by Isobel Carr
Devere waved his cup high, and the landlord’s daughter appeared scant seconds later with a pot of steaming coffee. He heaped lump after lump of sugar into his cup until Gareth nearly gagged at the thought of drinking it.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Devere asked. “You’ll be back for our cricket match, won’t you?”
“Cricket’s a sacred trust, especially when it’s us versus the chuffs from Eton. Even my father wouldn’t seek to prevent my returning for that.” Gareth grinned and topped off his own cup.
“Bloody Etonians.” Devere blew on his coffee, steam curling up and obscuring his eyes for a moment. “It’s Harrow forever, and we’ll show them this year as we have for the past ten.”
“Now, now,” a deep voice scolded from the door, and Anthony Thane crossed to join them. “League first; school second.”
Gareth watched as the largest of his friends settled onto a chair that appeared far too small to hold him. Thane was certainly tall enough to be in the running for Beau’s hand, but like himself, Thane was hobbled by his status as a second son. That and his position as an MP.
If Thane ever did marry, it would be to someone who could be a brilliant political hostess, not to a girl who preferred hunts to the balls that followed them and hobnobbing with dusty squires to playing games of political intrigue with the king’s courtiers.
“League first, now and always,” Devere agreed. “But all such bets are off when it comes to cricket. You shall be on one side, and we shall be on the other.”
Thane chuckled, showing an expanse of teeth that seemed almost predatory. “Enemies on the field; friends off it. You should be aware that we have a new man. A bowler of unusual skill. Crawley’s youngest brother. He’s seventeen and preparing to take orders. But for now”—his smile grew—“he’s all ours.”
Devere grinned in return. “I wish you luck with your Crawleys, but I doubt one green boy will make the difference.”
Thane nodded sagely, but a confident smile lurked in the corner of his mouth. “We shall see. Our luck has to turn eventually.”
Gareth sipped his coffee, letting the bitter liquid linger on his tongue, and settled in to watch his friends bicker. It was likely to be the last amusing conversation in his life for several weeks, knowing Souttar.
Beau stepped out of the circulating library on Pall Mall and was nearly bowled over by a mob of running boys. Curses flew between them as they dodged around her in a swirling mass. The ball they were kicking bounced off the window of a passing carriage, earning them a rebuke from the driver, who pulled to, the axles groaning in protest at the sudden change in speed.
“My lady?” Beau’s footman eyed the roving pack of boys with distrust.
“I’m fine, Boaz. Just apprentices on the loose.”
“Yes, my lady.” As he spoke, his eyes widened, and he dropped the carefully wrapped stack of books that he was carrying and lunged for her.
Hands grabbed her from behind, dragging her into the stopped coach. Boaz was shouting furiously; she could hear him even after the door shut behind her. He hit the side of the coach hard enough to rock it, but the coach rolled into motion all the same, leaving him and his tirade behind.
Beau flailed, hands fisted, feet lashing out. Her foot connected with some part of her abductor. He yelped, and then she was being crushed into the seat, the man’s weight bearing down on her. Further struggle became impossible. Futile.
Musk flooded her nostrils, the man’s cologne so strong that it choked her. Nowlin. Her eyes watered, and she held her breath, trying to clear her head. This close, inside the small coach, the scent was overwhelming.
“Get. Off. Me.” Beau lay still, heart beating madly, as though it might claw its way out of her chest. The seat creaked and sagged as Nowlin finally clambered off her.
“Oh, my darling, tell me I’ve not hurt you.”
Beau clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. His Irish lilt didn’t make his preposterous blandishments one jot less ridiculous. Her pulse dropped so suddenly she felt dizzy. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark interior of the coach. He sat poised near the door, a patently false smile lifting the corner of his lips.
“Mr. Nowlin. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? We’re eloping, my sweet love.”
