When he reached the alley entrance he gaped. “Good God.”
The street in front of the Duke of Richland’s house was crammed with dozens, maybe even hundreds, of carriages. No wonder Rowland hadn’t been waiting for Godric near the duke’s garden gate as they’d planned. Godric considered the mob of unmoving carriages, his mind as chaotic as the scene before him. Perhaps this mess was a sign he should call off his asinine plan. Perhaps there was still time to—
“Lord Visel?”
Godric spun around to find a huge boy dressed like a stable lad.
“Who the devil are you?”
“Mr. Rowland sent me to tell you the carriage is waitin’ at the back entrance, my lord.” The young giant hesitated. “Mr. Rowland said he needed to talk to you before taking the woman.”
Godric clenched his jaws so tightly his head throbbed. It was a struggle to contain his fury; trust that idiot Rowland to bring in even more conspirators. It was bad enough the two of them were planning to kidnap the woman—now this boy was part of the plan? Who else had the fool told? The bloody Times?
“No.” He shook his head. No, he would not do it. He could not do it.
“My lord?” the boy asked, his expression one of nervous confusion.
“Come along,” Godric said, ignoring his question and marching toward the other end of the alley.
The oddest sensation filled him as he walked: as if he were emerging from a dense fog, his head clearing with each step and his vision shifting slowly into focus the closer he got to the street ahead.
Good God! What the devil have I been thinking?
His gait stuttered and the air whooshed out of his lungs as the enormity of what he’d been about to do hit him: he’d actually planned to abduct this woman and he was on the brink of carrying out his plan.
He must be barking, bloody mad.
The sudden, blinding clarity left him dizzy. Why the hell had it taken him so long to realize he was behaving like a lunatic?
Instead of wondering why it took you so long you should be grateful you came to your senses before you did something irreversibly stupid and cruel, his conscience—which had been muffled of late—said.
Godric thought about the woman he’d just left—a woman whose life he’d schemed and planned to wreck—and his stomach churned. Drusilla Marlington had done nothing to him— they hardly even knew each other—and yet he’d humiliated her and forced her into a marriage with a man who’d been courting another woman.
And when her unwanted marriage had—against all odds—showed signs of becoming a love match? Well, then Godric had decided to use her again to get to the man she’d married: Gabriel Marlington.
To be perfectly honest, her husband had done nothing to him, either. Yet all Godric had done since returning home to Britain was harass the man.
I’ve been telling you this for months, the dry voice in his head observed, louder and stronger.
“Blast and damn,” he cursed under his breath. Sod it all to hell; this was bloody lunacy. He would get in the carriage, go home, and try to forget these past few months of insanity.
He would have a devil of a time with his cousin Rowland—a man so desperate for funds he’d ransom his own grandmother—but Godric did not doubt he could handle the little worm.
The hired carriage waited at the end of the alley. Godric yanked open the door and peered into the dark interior
“We’re going,” he said to the figure sitting on the back-facing bench. “I won’t—”
Something hard slammed into the back of his head. His vision exploded with red-hot pain, and he staggered forward. “Wha—”
“Push him in, James!”
Big hands grabbed his shoulders and shoved. Godric went headfirst into the carriage, turning his head just in time to avoid landing on his face and breaking his nose. Even so, the pain from the impact was so intense it was nauseating and his stomach cramped, preparing to void itself. He gritted his teeth to keep back the flood of bile while huge hands grasped his ankles and folded his legs up against his chest.
A face lowered over Godric’s: huge blue-violet eyes creased in a frown; red lips, parted; a lock of silky black hair . . .
He blinked, “Y-you—”
“Hallo, Lord Visel.”
Whoever was holding his ankles gave him a shove, and his head struck the opposite door. The last thing he heard was “He’s out cold, James, but you’d best tie his hands.”
Photo courtesy of V.J. Dunraven Productions
Minerva Spencer was born in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. She has lived in Canada, the U.S., Europe, Africa, and Mexico. After receiving her M.A. in Latin American history from the University of Houston, she taught American history for five years before going to law school. She was a prosecutor and labor lawyer before purchasing a bed and breakfast in Taos, NM, where she lives with her husband and dozens of rescue animals.
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