Suzi Love (38 page)

The baron smirked, “Without doubt, Sherwyn, I’ll be taking your money.”

Lifting his arm, he signalled the men behind them. He chortled long and loud, until he sounded like the cackling of a caged hen demanding to be released His gloved finger pointed at Becca. “But, I’m still taking her,” the lunatic announced.

Cayle yelled at the madman as he shoved Becca behind his back. “Over my dead body!”

“That can be arranged.” The baron cackled again.

Cayle grabbed Becca’s arm and tried to run, but before they’d managed two strides one of the baron’s henchmen stopped them. He raised his thick arm and swung a lump of wood down towards Cayle’s head. With a twist to the right, Cayle avoided the full impact of the club. The rough weapon slammed into his left neck and shoulder but missed his skull. And, thank heaven, any connection with Becca.

As he fell to the floor and clutched his shoulder in a blinding roar of pain, Becca dropped to her knees beside him. The last thing he knew before he lost consciousness was Becca screaming next to his head, an ear-splitting screech for someone whose head was about to burst open.

“Cayle, Cayle. Answer me!”

Becca turned Cayle’s head, trying to assess the extent of his head wound. She gasped in alarm when blood rushed from the gash to pool on the carpet but another of the men dragged her upright, away from Cayle. He forced her arms behind her back, trying to secure her hands with rope. When she struggled, kicking and punching and trying to scream, the brute slapped her hard enough across the face to make her ears ring. Still she fought, until two men subdued her, wrestling her to the carpet. Looking up from the floor, Becca pleaded with the baron.

“Let me help Sherwyn first. If you make sure he gets help, I’ll go with you without a struggle.”

The baron sneered with contempt. “Such sickening sentiment has no place in commerce, my dear, which is why I detest dealing with a lady. At present, you are needed, though I care not one whit what befalls your lover.”

Mitchell raised his pistol and levelled it at Cayle’s head. A cloth was wrapped around the tip to muffle the sound, so Becca knew the Hetherington’s other guests would remain oblivious to their plight.

Cayle might die from blood loss if no one found him on the library floor, but at least he’d have some chance of surviving. If the baron shot him, he’d surely die. The best, most vital, part of her life would be over.

“No, no,” Becca yelled, raising her voice as loud as she could in the vain hope that someone might hear. “Don’t shoot him. Spare his life and I’ll go anywhere you want. I’ll tell you whatever you need to know. I can make you a very rich man. Just let Cayle live.”

The baron glowered at her with obvious contempt. “It disgusts me to see you beg for his life. Sherwyn used you as all the others did. None of those men sniffing around your skirts want you for yourself. They want your journals, the same as I do. Your past transactions. Those copious notes you make on new railway tracks.”

“None of that is true. Cayle loves me.”

The baron threw back his head and laughed. “More sentimental drivel. Even if it were true, my dear, it’s too late. For both of you.”

Once again, he raised his pistol towards Cayle but was interrupted when a man burst through the door. “Ye lordship, there be no time to waste. Got to be getting ‘fore the wagon’s noticed.”

The baron’s arm dropped. “Your lover’s fortunate, my lady. We’re out of time. I can’t risk someone hearing or discovering our mode of transport.”

Becca tried to hold onto Cayle’s hand but was pulled away from his inert form. Panic assailed her. “Cayle,” she called again, but received no answer. He was either unconscious or dead. At a signal from the baron, one of the men stuffed Becca’s mouth with a vile smelling cloth, gagging her tightly before dragging her to the patio. Her kicking and struggling earned her a second slap to the head. Momentarily stunned, she lost sight of Cayle as they pulled her into the garden. Her last glimpse was of his body lying as still as a statue on the carpet. The woven fibers beneath his head had blended from yellow and rose to bright red. Blood red. All she could see was blood. He hadn’t moved. And he looked to be dead.

• • •

A cart was pulled up close to the garden gate and the foul smelling louts dumped Becca without ceremony onto the floor, where she landed with a bruising thud. Before she could right herself, the wagon rocked into motion, throwing her against the high wooden side. And against a leg, a human leg. The gag that sucked into her mouth on each indrawn breath muffled her screech. The stench was so foul she retched behind the filthy material and began to choke. Hands reached out and tugged away the offending material.

