by Kate Bateman
With no other option, Georgie hobbled after him and into the first room on the right, a tiny front parlor with a fireplace filled with ashes and dead leaves, a shabby chaise longue, and an overstuffed armchair that seemed to have been recently inhabited by mice. The straw stuffing spewed out of it onto the floor as if it had been disemboweled.
Josiah indicated the chaise longue—only slightly less moth-eaten than the chair. “Have a seat. I’ll see if I can make a fire.”
As soon as he’d left the room, Georgie felt for her knife in her boot. Hell and damnation—it wasn’t there. He must have searched her whilst she was unconscious. The thought of his hands sliding over her body made her nauseous.
She made a quick search of the room, looking for anything she could use to free herself or use as a weapon, but there was nothing except a small mirror-backed wall sconce. If she could break it, she could use a shard of glass to cut her bonds. A few heavy-looking books sat on a bookshelf, their leather bindings dusted with white mold, but she doubted she’d be able to lift them with her hands tied.
Her stomach churned as she tried to imagine what Josiah planned. Did he mean to rape her? She clenched her jaw. If so, she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Josiah returned with an armful of logs and set about building a fire in the grate.
“Now what?” Georgie asked stonily.
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“Your husband.” He almost spat out the word. “He’s going to bring us the funds we need to get to the Scottish border. And I’m going to kill him.” He smiled at her horrified expression. “You’ll be a widow before the day is out, my dear. When we reach Gretna Green, you’ll marry me, without some ridiculous contract restricting my access to your fortune.”
Georgie tried to keep her voice calm. “How will Benedict know where to come?”
“I’ve sent instructions to the Tricorn.”
Her stomach dropped. “He won’t be there.” He’d already be in that tavern on Ore Street waiting for Johnstone.
“Then it will take him a while to get here. I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something pleasant to pass the time.”
Chapter 34.
Benedict, Seb, and Alex converged in the Tricorn’s checkered hallway at precisely ten o’clock. A familiar sense of nervous energy swirled between them. How many countless times during the war had they met like this, about to set out on a mission?
Alex shot Ben an eager grin as he tugged on a pair of leather gloves. “Remember the ambush we set up in that gorge above Talavera? Six hours, sweltering on a rocky mountainside, before we got our man. At least this time we can wait for our target in a nice comfortable tavern.”
Seb nodded. “So, what’s the plan? Wait until Johnstone arrives, barge in, and arrest him?”
“That’s about it,” Ben said. “Let’s just hope he shows. Admiral Cockburn wants us to commandeer the submarine rather than destroy it—he wants it sailing down to the Royal Navy dockyards at Woolwich, but I’ll be damned if I know how to get it there. Either of you know how to sail?”
Alex grimaced. “Don’t look at me. I spent the entire crossing from Belgium casting up my accounts, if you recall. I get nauseous if I look at a puddle.”
Seb shook his head. “I’ve only ever manned row boats.”
“Well, Bow Street only wants Johnstone,” Benedict said. “If Cockburn wants the vessel, he can bloody well send someone to get it. When we’ve nabbed Johnstone, one of us can guard the warehouse until the Admiralty arrives.”
Georgie could have sailed it, he thought. She’d studied the plans, knew how the infernal contraption worked. She’d be miles better than anyone the Admiralty could send. Perhaps he’d suggest it to Cockburn. She’d be in no danger once Johnstone was in custody.
He wondered where she was now. Probably still in bed, catching up on much-needed sleep. The thought brought a smile to his lips, and he realized how impatient he was to see her again. That in itself was unusual. With every other woman, he’d found that sleeping with her invariably got her out of his system. His curiosity was assuaged, the itch satisfied. Not so with Georgie. Making love to her, knowing her more intimately, had only tightened the strings that bound them, increased his curiosity. He wanted her again. Maybe tonight, she—
Seb’s hand, waving in front of his nose, reclaimed his attention, and Benedict felt an uncharacteristic heat flush his neck. Christ. He was acting like a besotted schoolboy.
“Distracted by your lady love?” Seb teased mercilessly, uncannily accurate as ever.
