His Rebellious Lass

by Callie Hutton

  Bloody hell!

  “How long ago did you say?”

  “It was right after luncheon, I’m sure.”

  He checked his timepiece. About three hours. With a quick nod, Cam barreled down the steps and raced to the mews to retrieve his horse. There was no doubt in his mind that Davenport was headed to Gretna Green. How he would force Bridget to consent to an anvil marriage was not something he wished to dwell upon. The man was desperate, and desperate people did desperate things.

  Even though Davenport had a lead on him, they would be traveling by carriage, which was slower than a man on a horse. Cam took the time to stop by his house to pick up funds and a warmer coat. The air had turned quite chilly, and with the speed he intended to travel, it would be a cold ride. A carriage would be better to bring Bridget home in, but it would slow him down.

  With brief instructions to his valet, Markham, Cam set off to run Davenport to ground.

  …

  Bridget awoke with a headache and her stomach roiling. She was in a fast-moving carriage and very confused. She groaned as she sat up and looked across the way.

  Lord Davenport.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” She placed her hands on her head to stop the pounding.

  “Tsk, tsk, Lady Bridget. Language, my dear. I do not want my countess to be considered foul-mouthed.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “We are on our way to Gretna Green, dearest, where we will declare our intention to marry.” He grinned, and she wished she had the strength to slap his face, but she still felt weak.

  “I will never agree to marry you. You killed my best friend.”

  His eyes grew dark, and in a flash, his demeanor went from jolly to dark. This must have been how poor Minerva had lived. Davenport was obviously mentally deranged. Cheerful one moment, frightening the next.

  “Your best friend was a weak, whining, waste of a woman.”

  Bridget drew herself up. “She was not. You are a monster, and you beat her and ultimately killed her. I saw her bruises.”

  She shrank back on the seat when he pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at her heart. “Remember, my dear, once you are mine and I have all that wonderful money your father left, I will no longer need you.”

  “You will never get away with this. I will refuse to speak the words that will marry us.”

  “Yes. You will speak the words.” He settled back on the seat. “I suggest you take another nap. We will be on the road for a couple more hours until we reach my favorite inn, where I will announce to all and sundry that we are eloping.”

  She raised her chin. “I will deny it.”

  Davenport waved his hand at her. “No matter. You will be ruined anyway, so you will be forced to marry me.” He leaned over, the odor of alcohol emanating from his breath. “I will give you a bit of laudanum before we arrive, so you will be—shall we say—more cooperative?”

  Bridget fought the lingering effects of the knock on her head she’d already received but was unable to stop him from pouring laudanum into her mouth, seeing as he held the gun to her head while he did it. “Swallow, bitch. Or I will kill you the minute our wedding is over.”

  As long as she stayed alive, there was always a chance of escaping his clutches. She had to figure out how to get away, because if he managed to drug her enough that she could not resist marrying him, all of Papa’s money would go to him, and that would be the end of her plans for the women’s shelter, which was nothing compared to the life she would be subjected to with Davenport. She also had no doubt that were she forced to live in his house—with no money, where else could she go?—it would not be long before she met with an “accident” herself.

  It mattered not what she needed to do. She had to keep that disaster from happening. She yawned, and despite her best efforts, her eyes drifted closed.

  …

  Cam took the time to stop at every coaching inn along the well-traveled road to Gretna Green. The ride to the infamous marriage town was a lengthy one, taking several days even when the weather was good. Davenport would be forced to change horses and spend the night at inns along the way.

  His lips tightened at the idea of Bridget in Davenport’s hands and subjected to stopping at inns with him. Even if they never reached Gretna Green, she would be ruined and expected by Society to marry the man who’d ruined her.

  He would kill him first.

  He ate a quick meal at the Peacock Inn, changed horses, and headed back out. He’d been on the road for a couple of hours, so, given the speed of his horse as opposed to a carriage, he should be overtaking them soon. Unless he was completely wrong about what Davenport had in mind.

  The next place he stopped, the stable man informed him that a carriage bearing the Davenport crest, with a man and a very sleepy woman, had stopped for a meal and a change of horses about an hour before. At least he was on the right path, which relieved him of that worry.

  A sleepy woman?

  He knew how Davenport was controlling Bridget. He must have doused her with a drug—most likely laudanum—to keep her quiet. The Bridget he knew would have probably knocked Davenport out with her fist or a healthy shot to his groin with her knee if she’d had her wits about her. The thought made him grin, and even more anxious to rescue her from the fate Davenport planned.

  The sun was setting, and soon it would be too dangerous to continue traveling, so most likely Davenport would stop at the next inn, which was about ten miles up the road. At least he hoped the fool man would not attempt to travel at night. With the cloud cover, there would be no moon.

  He spotted the lights from the inn through the trees as the road turned to the west. His heart in his throat, he pulled up to the front yard and jumped from his horse. “Here, you, lad.” He called to a young boy coming from the stable.

  The boy trotted up to him. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Did a coach arrive in the past hour with a man and a sleepy young lady?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The boy hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “The lord’s carriage is behind the inn.”

