She quailed inside but did her best not to let it show. “They’ll come for me, you know,” she said.
His face hardened. “Let them come. By the time they do, it will be far, far too late.”
Eliza closed her eyes and prayed he was wrong.
Kit drew up his mount, slowing the lathered animal to a walk. He’d ridden the beast, and others like it, hard throughout the course of the day, pushing for as much time and speed as he could safely manage.
Back in London before he’d set out, he and the other men had met. After a quick debate, the decision was made that Adrian and Brevard would ride north to Gretna Green. Darragh would ride to Dover and make inquiries to see if Pettigrew and Eliza planned to cross into France through Calais. And Kit would head to Southampton, then make the crossing to the island of Guernsey if he discovered evidence that the pair had passed in that direction.
Anyone else would have gone to Gretna Green, and sent Brevard chasing south to the shore instead. But Kit’s gut instincts had called for him to take the less likely course, and he always followed his gut.
To his relief, his intuition once again had proven correct.
At the last coaching inn, while waiting for a fresh horse to be readied, he had questioned the stable hands. When one youth began to describe a slender, brunette lady accompanied by a tall, black-haired scarecrow of a fellow, Kit knew he’d hit the mark. The stable boy recalled them most particularly because the gentleman had given him such a miserly tip for his service. The boy also recounted how the man had yelled at the young lady when she had balked at stepping back inside the coach as they were preparing to depart.
Heartened by the fact that he was definitely on the correct trail, Kit composed hurried messages for Darragh, Adrian and Brevard, and sent them off with runners. He also wrote a note to be express-delivered to Violet, whom he knew must be worrying herself ill back in London.
Now on the road again, he raced fast, knowing he was no more than an hour behind Eliza and Pettigrew. If he caught them before they set sail, he could put a quick end to Pettigrew’s vile plans. But even if he missed them, he would find Eliza. He would never stop searching, not until he held her safe inside his arms.
Chapter Twenty-two
The sea crossing was rough and miserable and, unlike in the coach, Eliza had not been able to keep from being violently ill. Despite the agony of her queasy, churning stomach, a part of her had been glad of her suffering since her illness kept Pettigrew at bay.
Had she not been sick, she feared he might have decided to force himself upon her to consummate their “union,” as he called it. The idea of him touching her in such a manner only increased her nauseated state. Given that, she didn’t begrudge the long, cold hours spent inside the tiny cabin belowdecks, her head bent over a wooden bucket. In her estimation, her miserable state had been worth every last wretched heave.
Morning sun was just lightening the sky when their ship docked and Pettigrew came for her. Disgust wrinkled his face as he sniffed the squalid atmosphere, his eyes raking over what she knew must be her wan complexion and disheveled appearance. If she looked as dreadful as she felt, she must truly be a sight.
He led her to an inn, where he procured a bedchamber for himself and his “wife.”
A maid brought her hot water, towels and a comb for her hair. Eliza had no idea what excuse Pettigrew had used to explain her lack of luggage and other traveling amenities. A meal arrived not long after, and was set upon a small, drop-leaf table near the fireplace.
“Clean yourself up,” Pettigrew ordered once the maid had gone. “I am going to find the minister and make sure everything is in order for the ceremony. Be ready by the time I return.”
“And how long will that be?” she said with more spirit than she felt.
“Midday most like, so I suggest you get some rest while I am out.” A crude, ugly light shone in his gaze. “You’ll be needing your strength for later.”
She shuddered as he let himself out the door, the key scraping audibly in the lock. If she’d had any doubt, his last words assured her that he meant to force himself on her tonight. He would have to take her against her will, she promised, since she would never let him touch her any other way.
Ignoring the fatigue that dragged upon her like chains, she went to the door and rattled the knob, confirming that it was indeed well barred. Then she crossed to the window.
Peering out, her heart sank as precipitously as the sharp drop beneath, the land sloping off toward a rough, rocky shoreline that led straight to the sea.