Benedict scowled. “Let’s go.”
He reached for the brass doorknob at the same moment an urgent hammering sounded on the other side. A scruffy lad was panting on the steps. “Benedict Wylde?”
“Yes.”
The boy thrust a folded letter at him. “I was told to give this to you.”
Ben broke the seal, scanned the letter, then swore fluently and long. “That bastard. I should have put a sword through him when I had the chance.”
“What is it?”
He thrust the paper at Alex.
“‘I have your wife,’” Alex read aloud. “‘Tell her sister to retrieve her jewels, along with any cash in the house, and deliver them to me at Rupert’s place in Hounslow. Juliet can give you the direction. If you do not do as I say, I will enjoy my cousin as you enjoyed her last night. Come alone and unarmed, or I will hurt her. Josiah Caversteed.’”
Benedict turned and headed back into the Tricorn. He already had his trusty Baker rifle—the strap of its leather case was strung across his body in anticipation of dealing with Johnstone—but he took the stairs two at a time and went back into his apartment. He retrieved a pair of dueling pistols from his desk drawer, loaded them with the ease and efficiency of long practice, thrust them into his belt, and hastened back downstairs.
Alex and Seb were still in exactly the same place on the doorstep. Ben leapt down the steps toward the stable, shouting for one of the grooms to saddle his horse. His friends were close behind him.
Seb frowned in sudden recognition. “Caversteed? Not that cheating whoreson I had thrown out of here last night?”
“The very same.”
Seb whistled. “Her cousin, eh? He’s a nasty piece of work.”
Ben mounted his chestnut stallion and motioned to his friends to get out of the way.
“You’re off to rescue the damsel in distress, then?” Alex said.
“Of course I bloody am. She’s my wife.” Benedict scowled. “I swear, if he’s harmed one hair on her head, I’m going to make him wish he’d never been born.” He kicked his heels to the stallion’s sides and clattered out of the yard.
It took him less than ten minutes to ride to Grosvenor Square, and he cursed every slow-moving cart, stray dog, and suicidal pedestrian that got in his way. He turned into the square to find a traveling post chaise pulled up in front of the house and Juliet standing on the steps, a traveling trunk and several band boxes piled at her feet.
He clattered to a stop behind the chaise. “What’s all this?” he demanded sharply. “Where’s your mother? Where’s Pieter?”
Juliet’s face paled, and she clasped her hands to her bosom.
“Don’t even consider fainting,” Benedict growled.
She swallowed visibly. “Pieter’s visiting his sister, and M-mother’s having lunch with Lady Cowper.”
Benedict narrowed his eyes at the luggage. “And what are you doing?”
Juliet managed to look both flustered and extremely guilty. “Oh, you mustn’t say anything! Simeon and I are eloping. Don’t try to stop us, Mr. Wylde, I beg you.” She achieved a wonderful imitation of a tragic Greek heroine, all wrinkled forehead and glistening eyes.
Ben kicked his boot from the stirrup and dismounted. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you do. Your cousin’s taken Georgie.”
Juliet’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean, taken her?”
“I mean, he’s
kidnapped her for ransom. Now go inside and get me her jewels and any cash you have in the house. Quickly now.” When Juliet just stood there gawping, he snapped. “Go!”
Juliet went.
“Don’t talk to my fiancée like that!”
Simeon’s shaggy head appeared from inside the chaise. Benedict took a deep breath and reminded himself not to smash his fist into the boy’s face. It was bad form to hit a man with glasses. “Button it, Pettigrew. I don’t have time to deal with you now.”
Juliet returned, panting from her exertions. Her hands held a bulging reticule with a drawstring top. Part of a necklace peeked out, and Benedict recognized it with a pang as the one Georgie had worn at O’Meara’s, the one she’d tried to pass off as fake—a fortune in diamonds and emeralds. His stomach clenched. He had to get to her.
“Where are you supposed to take them?” Juliet asked.
“Rupert’s place in Hounslow. Your cousin said you’d know the direction.”
