The Duke's Holiday (30 page)

Charlie looked dumbfounded. “Sir Wesley has asked you … and
Mr. Fawkes … the vicar?”

She nodded. “Of course I turned them down. Though they’re a
sight better than Mr. Lightfoot.” She shuddered. “I’d rather endure Mr. Fawkes’
stutter for twenty-four hours a day than be tied to Mr. Lightfoot. Do you know,
Charlie, but I think that man might be insane?”

Charlie looked quite miserable. He looked, in fact, as if
he were about to cry. Astrid became quite concerned. “Whatever is the matter,
Charlie?”

He swallowed tightly, as if he had a rat stuck in his
throat. “Just wished you’d told me. About Lunnon.”

“Well, I would have done, but there was the festival
yesterday, and so much happening at once.”

“Just wish you’d told me,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“Thought I’d lose my job, I did. Thought we’d all be driven to the workhouse.
Thought I had no choice, with my Millie burstin at the seams again and all of
the little ‘uns underfoot. Thought I done what’s best for ‘em.”

She laid a comforting hand over Charlie’s arm, growing
increasingly troubled by his behavior. He looked as green as Montford had
looked before he’d cast up his accounts. “What are you talking about, Charlie?
You’re worrying me.”

He dropped the reins and turned to face her, though he
could not meet her eyes. “Oh, Miss Astrid, I think I done a terrible thing. I
think yer gonna tear my eyes out, you are.”

She grasped his arm. “Charlie …”

“I were the one what killed Cyril!” he burst out.

Astrid’s heart stopped working. Her hand dropped from
Charlie’s arm. “No, oh no, Charlie!”

Charlie shook his head miserably. “He said it needed to be
done. To shake you up some. I never meant to hurt the poor beast, but the
bullet went wrong. Don’t know why I let him talk me into it. But he has a way
of twistin’ a body’s thoughts, and fillin’ it with uncommon fears. He said it
were the only way, to save you and yer sisters, and to keep us all from the
workhouse.”

“Who are you talking about, Charlie?” she asked, though she
already knew what he was going to say.

“Mr. Lightfoot! He said he were gonna marry you, and that
it was what was best for everyone. I don’t know, but it seemed right to me when
he said it!”

“Oh, Charlie! He’s not right at all! How could you have
listened
to him? How could you have shot
at Montford?”

“He offered me a job. Good wages. What were I to do with
the threat of the workhouse looming? What were I to do, watch you and yer
sisters end up there with me?”

“But I can’t marry Mr. Lightfoot. Dear God, Charlie, he’s
crazy! Insane!”

Charlie’s brow creased. “D’ye think so?”

“Charlie, he should be in Bedlam. Surely you have noticed.”

Charlie scratched his head. “Thought he were a bit off,” he
murmured. “Oh, Miss Astrid, I wish I’d known this before! Now it’s too late!”

He took up the reins and whipped the drays into as fast a
trot as they could manage.

Astrid braced herself against the bench, a chill racing up
her spine. “What’s going on, Charlie?” she demanded. “Why are we going so
fast?”

“Mebbe we can reach Hawes before he’s upon us. He’ll not be
able to take you there,” Charlie said, a strange light gleaming in his eyes.

Astrid’s stomach bottomed out. “What are you talking
about?”

“Mr. Lightfoot. He’s comin’ to take you off to Gretna
Green.”

Fear made her body go stiff.

“Such a fool, such a bloody fool,” Charlie kept murmuring
to himself over and over again, urging the drays faster and faster.

“This can’t be happening,” Astrid said, more to herself
than Charlie, when she heard the unmistakable thundering of hooves coming up
behind them. She turned her head enough to see Mr. Lightfoot’s imposing black
coach barreling down on them, piloted by one of his giant thugs in a black
cape. It looked precisely like a scene out of one of Alice’s horrid novels.

Oh God
, she thought
to herself. She was about to become the hapless heroine of her own personal
melodrama.

“I didna mean it, I swear I didna mean to kill Cyril,”
Charlie babbled beside her.

She just stared at him, too stunned to talk, holding on to
her seat with every ounce of strength she had. They were going at a reckless
pace, and the wagon had no shocks to speak of. Her backside felt every bump,
rivet, stone and branch the wheels encountered. Her pain brought home the fact
that what was happening was all too real. Pain in her backside, and pain in her
heart for Charlie’s betrayal.