Cousin Philip had chosen her prison well. She wondered how long he had been planning this. Some while, she decided, since he already had the minister under his control.
She considered banging on the door and yelling but didn’t know if he had hired a guard—one of the men from the ship, perhaps—who was willing to see she did not gain help from any of the inn staff.
Dejected and weary, she crossed to the washstand and rinsed her face and hands. The maid had also left a toothbrush and tooth powder, which she used to scrub her teeth. Mildly refreshed, she moved to the table, dropped onto the single, hard wooden chair and studied the tray of food. She knew her efforts were not aided by starvation and so forced herself to eat a few bites of bread, and drink some hot tea.
The last of her nausea eased, hunger surprisingly replacing the ache in her stomach. Picking up a knife, she reached out to cut a tiny wedge of cheese, then paused, her interest caught by the implement. In speculation, she turned the knife over in her hand, then gazed again at the window.
No, she thought, shaking her head at the wild idea that popped into her mind. Trying such a thing would be sheer folly. But what other options did she have? Kit and the others would be searching for her, she knew, but they might not reach her in time. Either she should act now or wait meek as a lamb for Cousin Philip to return.
Knowing she had not so much as a second to waste, she hurried to her feet.
“I’ll have that key now.” Kit fixed the innkeeper with an implacable stare as he pushed a pair of coins across the wooden bar top between them.
“You’re her brother, you say?” The man eyed the coins assessingly.
“That’s right.” Kit added another coin to the pile, then one more when the first few failed to elicit results.
The innkeeper’s large fist came out and scooped up the money. Unhooking a key from a nail beneath the bar, he passed it to Kit. “Wouldn’t want to keep a man from his family, now would I?”
Without acknowledging the man’s lascivious wink, Kit folded the metal key into his palm and strode toward the stairs.
“First door at the top of the steps,” the older man called after him.
Kit knew Eliza was alone and presumably locked inside, the innkeeper having previously volunteered the information that her husband had taken her up to their room, then had come back down and gone out.
Kit didn’t believe it. Surely they couldn’t already be wed, unless the ship’s captain had performed the ceremony on the voyage over. But if the man had, Kit thought, silently reaffirming his vow, Eliza would not remain a bride for long.
Up the stairs he went into a narrow, dimly lighted hallway. Crossing to the first door, he fit the key into the lock and gave it a turn. The door swung open on silent hinges.
He expected to see Eliza. Instead the room appeared empty, the window sash full open, cheap gingham curtains billowing inward on a stiff, salt-scented breeze. Shadows crowded the room, the morning sunshine grayed by a band of dark, lumbering clouds that were rolling in from the sea.
He scowled, his gaze flying to the bed, which had been stripped free of its linens. Walking forward, he moved to investigate. To his left, the floorboards creaked ever so lightly, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.
Acting on pure instinct, he shifted on the balls of his feet and flung up an arm. He took a glancing blow to his shoulder from the china washbasin that had been intended to crack o
pen his skull.
Whirling around, he prepared himself for a fight. A pair of soft, fear-glazed gray eyes collided with his own.
Suddenly the blue and white basin clattered to the floor as Eliza tossed the crockery aside and hurled herself into his arms. “Kit, my God, you’re here! I thought you were Philip. I thought he’d come back for me.”
Kit clutched her tight and squeezed his eyes shut. Cradling her to him, he savored the sensation of her lithe body pressed against his own. Without thinking, he crushed his lips to hers and breathed in her warm, vital scent, overwhelmed to be holding her once again in his arms. Deepening their kiss, he gave himself over to the moment, blood thundering in his head, pounding through his veins with a mixture of complete relief and immense joy.
Eliza responded, returning his kisses with an eagerness that rocked him to his core. Gentling his touch, he let both of them savor the connection, rejoice in the unbridled exhilaration of being together once again.
At length, he forced himself to draw away, resting his forehead against her own. “Are you all right?” he whispered, his voice a low, thick rumble.
