by Jane Feather
And these men with the same chilling efficiency would soon be working on Emma.
He stood up again. “Bring my pistols, Jemmy. They’re under the pillow.” He walked to the door, every step a supreme effort of will. But now he was infused with a terror-fueled determination that transcended his body’s weakness.
Sam was waiting for them in front of the inn. He led Phoenix to the mounting block used by ladies, and overweight squires after an indulgent evening in the inn’s taproom.
Alasdair managed to heave himself into the saddle, where he slumped for a minute, getting his breath back. It was so hard when he could take only these short, shallow breaths. Then he straightened in the saddle, taking up the reins.
Jemmy fastened the pair of pistols to the saddle. “You and Sam have your own?” Alasdair asked, adding grimly, “You’ll be needing them.”
“Oh, aye,” Sam said. “Pistols and this.” He grinned, and the moonlight caught the flourish of a curved cutlass. “Prefer knives. They’re quieter.”
“Oh, there’s nothin’ like a blunderbuss for creatin’ mayhem,” Jemmy said with his own grin, patting the weapon that was strapped to his own saddle.
Alasdair felt his optimism grow a little at his companions’ apparent enthusiasm for a scrap. He had little doubt that their skill and courage matched their enthusiasm.
“Let’s go.”
They took the London road at a gallop.
Emma had lost the feeling in her hands after the first interminable hour. Her head pounded remorselessly. Her fear grew with every passing moment. Paul Denis sat opposite her, his arms folded, his eyes sometimes closed, but mostly they watched her with all the cold interest of a snake watching the approach of a prey.
He had no reason to keep her in this acute physical discomfort except to soften her up for what was to come. To increase her dreadful anticipation. And it was working. By degrees her determination to resist his questions, to deny all knowledge of Ned’s poem, was being eaten away.
She was not prepared for the moment when Paul leaned forward suddenly and pulled the gag from her mouth. The relief was astounding. But for a moment she still couldn’t speak. It was as if her tongue had lost the power or the memory of movement.
“So, let us talk a little of your brother.”
She stared blankly at him, trying to moisten her parched mouth.
“Would you like water?” he inquired almost solicitously.
Emma nodded.
He bent and brought a leather flask from beneath the seat. He opened it and held it to her lips. She drank greedily, heedless of the water spilling down her chin. He took away the flask long before she’d slaked her thirst, but at least it was better than nothing.
“So?” he said, replacing the stopper. “Your brother. Let us talk a little of Lord Edward Beaumont.”
Emma thought of Alasdair, lying unconscious, beaten and broken. She faced Paul Denis, her eyes flaring in her pale face. “My brother is dead,” she said. “Why would you be interested in him?”
“Oh, I believe you know,” Paul said, leaning back and folding his arms again. “I’m quite certain your lover has told you all there is to know. Why else would you be trying to escape me?”
“Why indeed?” Emma said with scorn. “Whatever makes you think we were trying to escape anyone? We were going into Lincolnshire for the hunting.”
“Oh, come now, don’t try my patience.” He shook his head almost regretfully. “It’s really not in your interests to do so.”
Emma closed her mouth firmly, although her belly was quivering with dread. She didn’t think she’d ever met anyone as intrinsically terrifying as Paul Denis. She couldn’t understand why she hadn’t noticed it before. But she had, deep down. She’d been aware of that predatory aspect to his nature. She’d been aware of his air of being perpetually poised to strike. And God help her, there had been a time when she’d found it attractive.
“I can’t feel my hands,” she said.
“A pity.” He shrugged. Then he moved abruptly, leaning forward, seizing her jacket at the throat, jerking her upright so that her face was very close to his. “You received a communication from your brother after his death. What did it say?”
His breath was hot and slightly sour. His black eyes were pinpricks of menace. Emma tried to pull away. His hand tightened and his knuckles pressed against the pulse in her throat.
“His last letter was full of instructions about the estate,” she said, trying to turn her head aside. “I can’t remember all the details. Why would they interest you?”
