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‘That’s her, right enough,’ the lad said. He turned to whisper in his cohort’s ear, ‘Running off to be wed.’
‘Leave her be, or you’ll have me to answer to,’ Peter Jackson bellowed. He beckoned frantically to Fiona to come to him, but his efforts to protect her were rewarded with a clubbing from the villainous youth’s pistol butt.
Mrs Jackson dropped to her knees beside her prone husband, her wail rending the night air, while the two Beresford ladies began whimpering behind their fingers.
‘Let me go!’ Fiona wrenched her arm to and fro, attempting to liberate it from a painful grip. ‘What is it you want? Money? Here, take it.’ With her free hand she pulled from her pocket a pouch containing her coins.
That gesture brought a chortling sound from behind a neckerchief. ‘Why, thank you...’ the older highwayman said sarcastically, jingling the little bag of money in front of his colleague’s face. ‘Not enough in there, I’ll warrant, to keep us happy.’ But despite his contempt for Fiona’s worldly goods, he pocketed it before making a lunge for her. ‘Whereas you, my dear, are treasure to somebody I know.’ Grabbing her behind the knees, he swung her up and over his shoulder.
Chapter Five (#ulink_6fd783dc-3270-531e-9979-f774db455606)
If he’d not been a military man Luke might have mistaken the muffled boom of the blunderbuss for the bark of a deer. As it was he reined in sharp with an oath exploding between his teeth. Another bullet was let loose far in the distance and this time he recognised the retort of a pistol.
The stallion had also heard the sounds and, attuned to his master’s need for speed at such signals, required little prodding in turning and flying back the way they’d come over black, muddy fields.
When thirty minutes later Luke reined in his mount its flanks were foamy with sweat. He approached the road cautiously, then, slipping from the saddle, covered the last hundred yards on foot, guided by the stationary coach lamps. Immediately he feared the worst as he heard the sound of groaning and women weeping being carried on the still night air.
His fingers tightened on the duck-foot pistols and his jaw clenched as he glimpsed through the undergrowth the spectacle before him. Having ascertained that the thieves had left the vicinity, he loped onwards, calling out to announce his presence in case a bullet was fired at him.
The Misses Beresford were the first to spot Luke. They scrambled from the coach where they’d been sheltering and rushed to cling to his arms, garbling a version of events.
Peter Jackson was sitting on the ground, a hand pressed to a crust of blood on the back of his head. His wife continued dabbing frantically at his throbbing brow with a rain-dampened hanky and howled curses at the vile cowards who’d caused this mayhem.
But it was the unmoving boy sprawled on the mud with his uncle fussing over him who drew Luke’s concerned gaze, but only momentarily. He suddenly realised that the person he most wanted to see was absent. Freeing himself from the spinsters’ clutches, he strode to the coach and looked inside.
‘Where’s Miss Chapman?’ Luke demanded, a surge of furious emotion suddenly overtaking him.
‘They’ve taken her.’ Peter Jackson shook his head, tears rolling down his face. ‘I couldn’t stop them, sir—they knocked me down when I tried to...’
‘Who was it?’ Luke snapped, coming closer, restraining an urge to grab the man’s lapels to hurry his answer.
Peter raised his eyes to a flinty black stare. ‘There were two of them. They wore masks, but I’m sure that Collins is behind it. The evil blackguard!’
Luke spun towards the driver; Williams was, after all, in charge of his customers’ safety, yet he’d offered no explanation or apology for Miss Chapman’s kidnap. But the man was distraught and Luke bit back the ferocious accusation he’d been about to let fly.
‘I think he’s dying,’ Toby gurgled, patting Bert’s face with increasing strength in an attempt to bring the youth round.
‘Get in the coach...all of you...apart from you!’ he ordered Toby. ‘Help me lift the lad—we’ll lay him on a seat and the others will have to squash together on the opposite side. Come, quickly now!’ he snapped at Toby in the hope of penetrating the man’s shock and galvanising him into action. ‘The Pig and Whistle is a few miles away and you can get help for your nephew there. Pray to God we’re in time for him...’
The ladies tottered aboard the coach once more, followed by Mr Jackson. Luke and Toby gently lifted the invalid, then settled Bert on the worn upholstery. Although Toby winced on hearing the lad moaning, Luke was gladdened by the sound.
