Kate’s stomach revolted at the thought of such a heavy meal.
“That will do. Now, if you could give us our privacy, I will try to settle this lady’s nerves a bit.”
When the door closed behind their hosts, he rounded on Kate. “So you think you can defy me with impunity!” Withdrawing the pistol from his pocket, he struck her across the face.
She stifled a scream. He struck her again, his black eyes burning like coals. “Stow it!”
Kate held her hand to her face. Her nose bled, and she prayed it was not broken.
“Just so you know,” Walsingham said, “if your hero appears, I intend to mix business with pleasure and kill him.”
His words made no sense to her. Sinking to the floor, she contemplated her situation with horror. Jack coming after her? How would he know she had been kidnapped?
“Where are we?” she asked.
“I suppose the innkeeper could tell you easily enough. We are on the road to Dover.”
“Dover?” Her heart sped in alarm. “You are taking me across the channel? To France?”
“Possibly. If you behave yourself. But I really have no need of you once I reach my sloop. You need not flatter yourself that I brought you along because I lusted after your fine body. You are of use to me only as a hostage.”
It was a moment before she could take in these words. “A hostage. Why do you need a hostage? What have you done?”
“I didn’t take you for a nitwit.”
Her wits had indeed gone begging. Who else but a French spy would run away to France in this day and age? “How detestable! You are a spy.”
He sneered. “If you continue on in this manner, I certainly will not take you with me. I guess I will be forced to shoot you.”
It took no longer than a moment for Kate to reply, “I would rather be dead than go to France in your company.”
He laughed loudly. “Hoity toity, Lady Kate. I will see you beg for your life, whatever you say now.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HERO APPEARS ON THE SCENE
In the third day of his pursuit of Walsingham, Jack prayed he had made the right decision to take the Dover Road. He was fairly certain he knew the equipage the earl was using from enquiries he made at his last stop. He thanked Providence that the earl’s looks were so striking and easy to recall by the ostlers at the inns where he had stopped to change horses. He was a little puzzled that, knowing Jack to be in pursuit, the earl had gone by way of London.
He cursed the fact that he had let himself be seen by Walsingham in Devonshire when the traitor was making his handoff. This circumstance had obviously frightened him into attempting an escape to France. And Jack had been held up by his first priority—retrieving the intelligence the earl had passed on and convincing a magistrate to place the smuggler under arrest for treason. By the time he had that in hand, Walsingham had an approximately five-hour head start.
For a reason Jack did not understand, however, his prey was no longer traveling on horseback, but by carriage, which slowed his progress considerably. As he spurred his own horse on from the inn where Walsingham had changed horses scarcely an hour before, he wondered if the earl had been vain and stupid enough to stop merely to acquire his personal effects in London. That did not seem like the man Jack was coming to know.
When he reached the point on the road where he believed he might overtake the earl, he was further surprised to see the spy’s carriage sitting in the yard of an inn three quarters of the way to Dover. Why had the man not pressed on? Trouble with his horses? The carriage? Surely, he had not merely stopped to dine! But perhaps Walsingham had realized that Jack would intercept him in this vicinity and thought to make a better stand against him on foot.
Leaving his horse to be rubbed down by an ostler, he entered the inn and rang the bell for the innkeeper. When the man appeared, Jack was surprised to see a gleam of suspicion in the man’s eye as he looked his prospective guest over from head to toe.
“Yes, sir? You be wanting some supper? Or a room, maybe?”
The man’s tone was surly. Jack was prompted to take the arrest warrant out of its pouch under his shirt.
Handing it to the innkeeper he said in a low voice, “I am pursuing a traitor who is on his way to Dover. He is quite tall with the unusual combination of fair hair and black eyes. His carriage is in your yard.”
The innkeeper perused the document. “A traitor is he! Well, well.” He handed the warrant back to Jack. “You’ll find him in yon private parlor with his young lady.”
