Her son glanced sideways at her. “I don’t put anything past you, Madam. However, I don’t have time for this. Meriwether, I need weapons. I doubt DuBois has accomplished this on the force of his personality.”
Day spoke up, “I’ll get them.”
“Hurry,” Rafe ordered. “Swords and pistols.”
“I’m with you,” James said, his voice grim.
“It may be a bloody long search.” Rafe warned.
“Let’s get our coats then.”
Rafe and James strode to the stables, followed by Quentin, his arms full of steel. He passed swords and pistols to Rafe and James. They belted on the swords then stuffed the pistols into their great coats.
“This could get ugly,” Rafe warned.
“I know” was the simple reply.
Sam Goode led out two horses and the groom led out two more. “Ah’m coming, too,” Sam asserted. Quentin handed him the pistol. “Ain’t never shot one o’ these. Only rifles. Guess the trigger works the same way.” He declined the sword, pointing to the wicked-looking cudgel tucked in his waistband. Rafe, James, Quentin, and Sam mounted up. Sam, the pistol cudgel tucked beneath his stiff left arm, got up a bit awkwardly.
“There ain’t much I wouldn’t do for young Lady Key, even getting’ up on one of these bloody beasts.”
“She was taken to a cottage off the north road.”
“I know it,” Quentin snapped. “Follow me!”
It didn’t take them long to reach the abandoned house. The windy harbinger of the approaching storm thrashed the tree branches. A horse dozed in the traces of its gig. It lifted its head at the approach of others. A welcoming whinny brought a man to the door of the cottage: Rev. Underwood. He retreated into the doorway and tried to close the door, but Rafe kicked it open, throwing both Underwood and the door backwards. His companions followed him through the doorway. Mrs. Underwood stood next to a small table, a piece of cake on its way to her mouth. The dregs of the platter of food littered the table. One wine bottle stood empty, another full.
“Where is she?” Rafe demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re…”
Rafe’s fist smashed into Underwood’s face, and his wife screamed.
“Shut up,” Quentin snarled and gestured her to the chair.
Blood dripped from the side of Underwood’s mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
Rafe looked around the dim room. The wind, given entry through the open door, rattled the shutters. After a long glance at the decrepit bed, he walked to the table and picked up the full bottle. Lifting his arm, he smashed it against the table edge. Wine and glass splattered. Mrs. Underwood whimpered, but Quentin’s step towards her insured her stillness.
“Hold him,” he ordered Sam and James. Underwood’s arms, jerked back, gave him the look of a trussed chicken. Rafe lifted his portion of the bottle, jagged as a Scottish mountain peak and dripping blood-red wine, to Underwood’s chest. Mrs. Underwood mewed and worried her reticule. Underwood, suddenly pale, yelped and sputtered.
“What happened here?” Each of Rafe’s words reflected a brush of the glass points across Underwood’s shirt front.
“Nothing, nothing…” The bottle’s teeth dented his shirt front.
“I performed a wedding, that’s all. I married that brazen Brownlee hussy to that fine gentleman, Lord Wilfred DuBois. At least now her shame will be covered.”
“You married my wife to another man?”
Underwood mouthed an instinctive denial, and his wife moaned.
“Well?”
“He had a special license, and all the papers were in order.”
“Did Chiara consent to this farce?” Underwood’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. “Did she sign the papers?” Again no sound came from Underwood. With a flick of his wrist, Rafe slashed Underwood’s jacket’s sleeve. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he turned to dead weight in his captors’ arms.
“Lester!” Mrs. Underwood squeaked. Rafe turned to her. She shirked back in her chair. “They were already signed! Lord DuBois copied her signature from some building plans he had.”
Rafe digested this for a moment. “Where did they go?”
Mrs. Underwood looked at each of the men, scrupulously avoiding her limp husband. “He mentioned that they were going to Margate for their honeymoon.”