‘He has not fallen too far into unconsciousness,’ he reassured the driver. Pulling Toby away from fussing over the boy, he slammed shut the door. Once up on the driver’s perch Luke took the reins firmly; he didn’t want Toby Williams turning them over in a ditch in his agitated state.
‘Should you not tie your horse to the back of the coach, Mr Wolfson?’ Toby attempted to calm himself and be of assistance.
‘No need to worry about him—Star will follow.’ Following his concise reply about his finely trained stallion, Luke set the team to a trot. They’d soon cleared the woods and he put the horses to a faster pace, his eyes narrowed and straining to see through the darkness for hazardous obstacles littering the terrain in order to avoid them in good time.
But as much as he was occupied by the job at hand an image of a woman with fawn hair and golden eyes was in his mind, too. Luke knew that if Collins had harmed a hair on Fiona Chapman’s head the dragoons on the smuggler’s trail wouldn’t be needed after today; Luke would find the lawless bastard and kill him himself.
* * *
Fiona felt scarcely able to breathe with a silencing gag wedged between her lips. As she’d been carried off she’d kicked, scratched and yelled so much that the two men had reined in after a short gallop to secure her hands and ankles together. They’d called her foul names while roughly curbing her thrashing. Then, when satisfied they’d quietened her, they’d carelessly flung her across the horse’s back in a way that knocked the breath from her body and made her feel faint.
Now her head was hanging low, banging against the animal’s belly and she could feel a heavy hand pressing down into the centre of her back to keep her from sliding off the beast. A hammering at her temples was making them ache abominably, but instead of feeling frightened she felt enraged, and instead of self-pity she inwardly berated herself for not putting up a greater fight and making good her escape.
She was incensed to be suffering such treatment. No man had ever raised a punishing hand to her, not even her father when she deserved chastisement. When Cecil Ratcliff’s attempts to manhandle her had grown beyond bearing she’d hit him across the face with her silver-backed brush, then packed her belongings shortly afterwards.
But she realised others had suffered, too, at the hands of these ruffians. Young Bert might have perished and Mr Jackson was certain to have sustained concussion at the very least. Fiona felt tears prickle her eyes, not just because of her own uncertain fate, but because of that of her fellow travellers.
The junior highwayman had stolen the spare horses, tethering them behind his own mount, and the drumming of a dozen or more hooves was increasing the pounding in Fiona’s skull. Just as she thought she could stand no more of the interminable journey, and of struggling for breath while blocking out her aches and pains, the horse was slowed to a trot.
Moments later they were at a standstill and her captor dismounted, pulling her down so she collapsed to her knees at his feet. Her hair, wound neatly at her nape that morning, had escaped all its pins and Fiona could feel its heavy weight on her shoulders and straggling around her face. She remained still, listening, sensing that others were around. She heard muffled male voices, then boots on gravel. A moment later she was hoisted up by an arm and the blindfold and gag were removed.
By a filtering moonlight Fiona saw that a rather thin, nondescript fellow was gazing at her and that they were standing within the grounds of a graveyard. The bulky outline of a church, its spire soaring against a navy-blue sky, was outlined on a mound some yards away. Closer to her were scattered headstones and box-like tombs topped with eerie sculptures. She suppressed a shiver, not wanting these vile rogues to know that they, or her surroundings, intimidated her.
‘Jeremiah Collins, at your service, my lady.’ He raised a hand, taking a thick fawn tress between calloused thumb and forefinger. ‘Would I be right in thinking you are the Duke of Thornley’s daughter?’ He cocked his head, inspecting her.
‘No, you would not, you buffoon,’ Fiona snapped, slapping his hand away from her hair.
Jeremiah chuckled. ‘She’s the spirit of a highborn lass right enough, Fred...but I’m not sure. The major said the jaunt had been cancelled.’ He turned to the senior of the two felons who he’d addressed as Fred. ‘She’s plain as a pikestaff and older than I expected. I think you’ve brought me a pig in a poke, not a ransom.’
