The Kidnapped Bride (Redcakes Book 4) (4 page)

The woman in the doorway called out and stepped forward. The man with the gun stepped on her skirts, tripping her.

“Move!” Dougal yelled, hoping all three women would obey. They tried to comply, though Lady Elizabeth made it no more than a step or two. The newest of his charges, the one calling herself Beth Cross, had moved a few feet away before Dougal saw a flash from the gun.

He winced, waiting for pain, for something, but it didn’t happen.

The fallen woman came to her knees, then stood. He had to wait, to give her a chance.

The man dropped his gun, and Dougal saw a knife rise into the air. From his sleeve? He remembered his free hand now, his own loaded gun. He pulled it from his belt and fired it at the man.

The hulk fell against the door, clutching at his chest. The woman was within arm’s grasp now. He grabbed Beth Cross’s hand and pulled her along. She reached for the third woman. Lady Elizabeth was unable to do more than take baby steps up the steepening hill, leaned heavily against him.

He heard shouts behind them. Outraged sots? More crew from
The Lady Shore
, the constables? He couldn’t stop to check. For all he knew, he was bleeding to death. He heard a grunt of pain from the woman on his right and realized his gun was poking into her ribs at every step. With a muttered apology, he shoved it into his belt. Now all he had was his knife.

“We just need to make it tae the police station,” he said encouragingly.

“No,” said the nameless woman. “The police are involved.”

“The police told me where tae go to find you,” he countered.

“Which police?” she said cynically. “Not any o’ them in Leith.”

“We’ll never make it out of Leith without help,” he said. “Where do you live?”

Beth Cross had disappeared. He swore at the realization, then saw her at the edge of the street near a bakery with a faint light flickering behind closed curtains. He tugged his two charges in her direction, refusing to look behind himself to see their pursuers.

“Help me,” the Cross girl said.

“What are you doing?” When he realized she was untying a horse harnessed to a cart, perhaps ready for the baker’s early morning deliveries, from a post, he pulled out his knife and cut through the strap. He helped her into the driver’s seat and lifted Lady Elizabeth into the back. The third woman climbed in herself.

Shouts became audible again as his focus wavered. He directed the old horse into the street just as a man ran out of the bakery, waving his rolling pin. Below them, he saw the hulk in the red neckerchief pointing at them, two more men next to him.

He spanked the horse’s rump, knowing this beast wasn’t built for speed. Still, better than the pace of a fainting woman. He blessed the mysterious Beth Cross for the idea.

Once they reached a flat part of the road, they were able to get the horse up to a trot. He kept alongside, encouraging the beast. A cry and a groan came from the back of the wagon.

“Oh sweet Lord, she’s shot,” one of the women said.

Dougal closed his eyes for a moment. Now he knew where the stray bullet from the public house had gone. “Who?” he asked.

The woman they’d lost and found jumped off the back of the wagon. Dripping dark hair hung down over her face. “I won’t be a part of this. I can’t.”

Dougal grabbed her by the shoulders, heedless of the cart moving away from them, up another steep street. “Where did they take you from?”

“I can’t do this,” she shouted. “You’d better get in the cart and try to stop the bleeding.”

“There are men chasing us. They might catch you again.” He stared hard, trying to see her. At least he was fairly certain she wasn’t the housemaid he’d seen at Cross’s flat. This one had a long, broad nose and looked to be in her midtwenties.

“I know my way from here. What’s your name?”

“Dougal Alexander.”

She touched his hand, one deathly cold bit of flesh pressed against another. “Thank you, Mr. Alexander, for stopping when you did.”

He saw a flash of teeth and then she was off like a gazelle, no longer winded after her rest. His gaze tracked her into a wynd, then he remembered her warning about a bullet wound. He ran to catch up with the cart.

“Where should I go?” Beth Cross asked from the driver’s seat.

“Head to Morningside.”

“That’s almost five miles from here,” she protested.

“We’ll be safe there,” he replied, climbing into the back. “And I can get us medical assistance.”