“Your brother was a spy, and a courier, and a master encoder,” Paul stated, articulating each word so that they were spat at her.
“Was he?” She made her voice careless. “I didn’t know.”
He pushed her from him with a vicious movement, and she fell back onto the seat in a heap, unable to help herself with her hands.
He leaned forward, grabbing her face, pressing his fingers into her cheeks so that tears started in her eyes. He forced open her mouth and shoved the wadded scarf inside. Then, his face wiped clear of all expression, he lifted the blind at the window and leaned out. “Luiz!”
“Aye, Paolo?” Luiz slowed his horses and leaned down from the box.
“Find a place to turn off. I want a secluded field. No houses in sight. Nothing within earshot,” he said in a short staccato burst of instruction.
Emma began to tremble deep inside. Her skin was cold and clammy. She looked at him fearfully.
“We might as well start our little discourse now,” he said in conversational tones. “I had hoped you’d prove to be a little more sensible. A little more accommodating. But, no matter.” He shrugged. “It’s all the same to me how I get what I want.”
The carriage swung abruptly to the right. The iron wheels thudded along a deeply rutted track. He had left the blind up at the window, and Emma saw the dark bulk of the hedge, so close to the side of the carriage that it brushed the varnish with a lonely scraping sound. They must be on a very narrow cart track.
“This’ll do,” Luiz called down, as he reined in the horses. “No one for miles around that I can see.”
Paul opened the door and jumped down. It was bright moonlight, a crisp, cold night. He looked along the dark track, then jumped over a narrow ditch into a stubble field where a stand of poplars served as a windbreak. There was no sign of habitation.
“Bring the woman.”
Luiz hauled Emma out of the chaise. She stumbled to her knees as she half fell from the high step. He yanked her up and propelled her across the ditch and into the field.
“I’ll be taking care of the horses,” he said to Paolo. “You don’t need me for this business.”
His discomfort was apparent and Emma had a faint flicker of hope that maybe he would come to her aid. But it died immediately when he turned and stomped out of the field, and the two thugs who’d been riding the horses crossed the ditch and came over to them.
“Light a fire,” Paul instructed. “Over by those trees.”
No one seemed to be taking any notice of her. Emma looked around. Could she make a run for it? But even as she assessed the hopeless prospect, Paul swung back to her. “Get over by the trees.” He prodded her in the small of her back, pushing her forward.
She stumbled over the hard-packed stubble to the stand of trees, where the two men were busy gathering kindling and bigger branches. Why was he lighting a fire? Because he was cold? Because he liked to be comfortable when interrogating his victims?
Numbly she watched the kindling catch, and then the bigger branches. Smoke curled, a flame shot up.
“Put her down.” Paul’s instruction came out of the night like a pistol shot. The two men caught Emma and forced her to the ground beside the fire; one of them held her shoulders against the ground; the other unlaced her boots.
And then she understood. She could feel the heat of the fire on her bare feet. Horror filled her.
“Your brother’s l
ast letter to you,” Paul said kneeling beside her. “Let’s see how much you can remember, shall we?”
Chapter Fifteen
“Looks like they were goin’ quite a clip,” Jemmy observed, examining the tracks of the chaise and its six horses. “Them ’osses are beginin’ to tire about ’ere. What d’ye think, Sam?”
Sam dismounted for a closer look. “Aye,” he agreed. “The leaders’re pullin’ to the left.”
“Well, let’s get on.” Alasdair was impatient with this and yet he knew it was necessary. If the chaise left the turnpike at any point and they weren’t watching for it, they could overshoot it. Neither did he want to come thundering down upon them. They were outnumbered already, and he’d be no good in his present condition in hand-to-hand combat. Stealth and surprise were his only advantage.
They rode on under the moonlight. Jemmy and Sam knew how to get the best out of their mounts, and their horses fairly skimmed the ground. Phoenix matched them easily. But Alasdair knew that they had to make up a two-hour start.