Fred Ruff was embarrassed by his boss’s criticism. He ripped down his neckerchief so he might speak more clearly, uncaring of Fiona seeing his face now. If Collins were right and he’d taken a worthless woman, then she’d need to be disposed of. In that case it would be immaterial whether his victim could recognise him again. ‘Mayhap the major’s been playing with us so he might keep all the money in his own pocket,’ Fred blustered, but shot his youthful accomplice a baleful look. Sam Dickens had convinced him they were on to something big and that Jem Collins would praise them to the skies for using their initiative and abducting the chit.
‘That’s her!’ Sam also removed his disguise while wagging a finger in emphasis. He knew he was in trouble if he’d led Fred up the garden path. ‘Megan told me they was talking about the estate and the old duke’s pheasants and a society wedding feast. They said about this one eloping...whispering they was like it was a big secret, Megan said.’
‘We were! But the Thornley wedding plans are nothing to do with me personally!’ Fiona interjected in exasperation. She glowered at the youth. Now she knew where she’d seen him before: he was the stable hand who’d been flirting with the serving girl at the Fallow Buck. ‘My name is Miss Chapman and I’ve journeyed from London.’ She realised that the dolts had confused her with a duke’s daughter, living locally, and abducted the wrong person. She felt like shouting a laugh. Sooner or later they’d realise their mistake and if her stepfather were approached to pay up for her release the miser would pay them not a penny piece. And her mother had nothing left now of value to offer.
Collins turned towards Fiona, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. ‘You might be right, Fred, about the major trying to cut us out of the deal. He might want to pin the deed on us, but keep all the spoils. If that’s what he’s about, then the fellow will be close by and mad as hell that we’ve got to this little lady before him.’ He circled Fiona, looking her up and down. ‘Perhaps you aren’t as bad looking as I first thought.’ He cocked his head. ‘You’re Quality, no disguising that, even dressed in these plain things.’ He fingered her woollen cloak. ‘But then you’d want to look unexceptional, wouldn’t you, my dear? Drawing attention to yourself would be a mistake till you’d got your lover’s protection.’
‘Perhaps her swain would stump up a ransom for her, too,’ Sam suggested brightly. ‘We could play ’em one off against t’other.’
‘He’s poor as a church mouse, according to the major’s report, that’s why she’s eloping—because her father won’t hear of the match.’
‘But maybe we can’t trust his word!’ Sam exclaimed.
‘You’re all talking rot!’ Fiona shouted in frustration. ‘And you might as well let me on my way, for I’m expected elsewhere to take up a position in service. The authorities will be on your tails by now. My travelling companions will have reported this outrage.’
‘She’s no domestic, I’ll stake my life on it! She’s lying!’ Sam triumphantly declared.
‘I’m a governess and I’ll be missed by my employer. He’ll send a search party if I don’t turn up,’ Fiona warned.
Jeremiah Collins again raised a hand to touch her, but Fiona stepped out of his reach, glaring at him. He looked quite inoffensive with his wispy fair hair and wiry frame. But she sensed that behind his pale eyes lurked a vicious and devious mind and she wanted to be quickly out of his clutches.
‘I think you’re a crafty wench, accustomed to lying,’ Collins said slowly. ‘If you’re Thornley’s spawn, you’ll have been deceiving your papa for some time, gallivanting with a ne’er-do-well to escape being married off to an old roué.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘His Grace won’t be popular if he tries to pass off spoiled goods to his new son-in-law, even though the fellow can match him for years. Thornley will pay handsomely to get you back and keep quiet this escapade.’
A glimmer of revulsion flitted across Fiona’s features at the idea of a young woman being forcibly married off to an aged lecher. As for the poor young lady being compromised following her abduction by highwaymen... Fiona realised that fate now applied to her. If it ever got out that she’d been in the company of three brutes—and of course it would because many people knew of it—then she would be thoroughly ruined.
Collins had noticed her distressed reaction and smiled with nasty satisfaction. ‘Come...come... I have sympathy for your plight, my lady, but I’ve money to make and pleasure to take before I swing on Gallows Hill.’ He strode to his comrades to mutter beneath his breath, ‘I think she could be Thornley’s brat, but if she’s speaking the truth, and is Miss Chapman, we’ve got ourselves a millstone round our necks. There’s only one thing to do with such: cut ’em loose and cast ’em in the sea so they sink.’
‘Shall we scout around the local hostelries for the major? If he’s still in the neighbourhood, that’ll tell us what we need to know,’ Fred Ruff hissed.
