The villagers were on them in minutes, pouring in and around the soldiers, grabbing reins, keeping the horses from trampling all and sundry. Neville sought his driver, discovered the old man being helped to his feet by a recognizable figure, and sighed. McGonigle. He supposed, if he looked close enough, he’d see half the orphans amidst the rabble, outfitted on his own money. Or Michael’s, if he wanted to look at it that way. That made him feel slightly better.
Keeping the officer at knife point, Neville shouted to the rebel leader. “What the devil do we do with them now?”
At the sound of the duke’s voice, McGonigle almost broke his neck looking up. His jaw gaped open as he recognized the ragged beggar on horseback. Glancing around, he signaled another of his cohorts to take the officer’s reins, then gestured for Neville to follow him to the side of the road.
“Y-your Grace,” he stuttered, obviously fighting the urge to tug at his forelock in full view of interested observers. “W-we didn’t know.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” Neville replied curtly, climbing down so he could meet the man face to face. “What the devil is the meaning of all this?”
McGonigle stiffened and replied in his more usual tones. “They’ve kept us blockaded for a week. We can’t go in or out. I can’t even see Sean. The poor lad must be past terrified by now. I’ve tried sending word to the earl, but I’ve no means of knowing if the messenger got through. I just know he hasn’t come back.”
“He got through,” Neville replied grimly, keeping an eye on the villagers as they disarmed the soldiers. “The earl’s here. We’re trying to get to the bottom of this nonsense, but I’ve reason to hide my identity for now. What are you planning on doing with this scurrilous lot?” He nodded in the direction of the incompetent band of soldiers.
McGonigle shrugged. “Disarm them, take their horses, and send them back to Durham. He’s the one behind this, he is.”
“We need proof. What does he hope to gain by inciting insurrection?” Before he received a reply, Neville watched another familiar figure lope over the hillside in their direction. For Fiona’s sake, he’d even put up with the likes of Eamon O’Connor.
The lanky Eamon caught up with them in a few long strides. His grin at the sight of the rag-bedecked duke tightened into a grim expression. “I was about to curse your soul to hell, your bloody honor,” he growled.
Rubbing his aching side, Neville held his temper. For whatever reason, O’Connor was a friend of Michael’s and Fiona’s. In a hostile environment, he’d do well to cultivate all the friends he could. “I’m certain that was done a long time ago, so you may as well save your breath, O’Connor. What’s the trouble this time?”
“Fiona,” Eamon replied curtly. “She’s ill and at Durham’s place.”
Neville breathed a little easier despite his aching rib. “She’s not really ill. She’s with Michael and Effingham. They’re searching for evidence against Durham, and Fiona’s playing the part of invalid to keep him unaware.”
Eamon scowled. “That’s not what that devil’s spawn, Colin Moriarity, said. He said one of Durham’s men posed as a messenger from McGonigle, abducted Fiona, and threw him off the coach for dead. Colin tracked him all the way here from England, and saw Fiona for himself, but he couldn’t talk with her. So he bribed one of the maids who said she’s taken to her bed.”
Neville shook his head, hoping to knock all the pieces of this puzzle back in place, but nothing in this bloody country made sense. He clung to what he knew for certain. “Fiona escaped the kidnappers. If Colin truly tracked them, he tracked empty-handed villains. We’ve not heard word of the Widow Blackthorn. Maybe she posed as Fiona. I just know I saw my wife this morning and she was in the company of her cousin and Effingham. They were on their way to Durham’s.”
Eamon’s grim expression did not ease. “Then Durham has an earl and a marquess as well as a duchess to use as pawns. Townsend’s with them, and word is, he’s told the PM the country is threatening insurrection and Aberdare is the leader. He’s having them all beheaded.”
The whole country was Bedlam run by Irish fairies. The straightest distance between two points was by way of the moon. Glaring at McGonigle and Eamon, Neville couldn’t even discern the heroes from the villains. He wished he’d never heard of Ireland.
But then he would never have known Fiona.
The Irishman’s challenging glare burned through Neville’s immediate denial. Fiona was ill and in Townsend’s hands.
