A Sinful Duke She Can't Refuse (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  Her bladder was so taut she was afraid it would pop just from the movement when she was hauled out of the carriage. She was then dragged down a graveled path for an interminable time, the cramp in her legs raging with pins and needles. Her feet were so numb that she had trouble making out where the actual ground was under her feet. To her relief, she was ushered up a few steps and into a dwelling before too long.

  She felt the need to express herself in spite of the gag, the dry mouth and the blindfold over her eyes. “Mm mmrmp rrrapah mmmrp mmrha mmrha…”

  She was relieved when one of the men removed her blindfold causing her to blink in the morning light.

  Mr. Chandler had two accomplices who looked a bit windswept and irritable. Isabella crossed her legs tightly, helplessly bouncing from side to side. “Mmmrmmmwa mmmwrhha ruuumrr unhrhrm–”

  She didn’t know about them, but if this was a novel and Isabella was the kidnapper, she would not have accounted for such practicalities. She hoped that Mr. Chandler and his goons took a more pragmatic approach and had somewhere she could seek relief before she embarrassed herself. The blighter on the left whom Isabella promptly dubbed Tom King after the famous highwayman, curled his lip into a moue of disdain as if he had never experienced nature’s call himself.

  “The Duchess needs to tinkle,” he said.

  As Isabella was not, yet, a peer she assumed there was some sarcasm involved in his speech.

  This was no time to cling to semantics, not when her human dignity was at risk. She nodded fervently. “Rrrann mmmmffw.”

  The brigand with the blue eyes laughed crudely, and pulled out a very long and shiny knife. Isabella tottered back a couple of steps until she hit a wall. Both men laughed, but the one with a knife—to Isabella, he could not be anything but Brutus—spun her around and sawed at the rope around her wrists.

  Before Isabella could examine the results of this casual butchery—for she could imagine that she felt blood even though everything from her forearms down was completely numb—they escorted her through a couple of hallways and then opened the door to a water closet.

  “In you go,” said Tom King. “Do your business. Anything funny and we start chopping off bits, clear?”

  Isabella amenably nodded once again and slipped inside, utterly relieved to smack the door shut in their faces. The room had a window from which a sliver of dawn light allowed her to see what she was doing. The small octagonal window on the side of the room might have been big enough to accommodate her head, but never her shoulders, much to Isabella’s despair.

  Geffertons never bowed their heads in defeat, however, and as she did her business, Isabella had plenty of time to look around and evaluate the room for weapons. There was depressingly little that could be useful on hand, especially since Isabella had no experience as a fighter.

  Apart from a few incidences with Sarah in their younger days when fights got out of hand, she really had no experience using her fists for anything remotely violent.

  A glance in the looking glass over the water bowl showed that her face was pale to the point of looking quite deceased. There were dark circles under her eyes, hair wildly disordered. There was a dried up scratch at her temple where she must have scraped against the stone wall last night.

  She scrabbled at the gag fruitlessly, simply lacking the facility to untie the knot, and finally managed to tear it down around her neck. Making a moue of distaste, she spat out the saturated bit of cloth still held in her mouth. She fumbled at the water bowl, gracelessly managing to fill her hands with sufficient water to quench her thirst. Then it was back to searching for a weapon.

  The only thing that looked remotely weapon-like in the room was a little bronze towel-stand. With the Geffertons, to think was to act, so Isabella discarded the hand towel, grabbed up the stand and flung open the door. Brutus was on duty, leaning against the wall opposite, and Isabella launched herself forward, filled with noble bravery and verve, and thwacked him across the cheek, quite as hard as she could.

  Brutus exploded into motion, growling horrifically, pulling the small rack out of Isabella’ hand and snapping it into two pieces. He stalked forward until Isabella had backed herself up against the wall on the other side of the hall.

  There was a reddened bruise on his face, but it faded so quickly Isabella had to doubt she even left a mark.

  “Next time,” Brutus said, leaning in and breathing into Isabella’s mouth, “see if you get bathroom privileges.”

  Hmm, Isabella may have not factored in everything she should have before attacking her kidnapper. This was the kind of situation where she had to think long term, in tactical terms rather than throwing tantrums as she was wont to do at home.

  “Err,” she offered, voice raspy and dry. “Sorry. I just, erm. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  Tom King wandered in then, taking in the situation his eyebrow raised with amusement and disbelief.

  “All right then,” Isabella continued infusing cheer into her voice and ignoring the way her belly swooped tightly with nauseating waves of panic. Instead, she endeavored to project an air of quiet competence, as any lady should. “Where will I be staying, while we wait for Chandler and Emmanuel to get this all sorted out?”

  * * *

  Emmanuel walked into the stable in search of O’Malley, who had been a skilled hunter before joining the Duke’s household. He was unsurprised to find him waiting at the doorway, dressed in hunting leathers, with a bow and arrow in hand.