An awful presentiment visited Jack. Drawing his pistol out of his greatcoat pocket, he strode to the door of the parlor and yanked it open.
“Kate!”
She raised a battered face to his, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed with speechless fury. Walsingham seized that instant to pluck Kate out of her chair and hold her in front of him with a pistol to her temple.
“I’ll shoot her without a qualm if you take one more step into this room.”
Jack felt as though he’d been kicked by a bull. His Kate in the arms of that traitor! A pistol to her temple! Never had he felt this helpless.
“Throw your sidearm on the floor,” the earl instructed him.
“You blackguard! May you rot in Hell for this! At least I have the satisfaction of informing you that your last message has been intercepted. Hopefully, the French will know that they cannot trust a traitor and will hang you out to dry.”
“Doubtful. My mother was French, you know. Related to Empress Josephine, as a matter of fact.”
“Her influence is not what it once was.”
Kate took advantage of her captor’s diverted attention and ducked out of his arms, scrambling on the floor to position herself behind him. Whirling, he sought to regain his hold. Jack stooped for his pistol and fired. The earl moved, and the ball went into the wall. Walsingham left Kate and fired on Jack.
Cursing, Jack grabbed his arm where the ball entered and watched as his enemy regained his hold on Kate and waved his pistol. “Back, Northbrooke. Remove yourself from this room on the instant! I shall kill you otherwise. I have nothing to lose, you know.” Unfortunately, the devil’s pistol was, like his own, double-barreled. He had another shot before he needed to reload.
The marquis backed out of the room, holding his pistol on the earl while clutching at his wound with the other hand. He dared not fire with Kate in the way. “Kate, forgive me for unwittingly drawing you into this matter!”
“It is not you who needs forgiving, Jack. Do not tease yourself.”
Her plight tugged at him, despite her brave words. Her face was swollen, and her nose had obviously bled over the front of a gown that was dusty and torn about the skirt. While he hoped none of her bones were broken, he was heartened by the blaze of fire in her eyes. She would not go easily. Would Walsingham kill her when she was of no more use to him? Kate was obviously a spitfire. Damnation! His arm was bleeding and sending jolts of pain throughout his body, but he had to rescue her somehow.
Keeping his pistol aimed at Kate’s head, Walsingham twisted her arm behind her back, pulling her with him as he left the parlor. Then, backing toward the door of the inn, he yelled for the innkeeper to open it and shout for his ostler to bring out a horse.
No carriage. He was not going to be so easy to catch up with this time. Running out to the yard, he watched the earl throw Kate up on the saddle before him and ride away into the night. He did not take the Dover Road.
Returning to the inn, Jack said, “Have you got a dressing of some kind?”
“My wife can tear up some sheets, sir.”
“I must follow them. I would appreciate it greatly if she would get the sheets. I will gladly help her to tear them.”
While his wound was being dressed, it began to ache almost intolerably.
“Tell me,” he addressed the innkeeper. “You saw which way the villain went. Where does that road come out?”
“At a farm. Littleton’s d
airy. That’s as far as it goes.”
“There’s no way back to the Dover Road from there?”
“No, sir.”
“Then, most likely he will force himself upon the Littletons until morning. First light, he will probably try the Dover Road again.”
The innkeeper’s wife spoke up. “You’re risking a fever, keeping that ball in your arm, if I may say so, sir, or is it my lord?”
“Have you got a surgeon hereabouts?”
“Happen we have. Mr. Porter, we’re not likely to be getting more guests this late. Please go after Mr. Welling. He’ll have the ball out in a trice.”
Jack returned to the parlor and sat upon the sofa, while his host hastened for the surgeon and his hostess built up the fire. “Worried for the young lady, are you sir?”
“I am.”
“That man is an evil one.”
“A traitor to his country. Bound for France.”
“Happen you need a little help. My brother, he was a soldier. Come home with a wounded leg, but he’s a right one on a horse. Let me send for Johnny.”
