His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance) (31 page)

They were there, Kellen thought,
because he and Hooper were horse copers and understood that Lady Darnley wished to discuss horses with them. That Kellen was extremely uncomfortable with Emmaline’s treatment had been obvious and that left. . .

Lucius swore under his breath, then out loud.

Hooper.

CHAPTER 25

Emmaline awoke with a thumping headache and a foul taste in her mouth.

Her wrists and ankles were bound
. A blanket smelling of stale horse sweat, dust and mice covered her. Kicking as hard as she could against it and twisting her head as much as she was able, she managed to maneuver the musty fabric away from her face and gasp for breath.

She looked up to see an arc of dirty canvas over a frame of half hoops above her. The rumbling of wagon wheels filled her ears. Beside her were bales of fabric and fleece, luckily soft enough to fall against as there was no way to stop herself rolling from side to side as the wagon hit each rut in the road.

She shouted as loudly as possible and in a moment a man’s face appeared above her. A man whom she instantly recognized.

“Were I you, Lady Clifton, I’d be very quiet,” said Peregrine Styles, grinning lasciviously at her.

“I demand you untie me,” Emmaline hissed. Fury at her captor raged in her stomach and brought bile to her throat.

“Demand away, my dear, for it will do you no good.”

“Where are you taking me?” she
continued as haughtily as she could. She had no intention of letting Peregrine intimidate her or see the fear lodging in her breast.

A rictus of a smile appeared on Peregrine’s face.

“You’ll see,” he said and withdrew his head.

The wagon rumbled on and Emmaline had no sense of direction, could hear no identifiable sounds above the creaking wheels. Fighting her bonds was futile, so she lay as still as she could and allowed herself to be rocked by the motion of the wagon.

How had she got here? Her mind was still foggy but she remembered someone stepping onto the back of the gig as she was about to leave the inn in Nettleford. That someone had pushed a pistol into her back and ordered her to drive towards the London road.

Her brow wrinkled as she thought about it. The voice had seemed somehow familiar but she never saw the man’s face so could not be sure. Once out of Nettleford he directed her to a
lane where she saw the familiar rounded roofs of gypsy caravans. But the man who had held the pistol on her was not a gypsy, she was sure of that.

Amongst the gaily decorated caravans the canvas covered wagon was plain to see. She was ordered to pull up beside it and another man, his face hidden behind a neckcloth, emerged from it.
The cloth muffled his voice but Emmaline also thought it familiar. Where had she heard that voice? He handed her a flask.

“Drink this,” he ordered.

She had looked at it and shook her head.

Instantly the man behind her grabbed her around the shoulders and held her tight while the other man climbed up on the side of the gig.

Realizing his intention, Emmaline turned her head away but the man who held her tightened his grip, pinning her arms in place with his left arm and tipping her head back with his right hand, crushing her bonnet in the process. She pressed her feet against the floor of the gig to brace herself against the onslaught.

Sadie, startled by the added and unbalanced weight on the gig, started forward.

“Jonas, grab the bridle,” ordered the man beside her.

There it was again. A strong inflection that she knew but could not place.
She was aware that a small gypsy boy appeared from under the wagon and grabbed the mare’s bridle, holding the rein as tight as he could.

Emmaline fought
with all her strength but was no match for the two determined men. Her captor held her as tightly as a steel band giving her no leeway to avoid the contents of the flask the other man poured into her mouth.

As soon as the liquid hit her tongue she knew it to be a
strong mix of laudanum and water. Coughing and spluttering she tried to spit it out but a thick fog blanketed her mind as surely as the stinking blanket now covering her.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Her past was the reason for this situation, she was sure of that, just as she was sure her happiness had dulled her senses. She had lived by her wits for so long it became second nature to look twice at people, to judge from which direction danger might come. And now here she was, softened by love and so captured by her inattention.

Had Lucius already missed her? Would he be able to find her? She thought of the nights they spent together, the days riding about the park, evenings playing chess or reading together. He was her other half, the one person who could make her whole.

Tears of anger welled in her eyes and she blinked them away but not before one had trailed down her cheek.

There was no way for her to tell what time it was, or how long she had been bundled up like one of the bales beside her, but she thought it was darker now.

The sounds changed, too. Hooves sounded hollow on cobbles rather than thudded on dirt and the wagon bumped rather than rolled. She could hear the mew of seagulls and caught the tang of salty air. Wriggling between the bales, she tried to sit up. Where was she now? How would she ever get word to Lucius?

Peregrine appeared above her again, his face dark with warning.

“We will be taking lodgings for the night. My name is Stephen Dufresne and you are my wife, Marguerite. Fitting is it not?” The wolfish grin on his face held no more humour than before. “You at least should be comfortable with that. When we stop I shall untie you but do not think of trying to escape.”

Emmaline made no comment and Peregrine again disappeared from her view. She bit her lip, her mind in a whirl.

Marguerite Dufresne was the name she had given Etienne du Lully. How could Peregrine have discovered it?

At last the wagon stopped. She heard the low mutter of voices but could not tell how many
people were close. Peregrine clamered into the wagon beside her, a knife in his hand. He slit her bonds and Emmaline rubbed life back into her wrists before sitting up and massaging her ankles.