By the time they reached Queen Street, Dougal had his bearings again. At first, he couldn’t find where the now unconscious girl was bleeding, what with the rain and the chill of her unconscious body, though he did find a lump on her head, probably the source of her original dizziness.

When he cut away her dress, he found a wound in her belly. It had already all but stopped bleeding, but he knew it was too late for the girl.

He lit a match in his cupped palm and attempted to hold it close to her face. His fingers were too numb from cold rain to find her pulse even if it had been beating. Was this Lady Elizabeth Shield? Had she ever even claimed to be such, or had he been led gently astray?

“How is she?” Beth Cross asked.

On this wealthy street, gas lamps were placed at regular intervals for the benefit of shops and tenement dwellers. On the north side were gardens. He was able to get a good look at the dying woman’s face, or rather, the girl’s.

Her hair did appear to be black, though of course the rain could disguise just about any color. He traced her features, so delicate. She looked as if she were asleep, but when he put his cheek to her mouth there was no breath. He let his match fall to the street, wondering if he would bear terrible tidings to the Marquess of Hatbrook and Lord Judah Shield.

His hand touched bare flesh. He picked up the girl’s hand. A large mole marred the back of the work-roughened skin. Cross’s housemaid had had such work-damaged hands, but her fingers had been long and tapered, with slender wrists poking from a too-short sleeve. And there had been no mole. He’d have catalogued such a distinguishing feature. Her pale death-mask face might not give away the game, but he was certain the hands did. Which meant that his quarry was not this false Lady Elizabeth, but more likely the driver, the self-proclaimed Beth Cross, who had stayed behind in the warehouse when he’d gone in to rescue her, tempting fate in myriad ways. He couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration for a girl who so consistently chose her own path.

 

Beth’s head pain flared with every turn of the wheels against the uneven cobbles of the road. She had turned the horse onto a more heavily trafficked street now, and they were joined by other carts and early morning delivery boys. Muddy water from puddles sprayed at her, but she was already too wet to care very much. Edinburgh had not quite come to life yet. She wanted to jump off the cart like that other woman had, leaving her passengers to fend for themselves, but wouldn’t the men just come for her again? This stranger who’d attempted to help them, the one who had known her name, had shot two of them, but she didn’t know if those were the two who knew where she lived, had come looking for her specifically. She was anything but anonymous to the men on either side of this gambit, and she had to trust this man, who’d asked her to lead them to Morningside. If only she could run, but with her head injury she was better off remaining on the cart.

He hadn’t responded when she’d asked him how the other woman was. She suspected that meant the answer was sad, but she couldn’t press him, not when there were others about who might ask questions. This was not the time to come to the attention of constables, not when it had become obvious that Freddie had gotten into some very bad trouble, and that runaway girl had said the police in Leith were involved with the white slavers.

She’d heard of such things, read about them in penny dreadfuls, but hadn’t known white slavers were real. They were going to take their victims to France. She’d heard a port on the other side of the Channel mentioned by one of the sailors moving trussed girls out of the warehouse. How lucky that she’d been able to roll under an unevenly stacked collection of grain sacks. They would eventually have found her if her original captors hadn’t been distracted by the mysterious stranger come to find her.

She’d been too scared to go to him, afraid he was just another of the slavers, making sure she went with the ship. Another misjudgment of a man. If only she had friends in Edinburgh. She’d know where to drive this cart, instead of following the stranger’s instructions.

Her heart ached to take the cart to the
land
and check on Hester, but she couldn’t be certain of keeping the child safe until she knew this mysterious man’s plan for her. Was the little girl all right? Surely Mrs. Shaw could keep her for a day or two. They had fresh food. If only her head didn’t ache so, making it difficult to seize on any firm decision. Even leaving the warehouse seemingly had been done in a dream. With no men—and no women, either—in sight, she’d taken her chance and run. But she hadn’t remained alone for long.

On the horizon, the dark sky lightened to dark gray. This adventure had taken most of a day already. Would Hester be missing her, even remember her? She twisted around to look at the man. Could he protect her while she went for the child?