Beau’s throat tightened. She’d been abducted before. Her fortune almost guaranteed such rough-and-ready attempts to acquire it, and she seemed cursed to inspire acts of deluded romance. But neither of the men who’d attempted to gain her hand and dowry had been a mere acquaintance as this one was. “Mr. Nowlin.” She laced her voice with steel, doing her best impression of her father. “Stop this coach and put me down at once.”
“Can’t do that.” His smile grew, cocking up on one side. “Can’t, my sweet love. We must make haste.”
“Do stop calling me that. You sound like a moonling.” She struggled with her hat, which seemed to have been irrevocably crushed and was now drooping over her eyes.
A hearty laugh answered her, and she felt the first flush of real concern. She freed the ribbon that held her hat and stared down at the broken circle of straw.
Her father and brothers would catch them long before they reached Scotland—of that she had no doubt—but she’d been warned not to get herself into any more scrapes. A wave of panic radiated through her limbs.
Her brother had suggested that perhaps they should have left her to Granby. But this was entirely different. Granby had admittedly been one of her flirts. One of her favorites. A man who might, in his wildest imaginations, have convinced himself that she would welcome his advances, even if her father wouldn’t. Nowlin was very nearly a stranger. She’d only ever danced with him the once, for heaven’s sake.
Leo couldn’t be so cruel. He wouldn’t. She forced herself to breathe and watched Nowlin for any hint that he might be creeping toward her. If he touched her, she couldn’t possibly be held responsible for what she might do.
Her stomach threatened to turn itself inside out as he turned to look at her, but her glare kept him pinned firmly in place. He didn’t look like a man inflamed by love—or even lust—and there was something grim about his eyes. Something serious that belied his smile.
Beau swallowed and hunched into the corner, refusing to give in. Panic and terror wouldn’t serve her at all. At some point, they’d have to stop. They’d have to change horses, and he’d have to let her out of the coach. It was six days or more to Scotland. She simply had to be ready to seize whatever opportunity for escape presented itself. She’d done it before, and she could do it again.
When they stopped for the first change, Nowlin sat with his foot propped up on the opposite seat and his leg pressed hard against the door, barring the only exit. At the sound of a knock, he dropped the window. A cool breeze, promising rain, washed over her. Beau found herself inhaling deeply, as though there’d been not enough air inside the coach.
Nowlin took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from his servant and shut the window up with a loud bang the moment that the coachman’s hand disappeared. Beau sagged back into the squabs. Tension drained out of her. This stop offered her nothing, no chance of escape, no opportunity to bolt.
Once the coach was back in motion, Nowlin unwrapped the paper and offered her a small loaf of brown bread and a chunk of grayish cheese. Beau took the bread and gnawed on it in silence, shuddering at the thought of even touching the cheese. The stench alone was enough to set her stomach roiling.
Her abductor shrugged one elegantly clad shoulder. “There’s scant time for hot meals taken in taprooms, so you’d best learn to make do. No? Have it your way.” He ate her portion in two healthy bites and washed it all down with the contents of his flask.
Beau methodically chewed the leathery crust of the bread. She was certainly hungry, but not hungry enough to eat that cheese. Not yet, anyway. A few more missed meals and she might be regretting her choice.
A few miles on Nowlin tapped the roof and
the carriage rolled to a halt. He flicked his gaze over her and climbed out. The scrape and a thunk told her that he’d latched the door shut from the outside. Beau eyed the small window in the door. If she took off the pads that held out her petticoats, she might be able to squeeze through… but her bright, floral jacket would be all too visible if she was forced to run. She might as well be waving a flag.
Beau peeled off her gloves and took her purse from her pocket. She hurriedly counted the coins. Nearly a pound. Plenty of pocket money for an afternoon’s shopping, but not nearly enough to get her home even if she could somehow manage to slip away from Nowlin.
Beau cursed under her breath and shoved the purse back into her pocket. Even with her brothers both out of town and her father likely ensconced at his club, the wheels of her rescue must already be in motion. Boaz would have seen to it.