She leaned back enough to gaze up at him. “Yes. At least I am now.”
He kissed her again, a soft, gentle joining of lips. “I thought I’d lost you. My heart nearly stopped when we realized he’d taken you.”
She trembled. “I knew you’d come after me, but I didn’t think any of you would realize his destination, not right away. I assumed you would all be headed to Scotland by now.”
“Brevard and Adrian are traveling there now. I’m sure they’re still en route. All of us, including Darragh, set out as soon as we realized you’d been abducted.”
“Thank heavens for your quick thinking.” She cast a rueful glance toward the floor. “Sorry about attacking you with the washbowl. I’m glad now that I missed.”
He grinned. “I’m glad that you missed too. You’d have left a wicked knot on my noggin, not to mention given me a raging headache.”
“When I heard footsteps in the hall, I assumed he had returned early, come back before I had a chance to escape.”
“And how were you going to do that if not with the basin?” He gazed around the room, only then noticing a strip of cloth—seven feet long at least—lying on the floor at the base of the window. “Are those bedsheets? Or should I say, were those bedsheets?”
She nodded. “I cut them into strips and braided them together in hopes of using it as a rope. I didn’t think I had enough length and was about to start on the curtains when you arrived.”
“A rope for what?” He released her and crossed to the open window, his stomach lurching as he saw the drop down to the cliff below. “Lord have mercy, Eliza, you weren’t going to try climbing out the window, were you? It would have been nothing short of suicide. You’d never have made it down in one piece.”
She crossed her arms. “I had to do something. I could not sit by and let him force me into marriage.”
“So you aren’t married, then?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet. That’s where he went, to consult with the minister. He may return anytime. We really shouldn’t linger.”
“She is right, you know,” declared a grim male voice from the hallway. “You ought not to have stayed.”
Pettigrew stepped into the room and slammed the door closed behind him. In his hand, he held a pistol.
Eliza sucked in an audible breath.
Kit reached out, caught her hand and tugged her behind him.
Pettigrew smirked. “Hiding her will do you no good. I am the one who has the advantage here.”
“I assure you, Pettigrew,” Kit drawled, “you have no advantage, nor will you ever have.”
Fury flashed in Pettigrew’s gaze, his nose jutting out like a great vulture’s beak. “Unlike the last time, you’re in no position to offer insults, so I would advise you to curb your tongue. And I’m sick of your interference, Winter. How did you find us here?”
“Simple deductive reasoning. There are only so many places you could have fled with Eliza. I sent a man to every one.”
Pettigrew’s hatred shone brighter.
As though he wasn’t in the least concerned, Kit placed a hand on his hip. “If I were you, I would run while I had the chance.”
Pettigrew’s lips parted, incredulous amusement showing on his face. “I should run? I? You are the one who is a fool, Lord Christopher. A self-indulged, careless second son, who hasn’t the wherewithal to succeed at anything that is of the slightest worth in this world.”
“Maybe so, but at least I’ve never crawled so low I’ve had to resort to kidnapping an innocent woman for her money.”
The other man’s eyes burned hot as coals. “My money,” Pettigrew spat, gesturing toward himself with his gun. “She’s got my money and I want it back!”
Kit sprang, using the instant of distraction to grab for the weapon. He nearly managed to wrench the gun free of the other man’s hand, but Pettigrew countered just in time and held firm, his grip like a vice. They wrestled, grappling between themselves. Muscles straining, Kit fought for possession of the pistol, ignoring any inkling of worry about the gun going off before he could pry it free.
The bastard is strong, Kit thought, far stronger than he would ever have imagined.
Still, Pettigrew was no match for him, Kit using brute force to gradually twist the scoundrel’s hand and arm up over his head. Tightening his grip, Kit forced Pettigrew’s wrist back, pressuring it into an unnatural angle that threatened to tear muscle and snap bone.
Arms straining, Pettigrew’s face contorted with frustration and pain, then he gave a shout and let the gun clatter to the floor. He bit out a vicious curse as Kit kicked the weapon behind him.