The man was looking down at the girl in the back. He held her pale white hand in his. A pale, white, limp hand.

She heard a little scream and realized it was from her own throat. Whipping around, she flicked the reins, as if she could escape the obviously dead girl in the back.

Numbly, she bounced with the cart as they slowly made their way into Morningside. She tried not to think, and it wasn’t difficult to avoid doing so.

“Turn onto the upcoming road tae the right,” the man said, breaking into her thoughts some half hour later.

In the growing light, even through the lashing rain, she could see the street he mentioned. She forced the horse to turn off the main road, though he obviously didn’t appreciate the muddy side lane.

Where were they going? She could see the bare brown of tilled land, as if they were heading to a farm.

“Should I stop?” she asked. “We left any pursuit behind miles ago.”

“Keep going,” the man rasped.

She glanced back, taking in the long face with a narrow chin, mostly hidden beneath the dripping brim of his hat. An impression of youth was offered, but little more. “She’s dead, isn’t she? What are we going to do?”

“You’ll be dead too if we don’t get ye inside.”

She dropped the reins and felt around her middle. Had she been shot? God, but she was a ninny. Why did her head have to hurt so badly? The horse stopped dead in the road. She reached for the reins again.

“Take the next left,” he said implacably.

She sniffed back tears. “Why do you say I’ll be dead soon?” What did he see that she didn’t?

“You’re shaking. You have a head injury. I could see blood caked in your hair before the rain washed it away.”

“That girl didn’t die of a head wound, did she?”

“No. Shot in the belly,” he said, sounding like some American gunslinger.

She recalled some of the American books she’d read. “Doesn’t it take hours to die that way?”

“Not in this case,” he said in a sour tone.

She saw the road between fields—more of a track, really—and hoped the wheels of this city cart could take the turn. The road was nothing more than damp, rutted puddles with grass growing in the middle. “I hope you are directing me somewhere sensible.”

He muttered something under his breath, but she didn’t know what he said. They continued another ten minutes. The rain began to slacken off, enough so that she bothered to squeeze the ends of her hair dry. She wished she could braid it back, out of her eyes, but she needed to control the horse.

“Turn here,” the man said suddenly.

She jerked the reins, risking upsetting the cart and its gruesome contents as the horse turned too fast. One wheel left the dirt, then came down with a thud. The man swore, but she didn’t look back. She was afraid she’d be sick if she turned her head again, but she didn’t want to show weakness in front of a handsome stranger.

Handsome, yes, she’d noticed that, through her fog of pain and fatigue. It didn’t matter, except she had to remember that handsome men were persuasive, even when they didn’t particularly want to be.

The road they were on now had a gravel and shell coating. The horse and cart clicked against the material, making sharp noises that hurt her ears. They hadn’t gone far when she saw a couple of cottages on the right. She hoped they would stop, but the man said nothing. The horse was tiring, but she kept persuading him to continue forward with flicks of the reins.

An enormous stone mansion appeared in the distance, gleaming as if it held its own rays of sunshine to battle the gray sky. It looked as if it belonged to a duke at least. It ought to be located in Royal Deeside, not here among the fields.

The mansion came closer. She counted the windows until she gave up but was heartened to see smoke rising from at least three chimneys. She and the man might not shiver to death after all, if they were destined to pass through its doors.

“Stop here,” the man commanded.

Not a surprise, as they could go no farther. The road didn’t continue past the house. All she saw to the sides was grass.

She dropped the reins on the bench, too numb to try to climb down. A minute later, she found the stranger at her side, holding out his hand to help her dismount. He lifted her easily and set her on the ground. She judged him a runner, with his long, strong, greyhound build. Sensing escape from him was not an immediate option, she became bold.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Y
e don’t remember meeting me before?” the man asked.