Weak sunlight shown through the leafless trees outside the carriage. The shadows, still small, lengthened eastward, but the quickly gathering clouds promised to make everything shadows before sundown. The shadows and her rumbling stomach told Chiara it was well past noon. The other pressure, lower in her belly, insisted on stopping even more urgently.
“We need to stop.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, my dear. We need to make good time to Margate.”
“This isn’t a request. I need to eat. More importantly, I need to use the necessary.”
“You’ll just have to wait, I’m afraid.” His smile told her just how much he enjoyed her discomfort.
“Listen to me!” She barely avoided adding “you fool.” “I’m pregnant. The baby makes it so that I have to relieve myself every few hours.”
His mouth formed a moue of distaste, and he brushed at the sleeve of his brown superfine coat. Chiara realized, in passing, that, no matter how well-cut his clothes, they would never look as good as Rafael’s did on him.
“Such topics are not the sort of thing a lady of quality discusses in public.”
“But we aren’t in public, are we?” Honey dripped from her words. “And if we don’t stop very soon, I shall be forced to relieve myself all over your excellent buff breeches!”
Something in her expression must have convinced him because he lifted the hatch and ordered the coachman to stop at the next post house.
Satisfied, if not currently more comfortable, Chiara turned back to the scenery with the privacy of her own thoughts.
Where was Rafael? If he was at the Meriwethers’, wondering and worrying, at least he was safe. If he was, even now, following DuBois’ “bread crumbs,” he was in mortal danger. Five against one, no two, wasn’t good odds.
Part of her wanted him following them, mounting a rescue. Part of her wanted him safe at home.
If he was safe, she would lose him, never to be held in his arms again, never to see him cradle their babe. But he would be safe.
If he followed, she might lose him to the grave.
Scylla and Charybdis.
Leaving the Underwoods in Quentin’s capable hands, the three of them spurred their horses along the road to Margate. The rain caught up with them, and fat raindrops, driven by the wind, pelted their backs.
They rode in silence for awhile. With nothing but his thoughts to divert him, Rafe allowed his mind to wander. What if they couldn’t find her? What if she was dead? How could he face existence without her? The black miasma of loneliness and abandonment that surrounded his past rose up on the fringes of his future. She had banished it, he thought, forever. To lose her permanently, after just finding her again, would destroy his very soul. She’d shown him that honor could be unstained by the worst ugliness its fellow man could inflict on it. She’d shown him good and selflessness in herself and others. Most important, she’d shown him that he had those qualities within himself, no matter that he’d been raised in a world devoid of them.
What would happen if DuBois tried to claim his “rights” as her “husband?” He knew she would fight DuBois, but she was pregnant, not as fast or as agile as before. She also had the baby to think of. Fighting might save her but hurt the babe. Oh, God, would he have to lose one to keep the other?
Unaccustomed panic filled his mind. He spurred his horse on faster in reaction to the awful possibilities. James and Sam fell behind him.
“Rafe! Rafe, have a care for the horses! We can’t help Chiara if we break our necks in this rain.”
He slowed to a more moderate pace. He noticed that the rain seemed to be stopping as quickly as it started. It did
succeed, however, in refilling the puddles left from yesterday’s rain. Solitary horses could travel faster on wet ground than a carriage. That was the one bright spot.
James pulled up along with him. “Did you catch the remark Mrs. Underwood made just before we left?”
Rafe glared over at him. “About one of the men speaking French? Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
He thought for a moment. “I think it means that my wife has been kidnapped by Napoleon’s mole in Wentworth’s office.”
Chapter 23
The coach slowed as it entered the inn’s courtyard, pulling sideways to allow the mail coach, horn braying its right-of-way, through. Holding the lifeline of the strap, Chiara silently thanked whatever far-sighted person built the way-house here when she was in her hour of need.
The coach shuttered to a halt, belying the coachman’s expertise in handling the traces. Chiara reached for the door handle, too needy to wait for the customary service. DuBois’s hand manacled her wrist. “Do nothing foolish, my dear. I shall escort you.”
He stepped out of the carriage, so he didn’t see the disgust on her face. He lifted his hand to assist her down. Distaining the courtesy, she headed through the inn’s public rooms to the back yard. He had to trot to keep up with her pace.