  “We are going to catch a fox?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

  Emmanuel nodded. “Oh, yes we are. Hopefully we get there in time to save the hen.”

  O’Malley straightened up. “What are we waiting for, then? Let us go.”

  O’Malley led the way towards a carriage lane that passed between the bakehouse and the lake, that was used to get to the dower house and a means for a carriage to travel to the crofter’s cottages set at the back of the property.

  “When I was coming in this morning to milk the cows, I noticed fresh tracks on this road. Thought it was passing strange. Meant to tell you about it when you came down with the young miss.” O’Malley said as he walked.

  “Can you tell what kind of carriage made the tracks?”

  “Oh, aye. Twas a coach. Wasn’t carrying more’n twa people, mebbe three.”

  “So…Miss Addison, the steward, and perhaps…a driver?”

  O’Malley shrugged. “Aye.”

  “Should we take more men?”

  “I dunno. Let’s find them and see what’s what.”

  Emmanuel nodded, grateful for O’Malley’s quiet competence. It made him feel less frantic with fear, although every beat of his heart seemed to tell him to “hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  They walked in silence until they came to a bend in the road. O’Malley stopped and got down on one knee. Then he looked up at Emmanuel with a raised eyebrow. “I think they may have taken her to the Peregrine place.”

  Emmanuel frowned, “What do you mean by that? Surely you’re not saying that Peregrine—”

  O’Malley was already shaking his head. “No, Your Grace. But he lives nearby and the steward knows that the Earl and Countess are not currently in residence there…”

  Emmanuel’s heart jumped, then slowed as he pondered this revelation. It was remarkably clever if true, for the steward to take Isabella to the Peregrines. Who would think to look there? And even if the staff spotted her, they must know that she was Lady Peregrine’s sister. It would not be remarkable for her to be wandering the halls.

  Emmanuel took a deep breath. “Quite, then. What are we to do about this?”

  “You go back to th’ hoose and I’ll follow this trail, see what’s what. How many they are and so on. Meanwhile, I expect they’ll have sent some sort of demand note.”

  Emmanuel gave him a small smile. “You almost sound like you’ve done this professionally.”

  O’Malley grinned. “Done what? Kidnappin’? Not really my cuppa tea. But my
cousin what lives in the New World now did a spot or two of abduction in his day.”

  Emmanuel laughed. “Well, well, remind me not to get on the wrong side of you. I shall go back and see about ransom notes.” He turned to leave.

  “Your Grace?”

  The sober sound of O’Malley’s voice had him turning around. “Yes?”

  “Give them what they want. I seen that steward aroun’. He has the eyes of a killer.”

  Emmanuel blanched, then nodded his head. “I will.”

  * * *

  The room they put Isabella in was quite well appointed with a large four poster bed sitting squarely in the middle of it, neatly made up. Next to it was a chest of drawers with a jar and bowl filled with steaming hot water. She used it to warm her hands and face. The armoire contained several old fashioned gowns belonging to someone with a much larger bosom than Isabella’s. However, she did find a velvet cloak that she slung over her flimsy robe before going to sit hunched over on the bed.

  Her eyes were drawn to the large windows that would easily have allowed her through were it not for the iron bars crossing from one side to the other. She sighed, wondering just how much planning had gone into this abduction. Mr. Chandler seemed remarkably well-prepared. It was daunting.

  Come on, Emmanuel, you have to find me!

  She wrung her hands together with anxiety, looking around for anything she might use to defend herself or escape. After a few minutes of staring fixedly at the door, she decided to try and see if it was open. They might have forgotten to lock her in or maybe they didn’t care to. She crept toward the door, and went down on her knees, peeping through the keyhole to see if anyone was standing outside.

  All she saw was empty blackness.

  She reached up and pulled the door handle down, as slowly as possible, before trying to pull the door open.

  It did not budge.

  “Fiddlesticks!” she hissed before stomping back over to the bed and throwing herself down upon it.

  She had underestimated how tired she was from the long night of adventure for soon after she lay down, she was fast asleep.

  She woke up eventually and popped up for another look around. The iron bars over the windows left quite a bit of space for peering out. The spring sun was as high as it got in March and Isabella stared forlornly out through the gaps.

  Her view was of a long, manicured lawn with yews and oaks marking the verge. As there was no driveway, she must be in the back of a guest cottage or dower house, and indeed, there was no other structure in view. She evaluated whether it would be worth it to find a way to break the glass in order to call for help. Eventually, she decided that the influx of cold negated the scant chance of arresting the attention of a gardener or someone else that was not already in league with Mr. Chandler.

  She bruised and scraped some fingers trying to pull the iron bars away, but they were firmly attached. The struggle flexed her bosom and caused the wound she’d sustained to reopen. On top of the fierce sting of the ragged edges of her flesh rubbing against one another, it was a bit more than she could take. Feeling vaguely woozy and rather less confident in her prowess, she withdrew to the bed once again. Surely Emmanuel would be along soon.