“Rebecca, don’t struggle.”

“Arthur?” The gag no longer choked her but the binding half covered her face, so she was unsure if it was he.

“Yes, it’s me. Hold still. My hands are tied but I can manage to remove the cloth if you don’t move.” Forcing herself to remain motionless, Becca felt his hands touch hers in the dark interior. “I’m sorry, so sorry.” Arthur’s voice was a weak and pathetic wail. “I didn’t intend for this to happen.”

Bracing herself against a support, Becca wriggled until she was upright on the floor. Angrily, she faced Arthur. His face had a long smear of dried blood and one eye was swollen partially shut.

“What have you done?” Even in the dark his misery was evident, but she allowed him no mercy. “You told them about me didn’t you, you fool?”

When they’d become affianced, Becca’s honesty required her to enlighten her fiancée over the depth of her involvement in Michael’s stock dealings. Stupidly, she’d trusted Arthur. Until now, he’d honoured his vow to never inform anyone else.

“They plied me with wine. Got me intoxicated.”

“You broke your vow to me.” She sighed, long accustomed to the vileness of men in their cups after dealing with the scum of society in her work.

“I’m sorry, so sorry. Sherwyn warned me this would happen but I didn’t listen.”

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“I heard them say they’re taking us to a cottage a few miles from here. They’ve sent word to Michael to meet them there with the journals.”

“Michael will refuse to hand them over to these cutthroats.”

“Not when he realises your life is at stake. These men will murder us all to get what they want.”

“I imagine they mean to kill us as soon as Michael arrives regardless.”

A shaft of moonlight lit the carriage and she saw Arthur gape at her with shock. Like the ineffectual wimp her brothers had always declared him to be, he started to cry. Uncontrollably.

Her words may have sounded resigned to their fate but Becca had never given up without a fight in her entire life. She wasn’t about to start now, not when she and Cayle had unfinished business. Earlier that evening, he’d begged for her freedom, had been willing to marry Sybila whom he loathed, in order to save Becca’s own life. When Julia had laughingly accused him of being in love with his mistress, with her, she had been behind the door and couldn’t see his eyes.

Each time Cayle mentioned marriage, she’d rejected him, unable to believe that he could truly love her. Now, she needed to survive so she could ask him herself. Before, she’d laughed off his proposal as a ridiculous sense of duty, of honour, from necessity, yearning for Cayle to desire her for herself. The only chance for the foreverafter she dreamed of in secret was if she escaped, and with great haste.

For if Cayle survived, and she refused to consider the alternative, he’d chase after her, her knight in shining armour charging to her rescue. His code of honour held the sort of values she could always depend upon. This time, however, the foe wasn’t an imaginary dragon but flesh and blood men whose only thought was wealth. Even more dangerous was the power that such immense wealth brought with it.

Becca adopted her no-argument voice that she used to command and organise her family. “Arthur, pull yourself together and let’s pretend for a moment you’re the gentleman your mama raised you to be. We need to escape.” Her severe words shocked Arthur into sitting straighter in his corner of the seat, his crying subsiding into sobs.

“We’re restrained by ropes. How can we escape?”

The indrawn breath he took after every sob irritated her so much that she lost her temper. “Damnation, Arthur.” Shock at her dockside language ceased his sobs. “Do you have a knife in your pocket?”

Once again he looked horrified. “A knife? What sort of gentleman carries a knife upon his person?”

She glared at him. “The sensible kind. Cayle carries one.”

“I’m nothing like Sherwyn.”

“That’s been obvious for quite a while. Now, pull yourself together. We need to improvise. We need something sharp.”

She heard him groping beneath where he sat and she did the same, running her hand over the uneven wagon floor.

“There’s a jagged piece of iron here,” Arthur said.

“Perfect.”

She twisted and wiggled enough to reach the short piece of metal protruding from the wagon lashings and backed up to it. Rasping the rope was a laborious task as she was thrown off position many times before the strands broke, leaving her hands rubbed raw and the throb brought her to tears.

“I’m free.” In triumph she reached down and pulled the bindings off her ankles then did the same to Arthur’s. “We need to jump out as soon as we slow.”

