The Rescue
Andrews Brothers
Book Two
By
Felicia Rogers
The Rescue
Andrews Brothers, Book Two
Copyright © 2014 by Felicia Rogers
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Contact Information:
Website: http://feliciarogersauthor.weebly.com
Email: [email protected]
Published by:
Felicia Rogers
Cover Design:
Elaina Lee (For the Muse)
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
Table of Contents
The Rescue
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Dedication:
First and foremost I would like to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, for giving me the mind and the ability to write.
Secondly, I want to thank Kay Springsteen for making such a tremendous effort to edit this book.
And thirdly, I’d like to thank my family for their continued support in putting up with me while I pursue my dream.
Prologue
England 1802
Men on horseback pursued him. The pounding hooves matched his erratic heartbeat, and he forced himself to concentrate on his getaway.
“Huyah!” Chadwick yelled and whipped the horse. The curricle bounced hard enough to make him lurch to the side, and he glanced over his shoulder. All he saw was the tops of their bobbing heads. The men were losing ground.
He cut off the road onto an almost invisible trail. Thick branches struck the side of the curricle. Thickets tangled in the wheel hubs and emitting a clicking sound, like an irritated hen. The horse slowed and he whipped it again. Harder and harder he flicked the reins. The horse squealed, reared, and shot off. Chadwick struggled to maintain his tenuous grip.
Looming trees, rocky spurs, and eroded boulders flashed by. Small limbs struck him in the arm, the shoulder, and the legs. The curricle rocked and jounced along the trail. The fear that the vehicle might topple had Chadwick clenching his hands tighter upon the reins.
Why had he agreed to assist Lady Margaret? He was Chadwick Andrews, brother to the Baron of Stockport. He should have insisted the debutant solve her own problems, and yet the opportunity to touch funds, to feel coin in his hand, had been too tempting to resist.
Retrieving the canvas money bag from her escort, Mr. Malcolm, had gone surprisingly well. If Chadwick had only taken the coin directly to his room and hidden it then he wouldn’t be racing away from the inn with a band of men on his tail.
Fortune shone on him and the horse stayed in the road. The slope of the land descended and he drew back on the reins, gently applying the brake.
Squeezing his bum as tightly as he dared, he berated himself further. Why had he gone and bet every coin on the Faro game? It was because he had foolishly believed his luck had changed.
What had he been thinking? His ruse to imitate his brother and replace estate funds had failed miserably. Now his brother despised him, and he would probably never be welcome at Stockport again.
There was also the added misfortune with Zilla Ellis. If her father hadn’t been so involved in his daughter’s affairs then Chadwick would be dining in the lap of luxury and enjoying a good time with the wealthy of London society instead of fleeing in the rickety curricle.
He laughed under his breath. The irony that he now fled in a curricle belonging to the Stockport estate wasn’t lost on him.
He sighed. In retrospect he had no reason to assume his life’s direction had changed to a positive one. All signs pointed to the contrary.
The land changed again. Trees thickened, blocking his vision. Downed limbs crunched loudly beneath the wheels. The seat wobbled and he grasped the edges. The unsteady movement increased and braving the consequences, Chadwick bent over the side. A gasp escaped his lips.
The wheel hub popped off and the wheel tittered back and forth. Resigned, Chadwick watched the events as if he was someone else. The wheel broke and scattered in a random burst. He grabbed the reins. Debris struck his face. The horse lunged out of control, running in an awkward weaving pattern, as one side of the carriage thumped along the ground.
Sagging branches loomed ahead. Chadwick twisted his lips to the side. He could make it; he would make it. He hunched over. Pain radiated through his skull. The fleeing curricle created a plume of dust and he coughed, increasing his misery.
Numbness in his limbs limited his movements. He opened his mouth to call for help, but changed his mind. The men pursuing him did not do so with altruistic intentions. Vision blurring, he prayed for rescue.
****
He twitched his nose and scrunched his cheeks. An offensive odor of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and feces reached his nostrils. Bile rose in his throat. He twisted his neck. Excruciating, stabbing pain raced through his body until he groaned. The sound of a wounded and dying animal drifted back to his ears. Over and over the noise escalated.
Footfalls echoed. He struggled to lift his eyelids. They felt heavy. Opening his lid a fraction, he studied a blurry figure.
“Constable, he’s at it again. We need to find this man’s family. He’s disturbing the other inmates with all his whimperin’ and groanin’.”
“Agreed, guard, but the question is how? Coherent words are not the man’s strong suit.”
“I know. The only thing I’ve understood is the word Andrew and nothing more. So I’ve put out an advertisement.”
“And you believe someone will claim the reprobate? I tell you, if he was related to me I’d let him rot.”