Beth took his hand and jumped off the seat. Her chilly legs barely caught her when her feet touched the ground, and she had to clutch his arm for support. This landed her in the awkward position of having her body tucked into his. She could feel his body’s warmth despite his soaked garments. And no surprise, since his accent gave him away as a local, though a well-born one. He’d probably had a lifetime of the near-constant Edinburgh damp.

She stared at his chest, but covered in something like five layers of clothing, she found it hard to imagine what lay underneath, other than the certainty that it was lean, tough, and hard. But he had asked a question. “We’ve met?”

“At Manfred Cross’s flat. Ye were his maid-of-all-work.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Was he just another white slaver? Of a better class than the others? Well, she’d probably been a different class than the other women taken too, certainly the only English girl, for all her feigned accent. “There is a dead girl drowning in rain in the back of this open cart, sir. A stolen cart and a stolen horse, I might add.”

“You are right. The horse needs tending besides.”

The front door opened and a maid peered out into the early morning. “Mr. Alexander? That you?”

“Yes, Cait. I’m going into the stables. Would you take this lady and tend tae her?”

“Yes, sir.”

The mysterious Mr. Alexander gave her a little push in the direction of the wide stone steps leading to the door. She wanted to stay and argue with him, but her strength was ebbing. She’d escaped the slavers once and she could do it again, once she rested. He must be one of Freddie’s mysterious associates, but what would he want with her?

Looking back when she’d reached Cait, she saw the man leap into the cart as agilely as if he hadn’t been up all night trading gunshots or cradling a dead woman. The maid saw her glance and offered a wry grin.

“Always on the go, that one.”

When Beth had a closer look at the woman under the cap, she revised her age dramatically. Cait was probably old enough to be her mother, though the years only showed up close. She followed the woman’s black skirts into the entrance of the mansion. The sight was a familiar one to her, accustomed as she was to great houses after a year on the marriage mart, though she’d never seen such a place in Scotland.

“This house is old?” she said, staring at the wood paneling, heraldic symbols, and various animal heads lining the walls in long, horizontal rows.

“Not particularly. I think the baron’s grandfather built it tae seem ancient.”

The baron. Beth filed that away as she clasped her arms around her shoulders. This Mr. Alexander wasn’t a baron himself, but he must have some connection to the family.

“Oh, ye are freezing,” Cait said. “Let’s get you in front of a warm fire. We didn’t know family would be visiting today, but the fire in the parlor is all laid, and I’ll bring you a hot cup of tea in a minute.”

She led Beth deeper into the house, walking past a large drawing room, then a dining chamber covered in hunting paintings, then leading her through the door of a small parlor, with a comfortable set of armchairs next to a cheerful tile fireplace. Cait busied herself with the fire while Beth looked around. She was delighted to discover an afghan and unraveled her shawl, replacing it with the dry knitted blanket.

“Oh dear, that isn’t nearly enough,” Cait exclaimed. “Ye need a complete change. You must be soaked to the bone.”

“I am,” Beth admitted, but she didn’t want to be here any longer than she had to. “I can stand in front of that fire, and if you were serious about the cup of tea, I’d be delighted to drink it.”

“Of course,” the maid said. “If that’s all ye want then, I’ll fetch it.”

Beth nodded and Cait left the room, shutting the door behind her. At least she didn’t hear a key in the lock. She stood as close to the fire as she dared, fluffing her hair with numb fingers to get the droplets out. If she hadn’t left the warehouse when she had, where would she be now? In the grimy hold of a ship, on the floor or tied into a hammock?

She shook her head, irritated by her maudlin thoughts. Strategy was the answer for now. She needed to return to Hester. Leaving the fire was torture, but she walked to the heavy curtains covering the room’s one window and pushed them aside. Outside, she saw the rain had begun again. It would be a long, unpleasant walk to the
land
. At this time of day, maybe she could find someone to let her ride on the back of a cart. Or she could steal the horse and cart back from Mr. Alexander, assuming the horse was up to the challenge. Maybe she could unharness the cart and ride the horse. There might be better steeds in the stables, too, and she could ride astride, thanks to a largely unsupervised childhood.