Jack, now a bit light-headed, decided he was in no position to refuse. His hostess’s brother arrived on the tail of the surgeon.
The removal of the ball proved to be more difficult than expected. Jack resorted to biting on the piece of leather offered him by the surgeon, and could not yet speak to Johnny. In fact, to Jack’s later embarrassment, he swooned.
When he came to himself, he was lying on a sofa that had been draped in sheets, a quilt covering him. His arm was securely bandaged, and the man who was to help him was sitting by his temporary bed.
“The sawbones says how you lost a lot of blood, Mister. He don’t like the idea of yer goin’ after anyone tomorrow. Best leave it to me.”
“That devil has the woman I intend to marry, and I’m very much afraid he’s going to kill her.” He shook his head, trying to rid himself of this vision. He must focus on the task at hand. “If we’re lucky, he’ll have to drive by this inn come morning. Perhaps I can get off a clear shot, but he’ll be holding my lady in front of him on the saddle.”
“I’ll create what my lieutenant called a diversion,” Johnny told him. “We’ll hide behind the woodpile. I’ll spook his horse. Happen he’ll fall off. You aim for his gut.”
“Good plan!”
* * *
Johnny awakened Jack at first light. “They haven’t gone by. I’ve been on the watch all night.”
Relieved that he, as yet, had no fever from his wound, Jack pulled himself out of the dubious comfort of his makeshift bed. Checking his pistol out of habit, he reloaded and tucked it away in his greatcoat. He made his way outdoors, following the enthusiastic Johnny, who limped heavily.
Secreting himself behind the wood pile, out of view of the road, he prayed to heaven that Kate was still alive and had no more bruises. I will make that devil wish he’d never been born. A shot to the gut would be painful. A lot more painful than hanging.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS SORELY TRIED
As Kate lay locked in an attic room of the Littletons’ farm, she fretted over the couple’s five-year-old daughter who had become hysterical at the “evil man’s” treatment of her parents. The poor young family was huddled in the kitchen. Walsingham was foregoing sleep in order to keep his gun trained on them to ensure their cooperation. She hoped this incident would not scar their memories. At the same time, she prayed that the earl’s sleep deprivation would work to her advantage.
Worries about Jack assailed her now that her own safety was secure for the next few hours. She had not seen exactly where the ball had hit him, but she told herself that it could not have been anywhere critical, or he would not have been able to follow them outside and watch them ride off. But there was always the chance that he might have lost too much blood—or have developed a life-threatening fever. Gradually, these concerns overtook all others. How is he involved with Walsingham? How does he know he’s a traitor? Why did Walsingham kidnap me?
Setting her mind to work on these questions, she remembered Jack’s ox in the mire. Can it be that it is not another woman? That he works for the Crown, apprehending spies? She could not account in any other way for their fantastic circumstances. How silly he must think me for punishing him when he is doing such important, potentially deadly work. Obviously, he could not tell me or anyone. He must be very brave. And, of course, after watching us at the ball, Walsingham made the mistake of thinking that I mattered to Jack, which would make me an ideal hostage.
She remembered her rush of hope when Jack had crashed into the parlor at the inn. Her heart had actually leapt inside her breast—just like the heroines in those silly gothic romances she read. In spite of her peril, she had experienced a moment of admiration for the dashing figure he cut with his disordered locks and greatcoat, brandishing his enormous pistol. Kate had wanted to fling herself on his chest. Instead, she had caused him to suffer a dangerous wound during her clumsy effort to escape. Life was not like a novel.
What is going to happen on the morrow? Will Jack be abed with his wound? Or will he be ready to intercept Walsingham with his pistol?
She spent the remainder of the night trying to anticipate the scene and to plan what she should do if she had to act suddenly. It was very fortunate that she knew how to behave around horses. A swirl of memories of her father and their hunts in the Shires seeped into her tired consciousness and carried her off into dreams.
At first light, she was awake, dabbing at her battered face with her handkerchief and a bit of water she found in the pitcher by her bed. How unlovely she was!