The laudanum had dulled his pain and it existed now on the periphery of his awareness, waiting in the wings. His mind was clear, examining and discarding options. Should they spring their attack on the road or wait until they reached London? An ambush would be the best chance, but they’d have to get ahead of the chaise for that. Once it was daylight, opportunities would be fewer.
Finchley Common. An ambush on the heath. There were any number of suitable places there. If they could get there first, they could lie in wait.
“Eh, they’ve gone off ’ere.”
Sam’s hissing whisper snapped against his absorption, and he looked up.
“See.” Sam gestured to the ground with his whip. “They’ve turned the chaise right ’ere. Gone off down that cart track.”
“Bleedin’ stupid thing to do,” Jemmy opined. “It ain’t ’ardly wide enough for a gig.”
“Why?” Alasdair said, staring around. He thought he could detect the faintest lightening of the eastern sky. The false dawn. Did Denis have a hideout somewhere around? Was he not taking Emma to London after all?
But the questions were pointless. He swung Phoenix onto the path. “No sound now,” he murmured. “They may be close.”
They followed the tracks in the mud until the lane curved around. Alasdair drew rein and beckoned to Sam to come up beside him on the narrow path. “Dismount and take a look,” he mouthed, the words little more than a soft rustle in the cold air.
Sam swung down and moved into the deep shadows of the overgrown hedge. He crept around the corner.
Alasdair waited, his heart in his mouth, hideous dread clutching at his soul. Was he too late?
Sam was gone for what seemed an eternity, during which Alasdair became aware of every bruise on his body. The laudanum was wearing off and the effects of his two hours on horseback became screamingly evident.
When Sam materialized out of the shadows of the hedge, Alasdair controlled the impulse to yell at him. “Well?” he whispered.
“They’ve stopped about a hundred yards down the track. One man’s left in charge of the ’osses. T’others are in a field. They’ve lit a fire.” He looked up at Alasdair, still on his horse. “Reckon they’re attendin’ to Lady Emma by the fire,” he said steadily.
Alasdair’s already white face was ghastly, the moonlight giving it a greenish, waxen tinge. But his brain was now as cold and deadly as a rapier. If they were working on her, they hadn’t killed her. That was all he needed to think about.
“Sam, can you take the man with the horses? Silently!”
“Aye, reckon so.” Sam fingered the cutlass at his belt.
Alasdair dismounted stiffly, but he no longer felt pain. His body moved as his brain directed, ignoring every other signal.
Jemmy dismounted beside him and swiftly tethered the three horses.
“Go now, then. Take the man and release the horses from the traces,” Alasdair instructed Sam. “We’ll give you ten minutes before we make our own move.”
Ten minutes! He would not think what they could do to Emma in ten minutes. “Jemmy and I will approach across the field here. We need to make it seem that we’re many more than we are. When you hear Jemmy’s blunderbuss, you drive the horses at the men in the field. I want chaos. You understand me?”
Both men nodded immediately. Jemmy reached up for his blunderbuss. It was primed with lead shot that would spew forth in a wide scattering arc of destruction.
Alasdair took his pistols. He would have one shot with each. They would have to count. And Paul Denis would have one of them.
Emma was sweating. The ground she lay on was hard, frozen mud, but her body was bathed in sweat. The fire’s heat was intense and the soles of her feet, although not yet burned, seemed to curl and shrivel in dreadful anticipation.
Paul Denis had pulled the gag from her mouth and now he was talking quietly to her. She could feel hands banding her ankles. As he spoke they pulled her shrinking feet closer to the heat. She wanted to tell him what he wanted, but something, some deep, stubborn cell of pride, would not let her.
She thought of Ned. She thought of Alasdair. She let her mind drift back to childhood. To all the things they had done together. She thought she could hear Ned’s rich laugh, Alasdair’s teasing voice. They were in the summer fields, following the haymakers. She could hear the steady swing of the scythes, the swish of the flails. She could taste strawberries on her tongue.
She screamed.