How could he have killed Cyril? How could he have turned
his back on the years and years of friendship between them? Or had they ever
been friends at all? Had Astrid once again failed to see what was so plainly
before her? She’d made that mistake with her own sister. It didn’t surprise her
to know she’d made similar misjudgments.

But to turn her over into Mr. Lightfoot’s keeping –
that was simply beyond her comprehension. Charlie wasn’t the sharpest tool in
the shed, but surely he must have some inkling of the idiocy of such a plan.

“Why, Charlie? Why?”

“Thought I done it for yer own good. Fer my own family’s
good. Ach but I’ve made a muck of it!” He glanced behind him, and his
expression crumbled. “We’ll never outrun him.”

“Try, for God’s sake, try!” she exhorted.

But it was no use. Two aged drays were no match for a team
of four. Mr. Lightfoot’s black carriage quickly drew abreast of them. She could
see Mr. Lightfoot’s beady eyes gleaming from the window. Her stomach turned
over.

Gretna Green indeed!

The black-caped driver of the coach pulled his team sharply
to the right, running the drays off of the road, The coach drew up, pinning the
wagon in. Charlie was forced to pull on the reins, bringing the wagon to a
complete stop.

He stared at Astrid in terror. “Run,” he whispered. “Into
the forest.”

Astrid rose on unsteady feet and began to climb out of the
wagon. It was the first sensible thing Charlie had said in the last quarter
hour.

“Not so fast!” boomed a voice from the doorway of the
carriage. Astrid glanced up and saw Mr. Lightfoot standing on the runner,
brandishing a pistol directly at Astrid’s head. She froze. Fear coursed through
her veins, and her heart was in her throat, though she still couldn’t quite
believe this was happening. Everything swam before her, as if happening
underwater.

Mr. Lightfoot glanced in Charlie’s direction, his black
eyes gleaming strangely, a horrible smile curving his lips. “I do believe you
were attempting to escape us, Mr. Weeks. How odd, when I thought we had an
arrangement.”

Charlie blanched, his eyes transfixed on the gun, sweat
dripping down his face. “I’ve changed my mind. Miss Astrid don’t wanna go with
you,” he managed.

Mr. Lightfoot just laughed. “Of course she doesn’t, you
idiot. That’s why we arranged for this little roadside meeting, or don’t you
remember?” He turned back to Astrid, his smile fading, his eyes growing hard.
“Now come along, my dear. Hop into the carriage like a good gel, and we’ll be on
our way.”

“Never,” she replied with rather more bravura than she
felt.

Mr. Lightfoot signaled to his black-caped driver, who
dismounted from his high perch and approached Astrid. Astrid swallowed. The man
was at least two feet taller than she was, and about as wide as a pianoforte.
His face was equally grim, with a deep scar running down one side of it,
pulling his lips into a permanent frown. Where had Mr. Lightfoot found this
man? Hades?

And why was he still carrying the whip? she thought wildly,
her heart sinking.

Then she realized it wasn’t the whip he was holding, but
rope. Astrid tried to climb back into the wagon, but the man seized her from
behind. He was terribly strong. She struggled with all the strength she had
inside of her, but she might as well have been kicking a mountain, for all the
good it did her. He clamped her arms behind her with a single hand. The other
one held her off the ground as if she weighed no more than a feather. He began
to bind her hands together with the rope.

Astrid stared hopelessly at Charlie, who just watched in
growing horror, tears streaming down his face.

“But I don’t want to go,” Astrid said in a strangely calm
voice. She squirmed against the giant until she was facing Mr. Lightfoot. “I
don’t want to marry you. I don’t want you, and I never shall. What good will it
do to take me against my will? I’ll never stop fighting you.”

Mr. Lightfoot grinned in a manner Astrid could only term
lascivious. She shivered uncontrollably. “Precisely, my dear. Precisely. It
shall be my utmost pleasure to break you. And I
will
break you.”

She nearly laughed then, as the giant carried her towards
the coach. She had no hope left, no means of escape. She’d never felt so
hopeless, so damned sorry for herself in all of her life. Mr. Lightfoot was
going to abduct her. Perhaps he was going to marry her or at least attempt it.
She wasn’t sure about that. But she was a hundred percent sure he meant to rape
her. She didn’t need to be a genius to figure that one out.

Then some memory tugged at the back of her mind. What was
it?