For the first time, Kate thought of the ton. Under the circumstances, would she be considered compromised? Of course I will be. Who will know whether Walsingham had his way with me? The fact that I was a hostage will matter little. Even Jack cannot know for certain what that horrible man has done. Any marriage of convenience is out of the question now. It would taint his family name forever. What is to become of me?
Then sense reasserted itself. How silly I am! I may not live past today. That is what I must worry about at the moment.
The key turned in the lock, startling her. Mrs. Littleton, a baby on her hip, opened the door, anxiety and exhaustion pinching her face. She balanced a breakfast tray in her free hand. On it was a thick slice of bread and a cup of tea. Catching Kate’s eyes, she whispered, “Under the cloth!”
The clever woman had hidden her paring knife. Kate was not exactly certain what good it would be against a pistol, but possibly she could use it while riding on the horse.
“Thank you,” she whispered back. Pulling up the edge of her skirt, she tucked the knife into her stocking on the outside of her right leg. Then she took the tray, sat down, quickly ate the bread and butter, and drank the tea so fast that it scalded her tongue. Mrs. Littleton apparently had orders to watch her. The moment Kate was finished, the woman took the tray and whispered, “His nibs is waiting for us downstairs. Good luck!”
“I am so sorry about all of this.”
“T’ain’t your fault, ma’am.”
* * *
Kate’s moment came unexpectedly. The earl stuck his pistol quickly into his waistband so his hands would be free to mount his horse. At the last moment, he realized the stirrup had come loose and needed adjusting. Kate was standing behind his bent figure. Whipping the knife out of her stocking, she held the weapon above her head. With every bit of force she possessed, she brought it down with both hands on his back. Anguished, she watched the blade break off when it met the thick, layered wool of Walsingham’s caped greatcoat. Whirling on her, he saw the knife handle in her hand.
Incredulous, he said, “You little doxy!” Dealing her a vicious slap, he went on, “I would shoot you now, but I require you still to act as hostage. However, that shall not long be the case.”
He seized her about the waist and threw her up in the saddle, then mounted the horse behind her. Kate trembled at her own a
udacity. Oh, Jack! Be there! Kill this traitor and set me free!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN WHICH OUR HERO PURSUES THE VILLAIN
Hiding behind the woodpile with Johnny, Jack admired the young man’s plan. Still weak, he only hoped he had the strength to take advantage of the distraction Johnny was providing. The morning was misty and cold for May. Though the sun was rising, even the birds were still asleep. He admitted that capturing Kate had been a stroke of genius on Walsingham’s part. Jack could have finished the whole affair with a ball the night before had he not been so shocked by her presence and beaten face. And now here he was, his arm in a sling, with the stakes in this game multiplied a thousandfold, at least. His life’s future happiness depended on his actions on this confoundedly cold and foggy morning.
At last, he and Johnny heard the far-off sound of racing hoof beats. Limping out from behind the woodpile, the young man struck his flint and lit the fuse to the chain of firecrackers he had strewn across the road.
His timing was ideal. Just as the horse came through the mist, the first firecracker exploded, sounding exactly like gunfire. Then the second and the third. Walsingham’s mount reared into the air, but he held on. Needing both hands for the reins, however, the earl was forced to release his hostage. Jack watched as Kate allowed herself to slide off the rearing horse, landing in a tumble close to its hooves. She curled into a ball and rolled away.
A charge of energy galvanized Jack, and he raced out into the road. More firecrackers exploded. Now the horse was dancing and whinnying about the road, terrified. Jack only had eyes for Kate. Running to the scene, he threw himself between her and the horse, scooping her up with his good arm and running for the woodpile. When she was hidden out of range of Walsingham, he drew his firearm and fired at the traitor. Missed!
All the firecrackers had gone, but the villain was apparently a superb horseman, for he regained control and, after firing in the direction of the woodpile, galloped off toward the Dover Road, lost in the mist.
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