Granted a few moments of peace and quiet, Chiara finally found the leisure and comfort to think. Between DuBois and his henchmen, escape wasn’t going to be an easy option. She could, however, make herself remembered. Luckily, they had to traverse the public rooms on the way to and fro. Sympathy from the landlady and guilt from DuBois would buy her remembrance, if not some time and food.
Three steps out of the privy, DuBois grabbed her elbow with mock solicitude.
Inside, Chiara spotted the innkeeper’s wife, tall, gaunt, and constantly moving. “I’m hungry,” she said, pitching the words just loud enough for the woman to hear. “I’m pregnant, and I’m hungry and if I don’t get something to eat, I’m going to faint.”
The proprietress looked over, and Chiara directed her pleas to her. “Can I get something to eat, mistress? He,” she nodded to DuBois, “just doesn’t understand what it is to eat for two.”
The landlady left her other customers, locals by the look of them, and with coos and pats, escorted Chiara to a quiet corner. “I’ll fix ye just the thing me self. Won’t take but a trice.” She smiled at Chiara and gave DuBois her best “take care of your lady” look.
Out-gunned, DuBois gave in with ill-grace. “You have ten minutes, and then we leave. Food or no food.”
True to her word the proprietress promptly returned with a tray. Bread, butter, cold chicken, a mug of ale, and a couple of apples filled it. “There ye go, luv. Eat hearty, now. Gots to keep up yer strength.”
“Indeed,” Chiara replied. “To think of making the trip all the way to Margate without food was daunting. Thank you.”
Chiara saw DuBois smirk at her own bread crumb out of the corner of her eye. No matter. She had her food and her time. And she could dawdle with the best of them.
Rafe could feel his horse starting to flag. The beast had strength and valor, but a full-on gallop of this distance would tire any creature. He could hear James and Sam behind him. They must be struggling to keep up. He detested the necessity of taking the time to change horses, but the option was having one or more of their current mounts founder, losing even more time. At the next posting house, they’d have to change.
As he made the decision, he peered down the road, wondering how far they’d have to go. Coming around the next bend, he saw the distinctive red of the mail coach. For a moment, he stared at it. It was coming up the road they were going down. The same one DuBois was going down.
He slowed his horse so the others could catch up. “Spread out! Stop that coach!” James frowned, but obeyed as did Sam.
The coach kept its pace so Rafe drew his pistol. The lumbering vehicle drew to a halt a few yards from them.
“What ho?” the driver demanded. “You’ll be hung for this, lads.”
Rafe replaced the pistol in his greatcoat pocket and urged his horse closer to the driver. “I have no interest in robbing you. I only want information. Have you passed another carriage in the last hour or so? It may have had two or three outriders.”
The driver lifted his hat as he scratched his head. “Aye, one such pulled into The White Dove just as we pulled out. T’is the next inn on the road.”
Rafe nodded his thanks and motioned the coach on.
The cheese tasted surprisingly good. Chiara cut small pieces and savored each bite. Paired with thin slices of apple, it was sheer delight. Unfortunately, she couldn’t concentrate on the gustatory pleasure. If she was going to procure the knife she was using, the chorography for its pilfering would have to be flawless.
DuBois paced the public room; he hadn’t even bothered with a private parlor. He stalked the room from the window, to the back door, to the clean but scarred table where he chipped a piece of wood out with his thumbnail. Then he went back to the window. He angled himself to look down the road they way they’d come. Back at the table, he plopped down on the bench opposite her and drummed his fingers, a brooding expression on his face.
“Let’s go.” He jumped up and waved her to the door.
“I’m not finished,” she snapped.
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m still hungry!”
“Now!”
The dance began.
She pushed away from the table and stood, righteous indignation flashing from every pore. “I said I’m not done!” She picked up the half-eaten apple and threw it at his head. He ducked. In one set of movements, she sleeved the knife and swiped the remaining dishes backwards from the table. “All right, all right, all right.” She stomped out of the inn and over to what she thought of as her prison.