  Cam flipped a coin to the boy. “Take care of the horse. See that he gets a good amount of oats. He’s been running hard.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The boy’s eyes grew wide at the coin Cam tossed him.

  Because he had no idea what the situation was with Davenport and whether he had some sort of a hold over Bridget besides the drug, he slowly approached the inn.

  As he entered, Davenport stood in the center of the common room, raising a glass of whisky, his arm around Bridget’s waist, her head resting on his shoulder. Even with her back to him, he could see she was not in good shape.

  “Here’s to me and my betrothed, Lady Bridget MacDuff. We are on our way to Gretna Green to be married.” He downed the liquor in the glass to the cheers of men in the common room. The door to the private dining room opened as a serving girl exited, carrying dirty dishes. Lord Ambrose and his wife, Lady Ambrose, one of the worst gossipers in London, who were seated at the table in the room, along with their daughters, Lady Sarah and Lady Jane, looked out the door at Lord Davenport.

  Lord Ambrose raised his quizzing glass as his wife smirked at her daughters.

  …

  Bridget lolled against Davenport’s chest, trying very hard to hold her head up, but it was impossible. Although she doubted he would kill her, because then he would no longer be able to marry her and steal her money, she’d complied, as he’d looked absolutely deranged and she feared a beating.

  Now she looked as though she was cuddling up to him when she could barely move her eyes, let alone pick up her head. Suddenly, she was yanked away from Davenport and thrust against a warm, hard chest. Oh, Lord, not again. Was this the same man who had initially grabbed her? She tried to look up, but her head wouldn’t cooperate.

 
“Davenport, slowly lower your glass.”

  Cam?

  The low, rumbling voice was indeed Cam’s. She recognized his feel, his touch, his familiar smell. She slumped against him in relief. His arm tightened around her waist to hold her up. “Hold on, sweeting, we’ll get you out of this.”

  She nodded. Or thought she nodded, not sure if she moved her head or not.

  Davenport smirked. “Too late, Campbell. You can’t save her now. I just announced to the room that we are headed to Gretna Green. She is ruined. The only way to save her reputation and yours as her guardian is to allow us to marry.”

  With one arm still wrapped snugly around her, Cam hauled his other back and threw a punch at Davenport’s face. She winced at the sound of bone crunching and a body hitting the floor. Since Cam still held her, it must have been Davenport who went down. If only she could stand upright.

  “Here, then, what’s going on out here?” A voice she didn’t recognize bellowed from across the room. Possibly the innkeeper, as they generally did not like brawls in their places of business.

  “I want this man taken to a room and locked up. He has kidnapped this woman and needs to be dealt with by the magistrate.” Cam shifted so he had a better hold on Bridget.

  “Lord Campbell, if I may?” Another strange voice.

  “Yes, Ambrose.”

  “May I have my wife take Lady Bridget upstairs to a room? She appears to be quite drunk.”

  “She is not drunk!” Cam’s bellow brought her head up. She turned in his arms, her head resting on his chest, to face an older couple with two young ladies behind them. She knew the man and woman but could not place them with a name.

  Ambrose? That had been the name Cam mentioned.

  One thing was certain. She was in deep trouble.

  “Come, my dear.” The woman took her from Cam and addressed the innkeeper. “We need a room, please.”

  With the older woman on one side and one of the young ladies on the other, they made their way up the stairs, being led by another woman, most likely the innkeeper’s wife. “Here you go, dear. Just lie down on the bed there.”

  Bridget wanted to thank her, but her mouth wouldn’t work.

  “You may take your daughter downstairs. I will attend to the lady.” Again that warm, friendly voice, which must have been the innkeeper’s wife.

  Bridget was handed off from Lady Ambrose, who had continued to sniff disapproval, to the friendly woman who led her to a bed. She collapsed facedown and passed out.

  …

  Cam watched Bridget being led up the stairs by the innkeeper’s wife, along with Lady Ambrose and one of her daughters. The entire roomful of diners and drinkers had turned their attention to the performance of the upper class, no doubt happy to know money and titles didn’t protect one from trouble.

  This was a mess.

  He reached down and pulled Davenport to his feet by his jacket lapels then turned to the innkeeper. “I repeat. I want this man locked up. As soon as he is secure, I intend to notify the local magistrate. If it is too late now to summon him, please do so first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes, my lord. I have a room downstairs in the cellar that has a lock on it.”

  “Excellent.” He waved his hand. “Lead the way.”

  As they began to move forward, he turned to Lord Ambrose, still viewing the entire spectacle through his quizzing glass. “Lady Bridget was brought here against her will. She is not drunk; she has been drugged. I would appreciate it very much if this story was not repeated.”

  He knew there was little chance of that happening, but he had to at least try. A young lady of Quality, who appeared to be drunk, at an inn with a man she was not married to—who had announced they were eloping to Gretna Green—was simply too good a story to pass up.

  Lord Ambrose rubbed his chin with his hand and studied Cam from underneath bushy eyebrows. “I have no intention of carrying stories, but I can assure you my wife is another matter. We are headed to London, and women simply cannot keep such things to themselves.” He looked from Davenport to Cam. “You are better off allowing them to marry. Save the girl’s reputation and all.”