Alasdair heard the scream. He heard it on some distant plane. He continued to move around the field, clinging to the hedge, Jemmy just behind him. The flames of the fire lit the scene. The three crouched figures around one on the ground. He judged the distance carefully. They would have to be close enough for the blunderbuss to do damage as they charged, but not so close that they would be detected before they were ready.
His pistols were in his hands. His body was moving as fluidly as water now. It didn’t seem to belong to him, but that didn’t matter. He backed up against the hedge when he could see the outline of the chaise on the track through the bare branches. Then he nodded to Jemmy.
Jemmy leaped from the shadows with a great skirling yell of triumph. He ran forward a few paces before he fired the blunderbuss. Alasdair was just behind him, his pistols ready as he searched for his target.
Sam fired a pistol from beyond the hedge, and the entire team of horses plunged across the ditch and into the field, driven by Sam, cracking his whip. The horses raced toward the fire before they realized what it was, then they reared back, nostrils flaring at the smell of smoke, the heat of the flames. Sam whipped at them and they careened forward again, rearing, hooves flailing.
The men at the fire leaped to their feet, trying to get out of the way of the flailing hooves. The shot from Jemmy’s blunderbuss swept through them.
Alasdair raised his pistol and sighted. Paul Denis stood outlined against the flames. Alasdair squeezed the trigger. Paul fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder.
Sam’s pistol sounded as he waded into the fray. He cast aside the gun and his cutlass flashed. He was grinning with the sheer joy of the fight as he slashed to left and right.
Paul’s men struggled to recover themselves but it was too late. One of them managed to get off a shot from his pistol, but it flew harmlessly across the field to bury itself in the trunk of a poplar. Sam’s cutlass slashed across his arm, immobilizing him. The other fell beneath a blow from Jemmy’s cudgel, kept in reserve.
Emma had tried to roll herself clear of both the fire and the rampaging horses. But with her hands still bound at her back, pressed to the ground beneath her body, she could get no leverage. She curled herself into a ball and held her breath.
Then suddenly there was silence. A great calm seemed to settle over them. Emma wrists were suddenly freed. She still couldn’t feel her hands, but a great wash of relief flooded her.
Alasdair bent over her. He tried to lift her but couldn’t, and it was Sam who
hoisted her into his arms. “Eh, you all right, lass?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.
“Just about,” she said, looking at Alasdair in wonder and disbelief. “I was so afraid they’d killed you.”
He shook his head in swift dismissal and took her feet in his hands. He swore a vile oath as he saw the blisters. He turned to Paul Denis, who had staggered to his feet, his hand pressed to his shoulder. Blood welled from between his fingers.
“I owe you a few minutes of my time,” Alasdair said quietly. Without taking his eyes off Denis, he gestured to Jemmy.
Jemmy, in immediate comprehension, without a word handed him the long coachman’s whip.
Alasdair curled his fingers around the smooth wooden handle. Still without looking away from Denis, he instructed evenly, “Sam, take Emma to the chaise, and Jemmy, get the horses back in the traces. Give me five minutes with this scum and then both come back and help me secure them.”
“Right y’are.” Sam nodded cheerfully and set off with his burden back to the lane.
Jemmy looked a little doubtful. Lord Alasdair was still in bad shape, and he didn’t like the idea of leaving him with three men, even though they were all handicapped. But Lord Alasdair’s expression was such that the tiger could almost find it in him to feel sorry for the three men. With a short nod, he went off to round up the horses.
It seemed to take Emma a long time to realize that the nightmare was over. Sam carried her with as much ease as if she were a featherweight, his brawny arms cradling her with comforting strength. She was as cold now as she’d been hot before, shivers coursing through her, her teeth chattering.
“It’s the shock, lass,” Sam said as he lifted her into the chaise. “’As that effect on a body. I’ll fetch ye summat for it.”
He disappeared for a minute or two, during which she could hear Jemmy talking to the horses, calming them as he put them back in the traces. Emma thought she ought to get out and help him. But when she set her feet to the floor of the chaise, the pain was so intense she fell back with an involuntary cry. Vaguely she wondered what had happened to the fourth man, the one called Luiz who had been driving the chaise.
