by Lynn Messina
Emma could tell that her relaxed attitude rattled Windbag, and she decided she wanted him rattled. “Vinnie, I don’t know how you stayed engaged to this man for so long. His breath is horrid.”
“I encouraged the eating of mint leaves, my dear. It’s known to help some.”
“Shut up,” shouted Waldo, the sweat beginning to trickle down the side of his face. “The two of you just shut up and let me think.”
“Mint leaves? Do you grow those in the conservatory?”
Sir Waldo pulled on Emma’s hair and tugged her head back hard. “I said shut up!”
“Emma, for God’s sake!” exclaimed the duke, who had been listening to the interchange between Emma and her sister with astonishment. She really was amazing, his darling. A gun at her temple and not a trace of fear.
“Don’t worry, Trent. He’s not going to kill me just yet. He still has work to do, and he needs a hostage to ensure it gets done. He knows that if he shoots me here and now, you will tear him limb from limb with your bare hands. It’s all over his face, isn’t it, Windbag?” she asked. “He’s wearing one of those hunt-you-down-and-kill-you expressions that I’ve never actually seen before. Look at those eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so black in my entire life. Have you, Windbag? I’m sure you don’t take comfort in it, but I do. Even if we walk out that door and you kill me, it’s all right because I know that the duke here won’t rest until you are as dead and buried as I am. Or perhaps not. I’m not very good at reading these terrifying expressions. Perhaps he doesn’t intend to see you buried. He might leave your corpse out to be picked over by vultures. So you might want to think carefully, Windbag, before you make your next move. You might even want to leave me here and run for your life. I won’t follow you, I promise. All I wanted was for my sister to break her engagement to you and voilà, it’s done. My hard feelings toward you end right here. I hold no grudges.”
Emma didn’t think that her reasonable speech would bear fruit, but it did give her an opportunity to get one long last look at Alexander Keswick, Duke of Trent. She had never seen a more magnificent sight than he there with his eyes blazing and his jaw firm. She would get out of this if for no other reason than to feel his hot, sweet lips on hers again.
“Now Miss Harlow and I are going to leave out the front door. Lavinia, come here.” She was still standing by the doorway and stepped inside the room at his command. “Stand next to the boy on the floor. You too, duke, over there where I can see you. Drop the gun and keep your hands in plain sight.”
The duke complied, never taking his eyes off Emma. From the moment he had risen from the floor to see the gun at her temple, he had not taken his eyes off her.
“Very good, duke,” Waldo said from the doorway. “I’m pleased to see that a man of your rank can take orders. Here’s another one. Stay where you are. You are to remain at this inn for at least twenty-four hours. If I even hear horses’ hooves approaching then she’s done for. Do you understand?
The duke nodded abruptly.
“Very good. I won’t say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t all bad.” He nodded and pulled Emma through the door and out of sight.
The duke kneeled at Philip’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his tone brusque.
“I’m fine. Emma saved me, but this is all my fault,” said Philip, the shame and fear equal in his voice. “She wanted to move cautiously, but I jumped right in and got myself shot.”
“No,” corrected his top-of-the-trees cousin, “I am to blame. Emma had everything under control until I burst in. Tell me quickly, is it all true. Is Windbourne a spy?”
“Yes, he’s meeting someone near Dover to reveal the names of English spies who have infiltrated the French army. If he succeeds, Napoléon could escape and France attack.”
The duke shook his head, almost incapable of digesting it all. “I am a fool,” he muttered, “a damnable fool.” He stood and took Vinnie’s hands in his own. “Please forgive me, my dear, for putting your sister’s life at risk.”
The regret was etched on his face, and Vinnie could not bare to look on it. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, running a comforting hand down the side of his cheek. “You thought to save her soul, Alex.”