If there was an audience, she thought, the applause would be deafening.
DuBois’s henchmen lounged around the coach, a mug of ale in everyone’s hand. No one assisted her to climb in so she did it herself. As they assumed their places, she heard the metal tankards strike the inn’s door.
As she sat down, she regretted that she hadn’t thrown the mug of ale at DuBois.
DuBois took his seat opposite her, a grin splitting his traitorous face. “I can see why my dear angel favored you. He always did enjoy a challenge. I believe I will enjoy you, too.”
Chiara prayed she’d bought enough time.
Rafe’s cohorts urged their mounts close to him.
James’s elation showed on his face. “We’ll take them at the inn!”
“We don’t know if they’re still there,” Sam pointed out.
Rafe looked at the ex-marine. “They don’t know you. Ride up and see if the coach is still there. Signal when you get near. We’ll watch from down the road. If they’re there, keep going. That would be the best scenario. James and I will ride around through the fields here. We’ll meet you and set up an ambush. If they’ve left, wait for us. We’ll have to catch them and attack from behind.”
James frowned at his friend as Sam rode up ahead. “Why not take them at the inn?”
“Several reasons. They may not all be inside the inn, which means a fight on several fronts. Second, these are desperate men. They are French agents or soldiers, not just farm boys. Either way, they all face hanging. They’re not going to sell themselves cheaply. The people at the inn are just that many targets or shields for them. Third, inns are pretty cramped quarters for a fight.”
Up ahead, Sam signaled that he’d come on the posting inn. He kept riding.
“All right, through the hedgerow here.” A hole in the roadway growth made an easy egress from the lane. They met up with Sam a ways beyond the inn. It wasn’t long before they rode past the coach on the road.
“Tie your cravats around your face. Let’s be highwaymen for real this time.” Around a bend in the road, they arranged themselves across it just as they heard the carriage approach
.
“Stand and deliver!” Rafe roared as the coach came within shouting distance. Rafe and James aimed pistols at the carriage and outriders. Sam balanced his on his gimpy arm, pointed his pistol in roughly the same direction.
The coach slowed. “What the devil are you doing?” DuBois bellowed from within. The outriders drew their guns but kept them across their saddles.
“Stand and deliver,” Rafe repeated in a more normal voice. “On second thought, just stand. We’ll do the deliverance.”
DuBois poked his head out the window and saw Sam on the right beyond the outrider. He obviously didn’t recognize him. “Stand aside you blackguards, or I’ll blast you to hell. That’s where outlaws like you belong!”
Rafe urged his horse in front of Sam, muttering, “shift.” “I, on the other hand, want to take a treasonous bastard such as you back to stand trial and hang. However, since you’ve kidnapped my wife, I think I can see my way clear to saving the hangman the trouble.” He pulled the cravat from his face and the others followed suit. “Either way, hell will be your ultimate destination.”
“FitzHenry!” DuBois snarled and looked quickly at Chiara.
“No, DuBois,” Rafe drawled, “Wolverine.”
DuBois paled in the watery winter sunlight then his cheeks flushed with rage. “Tuez-les!”
Opposite Rafe, the outrider raised his pistol but it caught in his coat. Fighting it out cost the man precious seconds.
Rafe fired.
It also cost the man his life.
Rafe drew his sword. The second outrider drew up next to the left of the carriage. Rafe knew he was there, but couldn’t see him.
A shot boomed from that side of the carriage, and James clutched his left arm.
“James!”
“I’m all right. Graze.” He looked up. Sam’s horse danced in fright. Cursing, Sam left off aiming his pistol in his fight to keep his seat.
“Guard!” Rafe yelled in warning. Sam, defenseless, could only fumble with his gun. James’s pistol barked, and the guard toppled from the box.
“Thanks, mates,” Sam shouted.
“Any time,” James replied as he shook out his bloody arm then drew his sword. Charging the outrider who wounded him, James yelled, “St. George and England!”