“Now,” said Peregrine softly, “pay attention. The travelling has
disoriented you and upset your stomach. . .”

“That at least is true,” Emmaline snapped.

She did not see his hand move, but felt the full force of it across her face and the sound of it connecting with her cheek rang in her ears.

“Do not try my patience,” Peregrine snarled. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “I shall take you into the inn and immediately up to the bedchamber. Keep your head down and hold your arms over your stomach
to show that you are sick.”

He draped a dark blue shawl over her head and shoulders, brushed some dust off her skirt
and helped her down from the wagon. She leant against it for a moment, her cheek burning where he had slapped her, while she regained her poise. Turning her head a little, she quickly scanned what she could see of her surroundings but knew escape was impossible.

She
hated to give in but right now could do nothing, so followed Peregrine’s instructions.

With her head down she could not see the name of the inn, but could hear the squeaking of its sign above her in the gusty
air. The smell of fish and tar and seaweed wrinkled her nostrils.

A harbour town, she thought as Peregrine gripped her elbow.
Did he mean to take her out of the country? The thought chilled her.

The
wind dropped a little and now she could hear the soft slap of water and the rattle of ships’ rigging.

Peregrine propelled her none too gently into the inn and
up the stairs into a room lit by one guttering candle. He did not let go of her elbow until he closed the door.

Emmaline threw back her shawl and glared at him.

“You need not worry,” he said. “I have no taste for your sweet delights tonight. I will have a tray sent up. Do not talk to anyone and do not think that you can best me for you are in no position to succeed.”

He backed out of the door and Emmaline stayed where she was, listening to his retreating footsteps. When all was silent she went to the window. He had chosen the room well for it looked out onto the inn’s yard, the ground too far to jump. All she could see in the night time gloom was the outline of rooftops and the glow of candlelight from a few of the other rooms in the inn.

Sitting on the edge of the bed she drew the shawl around her shoulders to stave off the chill. Where was she and where was her supper? Cold and now hungry, she shivered. Turning to close the curtains against the night, she finally heard shuffling steps outside her door then a slight scraping sound of a key turning.

She frowned. She had not heard Peregrine lock the door when he left.

“I must pay more attention,” she muttered. If she was to break free she could not miss any opportunity, however slight.

An unkempt and bent figure came in carrying a tray. He kept his glance down and slid the tray bearing a platter of bread, cheese and a glass of milk onto the dresser beside the candle.

“Where am I?” Emmaline whispered.

“I’m not to talk to you,” came the quiet answer.

As the man turned, Emmaline started. It wasn’t the sparse hair on the almost bald head, nor the stubble on the man’s chin that made her gasp.

The candle flickered and
the shadows that played over his face highlighted his prominent cheekbones and deepened the hollow where his left eye should have been.

A long scar ran down his cheek
beneath the empty socket, a scar that could have been the result of a bayonet or sabre wound. He lifted his head a little and, in the poor light, Emmaline saw the glimmer of intelligence in the remaining dark eye. The kind of intelligence her father would have recognized and recruited.

Her heart pounded. Could it be? Might this man be of her father’s network? Dare she ask?

“Where did you lose your eye?”

She spoke so softly that for a moment she was sure the man had not heard her. His reply was equally soft,
the two voices no louder than the beating of a moth’s wing.

“Eye at Cuidad Rodrigo, cheek at Salamanca.”

Emmaline took a step towards him, almost breathless with anticipation.

“I defend,” she
whispered. Had it been too long? If he knew the code, would he remember it?

The man looked at her again and nodded.

“My country,” he responded.

“Oh, thank God,” Emmaline muttered, covering her face with her hands as relief flooded through her and left her feeling suddenly weak.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Dufresne?”

Emmaline shook her head. “
I am not Mrs. Dufresene. That is the name given me by my abductor. Please get word to my husband, Lord Clifton, either at our Berkeley Square home or Avondale Park. Now, where am I?”

“Folkestone, milady. Ye’ll be bound for Boulogne on the morning tide.”

“Mark my passage for his Lordship, for I know he will be trailing me.”

The man nodded, hesitated for a moment
as if deciding what best to do. Finally he slipped a small penknife from his pocket and held it out to her.

“This m
ight be of use to you.”

“What is your name?”

“No names, milady. Them’s the rules. And I have to lock the door behind me.”

She nodded in understanding and he left her.
The knife was warm in her grasp. How best to use it? She unfolded the blade, stepped up to the door and quickly carved her initials in the frame.

She blew away the detritus and ran her fingers over it. Fresh, clear and obvious to someone who might be looking for traces of her.

“Please be looking for me, Lucius,” she whispered as she folded the blade back into its casing.

But where to put
the knife? With no reticule and no pockets of her own, there was only one place. She slipped it beneath the neckline of her gown and settled it between her breasts.

N
ow ravenous, Emmaline tore the bread apart with her fingers and wrapped a thin slice of cheese inside the crust.

Taking tiny bites, s
he savoured the morsels of food. Her last decent meal had been a hearty breakfast at Avondale Park. Between then and now there had been precious little and she had no idea how long it might be until her next meal.

No
t knowing gnawed at her gut.

Not knowing where Peregrine was taking her
or what awaited her.

Not knowing
how long it would take for Lucius to find her.

She tried to block out the hovering fear that he might not.