Juliet’s perfect forehead creased. “Uncle Rupert had a hunting box there. Father took us a few times when we were little.” She screwed up her face. “But that was years ago. I can barely remember how to get there. I never took much notice. All I remember is that it’s a few miles outside of the town, past a tavern called the Dog and Duck.” She glanced mournfully at the bag as she handed it over. “You’re not really going to give those to him, are you?”
“No. I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp,” Benedict said. “And then I might just shoot him for good measure.”
Juliet raised her chin, a very unladylike spark of violence flashing in her blue eyes. “Well, good. If he’s done something horrid to Georgie, then he deserves everything you give him.”
Benedict remounted, and she placed her hand on his booted foot. “Please bring her back safe, Mr. Wylde.”
“I will.” He wheeled his horse and found Alex and Seb, both mounted, blocking the end of the street. He frowned at them. “Why aren’t you on your way to the docks?”
Alex shrugged. “We sent a message to Bow Street. Willis is going to watch the warehouse. We’re with you. If this woman’s important to you, she’s important to us.”
Ben swallowed a lump in his throat. Thank God for such friends. The bond he shared with Alex and Seb was so much stronger than blood. It had been forged in sweat and tears, in shared misery and elation. And countless instances of finding humor in the blackest of situations. “This isn’t your fight.”
Seb grinned. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course it is. Remember that time near Badajoz when you saved me from that sniper? I owe you. Your fight is our fight, remember?”
Alex chuckled. “Not to mention I’ve been praying for a decent scrap for months. London’s deadly dull when it comes to proper fighting.”
“All right,” Ben said gruffly. “Let’s go.”
They headed west, and when they were obliged to stop and pay fourpence apiece at the Kensington toll gate, Alex said, “I must say, this is the first time any of us have chosen a girl over a mission.”
Ben glared at him. “Either one of you would do the same.”
Alex and Seb shared a skeptical look. “For a woman?” Seb said. “I doubt it. For her fortune, maybe…”
“It’s not about her money. Why does nobody believe that? I care for her. I don’t want her hurt.”
Ben scowled as he set his mount to a gallop again and curbed the impulse to push the animal even harder. He’d get nowhere on an exhausted horse. Worry churned in his gut, mingling with a deep and furious rage.
He could count on one hand the people he cared about, those he feared losing. His brother John. Alex and Seb. And now Georgie. Somewhere in the past few weeks, she’d wormed her way into that select little group. Wormed her way into his heart. She’d become more than an acquaintance, more than just a friend, or a challenge, or a body to be discovered. He needed her. Wanted to be with her, to tease her, to share some story or anecdote to see how she’d react. He wanted to hold her and keep her safe from the Josiahs of this world. There was more than a casual connection between them now. There was something new and binding, and he was horribly afraid he knew what it was. Love.
His mount tossed its head as he inadvertently jerked at the reins. Oh, shit. He was in love.
And like a French sniper’s bullet, he hadn’t even seen it coming.
Benedict slackened his hold on the reins and patted his horse’s lathered neck in silent apology. His stomach pitched. This was a disaster. A surefire recipe for misery. They couldn’t possibly have a future together. What did he have to offer her—the girl who could afford everything? A mountain of debt. A drawer full of medals he didn’t deserve.
Benedict narrowed his eyes. If her idiotic cousin laid so much as a finger on her, he would pay dearly. Any man who used his physical superiority to bully a woman or intimidate someone weaker than himself didn’t deserve to draw breath.
Blood thundered in his ears, the same way it did before battle, bringing with it the bright anticipation of mayhem.
Seb trotted up beside him. Alex drew level on his other side and pounded him on the shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”
Ben grunted. At Hammersmith they slowed the horses to a walk, and he fought a rising sense of frustration. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, every mile a chore. He fought off a superstitious feeling of dread as a single magpie landed on the road in front of him and he recalled the old children’s rhyme: One for sorrow, two for joy. He prayed it wasn’t an omen—and felt immeasurably reassured when a second bird joined its mate, cawing loudly before they both flew off in a flutter of black-and-white wings.
Two for joy. He would not fail Georgie.
Finally they came to the village of Hounslow, just before the infamous heath, the setting for many an audacious robbery. It was no great work to locate the Dog and Duck public house.
