by Cheryl Holt
Miss Watson was off balance, Mr. Townsend and Bobby too. Bobby rammed into Mr. Townsend again, attempting to propel him out, but it was just as they hit a rough bump. They all bounced, and Mr. Townsend bellowed, “You little bugger! I’ll kill you for this!”
Before Bobby could blink, Mr. Townsend gripped his coat and tossed him out. He flew through the air, and the ground approached with an odd sort of slow motion. With his hands fettered, he couldn’t reach out to stabilize himself or soften the fall.
He landed with a fierce thump, scraping across the gravel as he rolled into the ditch. His breath was knocked out, and he was numb and disoriented, maybe even unconscious for awhile. He thought Mr. Townsend might regret his impulsive act, that he’d halt to retrieve Bobby, but it didn’t happen. The vehicle vanished around a bend—with Miss Watson trapped in it.
Bobby stared up at the blue sky, the trees providing a pretty green canopy. His head was pounding, his stomach churning with nausea, his torso crying out in agony. He tested his limbs, but they didn’t seem to be broken, which was a relief.
What had he done? He’d made his move, but had failed. He couldn’t protect Miss Watson now. Whatever conclusion Mr. Townsend intended, he was still racing toward it.
Suddenly, Rex huffed up. He was panting, drooling with exhaustion, but ecstatic at having caught up to Bobby. He whined and licked Bobby’s face, and Bobby chuckled miserably.
“Hello, boy,” he said. “Am I glad to see you!”
I’m glad too! Rex might have replied.
Bobby stayed on his back for a bit, taking stock, letting his dizziness pass. Rex dawdled with him, watching for Bobby to tell him what would occur next.
Eventually, he wiggled about and sat up. Once he felt steady, he staggered to his feet. Rex nuzzled Bobby, urging him to do something.
Bobby studied the road in both directions. What was best? Should he follow after Miss Watson and Mr. Townsend? Or was it better to trek to Dunworthy to speak with Lord John?
Lord John wasn’t at the castle though. He was off chasing after Ellen, and no one knew when he’d return. If Bobby chose that option, he’d have to be extremely careful. He couldn’t allow any of the malicious Dunn cousins to stumble on him. He’d have to hide and get word to Jane so she’d assist him.
Yet what if Lord John was away for days or even weeks? What then? Mr. Townsend was eager to harm Miss Watson, and each minute increased the danger to her. Shouldn’t she be Bobby’s first priority? Dare he wait for Lord John?
Falmouth or Dunworthy?
He couldn’t decide.
“I have to rid myself of this rope,” he told Rex, and the dog nodded his agreement.
There was a tree nearby, and he went over and started rubbing it on the bark, using it to gradually slice through the heavy cord. But the rope was thick and solid, the afternoon short and waning, and he would require an eternity to free himself.
* * * *
John galloped along with a single-minded resolve. He would locate Bobby and Winnie, and he refused to consider that he wouldn’t. After he succeeded in his quest, Freddie would finally pay the price for his pathetic life of misdeeds for which he’d typically skated away with no penalty.
The debacle with Melvina had forced him to recognize that he was much too trusting and much too kind to people who didn’t deserve it. Those days were over, and everyone needed to beware of his temper. His fury was so powerful that he wondered if he might set a spark that would ignite the whole world.
The hours were ticking by, and he gazed at the sky and ordered the sun to remain where it was. Dusk couldn’t arrive, and night couldn’t fall. He had to be able to continue his pursuit.
He couldn’t imagine what Freddie planned for Bobby, but Winnie wasn’t safe. John had no doubt that Freddie would punish her. He’d be angry at being kicked out of Dunworthy, and he’d blame her. He was stupid enough and reckless enough to commit any heinous act.
Up ahead, a boy and his dog were marching toward him. John might have ignored them, but the dog woofed and ran to John as if they were acquainted. John looked closer and—to his great surprise and relief—it was Bobby and Rex.
There was no sign of a carriage, Freddie, or Winnie though, and as he trotted over and jumped down, he was quite alarmed.