  “That is not going to happen.” He yanked on Davenport’s collar and dragged him forward.

  “Ambrose is right, you know.” Davenport’s voice was nasal, indicating that Cam had probably broken his nose. “If you don’t allow me to marry Lady Bridget she will be ruined, and your reputation as her guardian will be called into question.”

  Cam shook the man, tightening his hold on his cravat and leaned in close. “Don’t test me. I will see you dead first,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  The rickety stairs to the room in the basement barely held the three men as they descended. The innkeeper held up a candle and led the way to the back of the storage area. He unlocked a door and opened it. Cam shoved Davenport into the space, and the man sprawled on the floor. “You will be released when the magistrate has arrived. You would have been much better off had you heeded my advice and left the country.”

  “England is my home.”

  Cam snorted. “Soon Newgate will be your home.” He turned and made his way back up the stairs, the innkeeper right behind him, still holding the candle.

  Now to see to Bridget and figure out how to get her out of this mess.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lady Ambrose and her daughter descended the stairs just as Cam returned from the basement.

  “I’m afraid Lady Bridget is not feeling too well, my lord. She collapsed onto the bed the innkeeper’s wife directed us to.” Lady Ambrose was almost giggling in her glee to have witnessed the fall of a young lady. “I didn’t smell liquor on her, but I believe she is not quite herself.”

  Cam pinched the bridge of his nose. “She has not been drinking, Lady Ambrose. She was kidnapped by Lord Davenport and apparently drugged.”

  Lady Ambrose clutched her ample bosom and attempted to look distraught, though not quite making it, considering this was probably the best scandal she had ever witnessed. “Oh, how terrible for the girl. I assume there will be a wedding?”

  “Not with Lord Davenport.”

  Lady Ambrose threw her daughters a smug glance. “Oh, good heavens, my lord, I’m afraid the girl is ruined.”

  Cam glared at the woman who was having such a wonderful time at Bridget’s expense. “Only if the story is brought to London.”

  “Well, I would certainly never carry tales.” She turned to her daughters. “Would I?”

  Both girls answered, “No, Mama.”

  The harridan turned back to him. “So you see, Lord Campbell, there is nothing to worry about.” She tapped her chin with a pudgy finger. “Of course, these things do have a way of becoming known, no matter how much one wishes to hide them.”

  Disgusted with the conversation, he bowed slightly to the ladies. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I will see that the innkeeper’s wife tends to Lady Bridget.” He strode away from them to catch the woman who had just returned to the common room, bearing plates of food. She placed them on a table with two men who were in obvious need of something to soak up the alcohol they’d drunk.

  “Excuse me, may I have a word with you?” He reached her just as she made to return to the kitchen.

  “Certainly, my lord. How may I assist you?”

  “The young lady whom you just put into the room upstairs…” He glanced sideways at Lady Ambrose and her daughters, who watched his every move. If he went upstairs to deal with Bridget, it would only increase the weight of their story about her being ruined. Drugged and kidnapped by one man, alone and behind closed doors with her guardian. Bridget might as well put out word that she was looking for a protector for all her reputation would be worth as soon as Lady Ambrose hit Town.

  “I am concerned for her welfare but, since she is an unmarried young lady, I can
not assist her.”

  The landlady threw a glance in the Ambrose family’s direction and seemed to understand his dilemma. Although the measure for ruin for the working class was not as strict as it was for nobility, she seemed to appreciate the disgrace Bridget was facing. “Of course, my lord. As soon as the last of the suppers have been delivered, I will tend to her.”

  He thanked her and, against his desire to race upstairs and make sure Bridget was well after her ordeal, he took a seat in the common room—where he could be seen by all.

  Hopefully, Ambrose and his women would soon depart for their rooms and leave him free to visit with Bridget. Until then, he was stuck right here where his presence would be noted. He waved at the innkeeper to bring him an ale, which he then nursed for almost an hour.

  Finally, Ambrose directed his family up the stairs to the bedchambers floor. It had almost seemed a contest between him and the family, seeing who would depart the room first.

  The innkeeper’s wife, who told him her name was Mrs. Trenton, had reported to him a while ago that Bridget was sleeping soundly on the bed in room number four and seemed to be just fine.

  Room number four. He didn’t know whether Mrs. Trenton told him the number on purpose, or accidentally, but after arranging for a room for himself, he strode up the stairs and went directly to room four.

  The door was unlocked, most likely because Bridget had not yet awakened from her drugged state. The room was dark and chilly. The low fire in the grate did not give off much heat. No candle was left burning, so he made his way across the room to the bed carefully, so as not to trip and make enough noise for the entire inn to be up and staring at him again.

  Bridget lay curled up on the bed, most likely cold. He touched her forehead. “Bridget?”

  She stirred and opened her eyes. “Cam.” She sat up and looked around. “Where am I? The last thing I remember was Lord Davenport dragging me into an inn. Is this it? How did you get here?”

  Cam lit the candle on the table next to the bed and sat alongside her. “Too many questions at once, sweeting. First of all, how do you feel?”