Ben glanced at his companions as they headed out of town. “Stay out of sight. I’ll go in alone.”
They nodded in unison, not needing further instruction, and he appreciated the certain knowledge that they had his back.
Hold on, Georgie girl. I’m coming.
Chapter 35.
The sound of hooves on the gravel drive made Georgie glance toward the grimy window in sudden panic. Relief and terror swirled in her chest. Only one rider—Benedict had come alone. And he was walking into a trap. She tried to warn him, but the only sound she could make was a muffled grunt; Josiah had stuffed a rag in her mouth and tied it with the same handkerchief he’d used to overpower her.
He sat in a spindle-backed chair he’d brought in from the kitchen, facing the door, a loaded pistol resting on his knee. His fingers twitched on the wooden stock, and he bounced the heel of one foot compulsively against the chair leg. She’d never seen him with any sort of weapon before. Did he even know how to use the thing? She prayed not. Benedict had been in the army—the Rifles, for goodness sake. Surely his greater experience with firearms would give him the advantage here?
Boots crunched, and she heard Benedict’s achingly familiar voice shout, “Caversteed? Show yourself.”
“In here, Wylde,” Josiah called.
Her eyes teared with fright. She thumped her bound feet down on the wooden floor as loudly as she could, trying to alert him, and Josiah sent her a mocking glance for the futile gesture. Benedict appeared in the doorway, and her heart stopped at the sight of him, tall and strong and windblown. His gaze swept the room, taking in Josiah and his gun in one glance, then fixing on her. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and she nodded emphatically, trying to explain that she was unharmed; Josiah hadn’t yet made good on his threats to molest her.
He turned his attention back to Josiah, apparently unfazed by the muzzle pointing directly at him.
“Did you bring the jewels?” Josiah demanded, his voice high-pitched with strain.
Benedict glanced down at the small, lumpy bag he carried, and Georgie recognized it as her favorite beadwork reticule.
; “Here.” He tossed the bag carelessly onto the floor. A puff of dust flew up and a pile of jewelry slithered out across the dirty boards. Diamonds caught the light, sparkling even in the gloom.
“Well done.” Josiah smiled and lifted the pistol.
A deafening report echoed through the room. Georgie screamed behind the gag and swung to Benedict, expecting to see a terrible red stain spreading over his chest, but he merely sent her a cocky smile that made her heart trip over. It took her a stunned moment to comprehend that he was holding a smoking pistol and that it was her cousin who was bent over in his chair, clutching his arm and wailing in agony. Blood dripped onto the dusty floor beneath him.
“You shot me!” Josiah screeched.
Benedict stepped forward and used his boot to kick away Josiah’s pistol, which had fallen to the side of the chair. “Stop sniveling,” he said harshly. “I was in the Rifles. I once shot a man on horseback from eight hundred yards away. You’re lucky I didn’t blow a hole in your forehead, you bastard. How dare you take her?”
Josiah cringed. Benedict caught him by the collar, jerked him to his feet—and punched him clean across the jaw. Josiah’s head snapped back, and he slid to the floor in a boneless, unconscious heap.
Benedict stepped back, a look of utter contempt on his face, then glanced over at Georgie. In two strides, he was in front of her, ripping the gag from her mouth and pulling her into his arms. Georgie let out a whimper of relief and buried her nose against his shirtfront. His hold on her was so crushingly tight, she could scarcely breathe.
“God, I thought he’d hurt you,” he groaned, kissing the top of her head.
She tried to shake her head against his chest, but he’d left her no room to move. She wriggled, and his hold slackened. “It’s all right. I’m fine,” she gasped.
He clamped her cheeks between his palms, searching her features with a fierce expression, and then he pressed his mouth to hers in a desperate, hungry kiss.
A thousand conflicting emotions flowed into her: relief and desperation, fury and desire. Georgie yielded to them joyously, loving the rough tenderness of his hands in her hair, the frantic kisses he pressed to her nose, her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. Her hands were still tied, trapped between them, so she couldn’t wrap her arms around his neck as she wanted to, but she leaned into him.