyone else?” he invited.
The other men shook their heads. “Nah, I’m about done fer the night.” An ostler got up from the upturned barrel where he was sitting and stretched. “You see that chaise goin’ ’ell fer leather down the main street?”
“No.” Jemmy stood up and followed him to the door of the tack room. “Goin’ which way?”
“Lunnon. Six ‘osses kickin’ up some dust.”
“When?”
“Oh, abaht ‘alf an ’our ago. When I went out for a piss.” He scratched his groin in comfortable recollection. “Not many folks take to the ’ighway at this time o’ night.”
“No,” Jemmy agreed thoughtfully. He turned back to the fusty warmth of the tack room, which smelled of leather, horseflesh, sweat, and ale. “Sam, you reckon the master’d be interested in a chaise goin’ ’ell fer leather to London?”
“At this hour?” Sam drained his ale and swept the handful of coins off the upturned box they’d been using as a table, dropping them into the deep pocket of his britches. “You know ’im better’n me, old lad.”
“Said as ‘ow we’ve to keep our ears an’ eyes on the lookout fer anythin’ unusual,” Jemmy said in the same reflective tone. “Reckon we’d best tell ’im.”
Sam shrugged agreeably. “Don’t take both of us.”
“He might ’ave orders fer us both,” Jemmy said. “Best you come too.” He tugged at the bottom of his jerkin as if preparing himself for the interview. “Come on, then.”
Sam followed him, yawning prodigiously.
They entered the inn by the back door that opened onto the inner courtyard, and crossed the somnolent kitchen. “You know where Lord Alasdair’s lodged?” Sam inquired through another vast yawn.
“Aye,” Jemmy said shortly. He led the way up the back stairs and turned unerringly down the corridor leading to the front of the inn. At Alasdair’s door, he paused, his hand on the latch. Then tentatively he knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again. Still no answer.
“Reckon you’ll be disturbin’ ’is beauty sleep,” Sam offered helpfully.
Jemmy didn’t respond to this obvious fact. He raised the latch and pushed the door open. The chamber was empty, the bed unslept in. Jemmy scratched his head. “I’d swear it was this’un. I was in ‘ere this evenin’ when the master was dressin’ fer dinner. He give me me orders fer the mornin’.”
“Well, he ain’t ’ere now,” Sam declared with another yawn. “I’m fer me bed.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Eh, what was that, then?”
Jemmy had heard it too. A faint moan from the other side of the wall. He stood stock-still, head cocked toward the wall. It came again.
The two men exchanged a look, then with one mind raced from the room to the door to the neighboring chamber. The door was not properly closed and swung open with a slight push.
“Lord-a-mercy!” Jemmy exclaimed, dropping to his knees beside the crumpled figure. “Lord-a-mercy.”
Sam bent over Alasdair, pressing his finger to the carotid artery. “ ‘E’s alive,” he said. “Saints alive! Whoever did this knew what they were adoin’.” He examined Alasdair’s body with a degree almost of respect as one who had had experience of the finer points of beating a man to a pulp.
Jemmy gave a grunt of disgust. He stood up and fetched the jug of water from the washstand. “I ’ates to do it,” he muttered, “but ’e needs to come back.” He dashed the contents of the jug into Alasdair’s face.
Alasdair came to. He turned his head sideways and vomited in agonizing misery, waves of nausea coursing through him as his excruciated body returned to full awareness.
“Eh, sir, easy now.” Jemmy held his head until the sickness receded. “Lie still while we see what the damage is.” He laid his head gently down again.
Alasdair closed his eyes. His mind was a blank; he was aware of nothing but pain. And then gradually memory returned. He groaned in a horror of despair. They had Emma.
“Coupla broken ribs, I’d say.” Sam’s knowledgeable hands were moving over Alasdair’s body. “Collarbone’s all right, though.” He sat back on his heels and pronounced, “Could be worse … aye, could be a lot worse.”
Alasdair tried to find some comfort in this, but looked in vain. For a moment of pure self-indulgence, he wished he were dead, out of this pain, and out of the dread that consumed him.
“We’ll strap up the ribs, sir,” Jemmy offered. “Not much else you can do wi’ ’em.” He spoke with the authority of one who had broken a good few in his career as a jockey. “The bruisin’s summat chronic. Must ’urt like the devil.”
“An understatement, my friend.” Alasdair was astonished that he could produce such a dry response. He tried to sit up and immediately blacked out again.