That childhood in sunny Sussex seemed very far away now. Freddie seemed to be receding into the distance too, along with her sadness at being betrayed by him to the white slavers, if that was indeed the tale. All she saw before her was concern for how to make a life for little Hester.

She glanced around, noting the fine furnishings. Returning to the fire, she pulled a heavy silver candlestick from the mantelpiece. While she was no expert, she bet she could feed Hester on the proceeds of pawning it for quite some time. Could she become a thief for the baby’s sake? They had to find a new home, one where Freddie’s associates could never find her. She heard a rattling at the door and quickly dropped the candlestick into her sodden shawl, on the floor behind the pushed-aside fire screen.

Cait stepped in, holding a tray. Beth wanted to cry when she saw it held scones and cold meat as well as a fat teapot. When had she eaten last? It had been more than a day. She collapsed into the armchair closest to the fire and let Cait pour her a steaming cup of tea with milk and sugar.

If Hester was here with her, she might accept a bit of captivity for this fine hospitality.

“I’ve spoken tae the housekeeper, and she didn’t think we should go through the family’s clothing without permission. But I’ll fetch ye some towels, and we’ll see what Mr. Alexander says when he comes in.”

Beth swallowed a gulp of steaming hot tea. “How is he related to the family?”

“He is the baron’s brother.”

She tried to think of how to ask her next question delicately. “Does Mr. Alexander have business interests in Leith?”

Cait blinked. “I dinna know, miss. His work takes him all over Edinburgh. He even goes tae Aberdeen and Inverness sometimes.”

Both of those cities were on the coast. Did white slavers operate there too? “Is there a police station nearby?”

“I’ve never had any use for the constables, miss. I wouldn’t know.”

“Where are the stables from here?” Beth tried.

Cait looked confused as the door opened and Mr. Alexander peered in. For the first time, she saw him without his hat and rain-soaked topcoat. Thick, black hair with a bit of a wave held a few glistening raindrops. He had light eyes—gray, perhaps—and a very straight nose. The skin around his eyes and on his forehead was weathered beyond what she’d calculated his years to be, as if he squinted and thought a great deal. This first full sight of him proved the handsomeness she’d discerned earlier.

He smiled at her with a disarmingly lopsided grin. “Were ye coming tae find me? You’re better off in here, getting warm. I assure you, I gave orders to have the horse you stole looked after.”

Cait made a sound, then swiftly left the room. Beth hardly noticed, mesmerized as she was by the dimples that formed in his cheeks when he smiled. How could his lips hold such a rosy hue when he’d been as cold as she?

As if proving her point, he went to the fire and put out his hands. He had a slim build and moved athletically, as if he fenced, perhaps. She already knew he had great vitality. But was he a good man? How had he known her name?

“Pour me a cup, will ye? And fold some of that ham into a scone?”

“I didn’t realize you’d even looked at the tray.”

“I’ve trained myself to memorize quickly,” he said. “Trick of the trade.” He turned back to her.

She saw his eyes were blue. Not sea blue like hers, but a gray-edged hue that gave an opaque depth to his gaze. Still, the dimples gave his face a certain softness, and his tone was easy. She knew this was his home, however, not hers, so why wouldn’t he be relaxed?

She did as he asked.

“I thought you’d have dry clothes by now. I must not have been gone long.”

“The housekeeper didn’t think it appropriate to hand me any of the family possessions. I took this afghan off of the sofa.”

He frowned. “She said that?”

“That is what Cait said.”

“Let me get a spot of food into me, then I will get us both dry things.”

“What trade are you in, Mr. Alexander?” she asked boldly. To keep control of fingers that trembled too easily these days, she put a piece of ham to her lips. Her eyes closed in involuntary pleasure when she tasted the bite of salt on the meat.

“I take it ye still don’t remember me.”

He seemed hurt, as if he should be memorable. His looks certainly made him so, but she’d made a habit of fading into the woodwork for so long, she’d probably not even looked at his face if he came to her door.

“You had some business with Freddie? Mr. Cross, I mean.”

