Lady Gefferton whined. “I did so want my last born to marry at the Cathedral.”
“Oh, Mama, you have had enough weddings there. Let me have this one.”
Lady Gefferton looked to her husband. “Well, My Lord? What say you?”
Lord Gefferton shrugged. “I do not feel as if it is in my area of expertise.”
“So you have no preference on where your daughter weds?”
“No personal preference, no.”
Lady Gefferton turned to Emmanuel. “What about you, Your Grace? Do you also have no personal preference?”
“My parents married in the small chapel on this property,” he said, eyes on Mr. Chandler. “I should like to wed there as well.”
“Oh, of course!” Isabella said at once.
“Well then…” Lady Edric clapped her hands, “That’s settled.”
“Just that easy?” Lord Edric asked skeptically.
“Yes!” his wife and Isabella said at the same time.
* * *
Emmanuel escorted his fiancée to her chambers again. They stood outside the door, hesitating.
“Mrs. Pinfield isn’t there today.” Isabella whispered, her hands in Emmanuel’s.
“Then I suppose I should not come in.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes, each waiting for the other to move.
“Well…goodnight,” Emmanuel said.
Isabella made an inarticulate sound, deep in her throat. Then his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, and her arms were snaking around his neck, pulling him closer.
Suddenly he broke off the kiss. “Why did you insist on such an early wedding?”
Isabella blushed. “Well…I didn’t want to wait.”
“Wait?”
“Yes, I…” her eyes dropped, and she took a deep breath. “I want…all of it.” She whispered.
“You want…to…” his eyebrows rose.
“Yes.” She whispered.
Emmanuel barked a laugh and Isabella punched him in the arm.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not, I promise.” He leaned down and kissed her again, “I cannot wait to…either.”
* * *
Isabella was still smiling as she slipped into her bed. She moved luxuriantly against the soft sheets, thinking about Emmanuel’s hands on her. A slight shuffle in the dark caught her attention and she looked around in the slight glow from the embers of the fire. There was a dark figure, looming over her bed and she sat up in shock. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand shot out and covered her mouth.
“Shh,” he said.
Chapter 25
Abduction
“Mmmph,” Isabella replied, wide eyes blinking at the looming, broad shouldered shape with the familiar voice.
“Shh, don’t fuss now. We’re just going on a short sojourn, you and me. It is going to be a good time, I promise.” He spoke in a soft soothing voice as if she were a child. It simply frightened Isabella even more. She tried to resist as he dragged her bodily from the bed, hand flying up to cover her cotton-covered bosom.
Mr. Chandler merely laughed, manhandling her easily off the bed before handing her robe to her. Isabella stared at him, wondering if he was really mad enough to think she would put it on and follow him.
He threw it on the bed.
“You can wear it or you can walk around in your nightgown. I don’t care either way.”
Isabella drew in a sharp hissing breath. “The assumption that I will be walking anywhere with you is mind boggling.”
There was a growling noise and then he reached out and pushed her so she fell back onto the bed, her legs splayed in shock. The next thing she knew he was twisting her hands painfully behind her back and tying her up. She opened her mouth to scream only to find a cloth stuffed unceremoniously into it. It was only after he pulled her to her feet and began to drag her towards the window that Isabella realized he was serious about taking her away.
She began to struggle in earnest but his hand was like an iron vice around her arm. He pulled her to the window and then lifted her into his arms and passed her outside. She tried to spread her legs so as to use them as a barrier to stop him pushing her out of the window. But suddenly a second pair of hands was around her ankles, pulling even as George pushed. Between them, they got her out of the window and down the trellis which lined the walls. It was pitch dark outside and although she could hear dogs barking frantically in the distance, no one came out to see what the fuss was about.
As soon as they reached the bottom, they used rope to bind her hands and feet. She tried her best to spit out the cloth in her mouth so she could scream but it was wedged quite deeply.
Before she knew it, they were carrying her away at a fast run.
* * *
“What are you even thinking about doing with her? Ransom? What? This was a bad idea, George.”
“I don’t see you coming up with any better ones so shut up and drive.”
“This will end very badly for us, George. We could find ourselves hanging off the end of a hangman’s rope.”
“That is exactly what I am trying to prevent, fool.” Mr. Chandler’s voice sounded tense and irritable. Isabella struggled to open her eyes and see what was going on but they felt so heavy—as if glued shut. She realized she was lying down on a hard wooden surface and tried to sit up but could not move her hands or feet. They were still tied.
Isabella tried not to think about it too much lest she panic and get lost in hysteria. She focused instead on the cold wind, whistling past her and freezing her frame. The bathrobe Mr. Chandler had handed her was not meant to protect her from the elements in such a direct way.