“I believe he will be claimed. ‘Course with the hefty fine placed on his head his relatives might be discouraged and leave him be, but families are funny in their defense of one another.”
“If’n they leave him his health will suffer. Can’t get that fool doctor in here for a couple more weeks.”
“Guess our problem will be solved either way.”
The throbbing in his head increased as the strange individuals edged out of his line of sight. Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth as he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
Chapter One
England, late November
1802
Farrah’s lengthy hair blew into her face as she hid behind a budding hedgerow.
“Ye can’t run forever, lass.” Angus’ voice boomed and she laid her hand over her fluttering heart.
“I can hear ye.”
Behind her a hand covered in furry red hair slapped the bushes. Farrah lunged from her position.
“Ah-ha!” Angus plunged through the bush, breaking thick branches.
Farrah clutched her skirts, and laughter caught in her throat as Angus pursued and tackled her. He braced her back as they tumbled to the soft, grassy earth. He held himself aloft, and smoothed strands of hair from her heated face.
“Farrah Burrows, ye are a wily lass.”
She shoved at his chest, but he wouldn’t budge. “And Angus McLin, you are a brute.”
He laughed and rolled off her and lay at her side. She attempted to rise, but he caught her arm and drew her back down. Her head on his shoulder, they stared at the cloudy sky.
“How do ye fare?”
The rough tip of Angus’ thumb stroked the inner part of her elbow sending warm and tingling sensations throughout her body. Farrah closed her eyes and reveled in the simple pleasure. He prodded her in the side, and she bit her lip. He wanted to know how she fared. What could she say? Should she tell him her father had been acting strange, making comments? That he was sure to find her a mate, and soon.
“May I presume by yer silence that yer father has decided yer fate?”
Hot tears stung her eyes and she sniffed.
Perched on his elbow, he studied her face. She sniffed and tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. Angus swore and went to rise, but she restrained him. “Not yet.”
Angus dropped down and she snuggled deeper to his side. He smoothed her hair and she released a breath. Tone distant, he said, “One day lass, things will be different. I just need a bit of time. I have to prove to yer father I’m worthy of ye.”
Cradled in his arms, she listened to the comforting sound of his voice and become increasingly drowsy as he explained his plan.
“I’ll go to England and request a commission from my uncle. He’s the captain of his own vessel, and he’s sure to have employment. When I make my fortune on pirate’s booty, I’ll return and ask for yer hand. You just need to put yer father off for a wee bit. I’m sure it won’t take me long.” The words drifted away as the warmth of his body overwhelmed her and her lids drifted closed.
Children danced around her legs and tugged at her skirts. Angus’ shock of red hair peeped over the sofa and he jumped out. The sight of his loving face…
Poked by something sharp, she grunted and stirred.
Her side stung as Angus shook her. “Lass, lass, we’ve fallen asleep and yer father has sent men looking for ye. If they catch us…”
She woke quickly. Her hand over her heart, she urged, “Go. I’ll be fine.”
Angus flicked the tip of her nose, stood, and raced from the grassy field, disappearing from view. Assured Angus had an ample lead, she rose to her feet and stretched. An arrow whizzed past her head and she screamed.
“Cease fire!” Bow tips pointed at the ground. A liveried footman approached. “You will come with me Lady Farrah.”
She lifted her chin and tromped to a waiting horse, fighting a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
****
The doors to the house stood open and Garrett gently guided her inside. The trip from the outer fields of the Burrows’ estate to the house hadn’t taken near enough time to calm her shaky nerves.
Garrett, her father’s top footman, had been sullen, not offering his usual tender words of advice. This made her even more nervous, and she wished she could hide behind the stairwell as she had in times past and wait for the rising tide of her father’s fury to dissipate.
Hands grasped meekly before her trembling frame, Farrah entered her father’s private den. Cherry wood furniture dotted the room in random patterns. A stray chair buried in the corner faced the wall. A rounded table attempted to hug the opposite wall while a square one remained unaccompanied in the middle of the room. Her mother had tried to arrange the den in a more useful manner, but her father had constantly shifted the pieces to fit his mood. The sight of the room today didn’t bode well.
Her father’s voice boomed and jolted her from her musings. “Farrah!” The shout shook the individual wall portraits and she trembled, biting her lip to stop the ensuing quiver.
Her father, Winlock Burrows, the Baron of Mountjoy, approached. His greatcoat hung agape, no longer reaching around his girth. His collar sagged around his neck, no longer holding its usual stanch form. His trousers bulged around the top of his boots, as if his valet hadn’t stuffed them well enough.
He drew nigh, pointing and shaking his aged finger. “What were you thinking? You’ve been raised as a gentlewoman. Your mother made me promise you’d marry well. Now I find you playing the trollop with some, some farm boy!” He shook his fisted hands.