Trent laughed harshly. “Save her soul? But who will save mine if she dies?” He shook off the mood and strode to the door. “You will look after things here while I’m gone? Send for a local doctor and get a room. Philip’s wound is a clean one and should heal with little trouble. I will return in a day or two.” He stuck the gun into his pocket and strolled out.
Vinnie raced after him. “What of his threats? He will hear you approach and kill her.”
“Then I shall be silent and he’ll never hear a thing.” At Vinnie’s unconvinced looked, he said, “Don’t worry, I will return her safely. I promise you that. I am a skilled huntsman and know what I am doing. I will not lose her, Vinnie, not now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
As soon as they left the inn, Windbourne adjusted the position of the gun so that it was no longer pointing directly at Emma’s temple and was now aimed in the vicinity of her kidney. He walked closely to her, holding one arm as a gentleman would and hiding the pistol in the folds of her skirt.
Windbourne’s coachman noticed nothing odd about the arrangement, which must have surely look bizarre. His employee had arrived alone and was now leaving with a beautiful young woman on his arm. Emma had hoped to find an ally there but the coachman’s ready acceptance tempered her optimism. She was on her own.
Emma did not have a plan, but she wasn’t worried about that yet. She had been a hostage for only ten minutes, and that hardly seemed enough time to grasp the situation let alone devise a way out of it. Windbourne sat next to her with his gun pressed to her side, which was a small relief. At least she didn’t have to stare at his beady little eyes and tiny features. Windbourne was nervous, she could tell from the way the gun shook and the way he kept looking outside to make sure that Trent wasn’t following them.
Although he had no reasonable expectation of seeing the duke two paces behind, Windbourne could not help but check and double-check. His threat had been genuine, he did intend to shoot her if he caught wind of a chase, but he was beginning to realize that all pursuits were not preceded by thundering hooves. Emma’s speech had not been all exaggeration. The look in the duke’s eyes had been deadly; it had indeed been of the hunt-you-down-and-kill-you variety. In those few seconds, Windbourne’s plans had changed radically. He would not be able to return to England until the French won the war. Then he would once again walk the streets of London, as a victor this time and not a lowly impoverished baronet. The French would need people like he, willing, educated Englishmen, to help the transition to go smoothly. He was not playing a part when he talked to Vinnie at length of his political ambitions. He planned to rise either in his own government or another’s. And he would need a wife, a gentlewoman who would devote her career to the advancement of his. He had been willing to take Miss Harlow with all her faults, but that was not to be. After the war, he would have to find another woman to marry.
The long ride passed in silence. Emma was done taunting the man and couldn’t stomach the thought of conversation with the toad, even if it meant learning more of his plan. She had little respect for Windbag’s intelligence, but she doubted even he would be stupid enough to reveal anything. For that reason, she was determined to wait him out. He would make a mistake at some point. People like he always did, and when the slip came she would be ready. In the meantime, she kept her eyes trained on the passing scenery. She wanted to know where they were at all times. When they turned off the main road, she made note of the tall maple tree with the knotted trunk that marked the intersection. She wished there were some way she could leave an indication of their direction for Trent to follow. He was on their trail, she knew that. What she didn’t know was how long he would remain so if they continued taking right turns and lefts.
They stopp
ed once to rest the horses, but it wasn’t at a posting house. Windbourne didn’t let Emma get out of the carriage, but she saw through the window that they’d stopped at a large cottage with a thatched roof. Smoke was pouring out of the chimney, and the scent of fresh bread was in the air. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d never partaken of the packaged lunch Mrs. Biggley had given her hours before. It was probably still lying on the floor of the curricle in a brown woven bag. As much as it pained her, she knew she’d have to ask Windbag for food. Hunger was a distraction she couldn’t afford. She must remain focused on her goal: escape. If Trent didn’t find her, then she’d get out of this unpleasant situation on her own. It would be easier with his help, of course, but she was capable and intelligent and constantly extricating herself from scrapes. And really, what was being taken hostage except a rather large inconvenient scrape?