Leo might have threatened to leave her to her fate in a fit of anger, but surely he wouldn’t actually do so. Beau worried the seam of her glove with her teeth. No, even if Leo wouldn’t come for her, her father would.
Of that she was sure.
Shadows lengthened as they rolled swiftly northward. Shivering, Beau rummaged through the small storage spaces under the seats: empty wine bottles, a single woman’s shoe, a scanty wool blanket, slightly moth-eaten, and smelling oddly of dog and mold. What was more telling was what was missing. There was no gun. Either there never had been one, or Nowlin knew better than to leave her alone with one. Aside from the bottles, there was nothing to arm herself with, not even a traveling set with a dull knife.
Still shivering, she curled up under the blanket, the sturdiest of the bottles clutched in her hand.
CHAPTER 3
A heavy mist cloaked the day in misery. Nowlin had spent the night on the box with his servant as they rolled through the darkness, but Beau hadn’t slept a wink. She’d been too busy waiting for him to creep inside and join her. Her nerves were raw from waiting, anticipating, and planning. But this morning it was cold and gray and wet, and he was back inside with her. She touched the bottle under her skirts where she’d hidden it and waited.
“You’ll be lucky if my brothers don’t rip you limb from limb.”
“Promises, promises, my sweet.” He sounded utterly dismissive, but then he hadn’t met either of her brothers. He had no idea what he was in for.
“It’s not as though this is the first time I’ve been abducted, you know.”
“An old hand at it, are we?”
Beau bit the inside of her cheek and studied him for a moment. He was so cocksure, so confident that he would get away with abducting her and that her family would simply acquiesce to such a marriage, and that she would, it was baffling.
“Yes. First, it was Mr. Martin. My brothers say that perhaps they should have made me marry him. Only by the time they caught up with us, he wasn’t willing anymore.”
Nowlin grinned at her. Deep dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. It seemed impossible that a man with dimples like those could be so treacherous, that a man so handsome should need to be.
“Scared him off, did you?”
Beau shook her head and batted her eyes. “Stabbed him. With a fork. The tines went all the way into the bone and stuck there. So much howling. So much blood. My brothers caught up with us because we were waiting for the surgeon.”
“I guess you’ll be eating your meals with a spoon on this trip.”
Beau sighed. He wasn’t listening. Having only a spoon wasn’t going to stop her. “And then there was Mr. Granby.” She shook her head sadly. “He lives abroad now. Only one eye left. Father felt that was punishment enough.”
The Irishman frowned, his dimples deserting him momentarily. Beau smiled wider and continued. “It’s quite amazing what happens when you press your thumb into a man’s eye socket with all your might.”
“Well, well. You are a cold bitch, aren’t you?”
Beau smiled and tilted her head, looking at him out of her lashes. “I am my mother’s daughter. The best outcome here—for you, that is—is that one of the men in my family catches up with us. Left to my own devices, I’m liable to do permanent damage.”
“It would cause quite a fuss if you did. Exactly the kind of thing that a woman in your position should be trying to avoid.” His words were confident, but the tone was less so.
“And you think blinding a man didn’t have that very distinct possibility? But not one whisper of either affair has ever reached the scandalmongers, has it?”
The worried frown returned, marring his handsome face. He rapped on the roof, and the carriage slid to a stop. Beau leaned forward to press her point. “They might—might—only have sent you packing back to Ireland. But you had to go and abduct me in public.”
Without a word, he jumped down and slammed the door shut behind him, the scraping sound of the lock enraging her further. “They’ll have to kill you. You know that?” she yelled after him, giving the door a good kick for emphasis.
Beau crossed her arms and hugged herself. Nowlin might not be ready to let her go yet, but if he failed to see reason, she’d see him cowering and bloody just like the others.
She was ruined already, and they both knew it. What he didn’t know was that her father would let her choose ruin and a quiet life abroad, and she wouldn’t hesitate to embrace the option. Paris, Vienna, Florence—perhaps even St. Petersburg or Tangier.