Angered by his false assumption of Angus, she replied, “He’s not a farm boy, father. He’s—”
“So you admit it?”
“I-I—”
“I’ve had enough of your escapades. The trip south to visit your aunt has been cancelled.” He crossed his hands through the air in a downward x.
“But—”
“Instead you will remain here and marry Clovis Flannigan, Earl of Norhaven.”
Farrah dropped her jaw. She couldn’t breathe. Had all the air suddenly been sucked from the room? Gathering her remaining courage, she stuttered, “You c-can’t be serious! He’s older than Methuselah.”
“I’m glad to know you’ve been reading your Bible. And while you’re right that Clovis is old, you forget he is also as wealthy as King Midas.”
Farrah chewed her lip. She needed a plausible argument for why marrying Clovis was a bad idea. She blurted, “But father, you can’t make me marry him. The practice of arranged marriages is archaic and ended last century. And besides,” she twisted her neck and her loose hair floated over her shoulder, “I love Angus.”
He slapped the desk and shook his head. “Pshaw. You’re too young to know of love. When a few babes have filled your belly and you’re wrapping them in silken coverlets, you’ll forget all about Angus.”
Farrah couldn’t believe what he was saying. She stalked toward the exit, grateful he didn’t try to stop her. Plans of running to a Spanish nunnery raced through her mind.
His voice raised behind her. “Don’t even think of running away. I’ve charged Garrett with watching you.”
Her hopes plummeted. The lead footman acted like the Capitan of a detachment of soldiers and took his orders seriously. If she knew Garrett like she thought then she wouldn’t be allowed one second of freedom to denounce her intent of marrying before the wedding ceremony took place.
Farrah faced her father. He ignored her pleading look as he settled behind his cluttered desk. He shifted papers about the glossy surface as if nothing had happened, as if her life hadn’t just changed forever. A single tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped it angrily away. Garrett hid in the corner, his chin touching his chest. Shoulders slumped, Farrah quit the room.
Chapter Two
Devlin tugged on the hem of the infernal garment. The maroon wool coat scratched his neck like a swarm of fleas on a hound dog. Sweat gathered across his forehead, beaded, and ran the length of his well-defined face only to pool at his collar.
The position as third footman for Clovis Flannigan had been easily acquired. The grotesquely obese, personally obsessed Earl of Norhaven, enjoyed having more servants than necessary to run his meager household. Sentries guarded the yard, which consisted of little more than a rounded drive. Footmen, from first to tenth, dressed the table, served the food, cleaned the windows, fed the fire, and a smattering of other menial duties. Two cooks and five scullery maids had the run of the kitchen.
There were also several housemaids, three gardeners, multiple stable hands,
and the list continued.
Devlin raised his eyes skyward. The house was minuscule and could have been managed by two or three footmen. Ten was preposterous.
Devlin’s overseer had insisted Clovis was an easy swindle because of his penchant for overdoing. “If he overdoes in one thing, he’ll overdo in another. I guarantee the man won’t hesitate to offer his lands in a gamble. You just have to find the right opportunity.”
Having grown up listening to stories about the great fleecings pulled off before his time, Devlin thrilled at the prospect of swindling Clovis. Besides, was Clovis not the greatest extortionist of all? Legends were handed down about the fellow.
At the tender age of twenty-five, Clovis had left his village and absconded to another, Rochdale to be exact. Rumor held that the young gent had scoured neighboring estates in search of the perfect companion. He found the elderly, recently widowed Holly Flannigan, First Countess of Norhaven. She had invited him into her home and they were married within the week. Overnight, he had become a lord with land and funds. Fortuitously for Clovis the countess was one of the rare females who had retained her entitlements after her husband’s demise. The elderly Earl had regretted deeply their inability to have children and it had been his consolation to her.
Devlin sighed. Any family in Clovis’ past life was left behind as if they had never existed. He had even taken the last name of his wife! No doubt to assist with his hiding. In Devlin’s humble opinion Clovis’ comeuppance had waited too long.
A horse neighed in the distance, drawing his attention. Devlin shielded his eyes. A rider, dressed in liveried finery of blacks and yellows, skidded to a halt. Devlin stepped forward and accepted the reins. The footman from another estate straightened his shoulders, pointed his chin high, and thrust his chest outward as he ascended the three stairs leading into the Flannigan house.
Devlin cocked a brow, and pursed his lips. Why would a footman from Burrow Wood be visiting today? They were no special events planned in the neighboring town of Rochdale. The countryside seemed asleep with the sun hanging midway in the sky, and a haze hovering above the cool ground.
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