Montford! It couldn’t have been but a few minutes since
they’d left him behind. Surely if she screamed loud enough he’d hear her.
Though it quite escaped her what good he could possibly do. Even if he did hear
her and did not ignore her, as he most likely would, given that he hated her,
he’d not get here in time to stop her from being taken by these blackguards.
And even if by some miracle he
did
manage to sprout wings and fly here in a trice, how could he possibly prevent
her abduction?

Would he cast up his accounts all over the villains, render
them helpless with disgust?

She actually laughed at this thought.

Mr. Lightfoot and Charlie both looked at her, askance. Even
the giant carrying her paused and glanced down at her as if she’d lost her
mind. But she couldn’t help herself.

She’d officially become hysterical.

So even though she had no hope in the world of it doing any
good, she began to scream as loud as she could for as long as she could. She
screamed until her throat hurt, until bubbles of light danced before her eyes.

“Shut up, damn you,” Mr. Lightfoot roared, covering his
ears. “No one’s going to hear you, you little fool!”

She screamed in his face.

“Hurry up, get her inside!” he growled at the giant.

The giant stuffed her through the carriage, but she twisted
her body so her legs caught against the door. She screamed, kicking out,
attempting to dislodge the villain. She landed a few direct kicks to the
giant’s chest, but if they affected him at all, he didn’t show it. He grabbed
up her feet and tied them together with his remaining rope, then shoved her the
rest of the way inside the coach. She screamed and screamed until she thought
she would pass out.

Then the sound of a gun exploded across her senses. Her
breath seized and her heart skidded to a halt as she watched Charlie clutch at
his side and tumble down from the wagon and onto the road. He’d been attempting
to pull the rifle they carried for highwaymen out from underneath his seat,
foolish man, in an effort to save her. But it remained clutched to his side,
unused, as he bled onto the ground. Astrid thought she might be sick. Charlie
had not deserved to be shot. The poor fool hadn’t deserved to be tangled up in
any of this.

Mr Lightfoot stood over Charlie, the pistol in his hand
still smoking. He turned away from the man, tucking the pistol into his
waistband, and approached the carriage, a dull gleam in his eyes.

Her blood ran cold, and her voice seized in her throat. Mr.
Lightfoot pushed her back and climbed into the carriage. He settled himself
onto a seat, pulled out a handkerchief, and bound it over her mouth. She inched
her way back to the far corner of the coach, struggling against her bonds,
staring daggers at her abductor.

Mr. Lightfoot just laughed at her efforts and slammed the
coach door shut.

And with it, all hope she had of rescue.

IN WHICH THE
DUKE ENTERS HIS THIRD RACE OF THE WEEK

AFTER
a half hour’s trek up the King’s Highway, half-running, half-hopping in an
effort to relieve a god-awful cramp that had taken up residence in his left
leg, Montford was ready to give up. He had almost managed to convince himself
that he had imagined the whole thing – the screams, the gunshot –
but just when he’d decide to stop and turn back around, the dread would return,
settling in his gut, worse than any nausea or cramp he’d ever known. He didn’t
understand it or appreciate it, but it would not allow him to turn around, as
much as his body wanted to.

“I’m going to kill her,” he muttered to himself, in between
his pants. “This time, I really am going to kill her.”

Though for what, he wasn’t quite sure.

God, he almost hoped he found her on the roadside bleeding
to death. Then he’d be justified for running down the lane like some bloody
lunatic.

Then his gut would clench up again at the very thought. No,
he did not want to find her bleeding to death. The mere thought of it was…

Unbearable.

He’d rather he was insane, he decided. He’d rather he ran
all the way to Hawes and discovered her in one gloriously uninjured piece. But
just when he decided that that might indeed be the outcome, he rounded a bend
in the lane, and let out an involuntary cry. The wagon lay at an odd angle off
to one side of the road, the two drays pacing nervously in their harnesses. A
form lay next to the cart, unmoving. It was human, but he could tell from the
size and color of the clothes that it wasn’t Astrid. It was Charlie.

Relief and concern washed over him in equal parts. He
darted in Charlie’s direction. Fear, which was only moments before theoretical,
now came into sharp, poignant focus. He’d not been imagining things after all.

But as he approached Charlie, he felt his knees begin to go
weak, his vision to go dark. The man was bleeding heavily from a wound in his
shoulder.

Not now
! he cried
out inwardly. He couldn’t faint now, of all times!

But it was no use.

He pitched forward, into the void.