Emma watched Windbourne carefully, wondering what he was going to do. He had made no move to leave the carriage and enter the cottage. Wasn’t he hungry? After all, she and Philip had interrupted his lunch in an extreme fashion. His roast had been one of the first things to topple in the struggle.
What would he do if he left me? she thought, searching the landscape for more thatched roofs and smoking chimneys. Would he have the coachman keep an eye on me? Would the coachman have a gun? Would he be inclined to shoot and kill a gently bred young lady simple because his employer asked him to? The answers to these question, she realized, depended on how deeply involved in Sir Waldo’s treacherous scheme the man was. If he was benefiting in some monetary way, then he would follow Windbag’s commands to the letter. But what if he was not? Why run the risk of Newgate and possible hanging just to satisfy an employer’s wishes?
Emma decided she would like to have a moment alone with the driver, to get a feel for what his game was. Therefore, she looked at Sir Waldo and tried to assume a defeated pose. “May I please have something to eat?” she asked quietly, hoping she sounded faint. “I’m so very hungry.”
“You’ll eat when we get there,” he said, without even looking at her.
“Get where?” she asked
“To a little place near Dover where I’m to meet with a confederate. After that it’s off to France for me.”
“And what happens to me?” she asked angrily, no longer looking defeated or sounding faint.
Windbourne shrugged and looked at her, his tiny lips curled in a sneer. “I don’t know what happens to you. I might shoot you before departing or I might leave you as a present for my French associates. They do so love English women.”
Although the idea of being so ill used by any man—not just her country’s enemy—horrified and repulsed Emma, there was nothing in her expression that revealed the true state of her emotions. In fact, she smiled to let him know how little she thought of his threats.
This sort of behavior annoyed Windbourne greatly, and he turned away from her with a queer squeak that sounded like the high-pitched bark of a little dog. Emma smiled again, this time with genuine humor.
They resumed their drive shortly thereafter and arrived at another cottage just as the sun was going down. Here Emma was brought inside. The dwelling was small and dark with shabby furniture and a low ceiling. She had barely entered the first floor before she was dragged up to the second. It was drearier than the other, with a bed in one corner and a table and a chair in another. The floorboards were old and worn and seemed to be home to a prosperous family of mice. Emma tried not to be squeamish and bit down a cry of alarm when a mouse ran across her foot.
Windbag tossed her onto the bed and pushed her shoulders back. For one fleeting moment Emma felt terror, the sort she’d never before known. Surely he wasn’t going to—
He took out a long cable of rope and tied her hands to the wrought-iron headboard. Then he tied her ankles together. The rough rope cut into her wrists, but for the moment she didn’t mind the pain. She didn’t even feel it, so great was her relief. The ropes were tight and she had no experience in extricating herself from situations like this, but they provided her with an objective, with something to focus all her attention on. She would wriggle free of the ropes. She would. There was no doubt in her mind. All it would take was patience, stubbornness and a refusal to give in to pain. She had these qualities, although patience in less quantities than the others, and already she could feel the ropes loosening. Or was that just wishful thinking? she wondered.
When Windbourne was done securing the ropes around her ankles, he straightened up. “That should hold you for a very long while.” Taking the room’s only light with him, he crossed the rotted floorboards to the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Emma asked.
“Nowhere, my dear. I will be downstairs the whole time should you try to escape. Be warned; both I and my driver are armed and we both shoot to kill,” he said, before disappearing down the stairs.
Left alone, Emma applied herself to the ropes with unprecedented vigor. The Harlow Hoyden had devoted her energies to many cherished goals in her lifetime, but nothing had ever mattered as much as this. It was not only that she didn’t want to die in a mouse-infested hovel outside of Dover, but that she also wanted—nay, needed—the satisfaction of thwarting Windbag. She wanted to see him rot in prison. If he was sent to Newgate, then she would visit him once a month just to gloat.