Hours later, the coach suddenly shimmied beneath her, shaking Beau out of a hazy nap. It bounced horribly and then sagged backward as it came to a stop.
A chorus of cursing swirled about her. Beau smiled to herself. There was something wrong with one of the wheels. That would slow them down. And if they had to stop for a repair, Nowlin would have to let her out of the carriage. She straightened her clothing and finger combed her hair, slipping the pins back into place.
Eventually, the coach resumed its progress, but with a jolt and a scraping sound that spoke all too clearly of increasing damage. After a painfully slow hour, they entered a small village of little more than an inn, a few shops, and a smattering of houses along an otherwise desolate bit of road.
The minutes stretched. Beau began to fear that Nowlin intended to keep her locked in the coach while the wheel was seen to, but eventually the door opened and he appeared to lead her inside.
“Don’t bother telling tales to these kind people,” Nowlin announced loudly as he dragged her through the taproom. “I’ve told them all about your little escapade.”
Beau glared at him. Martin had done that too—poisoned the well so no one would help her. Nowlin pushed her into a private parlor and kicked the door shut behind them.
“Wives who run off and abandon their husbands and bairns don’t sit too well with the common folk.”
“And I suppose you’re the forgiving husband come to fetch me home?”
“And I always will. Don’t believe anything different for a moment, my love. Have a seat and eat something.” He gestured to the table where a cold piece of steak and kidney pie sat waiting beside a tankard with a frothy head that promised ale. There were no utensils on the table.
“I see you remembered about the fork.”
Nowlin laughed, his misleading dimples peeping out. “No forks, no knives, no candlesticks. I suppose you could hit me with a chair, but if you do, you’ll eat the rest of your meals standing at the mantle.” He bowed and slipped out of the room.
Beau swallowed down her anger and sat. Her stomach had been growling since dawn. Starving herself wouldn’t help her situation one jot. She pulled off her gloves, thrust them into her pocket, and sat.
When she finished, she pushed the empty plate away and paced the room. A small commode was the room’s only other piece of furniture. Beau rifled through it. It held a chamber pot, a few glasses, and an assortment of half-used candles of dubious quality.
She hefted the chamber pot with one hand. It was heavy stoneware. Nothing like the porcelain ones she was used to, with their fanciful fl
owers or pretty patterns of Oriental splendor. It was… she searched for the proper word: serviceable.
Clubbing Nowlin with it might not get her anywhere, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. If she could wound him, it might at least slow them down, or delay them further.
She took up a position a safe distance behind the door and waited. He’d had fair warning, which was more than any woman owed under such circumstances.
The door swung open a few minutes later, and Nowlin, in a fresh change of clothes and newly shaved, stepped through. His cologne preceded him like a dog before its cart, the scent flooding the room.
Fury burst through her. He got a change of clothing and a wash while she was still wearing the same gown that he’d abducted her in and hadn’t been offered so much as a basin of water to wash her hands in.
She raised the heavy chamber pot as high as the tight sleeves of her jacket would allow and swung it hard, putting all her anger and frustration behind it. Nowlin ducked, twisting about to face her, taking only a glancing blow to the head.
With a growl, he caught her wrists and squeezed. The chamber pot slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with the unmistakable sound of pottery breaking.
Beau twisted her wrists, wrenching one free. Nowlin let go of the other and backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling. Beau hit the wall, tasting blood, pulse hammering through her like a military drum calling the troops to war.
She slid all the way to the floor, keeping the wall at her back. Nowlin stared at her as her hand closed around one of the shards of the pot. The edge was rough, jagged. It would hurt when she slashed it across his pretty face.
“Put it down, my bonny lass, or I swear on St. Patrick’s staff, I’ll beat you silly.”
Beau tightened her grip and got a boot to the stomach for her defiance. She gasped and retched, her vision flickering as pain roiled through her. He’d kicked her hard enough to break the wooden busk of her stays, and now it was gouging into her, making it impossible for her to draw a free breath.