‘If Wolfson’s still in the vicinity then we won’t need to go looking for him, he’ll find us,’ Collins answered with a sly grin. From the two meetings he’d had with Major Wolfson, Collins had gauged he was not a man to cross. But then Jem Collins could match any man alive for ruthlessness. Nevertheless, he was regretting agreeing to do business with him.
By straining her ears Fiona could just catch snippets of their conversation. She heard the name Wolfson and a hand squeezed at her heart. ‘Are you talking about Luke Wolfson?’ she burst out.
Three pairs of eyes were swung in her direction.
‘What do you know of the major?’ Collins demanded.
‘Nothing... I’ve just heard his name before,’ Fiona murmured, feeling as though she’d taken a blow to the stomach.
So, the major they were talking about and Luke Wolfson were one and the same. He was the fellow these thugs thought had crossed them in a deal they’d struck to kidnap the Duke of Thornley’s daughter. But when Wolfson had come across their broken coach he’d had the intelligence to deduce that Fiona Chapman was who she said she was. No doubt he’d gone after the real prize...wherever the poor wretch might be.
Now she realised why he’d paid her such attention: Luke Wolfson hadn’t been flirting with her, he’d been assessing her and, unlike these fools, had come up with the correct answer. She supposed it had been rather good of him to warn her about the hazards for a young woman travelling alone! He was preparing her for villains such as himself who preyed on female victims.
Suddenly Fiona felt very alone and frightened. From the moment these thugs had hauled her away from her travelling party she’d harboured a tiny hope that Mr Wolfson would somehow discover what had happened to her and ride to save her from these savages. But he was no better than them and he’d provide no service she’d welcome! Of that, Fiona was certain.
* * *
From the age of sixteen, when she’d left her home in the countryside to make her fortune, Becky Peake had regularly used payment in kind for things she wanted but couldn’t afford. But rolling in hay with a yokel for a ride on his cart was a new low for her. She felt ashamed of herself and wished she’d not spent all the cash Luke had given her on a fancy hat and a night of gambling at the Red Lion at Exeter. Then she might have had the wherewithal to hire a tired nag, or a two-wheeled gig, to follow her lover without resorting to soliciting.
Luke had paid for Becky’s coach fare back to London but, on impulse, she’d disembarked before the vehicle had travelled east far enough to cross the county line. Her need to stay close to her lover, lest he replace her with somebody else, was lately always on her mind.
Becky doubted that she would ever love Luke Wolfson in that selfless way her mother had adored her father, but she did know that she craved his company. Major Wolfson was the most attractive and exciting man Becky had ever known; she wanted to be permanently in his life, sharing his adventures and his riches. She fantasised that they would have a brood of beautiful children and then, if the fire in her blood was quenched by the passing of the years, she’d settle into a comfortable life in Essex as lady of the manor with five handsome sons about her silk skirts, and her husband providing her with every little luxury that her heart desired.
‘Take you on a foo more miles if yer like.’ A gap-toothed fellow shattered Becky’s delightful daydream with his coarse country brogue.
‘Here will do very well, thank you,’ Becky replied in her crispest tone. She continued tying her garters and ignored the farmer grinning at her while he buttoned his trousers. She brushed down her dress and stood up, picking bits of straw from her bonnet.
A moment later Becky was at the barn door and peeking through a crack. Nobody seemed to be around so she slipped out and sashayed off towards the village square, tying her new hat in place as she went. She was hoping that Luke would still be lodging at the same inn; she knew he’d planned to see a chum before heading home. He’d not told her any more about it, no doubt chary of her turning up unannounced at the fellow’s home. Becky knew she might have been tempted to do so, too, in her obsession with Luke. But she was sure he’d again put up at the King and Tinker on his way back so she headed in that direction to wait for his return.
* * *
‘How is he, sir?’
Luke had been saddling up in the stable yard of the Pig and Whistle when he spied the doctor exiting the hostelry. He had quickly intercepted the physician, keen to know how young Bert fared now he’d been ensconced in one of the inn’s bedrooms.
‘I’ve dosed the patient with a sleeping draught to aid his recovery.’ The doctor gave a grim shake of the head. ‘His wound is clean now and luckily the bullet passed through. Bert Williams is young and strong, but he’s bled a lot.’ He sighed pessimistically in conclusion, then climbed aboard his trap and flicked the reins over the pony’s back.