SEVERAL
SECONDS later – or several hours, he couldn’t be quite sure – he
came back to consciousness, pushing the dark memories that always surfaced at
such inconvenient times back into the recesses of his mind. His eyelids
fluttered open. He was staring up at the sky.

Then someone groaned. He rolled over and spotted Charlie
crawling in his direction, oozing blood from his shoulder, his face as white as
the clouds in the sky.

Montford forced himself to look away from the blood.

Charlie managed to make it a few more inches, then he
collapsed into the dirt. Montford gathered his nerves and went over to assist
him, stripping off his jacket and applying it to the wound at the man’s
shoulder, staunching the blood as best he could.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where’s Astrid?”

Charlie tossed his head from side to side, clenching his
jaw, in unbearable pain. “Didna mean for it to go so far,” the fellow muttered.
“Honest to God, thought I were doing it for her own good.”

“What?
What
have
you done?” Montford nearly cried.

“It’s Lightfoot, sir. ‘E’s taken her.”

“Taken her? What do you mean, taken her?” Montford cried,
the icy tentacles of dread slithering up his spine, into his blood.

“’E’s come and stole her. Bound for – Gretna Green
– to have her – for his – wife–” Charlie managed to
grit out.

“Mr. Lightfoot,” Montford repeated, trying to wrap his head
around their current situation. Mr. Lightfoot was the reason he was in Yorkshire
in the first place. He’d yet to meet the man, but he’d gleaned enough to know
that he was an ass, and that Astrid had no intention of marrying him.

Which meant, of course – obviously, as Charlie was
lying on the road bleeding to death – she’d been taken against her will. Mr.
Lightfoot intended to force her into marriage. And the only way Montford could
see that happening was if…

If the blackguard gave her no other choice.

Montford heaved Charlie up by his good shoulder. He climbed
in beside the man and laid him as gently as he could against the footboards. He
removed his jacket from the wound and bound Charlie’s shoulder tightly with a
length of canvas from the wagon bed to stop the worst of the bleeding. Charlie
groaned in pain, then seemed to faint.

Montford was unequipped to deal with such drama. He’d never
had a man die on him before – aside from his parents, but he wasn’t even
going to think about
that
right now.
He gazed down at Charlie worriedly as he picked up the reins. “Don’t die, for
pity’s sake!” he muttered. “Don’t even know how to drive this blasted thing.”

He shook the reins as he’d seen Charlie do earlier in the
day. The drays just stood there, eating dandelions. “Damnation, move!” he
roared in frustration. He jerked on the reins, bringing them down as hard as he
could on the animals’ rear ends. They jumped forward, then stopped again. He
brought down the reins again and again, until the poor creatures were grunting
and kicking up a storm down the road.

The wagon lurched along behind them, teetering to the left,
and then to the right. Montford had no idea how to control the animals once
they got moving. He braced his body against the seat and held onto the reins
until his fingernails were digging into his palms. At least the animals seemed
to know what they were about, more or less, because he sure as hell didn’t.

Charlie moaned weakly when they hit a deep rut, and
Montford cursed. His backside was killing him, and his stomach was heaving. It
seemed driving the vehicle was no better than being a passenger. He gritted his
teeth and willed his nausea aside. He had no time for his delicate
constitution. He had a woman to save from a fate worse than death.

He just prayed he wasn’t too late already.

The thought of Astrid – Astrid! When had he started
thinking of her by her first name? – being mauled by this unknown villain
curdled his blood, made his mind go blank with a fear far greater than he’d
ever known before.

It seemed an eternity passed before he finally saw a village
up ahead. He whipped at the drays to make them pick up the pace. Then, when the
wagon began careening down the main street of the village, he began to wonder how
he was going to get them to stop. He passed several gape-mouthed rustics
navigating the road in their own carts, and a few unlucky pedestrians who just
managed to scurry out of the way, shouting curses at him.

The village was bigger than he had imagined, and he hadn’t
the foggiest idea where he was going. Finally, he spied a sign up ahead advertising
an inn called The Barley Mow, and his brain began to work with a half-conceived
plan. He attempted to pull back on the reins, half expecting the action to have
no effect.

He was wrong. The drays lurched to an abrupt halt, and he
nearly flew off his seat and onto their backs.

He cursed again and righted himself on the seat. He stared
about him, his heart racing. He was on the edge of the road near a muddy,
bustling inn yard. Its denizens had stopped what they were doing to stare up at
him in alarm.