“What business was he in?” Mr. Alexander asked instead of answering her question.

She sighed, deciding to finish her ham, then butter a scone. He ate as well, then took the knife from her fingers and sliced into another scone. All too soon, nothing but crumbs and a rind decorated the plates, and the teapot was empty.

“Shall I order in another round before I find dry clothing?” he asked courteously. “I expect breakfast will be laid out in another hour or two. It’s still quite early.”

“Clothing,” she said. Maybe she could close her eyes for a few moments while he arranged for them. Longingly, she dreamed of a hat, but getting her hands on outdoor clothing was unrealistic.

“Very well. Ye still look half-drowned. Just close your eyes for a bit.”

Her eyelids drooped at his soothing tone, but then flew open when she felt his arms slide under her knees and shoulders. Her senses roared to life as his strength overwhelmed her weak defenses. “What?”

He picked her up and deposited her on the sofa as if she was no heavier than a cat. And he seemed to take no more notice of her than that. “Take a nap. I’ll have a bedchamber prepared. We both could sleep for a few hours.”

She could not help but agree with him, even as she found herself missing his damp warmth as he stepped away. Yawning, the day catching up with her again, she thought she’d take her rest now. Then, while he slept, she’d leave this house, find her street, drop in at the pawnshop, and then retrieve Hester. Perhaps she could spend tonight at Mrs. Shaw’s. No one would think to look for her there, as long as she stayed out of sight. Then, tomorrow, she could find new lodgings with her stolen funds. She yawned again, and her thoughts drifted down a deep, dark well until they turned into dreams.

She could feel feathers inside her quilt. Turning her head, her cheek brushed against soft, heather-scented fabric. She clutched the blanket with her fingers and blinked her eyes. As her vision focused, she found herself staring at the back of a rose-patterned chintz sofa. That didn’t look right. Her mother didn’t like patterns. She preferred fabrics in the shade of rose, not roses on white fabrics. Sitting up, she took in the room and realized she was in Morningside, not London.

She jumped up from the sofa, frantic, the motion setting her head into a fretful thump of pain. How could she have forgotten Hester for even an hour? She needed to return to Edinburgh. Under the warm blanket someone had placed over her, she felt the work-worn fabric of her clothing was still somewhat damp, but at least her skin was dry. She wrapped the afghan she still wore around her shoulders more tightly, turning it into a shawl, then glanced around for her own wool shawl.

“Looking for this?” a man’s voice drawled. One of the armchairs close to the fire pushed back, and she saw Mr. Alexander, her shawl bundled in his lap.

Her hands fisted as she realized he must have discovered the candlestick. Why wasn’t he asleep, as she had been? She glanced out of the window, seeing she must have slept for hours. From the position of the sun, vague as it was behind clouds, she guessed it was well past noon.

“I’ll take ye to your brothers myself,” Mr. Alexander said gently. “You don’t need tae steal. I should tell you that your flat was pretty well destroyed. Those slavers, or someone else, made a hash of your belongings. There isn’t likely to be anything worth returning for.”

“No?” Had Mr. Alexander been hired by her brothers? He wasn’t a slaver?

“I retrieved one cache the thieves missed,” he allowed. “But what I found clearly included ill-gotten gains. I would hate for ye to be interviewed by the police, a gently born lady like yourself. You need tae trust yourself to my care.”

“The police?” she said numbly. But she hadn’t even managed to leave this house with the candlestick. Surely he wouldn’t take her to the police for attempted theft.

“Yes. The contents of the bag I found might be the spoils of Manfred Cross’s exploits.”

“What do you mean? He worked for a lawyer.” Her confusion was mounting by the second.

“Come, Lady Elizabeth, surely ye know he failed as a clerk.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” she said, digging into her past for a haughty tone. “Who do you think I am?”

“As I’ve told ye, we’ve met once before. I was working for the police, searching for a jewel thief. Your employer, Mr. Cross, the man who refused tae marry you.” His tone was patient.

She pressed her lips together, not wanting to remember old pains.