The poor boy was definitely a sight, as if he’d been in a hard battle. His face was scraped and bloody, his hands and wrists too. His boots were scuffed, his coat and trousers dirty and tattered.
“What happened to you?” John inquired.
“Lord John? I can’t believe it. I’m not hallucinating, am I?”
“No, it’s me.”
John’s initial instinct was to hug him and tell him everything would be all right, but Bobby wouldn’t like to be treated like a child. For a second, it appeared he might burst into tears, but he was too strong for that. He inhaled a deep breath and straightened, but the slight motion had him wincing in pain.
“What’s wrong?” John asked.
“I failed you. I tried to rescue Miss Watson from Mr. Townsend, but he’d shackled my hands behind my back.”
“Bastard!” John muttered.
“I fought him anyway, but he threw me out of the carriage.”
John blanched. “As it was moving?”
“Yes.”
“Are any bones broken?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where is Winnie?”
“I don’t know, Lord John. After Mr. Townsend tossed me out, he didn’t slow down.”
“Are they still bound for Falmouth?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s chase after her then.”
“May we kill Mr. Townsend when we catch him?”
“That’s my plan.” He patted him on the shoulder. “You did well, Bobby. I’m proud of you.”
“I didn’t save her though.”
“You tried your best. It’s all that matters.”
“I warned you that she’s not very good at taking care of herself.”
“Then we’d better fetch her away from that madman. She’ll never accomplish it on her own.”
John mounted his horse, and he leaned down and extended his arm to Bobby. Bobby grabbed hold, cringing in agony as John lifted him and deposited him at John’s back.
John glared at Rex and commanded, “Lead the way, dog.”
Rex hesitated, not sure what John wanted, and Bobby said, “Find Miss Watson.”
Bobby pointed down the road in the direction she’d traveled. Rex barked once, then ran off. John kicked his horse into a canter and followed after him.
* * * *
“How long will you be?”
“I just need a few minutes. Wait here.”
Freddie frowned at his driver, Arnold Dunn. He was a Dunn cousin, picked by Melvina to convey Freddie to his destination, then transport the vehicle back to Dunworthy. They’d passed a copse of trees where it had been easy to pull over, so Freddie had pounded on the roof and had him stop.
Freddie, Arnold, and Miss Watson were bickering in the grass. Miss Watson was brave and defiant, Arnold concerned and disturbed, but Freddie wasn’t worried about the stupid oaf. After he was shed of Miss Watson, he’d never see any of the Dunns again. He’d lost his safe place at Dunworthy, had lost his only friend, and it was all Miss Watson’s fault.
When he’d tossed Bobby out of the carriage, she’d flown into a rage. They’d been fighting ever since, and he’d have been happy to throw her out too, but he had other ideas for her. He’d threatened to sell her to a brothel, and she assumed he’d been jesting, scaring her, but he wasn’t. She would bring him a pretty penny.
There were all kinds of unscrupulous characters in port towns. Tavern owners always sought new girls, and it was irrelevant that the girl wasn’t interested in carnal employment. An owner would drug or imprison her, and after weeks or months, even the toughest ones were worn down and hollowed out.
But first,
Freddie would extract some personal revenge. Their grappling had left him incredibly aroused, and he figured she should relieve the discomfort he was suffering. After all, she’d caused it.
“What are you going to do to me?” Miss Watson demanded.
Freddie smirked. “What do you think? You were eager to lift your skirt for John. I’ve decided you should provide me with the same benefit.”
She whipped around to Arnold. “I believe he means to ravage me. Will you stand there and permit it?”
Arnold scowled at Freddie. “I didn’t sign on for this, Mr. Townsend. I’m just supposed to drive you. I don’t countenance that sort of behavior.”
“Why would your opinion matter to me?”
“We’re simply delivering her to Falmouth,” Arnold said.
“Yes, but it occurred to me that I should take a detour.”
He tugged Miss Watson away and started into the woods.