When he came to, Jemmy was efficiently strapping his ribs with strips of linen torn from the bedsheets. “Sam’s gone to fetch arnica and witch ’azel, sir. ’E says a poultice of mallows’d be best, but he ain’t got any to ’and. We’ll get some from the apothecary when it’s daylight.”
He sat back and examined his handiwork, then slid an arm behind Alasdair’s shoulders. “Let’s see if you can sit up now, sir.”
Alasdair tried to help himself but the strain on his abused stomach muscles made him cry out, and Jemmy took his full weight, heaving him into a sitting position.
The effort exhausted Alasdair and he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged, labored gasps.
“There’s laudanum too,” Sam announced as he came hurrying back into the room with an old leather kit bag. “A good dose o’ that, sir, an’ a good long sleep.” He set the bag down and took out vials of arnica, witch hazel, and laudanum.
“Sam’s somethin’ of an ’orse doctor,” Jemmy informed Alasdair, stepping aside so Sam could go to work.
“Then do what you can,” Alasdair said. “But the laudanum’ll have to wait. Saddle Phoenix and two others from the stables here. They need to be strong and fast.”
“Eh, sir, you’ll not be ridin’!” Jemmy was aghast.
“You seem remarkably uncurious as to why you find me in this miserable condition,” Alasdair observed with a gallant effort at his customary sardonic humor, hoping thus to keep the threatening panic at bay.
“Eh, sir, I ’aven’t ’ad a chance.” Jemmy defended his lack of curiosity with a hurt air. “We was too busy.”
“Yes … yes.” Alasdair raised a placatory hand. “Lady Emma has been abducted.” He closed his eyes again, trying to force away the pain and the dread. If he allowed his desperation to take over, he would lose what little strength and will he had remaining.
“We have very little time to get her back before …” He shook his head. He must not think about what they could be doing to her.
“Eh, mebbe she was in that post chaise, then,” Jemmy said.
Alasdair’s head seemed to clear. His eyes focused properly for the first time. “What post chaise?”
“That’s what we come to tell you, sir.” Jemmy gave his news.
Alasdair listened, feeling the first faint glimmer of hope. If they knew what they were following and which direction to take, they had a chance. Denis would not have expected the beaten man to recover consciousness until the morning. Probably not until he was discovered by an inn servant much later. By which time Denis would be well away, plunged into the dark chaos of London’s underbelly, where Emma could be hidden and disposed of without remark.
“There, sir, that’s the best I can do.” Sam stood up, regarding his patient with concern. “I doubt you’ll be able to sit an ’orse, though.”
“I must. Help me stand up.” Alasdair took a deep breath and gathered his forces. The deep breath sent an agonizing shaft of pain stabbing into his chest.
Jemmy and Sam took his arms and heaved h
im upright. His head spun and the blackness threatened to engulf him again. But he fought it off. Breathing was an agony and he tried to take shallow breaths.
“Sam, go and see to the horses. Jemmy, help me dress.”
“Take a small dose of laudanum, sir,” Jemmy suggested. “Just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to put you out.”
“Aye. Riders do it all the time.” Sam produced his vial. “It’ll ’elp.”
Alasdair decided that the combined advice of an ex-jockey and a man whose face was as battered as a prizefighter’s was worth taking. He swallowed the measured dose Sam handed him.
Even with Jemmy’s assistance, dressing was so painful and such an effort that he wondered how it had ever been so simple and automatic a procedure he had never given it a thought. His head was clearing fast though, the pain becoming a part of him so that it no longer encompassed him and blocked all else from his mind.
“Did you say six horses, Jemmy?” Barely breathing, he eased his jacket over his shoulders.
“Aye, sir. Goin’ like bats outta hell.” Gently, Jemmy drew the sides of the jacket closed over Alasdair’s strapped-up chest.
Alasdair glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It said three o’clock. He calculated rapidly. The chaise had maybe a two-hour start. But they would have to change horses somewhere. Or at least rest them. They certainly couldn’t drive them at racing speed for any length of time. Fast-riding horses would have a chance to overtake them on the turnpike.
Unless they took the byways. But Alasdair dismissed that possibility. A chaise and six would have a hard time on the narrow, rutted lanes across country.
He sat down gingerly on the end of the bed, and Jemmy put his boots on for him. Bending was an impossibility. His eye caught his image in the mirror on the dresser. He was surprised to see that his face was less marked than he’d expected. They had concentrated most of their blows on his ribs, abdomen, and kidneys. Presumably it was where they could do the most damage in the shortest space of time, he reflected grimly. The attack had been utterly without the personal malice that would have led his assailants to disfigure him.