He singled out one of their numbers and pointed at him.
“You there, fetch me a doctor.”

The rustic just gaped up at him.

“I’ve an injured man,” he explained, gesturing towards
Charlie. “He needs a doctor, blast you!”

The man dropped the sack he’d been carrying and hurried
off.

The yard emptied as Montford descended from his perch. He
swayed on his legs and clutched the side of the wagon, cursing his weakness.

A man emerged from inside the inn, dressed in a soiled
apron. He studied Montford suspiciously as he approached.

“There is an injured man in that wagon,” Montford informed
him. “He needs a doctor. And I need a horse. Your fastest horse. And be quick
about it, man!”

The innkeeper just squinted at him. “Aye, an’ how ye’ll be
payin’ for that?”

Montford gaped at the man. He’d not thought as far as
monetary transactions. He’d not thought he’d need to. “I’m the Duke of
Montford. You’ll be paid.”

The man’s glance swept from Montford’s soiled boots to the
top of his hair. Then he burst out into laughter. “A Duke? Oh, that’s rich,
gov. An’ I’m the bloody Regent!”

Montford thought about strangling the man, but then he
glanced down and cringed. He looked about as ducal as the innkeeper, in his
soiled lawnshirt and bloodied breeches.

“I’ll not be givin’ ye nothing, gov. Not without proper
coin,” the man stated.

Montford stalked back to the wagon and pulled out his
ruined jacket. He pulled his cravat pin out of his lapel and stuck it under the
innkeeper’s nose.

“Aye, an wot am I to do with that, gov?” he sneered. “Don’t
look real to me.”

“Bloody hell, you idiot! It’s a ruby! It could purchase
your inn ten times over.”

“That’s wot ye’d like me to believe. It’s paste.”

Montford growled at the man, frozen with impotence.

“Sir …” Charlie whispered from the floorboard, “The ale.”

Montford groaned. “We’ve no time for that, Charlie.” Good
God, the man was at death’s door, and all he could think about was ale? What
was
wrong
with everyone?

Charlie fainted again.

The innkeeper studied Charlie for a moment, then glanced
towards the back of the wagon. “Ale, you say?” The innkeeper crept to the back
of the wagon and lifted the awning. He whistled in disbelief. “Why didn’t you
say you had ale before?”

Montford threw up his hands in defeat. “I don’t know.
Perhaps because I have a man bleeding to death beside me!”

The innkeeper scowled at him. “I’ll take the ale as
payment.”

Montford would have sighed in relief if he weren’t so
irritated. “Fine. Take the bloody ale. But I want your fastest horse.”

The innkeeper nodded and began to hurry around the side of
the building.

“And a pistol,” Montford added. The innkeeper stumbled and
looked over his shoulder in horror. “Two. Make that two pistols. Loaded.”

The innkeeper disappeared without responding, shaking his
head.

Montford leaned over the wagon and slapped Charlie’s cheek.
The man stirred back to consciousness and stared at him through bleary eyes.
“You must – hurry, fast as you can – North. Scotland – Black
coach –”

Montford recalled the giant conveyance that had passed by
him earlier, and his heart sank. How would he ever catch up with that?

Just then, the innkeeper appeared around the corner,
leading a brown gelding by the reins. Montford investigated the animal briefly and
let out a heavy sigh. “Is this the best you can do?” he bit out.

The innkeeper looked offended. “He’s a goer, that’s for
sure.”

“He’d better be, for if he turns up lame, I’ll come back
here and personally run you through,” he bit out. The innkeeper paled. “Now,
where are the pistols?”

“You’re serious?”

“Quite. Serious.” Montford paused. “Please,” he added.
“It’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Clearly,” the innkeeper said, pulling a pair of rusty
looking antiques out of his waistband and handing them over.

Montford checked them and shook his head in disgust at
their poor quality, but thrust them into his breeches anyway. He pulled himself
up onto the gelding, his tired legs protesting quite vehemently. He looked down
at the innkeeper. “Did you see a black coach come through here?”

The innkeeper nodded. “’Bout an hour past. Tearing hell for
leather northwards.”

Montford spurred his mount towards the street. He’d gone a
few yards when he heard someone yelling behind him. He reined in and turned
towards the innkeeper, who stood in the road, gesturing frantically. “What?” he
roared, at the end of his tether.

The innkeeper pointed in the opposite direction Montford
had been heading. “North’s that way, gov.”

It was hardly an auspicious start to a heroic rescue.