Neville’s hands shook as he lowered the gun and blindly watched the activity around him. Surely not. Surely she was safe and in Effingham and Aberdare’s care...
Panic seeped into his blood as he watched the villagers binding wounds and the soldiers hurriedly retreating. The panic multiplied and raced faster.
He had to find Fiona and see for himself that she was safe. To hell with all her damned plans and schemes. The whole country could incinerate as far as he was concerned. He just wanted Fiona safe and back in his arms. He’d never let her go.
The thought of never seeing Fiona’s laughing, taunting eyes again threw fuel on the inferno, only this time, his fury didn’t erupt in rage. Every thought coalesced into the cold, calculating determination to find Fiona and take her home, where she belonged.
Neville glanced around at the ragged villagers hauling off their booty of guns and horses. Several of the men stood guard between the soldiers and the women and children, holding the soldiers’ own guns against them. Thieves, the lot, but they were Fiona’s thieves. They’d saved his life, unwittingly or not.
Neville took a deep breath to force back the panic. “All right, I’ll need pen and paper,” he ordered. “Water and rub down those horses. We’ll need them later. Is the castle safe? I need somewhere to work.” As he rapped out his commands, he strode briskly in the direction of the village.
Without even realizing it, he usurped the leadership of the rebel band. The two Irish miscreants, McGonigle and O’Connor, fell into step behind him.
Thirty-eight
Neville gasped as a small elbow jabbed his bruised rib. Adjusting the youngster on his lap, he bent over the drawing his informants had compiled over the last few hours. He knew precisely in which room each of the hostages was kept, but his finger lingered over the one where Fiona was held. Pain nagged at him, not from his injuries, but from guilt. He should never have agreed to this. Never. No matter how many cousins or earls or marquess’s agreed to protect her. No matter how incompetent the enemy.
His wife had the courage of a pride of lions. She would defy her captors. She would spit in their faces.
She would be terrified and recklessly endanger her life.
Clenching his teeth, Neville forced his thoughts back to a military standpoint. If he allowed his emotions free rein, he’d be on a horse, tearing across the countryside, prepared to rip Townsend and Durham into bloody little pieces. He couldn’t risk it. Too much was at stake, and not just Fiona’s life and that of his unborn heir. The whole countryside was a powder keg with a lit fuse. Townsend hadn’t completely lied to the authorities. Insurrection was imminent if someone didn’t douse the flame.
McGonigle gently lowered a sleeping infant into a makeshift cradle while his wife set cups of steaming rich tea on the table. Neville gulped half the cup without flinching. He hadn’t eaten anything the better part of the day. Tea alone fueled his blood.
He surrendered the toddler in his lap to his hostess. He no longer thought of his unborn child as a symbol of his title and ancestry, as another duty he had undertaken. That child was a living, breathing bundle of arms and legs as much as the orphans crammed into McGonigle’s drafty cottage. The future duke would yawn and cry and suck his fist like any other infant. And Neville longed to hold him as much as he longed to hold Fiona again.
With white knuckles, Neville clutched his pen and scribbled out still another letter. He had messengers scouring the countryside, sailing the sea, riding hell-bent for Dublin and parts unknown. T
he signet of the Duke of Anglesey sealed the wax on each letter that went out. At times of war, dukes could command armies. Neville was positioning himself to command his.
In a rising breeze portending a storm, the cottage door blew open, sweeping in Eamon. “The horses are saddled.”
Neville stamped his ring into the hot wax he’d dripped onto this last letter. This one would go directly to the king himself. His Majesty wasn’t a particular friend of his. George IV had grown narrow-minded and bigoted since his regency. But even the corpulent king wouldn’t stand for insurrection. This letter was insurance and would only go out if something happened to Neville or the hostages.
He laid the missive in Mrs. McGonigle’s hands. He’d explained its purpose earlier, and she looked grim as she tucked the document into a high drawer of her kitchen cabinet. She said nothing as the men donned their outerwear and prepared to leave.
“It’s an hour’s ride,” McGonigle said as they slipped out of the cottage to the waiting horses. “The men from Roscommon are already there. Soldiers should be there soon. Durham has some militia with him, but most went home in disgust. We have numbers on our side.”