“Eliza, get the gun,” Kit ordered.
She didn’t hesitate, racing forward to retrieve the weapon from the floor. Visibly shaking, she picked it up and held it out in front of her, aiming the firearm directly at her cousin.
Unable to restrain his anger, Kit smashed his fist into the other man’s jaw. Pettigrew cried out as he stumbled back, whimpering in his misery.
“I should horsewhip you for what you’ve done,” Kit told him, “and afterward set the magistrates on you. The charge of kidnapping alone could send you to prison for a long, long time. But doing so would inevitably bring Eliza’s name into the matter, and she has already been harmed enough. I’ll not see her reputation smeared by the likes of you. So as much as it galls me, I’m going to let you go, but only if you swear never to set foot in England again, so long as you live.”
“And if I refuse?” Pettigrew challenged, cradling his injured wrist to his chest.
Kit narrowed his eyes as he shot the other man a dangerous stare. “Then you had best be prepared to watch your back, because I promise you this, if you ever come near Eliza again, I will kill you. It’s as simple as that. Leave, Pettigrew. My suggestion is France, since it’s a quick crossing from here. Or go to America. They say it is indeed the land of opportunity.”
Pettigrew stood his ground for another long moment, his jaw thrust forward at a pugnacious tilt. Then abruptly, his shoulders sagged. He cast one final venomous, black-eyed glare at Eliza before spinning on his heels and slinking from the room.
Kit didn’t allow himself to relax until the door closed behind Pettigrew. Crossing, he turned the key in the lock and flipped the night latch to guard against any further intrusions. Hurrying back to Eliza’s side, he eased the pistol from her tremulous grip and set the weapon aside, careful to make certain the trigger was not cocked.
Drawing her comfortingly into his arms, he held her tight and let her burrow close. “It’s over, my little wren. I have you now and nothing and no one will harm you again.”
Her melting gray gaze lifted to his, and in the space of a single heartbeat, they were kissing.
Fervent and needy, he took her mouth with a kind of savage desperation, releasing all the pent-up fear and anguish and apprehension th
at had besieged him over the last twenty-four hours. Closing his eyes, he lost himself to the dulcet sweetness of her touch, exalting in the disparate sensations of blessed relief and smoldering passion, the inner fire that always burned for her leaping to life in his blood and vitals.
Stroking his hands over her back, he caressed her hips, then glided up again to trace the tensile length of her spine. Sliding low, then lower still, he curved his palms over the rounded softness of her bottom, cupping her, gently kneading her flesh, before lifting her toes off the floor to fit her tight against his frame. Devouring her mouth, he reveled in the mewing sounds of pleasure he coaxed from her throat, the marvelous, sensuous weight of her slight figure cradled inside his powerful grasp.
Eliza clung, wrapping her arms around Kit’s neck as she poured herself into his ardent embrace. His hair held the scent of the sea, or maybe it was the storm-tossed breeze whipping into the room through the open window, the wind bold and robust, but no competition for the mastery of Kit’s touch.
Widening her mouth, as he’d once taught her to do, she invited him to take more. To dive deeper. To plunge them both into a world of hunger and possession, where they could revel in dark, wet delights and silken pleasures. Shuddering, she sighed in hazy bliss, his kisses the nearest thing to perfection she knew she would ever find on this earth.
A harsh gust of wind puffed into the room, sending her curls dancing around her face, yanking at her skirts like the hands of an impatient tot. Shivering, she held Kit tighter and kissed him until she wondered if she might explode, bright and dazzling as a Roman candle in a fireworks show.
A loud clap of thunder boomed outside, hard enough to rattle the walls of the inn. An instant later, sheets of rain broke loose, slicing a diagonal path to the ground below. Carried aloft by the unrelenting wind, icy droplets of rain sprayed inward, splattering her skin and Kit’s, and dampening their clothes.
The Wedding Trap Page 29