Arthur’s voice was a squeak of horror. “Jump? We could be killed.”

Becca grabbed his face between her hands and fixed him with her fierce big sister stare. “We’re going to be killed tonight if we don’t save ourselves. Do you understand?”

Looking close to tears again, he managed a nod. “Yes, I know.”

• • •

The wagon swayed then eased. In the moonlight glow, the narrowing road and close growing trees were visible as they crept down a steep incline. Becca hissed at Arthur, “This is our chance. When we reach the bottom, hopefully there’ll be a ford. It’s the best place to jump. There may be enough water that our landing will be softened.”

Arthur’s hands shook but he knelt beside her and peered over the lip. The carriage slowed even more down the steep slope.

“Now,” she cried.

She leapt first but was knocked flat into the shallow stream when his larger body landed on her. “Oooh!” The wind was knocked out of her and she gulped in water but at least she was still alive, as was Arthur if his loud moans were an indication. He recovered first and staggered to his feet, extending a helping hand as her waterlogged gown weighed her down.

Before she was completely stable on her feet, Arthur groaned again. “Oh, no.”

Using his arm for support, she pulled herself upright in time to understand the cause of his distress. The driver had noticed their leap of faith into the water and had pulled the horses to a stop further up the hill. Two men were trotting down the hill at a fast pace, moonlight highlighting the weapons they carried. Becca recovered first.

“Run. To the trees.”

Grabbing handfuls of her dragging skirt, she ran as fast as she was able in the direction to the darkened stand of trees, Arthur panting along behind her, dragging an injured left leg. Two lengths from the trees, she caught her foot in her flounce and tripped, spread face down on the ground. Gallant at last, Arthur tried to lift her as a terrifying cry sounded.

“Stop! I’ll shoot.” The baron, riding close behind, had reached them.

His pistol levelled at their heads as he slid from his horse. As she watched her executioner tether his horse and walk towards her, Becca’s thoughts flickered to Cayle as she’d last seen him. The thought of him lying on the library floor, hurt, or worse, tied her stomach into knots.

Lady Rebecca, the redheaded and most fiery of the Jamison sisters, felt her temper fray and split beyond repair. Without doubt Becca knew that Cayle was her future and without him nothing was worthwhile. Not the intricate planning of investment strategies, not the women’s society, and not even the joy of seeing her sisters launched. She wanted to share her life with him, share their families, and most of all she wanted to share his bed. To love and to be loved.

Her duke had taught her pleasure, passion, and the joy of being with someone you loved. She’d proved a willing and able student but she’d become greedy. She wanted time to learn much more from the master. All thought of personal danger was pushed aside. Instead, she concentrated on survival.

Beside her outstretched hand were rocks, a solid round arsenal awaiting scientific calculation. Her agile mind devised a logical plan based on the physics of which angle would inflict the most damage and upon which of her attackers she should concentrate her weapons.

Arthur’s outstretched hand resolved her inner debate. Reaching over, she slipped the rock in her palm into his, while her other hand closed over another smooth and hard river stone. Making a slow pantomime of her movements, she raised herself from the water and leaned towards Arthur to hide their makeshift projectiles.

The baron stepped closer and Becca waited, her breath held. She only had one chance. She needed it to be accurate.

“So, Lord Mitchell,” she hesitated, hoping to draw him nearer still, “if you intend killing us both anyway — ”

“Not me!” Arthur gasped in fright beside her. “He can’t kill me. He promised me things. Girls.”

Becca’s gaze swung to face Arthur. “Whatever it was, you will not be alive to collect it.”

Arthur was flustered and out of his depth with all the changes to their plans. “Mitchell promised that if I informed him of your daily activities, he’d ensure I profited from your new schemes. A large enough profit for marriage, while still allowing me a mistress.”

The baron sneered in disgust. “Why don’t you explain to the lady who was to be your mistress?”

Becca paled, already guessing. “How could you still believe that after you jilted me in marriage?”

The baron said, “When we have your five-year projections, we’ll have no more need of your family. You’ll be destitute.”

“I knew you’d be glad to turn to me,” Arthur said.