“You can’t let him!” Miss Watson called to Arnold. “Can you imagine how Lord John will punish you when he finds out?”
Arnold shook his head. “Lord John won’t ever find out. Melvina promised us he won’t.”
“Are you certain about that?” Miss Watson said. “Are you willing to risk it?”
Freddie asked Arnold, “Would you like to hold her down for me? You could have a go at her after I’m done.”
Arnold gaped at Freddie, gaped at Miss Watson, then spat in the dirt. “You’ll get no assistance from me. She’s a harpy. She’d probably bewitch my private parts, and they’d never work again.”
Freddie laughed and marched away, and he had to drag Miss Watson. She was determined to not accompany him, and he enjoyed her protests—meager though they were.
“Stop it, Mr. Townsend!” she fumed. “Stop it right now.”
“Be silent. I like my partners to be conscious when I’m fornicating, but if you annoy me, I’ll knock you out. I must admit, it would be much easier than fussing with you.”
She started screaming, and she gave a hard yank and wrenched free, but he seized her swiftly enough. The sleeve on her dress ripped, revealing a swath of bare skin that fueled his excitement.
He pitched her to the ground, but she was very feisty, and she came up swinging. Somehow, she’d managed to pick up a rock, and she hit him with it, right in the spot where Bobby had butted him. The cut reopened, blood spurting out.
“Bitch!” he bellowed.
Her screaming increased, their wrestling too. She was like a slippery eel.
Arnold blustered up. “Shut your traps! Both of you! Or you’ll alert the whole county.”
“If you want us to shut up,” Freddie seethed, “help me restrain her. The quicker I finish this, the quicker she’ll be quiet.”
Freddie fell on her, as Arnold rushed over and clasped her wrists, pulling her arms over her head. As they struggled to pin her down, she glared at Freddie and vowed, “John Dunn will kill you for this. I swear it!”
“Pompous whore!” he raged, and his fury flared to an alarming height.
He wrapped his hands around her throat and began choking her. She’d constantly refused to heed him—it had been the story of his life with women—so he’d be delighted to ensure she obeyed. In a small section of his mind, he realized he might slay her before he was through, but he didn’t care.
He felt like a god! He was fully in charge of her. He could continue until she died or he could show her some mercy. What would he choose? How would it end?
He tightened his grip, and she pried at his fingers and fought to squirm away, but she was rapidly losing the battle.
“Holy Jesu, Townsend,” Arnold muttered. “You’re murdering the stupid shrew. Don’t you dare!”
“Sod off, Arnold.”
“I definitely will. You can kill her on your own. I’m just the driver.”
Arnold slid away, but Freddie was so involved in his task that he scarcely noticed. Why hadn’t he always treated females like this? Why hadn’t he always used his superior size to force them into submission?
Suddenly, a dog barked, but he ignored it. In his livid haze, he wasn’t cognizant of his surroundings.
But Arnold mumbled, “Shit!”
He dashed into the woods, then, not a second later, Freddie was struck from behind as if by a boulder. The impact sent him careening through the air so violently that he wasn’t certain what had transpired. Dazed and confused, he lay on his back and stared up at the sky. Then Rex—Bobby’s dim-witted dog—was on top of him and biting his arm.
Freddie yelped with dismay and tried to jerk away, but Rex dug in, his sharp teeth puncturing jacket and skin to keep Freddie right where he was.
“Help! Help!” Freddie cried, as Miss Watson had minutes earlier.
Bobby appeared and ordered, “Rex! To me!”
He had to repeat the command three times before the accursed animal relented and drew away. He sat by Bobby, but he was growling, watching Freddie like a hawk, ready to pounce again at the least provocation.
Freddie rolled onto his side, catching his breath and anxious to figure out how he could kill the dog—and Bobby too.
“I’ll murder that vicious beast,” he said. “Just see if I don’t.”
“I don’t think you will.”
Bobby oozed disdain, then he stepped away, and to Freddie’s great astonishment, John seemed to be there instead.