The metal frame of the bed was not of good quality, and to Emma’s profound relief she found a rough edge. She discovered it quite by accident when she cut her hand on it, and although she could feel the blood trickling down her forearm, she didn’t care. Here was something that would save her life.
After a while Emma heard the sound of approaching horses and her heart stopped in her chest. Could it be Trent? She fought even harder to free herself from the ropes, because that was the only thing she could do to help him save her. But it wasn’t the duke. Through the window by the bed she could see a carriage pull up. She watched Windbag go outside to greet it. He had a candle in his hand, which momentarily illuminated the face of the visitor. The man had a well-kempt black beard, thin lips, heavy lidded eyes and firm chin. He would have been handsome save for the malevolent scar that ran across his cheek from ear to lip. Then the two men went inside. Emma could hear the sounds of scraping as they entered the large room. The walls of the little house were thin but not thin enough. Try as she might she could not make out any words and quickly gave up the effort. She had more important things to do.
Progress with the ropes was slow but steady. She could feel the strands snapping one by one against the rough edge. The bands were loosening, and she could move her hands more freely now, which made the endeavor easier. The man stayed only a half hour, and by the time Sir Waldo escorted him to his carriage, Emma’s hands were unfettered and all that was left was for her to untie the ropes that bound her legs. In an instant she was free, but she knew that she had to plan her next move very carefully. She could not behave rashly and risk the country’s security further.
The carriage drove away in the near total darkness, and Emma wondered how far she would get on foot in unfamiliar territory. A horse would help. Yes, she thought, a horse would improve matters greatly. She was an excellent rider, and even though it was dark, there was a very good chance that she might reach Dover before midnight. She would have to steal one of Windbourne’s mounts. Where was the coachman? Was he watching the horses? She didn’t think he had cause to. Windbag had seemed confident in his knot-tying abilities. As far as he was concerned, she was settled in for the night. Very well, she would steal a horse.
But running away went against the grain for Emma. She had plans for Windbag, big plans that did not include his sneaking away to France under the cover of darkness. How could she bring him to justice if he escaped? I have nothing, she reminded herself, no gun, no knife, no bow and arrow. I must save myself first and then worry about Windbag later. As soon as I get to town and warn the constable what’s amiss, I will come back here with a pistol. That is the best
you can do. Accept it.
Emma opened the window and considered her options. There was a very frail tree to the right of the window, which may or may not hold her weight. The second floor wasn’t particularly high, and she decided that hanging down and jumping offered the least chance of injury. It was only a fall of ten or so feet. This portion of her plan went without a hitch, and she crept silently around the house, quickly locating the horses and carriage.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered when her eyes met the back of the coachman. He was brushing down the horses and singing an off-colored ballad to the tune of “God Save the King.” He seemed to be very involved in his work.
Curse it! Emma thought, now the onerous task of finding something heavy and hitting him over the head with it falls to me.
She began looking around for something useful in the moonlight. There was a pile of junk behind the cottage, and as quietly as possible she dug through it. There were empty wine bottles, which she set aside in case she couldn’t find something better. The pile was made up of mostly useless items such as broken carriage wheels and old chairs. She had just resigned herself to the wine bottle when she discovered a rusted shovel. It was perfect.
From the coachman’s enthusiastic and off-key singing, she knew he was still hard at work. She crept up behind him silently. Although she saw one of the horses’ ears twitch, it was silent enough for the man whose attention was focused exclusively elsewhere. He never knew it was coming, and he obligingly fell to the floor after one hit. Emma was relieved; she didn’t know if she would be able to do it again. The shovel was heavy, the man was tall, and it took all her strength to bring him down. Recalling Windbag’s claim, she rooted through the man’s pockets, looking for firearms. He had nothing on him.
Sensing something was wrong, the two horses fidgeted uneasily. Emma knew it was better to waste precious minutes calming them down than to hop on without a care. Horses were high-strung creatures who behaved erratically when upset. Her life depended now on their constancy.