“But they have Fiona on theirs,” Eamon reminded him, arranging his lanky frame in the saddle.
“Aye,” McGonigle said sadly. “It’s a stalemate I’m seein’.”
Neville grunted in disapproval. “I’ll remind you, gentleman, that you’re talking about Fiona. Durham will be damned lucky if she doesn’t have him trussed and stuffed up a chimney by the time we arrive.”
Laughing softly at this image, the other two men rode into the night. Neville double-checked the girth of his mount, then slowly followed in their wake. He wished he could inspire his own confidence so easily. McGonigle and O’Connor didn’t know Fiona was with child. Neville was desperately aware of it.
Holding himself stiffly erect, Neville tried concentrating on organizing his troops as they crept out of field and hedge to join him. He had a formidable concentration, he’d been told time and again. He could personally shove a bill through recalcitrant committees, past the old stick-in-the-muds in the Lords, and into the right hands in the Commons. He could conquer continents if he so chose.
Fiona was an unprincipled rebel just like these Irish scoundrels he traveled with, but right now, all he cared about was getting her back. Hell, the way he felt right now, Townsend could bloody well keep Aberdare and Effingham if Neville could just have Fiona. Since Fiona wouldn’t appreciate his generosity, he would have to rescue the lot of them.
“We’re almost there, Your Grace.” McGonigle sidled his horse next to Neville’s. “There’s a thicket off to the right where ye can wait safely. O’Connor and I will check the positions of our men. I’d not storm the place if I could prevent it. We’ve kept the tenants quiet, but there’s always one in every bunch...”
Neville shook his head. “These are not feudal times. Townsend has no authority here. His wits have gone addled, if I do not miss my guess. Find some pretext to draw him from the house, and I’ll deal with him.”
Eamon eased his horse close enough to hear and shook his head in disagreement. “These are medieval times. This is Ireland. The law belongs to whoever takes it into his hands. You are not in your safe London study, your nobleness. Keep out of sight. If we lose you, we’ll lose the war of a certainty.”
Neville knew if he could only draw Townsend out, he could end this bloodlessly, but he also knew Eamon had a point. They had very little physical evidence against Townsend. It was the word of a band of Irish rebels against a lord of the realm. Townsend had no idea the Duke of Anglesey was even in the country, or he would have thought twice about this escapade.
As soon as Townsend realized his plan had fallen through, he would become even more of a loose cannon than he already was. Even as Neville argued with himself, the point became moot. A scream from an upper story window shattered the moonless night.
Neville recognized that scream as clearly as he would recognize his own face in the mirror. Without consulting his two sergeants-at-arms, he kicked his horse into a gallop straight toward the house. It had never occurred to him that a poor specimen of manhood like Durham or an old madman like Townsend would actually molest Fiona. He’d feared their physical abuse if she applied her biting tongue. But Fiona wasn’t screaming in terror. She was screaming with murderous rage. He would kill them if they’d touched her, if Fiona didn’t kill them first.
***
Fiona smacked Durham so hard his head should have spun off his shoulders. It didn’t, but she had a solution for that. Picking up her skirt, she didn’t waste time kicking his shins with these ridiculous slippers. Instead, she raced for the door he’d so conveniently left open while he’d offered his insulting proposition. She’d seen swords mounted in the billiard room the last time she’d escaped this room.
Durham roared with anger and raced after her. He had the advantage of breeches instead of her hampering skirts, so it wouldn’t take long for him to catch up. She wished she knew where they kept Michael and the marquess. She wished she knew if they were all right. Without any resources but her own, she did what little she could.
She grabbed the arm of a rusted suit of armor adorning the upper corridor. She’d had some hope of knocking it over in Durham’s path, but the metal pulled loose in her hands. Giving it a look of disgust, she turned and flung it as hard as she could in Durham’s face. Then she shoved the armor over.
Durham roared in pain. As the armor clattered and splintered across his path, she picked up her skirt and ran. She’d seen the billiard room when they’d first arrived. It was in the front, where a proper salon should be. Men! They lived like pigs on their own.