  He was reliable and steadfast.

  Only moments later, it seemed, Isabella could hear the front door slam, and the tread of boots on parquet, snarling voices, and a muffled thud that vibrated through the walls. She crept back up to the keyhole and placed her ear there, to ascertain what was happening. This time, she squatted on the balls of her feet, so she could jump away if someone should approach.

  She identified the voice of Chandler himself, impatient and coughing, with a muffled shout contributed by an unknown personage. Then she heard someone who sounded a lot like O’Malley, but with his tone wrecked and pleading. That made Isabella’s hair stand on end. She certainly hoped that O’Malley was all right and that his being here meant that Emmanuel was not far behind.

  Voices continued—frustratingly blurred through distance and interference—and faded as they moved further away. Isabella retreated to the bed again, lips pursed in frustration, but sat up seconds later, unable to relax when danger might enter at any moment. She paced, instead, like a disenchanted tiger in a cage.

  Eventually, footsteps trooped down the hall and her door was unlocked and thrown open. Two men entered—Tom King, with his ugly sneer and condescending attitude and another brigand she did not recognize. O’Malley came stumbling through next, off balance and shoved in front of another brigand. The side of his face was reddened and smeared with blood, and his leather hunting clothes were smeared with brownish stains that Isabella did not want to examine too closely.

  She looked up into his eyes, one swollen shut, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and her heart froze.

  Chapter 27

  Capture and Release

  Isabella gasped and took a step forward before she wised up, faced with a room bristling with pistols from the two brigands, Chandler, and Brutus. O’Malley wiped some blood off his cheek and shook his head at Isabella. “Ma’am, no, please—”

  Isabella froze, eyes stretched wide and mouth going dry, never having seen this fazed and beseeching side to O’Malley. Of course, the circumstances were as different from their cheerful early morning chats as they could possibly get. If, by any small chance, Isabella had not understood that before, she certainly did now.

  She allowed a brigand to manipulate her into a corner whilst watching O’Malley get crowded into another one. A fifth man came through the door bearing, of all incongruous things, a tea tray with three cups, pot gently steaming with a pleasant minty-herbal scent. He set it on the dresser and fastidiously poured the cups.

  The man turned to Chandler with brows raised in inquiry and hand hovering over the sugar tongs. “Do you want sugar in your tea?” Chandler inquired much to Isabella’s chagrin. At his lifted eyebrow, she slowly nodded her head.

  “How many? One or two?”

  Isabella gawped some more before lifting two fingers.

  So the servant added two sugars to one cup, placed it slightly apart from the others, bowed to Chandler, didn’t even glance at Isabella and swept back out of the room.

  Isabella simply gawped.

  Chandler said, “It’s breakfast time. We’re not monsters, you know. I got you some tea.”

  This was surreal. Her father’s steward had kidnapped her and now he was offering her tea.

  Over the course of her life, Isabella had spent quite a bit of time with Mr. Chandler—be it in her father’s office, reading as he and her father went over the estate accounts. Sometimes he would be the one to accompany her, along with a lady’s maid, on a journey to one of the country estates. She had sat in the parlor with Chandler before, drinking tea, and although she never was comfortable with the old warthog, she was never afraid. And now here he was, the criminal, nodding to one of his men to bring Isabella a cuppa, and there was something absolutely terrifying about it. Chandler’s eyes were fierce and avid and utterly callous, like a hungry shark.

  Isabella shivered, wanting to seek out O’Malley, and ask him what to do. O’Malley gave her the tiniest, nearly invisible facial tick, what might almost be a wink, and nodded his head. Not that there appeared to be any choice, but watching O’Malley bleeding, pushed around by men with large pistols, might have moderately reduced Isabella’s confidence that all this was some colossal misunderstanding that would be resolved soon. She wormed her hand out of her velvet-wrapped cocoon to accept the tea and tried to stiffen her spine.

  “I don’t understand,” she said to Chandler. She shook her head. “I'll be dashed, sir. I really... What—?”

  Chandler gestured sharply at her. “Do you think I care what you do or don’t comprehend, you empty-headed goosecap? You’re to drink the tea, that’s all you need to know.” He smirked over at O’Malley. “See? You can tell your boss we’re treating his lady perfectly fine.”

  O’Malley ever so sligh
tly rolled his eyes. “All right then, I’ll just go now then, shall I?”

  Chandler sneered. “Don’t you worry your little head. I’ll find some use for you.”

  O’Malley ignored Chandler's implied slur and reached, slowly, for the other cup on the tray. “To your health,” he said dryly to Isabella before taking a sip. Isabella followed his lead.

  The tea was just shy of hot, its color watery and murky green, and it tasted nothing like the early morning tea that Isabella preferred. There was something sharp and piney in it, and mint with a strong undertone of dirt. She made a face, but it wasn’t terrible. Since she obviously had no choice and it was equally obvious that O’Malley didn’t seem to see the harm, she drank it as quickly as possible.