Isabella swayed on her seat, almost falling off the bench but someone roughly pushed her back with an irritated sigh. She began to make sounds around her gag, needing her mouth at least to be free.
“She’s awake.” The other voice, that was not Mr. Chandler, said.
“Hmmph,” Mr. Chandler replied.
Isabella began to wiggle harder. She only stopped when, with a loud thud, she found herself on the cold, hard, swaying floor of the carriage, rather than the cold, hard, swaying bench. Down here, she could feel every cobblestone that the carriage wheels went over, every pot hole they dipped in.
The two men did not bother to help her up and she began to struggle in earnest, at least to sit up.
“Quit yer wiggling.” The second man growled.
Isabella wiggled harder, trying again to open her eyes and realizing that it was a blindfold stopping her. A throb at the back of her skull told her that she had been hit with something that knocked her out. Realizing that these men meant business, she stilled, frozen with cold and terror.
They left her lying there on the floor, ignoring the pained gasps that managed to get past the gag. The floor under her buttocks was very hard and very cold…as was the bit of bench her back reluctantly and involuntarily lay against.
The moon had entirely moved on, and the sliver of sky she could see through the mesh in the blindfold darkened, and then lightened again with creeping dawn. At this time of year, dawn came early, which meant Emmanuel and her family should notice she was kidnapped soon enough.
Her body registered various aches and pains from whence she did not know—probably all the struggling and getting hit. Her head throbbed with each beat of her heart—she was willing to bet that was from getting coshed across the skull. Her wrists and arms ached from the strain of having her hands tied behind her back…her side was still very painful underneath the stitches. It was altogether a very uncomfortable time.
Isabella prayed her Duke would find her soon, hopefully with a plan to foil George—before escorting her home, marrying her, and taking her to his bed so she could forget about this terrible ordeal. One could always dream, anyway…
The carriage continued to go at speed.
Isabella fidgeted. She tugged at the ropes around her wrists until she had burned the skin beneath them. She pulled
away from her back support so much that she stupidly strained her shoulders. It was all that she could do and, by Jove, she would be the heroine of her own story and not the hapless victim, waiting meekly to be rescued. Emmanuel had no clue where she was or even who took her. She could not rely on him to find her—she must rely on herself to escape. She would not be Snow White, sleeping until her Prince found her.
In spite of her bravado, Isabella also hoped her mother woke up bright and early. If she had, she would send someone to wake Isabella so they could have breakfast together to discuss wedding plans. Then it would not be long before they realized something was amiss.
Namely Isabella.
Emmanuel was a traditional fellow, and he definitely liked his routines. He tended to go for a walk every morning before breakfast. The exercise was good for building endurance and even though he had a prosthetic leg for nigh on four-and-ten years now, the work of strengthening his leg never stopped. Her heart broke, thinking of the motherless child learning to use the wooden apparatus, enduring months of pain until his stump healed over. She wondered how many renderings of a leg he had gone through as he grew from that young eight-year-old child to the tall man he was today.
Isabella had taken to accompanying Emmanuel on his morning stroll. They often took a very predictable route. He stopped at the dairy barn to chat with O’Malley, who milked the cows at that hour. The Duke would accept a cup of the warm, frothy drink and present it to Isabella with flourish. Isabella looked forward to the press of Emmanuel’s fingers against her own as the cup changed hands, relishing the warm huff of breath against her neck as he bent forward to tuck her other hand into his arm. Next stop would be the outer kitchen used as a bakehouse, to pick up a loaf and muffins for a snack and say hello to the baker and her assistant. Emmanuel had told her that they not only supplied the household with baked goods but all the surrounding crofters, as well.
Eventually, the basket would be full, although Emmanuel never seemed to be carrying anything heavy. He would swing his walking stick about while Isabella chattered nonstop and enjoyed being the focus of Emmanuel’s gimlet attention. If the day were particularly nice, they’d detour into the garden and pass an hour wandering the paths or tossing crumbs at the ducks. Lastly, the Duke would spread his cloak on the grass by the lake and they would have an impromptu breakfast before heading back to the house for a proper repast…
Isabella wondered what part of the morning routine Emmanuel was engaging in currently, no doubt wondering why she had not joined him this morning. She was not afraid, of course. Just…trying to determine how much longer until Emmanuel rescued her.
Isabella shivered in the chill air wondering if they intended to leave her to freeze to death at the bottom of the carriage. She wished she could close her robe up properly and tuck her nose into the collar, breathing in the warm scent of her room.
What would the Duke do when he found out? Would he lose his mind with fear and confusion or would he be cold and focused on the problem, proposing and discarding actions and solutions until he found one that worked well? Was he already on his way or waiting for a ransom note?