A woman screamed below. Mrs. B. Fiona scowled but didn’t slow her step as she passed the stairs. Her erstwhile lady’s maid and Colin had both been on the premises when she’d arrived. Mrs. B. swore they had followed the kidnappers in hopes of capturing them, but Fiona didn’t believe anyone right now.
She heard Durham’s awkward gait close at hand. She could nearly smell the stench of whiskey on him. Stupid fool. Surely he didn’t really think she’d welcome his overtures or believe his lies?
“Damn you, you Irish hussy!” her tormentor called as she slammed the billiard room door in his face. “I’ll wager you’ve spread your legs for half Ireland before this, and I’ll have you before this day’s done.”
There was no fool more stupid than one who thought with that worm between his legs, Fiona thought spitefully as she clambered onto an ancient blackened oak chair. The chair’s massive weight held it in place as she stood on the arm and reached for the rapier just above her head. She’d carve the wretch into stew meat.
Durham pulled the chair out from under her just as her fingers gripped the rapier. Fiona grabbed a shelf of filthy tankards, and still clinging to the rapier, leapt from the chair arm, slowing her descent to the floor by hanging onto the shelf. The shelf jerked loose from the crumbling plaster and heavy tankards bounced across the warped wooden floor, but she was on her feet again, rapier pointed directly at Durham’s bulging belly.
“Don’t be a fool, woman.” Durham hiccuped, batting at the thin sword point with his arm. “You’ll all hang for treason before the month’s out. I can save your pretty head if you’ll just give me what I want.”
Fiona didn’t give this nonsense the courtesy of a reply. With an agile upward twist of her wrist, she split all Durham’s buttons. He tottered in a puzzled attempt to catch one. When it came right down to it, she hadn’t the courage to split his guts in the same way. Just the idea of blood nauseated her. She backed away while he drunkenly studied their predicament.
Concentrating all her thoughts on the immediate enemy, she didn’t hear the first shouts in the yard, but the rising noise through the cracked window panes caught her attention now. Michael! Michael had escaped and roused the household. Fiona didn’t know whether to cheer or be afraid.
“That was my last decent waistcoat, y
ou slut!” Durham cursed, looking down at his shredded clothing. “I’ll make you and your damnable husband pay for that.”
“You want my coin now, or after you’re behind bars?” a calm male voice inquired from the doorway.
Neville! Fiona’s eyes widened at the sight of her husband still garbed in rags yet striding into the room as if he wore a suit of armor. The blasted man didn’t even have a weapon! She would kill him when this was over and done. Did he think himself invulnerable as well as omnipotent? All the same, her heart thrilled at his appearance.
To her surprise, Durham shrank into a whimpering, stoop-shouldered caricature of a man as he backed toward the far wall, out of Neville’s reach. “I never hurt her, I swear.”
“Watch it! He’s after the sword,” Fiona cried as she caught the glint of metal in the dim light of the room’s one lamp.
“Give me yours,” Neville commanded, holding out his hand while keeping his gaze fastened on Durham.
At any other time, with any other man, Fiona would have hesitated at surrendering her hard-won weapon, but not with Neville. She flung the light rapier toward his outstretched hand.
He caught it easily, swinging it in an experienced grip before pointing it at the hapless Durham. “How would you like to do this, Durham?” Neville asked, as if discussing a hand of piquet. “Shall I cut you into tiny ribbons, or will you come peacefully and tell all to the authorities?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Durham sputtered, jerking a broadsword off the wall with some effort. “I’ve not done anything any other man hasn’t tried.” He tilted to one side before adjusting to the weight of the sword. “You can’t attack a man for no reason in his own home.”
“If I did not mistake, I believe you just insulted my wife,” Neville continued in a voice of deadly calm. “You’ll get down on your knees and beg her forgiveness.”
Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. They stood in a house occupied by two treasonous Bedlamites, surrounded by who knew how many enemies, and the arrogant duke played gentlemanly games of honor? She’d rip the ears off his head if that tone in his voice hadn’t warned her to stay clear.
The Irish Duchess Page 31