In Freddie’s perplexed, wounded condition, he couldn’t deduce how that might have happened. Wasn’t John chasing after…after…Ellen? Yes, that was it. He was on his way north to Scotland. Why was he in Cornwall with Bobby?
“Hello, Freddie. Fancy meeting you here.”
“I’m hurt, John. Can you lift me up? I can’t manage it.”
John didn’t respond to Freddie, but spoke to Bobby. “Check on Miss Watson for me.”
Bobby vanished from view, and Freddie could hear him murmuring to Miss Watson, but he couldn’t decipher the precise comments. Ultimately, Bobby called, “She’s fine, Lord John. A tad battered, but fine.”
“Take her to the carriage,” John replied. “I’ll join you shortly.”
“May I stay and assist you?” Bobby asked. “May I be a witness?”
“No, I need you to tend Winnie. Get her to the carriage—at once.”
“There was a driver too,” Bobby said. “He’s a Dunn cousin. Would you like me to send Rex after him?”
“What’s his name?”
“Arnold.”
“We don’t have to search for him. He’ll slither home eventually, and we’ll deal with him there. Go on now, but while you wait for me, grab a pistol out of my bag. If Arnold comes anywhere near Winnie, shoot him dead.”
John froze, listening as Miss Watson and Bobby walked away. Then he reached down and yanked Freddie to his feet. Freddie was dizzy and off balance, unable to clear his vision, but the one thing he could observe quite plainly was John’s dangerous expression. Freddie had to seize the offensive—and fast.
“John, John,” he quickly said, “it’s obvious you’re angry with me.”
“You have no idea, Freddie.”
Without warning, John hit him as hard as he could. Freddie flew through the air again and landed in a stunned heap, his entire weight crashing onto the arm the dog had ruined. He shrieked from the pain—and would have passed out—but John was there in an instant. He pulled Freddie to his feet again and held him upright because he certainly couldn’t stand on his own.
“What were you planning to do to her?” John demanded.
“Nothing! I swear.”
John hit him again, even harder. Freddie collapsed and drifted into a stupor, awakening only when John kicked him.
“That last blow was for Bobby,” John said.
“I’ll kill that prick someday,” Freddie spat out, but he should have remained silent. He was in no position to threaten Bobby, but his thought processes were muddled.
“Was this Melvi
na’s scheme or yours?” John asked.
“Of course it was hers,” Freddie hastened to claim. “She commanded me to escort Miss Watson out of Dunworthy. I didn’t dare refuse her.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She terrifies me.”
John drew him in so they were nose to nose. “Tell me what you intended for Winnie in Falmouth, and I’ll let you live. If you won’t confess it, or if I decide you’re lying, I’ll murder you right now.”
“You wouldn’t, John! Not after all we’ve meant to each other.”
“We don’t mean anything to each other. Start talking.”
“I merely removed her from Dunworthy for Melvina. That’s it!”
“You had no dastardly goal with regard to her?”
“No, none.”
From somewhere, a very large knife appeared, and John dangled it in front of Freddie’s face so he had a good look at it. Then he stuck the tip into Freddie’s neck, opening a new cut so more of Freddie’s blood seeped out. How much blood was there in a body? How much had he left?
“Save your life, Freddie,” John hissed. “Admit your crime.”
He poked the knife in a bit more, the flow increasing, and Freddie squirmed with panic. He gulped and insisted, “Melvina arranged for me to sell her to a brothel in Falmouth. She contacted the fellow who owns it.”
“You agreed to participate?”
“I didn’t want to! I pointed out that it was deranged, but she…she…forced me.”
“Melvina forced you?”
“Yes! You’re aware of how fierce she can be.”
John eased away and straightened. “I always told myself I liked you, Freddie. No matter how you behaved, I would persuade myself that we were friends, that we were close.”
“We were close! We are close!”
“But you know what?”
“What?”
“I was mistaken. I never liked you. You’re a worthless prick who’s constantly brought me misery and trouble. And you know what else?”