What would my father do?
Her mother must be quite hysterical by now. Sarah would no doubt blame the Duke—her dislike of him was puzzling but unimportant at this time.
She was interrupted at that point in her musings. The thug whose feet she kept bumping into whenever the carriage hit a porthole reached down and lifted her back onto the bench. His effortless strength was disheartening even though Isabella knew there was no way she could have fought her way out of this. This was turning out to be a deuced uncomfortable ride. Even without the mention of the freezing air, the back of the carriage was so icy against her thinly covered skin she couldn’t stop shivering. The gag presented an interesting obstruction to the way her teeth wanted to chatter. There was further talk between Mr. Chandler and his thug, but Isabella was too panicked to focus on what they were saying.
It felt as if hours passed since she left her warm bed. The cold made her nose drip, a worrying thing because it was her only means of breathing, due to the rag tied in her mouth. Each breath required effort and echoed with a nasty wet crackle that added misery and embarrassment to fear.
She was wedged in the corner of the carriage like a contorted sardine, was hardly able to wiggle a foot, therefore there was no hope of squirming sufficiently to scrape off the rope securely wrapped around her hands and feet. She could not bring her arms around to the front, or find some miraculous release from the inside. However, being hunched over did help to keep out the cold. Altogether, she was vehemently opposed to her travel conditions and would rather have been dragged by raging wild horses than endure the pain and uncertainty she was currently experiencing.
The carriage shook her about, banging against one side and then another. The hard metal framing of the door of the carriage smacked against her regularly and punishingly, on her head, shoulders, and hips.
After a while, she looked forward to each sharp bruise, to distract her from the cramp from her poor misused arms. All her muscles were tight and shivering in the cold, which certainly didn’t help.
The drive was interminable, seeming to last an eternity. Isabella was suddenly, wretchedly, made aware of her bladder, which chose that moment to loudly declare its need to be emptied.
Eventually, in an effort to abandon her body, she gradually entered a fugue state; a kind of walking away from everything, as it were, ignoring all the incoming messages of discomfort. She felt quite afraid that she might lose control quite soon if nothing happened before long.
Where are you, Emmanuel?
* * *
Emmanuel was pacing up and down the corridor as his entire household tried to locate Isabella. Her assigned lady’s maid had reported that she was not in her room and furthermore, there were signs of a struggle. Nobody seemed to have seen her, even though Emmanuel knew for a fact that he had escorted her right to her door last night.
He stopped mid-pace, his face frozen in thought before hobbling in a half trot to the parlor where Isabella’s father, mother, and sister were waiting for news.
“Where is your steward, Gefferton?” he asked with no preamble as he burst into the room.
“My steward? What—?”
Emmanuel reached out, grabbed his lapels and pulled him in, “Where is he?”
Lord Gefferton opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish. “I…d-don’t know.”
Emmanuel let him go, his eyes and lips narrowed menacingly. “Perhaps you’d best find out.”
Lord Gefferton opened his mouth to utter some protest but had a second thought about it. Instead, he strode from the room as fast as he could, headed for Mr. Chandler’s quarters.
Emmanuel began to pace again while Lady Gefferton and Lady Peregrine watched in silence.
It did not take long for Gefferton to return. “He is not here.” He was huffing and puffing from anxiety and rushing around.
Emmanuel strode up to him and grabbed his arm. “Do you know where he could have taken her?”
“We do not know tha—”
Emmanuel tightened his grip on Lord Gefferton’s arm, until it was like a vice. Gefferton gasped, and then winced. “I-I don’t know.”
“Where would he have taken her?”
Gefferton shook his head slowly. “This was not—” he cut himself off, eyes wide as if he had said too much already.
“This was not…what?”
Gefferton shook his head. “We have to send out a search party.”
“I imagine he kidnapped Bella to get some sort of leverage. Shouldn’t we wait for a ransom note?” Lady Peregrine asked.
Emmanuel turned to her. “Yes. You’re right. You and my aunt and uncle should stay here and wait for any ransom note. I shall see if I can track them. You,” he turned to Gefferton, “try to think where your man might have gone.”
Gefferton nodded reluctantly as his wife got to her feet, wringing her hands. “W
hat about me?”
Emmanuel regarded her solemnly. “Whenever we find Isabella, she will undoubtedly need you. Be prepared for anything.”
Lady Gefferton nodded grimly.
Chapter 26
Rallying Point
Isabella managed to rally round a bit and recover some of the renowned Gefferton equanimity under fire by the time the carriage stopped and the doors were opened, heralded by a veritable flood of fresh but frigid air.
A Sinful Duke She Can't Refuse (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 22