Luke was about to swing into the saddle when he saw Mr Jackson and Toby Williams coming towards him at quite a pace. He hesitated and patted the flanks of the replacement beast he’d hired. Star was limping a little after his punishing ride and Luke didn’t want to risk a lame horse hampering him in his search for Fiona Chapman.
‘What are we to do about...you know...?’ Mr Jackson blurted in a whispering hiss. ‘My lady wife and I cannot in all conscience proceed on our way and just ignore the fact that Miss Chapman has been kidnapped by those beasts.’
‘I know, sir, but I’ve asked you to give me a day or so to find her,’ Luke replied in an equally muted tone. ‘You and I both know that an unmarried young woman’s future would be blighted for ever by such a tale becoming common knowledge. And it will, if the authorities are alerted to her abduction. Better I try to get her back and help her to reach her destination. Then she might pick up her life where it left off before this disaster befell her.’
‘But the poor lass is bound to be in hysterics and will give the game away herself,’ Peter Jackson argued.
‘She put up quite a fight, as I recall,’ Toby Williams pointed out, sounding in awe of the young woman’s pluck.
Luke gave a wry smile; he recalled very well his chat with Fiona Chapman and he sided with Toby’s opinion: she was no pushover and he doubted that any lasting harm would be done...as long as he reached her in time. He knew how Collins’s mind worked: he was a businessman above all else and if he thought he could turn a profit from Fiona Chapman he’d try to sell her back to her family. To do that successfully, he’d need to return her intact. What was puzzling Luke was the reason he’d taken her in the first place. The other travellers hadn’t had any valuables stolen and he found it hard to believe that Collins would think Fiona’s ransom might turn a tidy sum. From her appearance, and her need to seek employment, her family connections were modest, Luke reckoned. And if Collins sought simply to use her for his own amusement... Luke’s jaw clenched and he suddenly mounted the horse.
‘Blight the poor lass’s life, good ’n’ proper, it would,’ Toby stated bluntly. He was feeling better now his nephew was abed and sleeping soundly. ‘My young niece was led astray by an older fellow...married her, though, he did...albeit with a gun at his back.’
‘I don’t think it’s seduction or a wife Collins is after,’ Luke said drily. ‘Give me a day or two and I will return with Miss Chapman, God willing.’
Chapter Six (#ulink_c0f15e4b-37f3-5915-9481-92b1b08bbba2)
Fiona knew she had only one chance at escaping her dank stone-cold cell that reeked of mildew. If she failed to make her getaway the Collins gang would thereafter guard her like hawks. Also, they might kill her for making the attempt, thinking her too much trouble to contend with. Eventually her captors would realise she was who she said she was and they’d want to quickly rid themselves of her.
She was thankful they had not yet discovered that she had little monetary value. Nevertheless Fiona didn’t relish the idea of being stuck with this motley crew for weeks while they tried to negotiate a price for her return with her stepfather. They’d certainly dispose of her rather than drag her along while trying to outrun their pursuers. Cecil Ratcliff would enlist the help of the authorities rather than part with any cash to have her discreetly returned. Her mother might weep and protest about the cost to her daughter’s reputation should the disaster be broadcast, but Ratcliff wouldn’t care about that.
Fiona shifted position on the straw pallet on which she was perched. It had served as a very uncomfortable mattress last night, not least because she feared beetles were also using it as a bed. She had sprung up at one point when the night was at its blackest, having sensed a creature on her arm. Fidgeting to and fro, she studied the bed for movement, wondering if she’d been bitten by bugs.
Her hands had again been tied, but her feet were free and the gag left off, no doubt because her screams would go unheard in this isolated spot. After her capture yesterday she had been dragged, kicking, into the derelict church and down into the crypt to be locked in. But she could hear the gang members coming and going. Fiona’s greatest fear was that her gaolers might all be shot and killed by the dragoons without giving her location, leaving her to starve to death in her grisly prison. Fiona knew she’d sooner perish quickly than endure that fate and it renewed her determination to flee for her life at the first opportunity.
She started on hearing footsteps on the stairs, then the key struck the lock and she knew Sam was bringing her supper. He would untie her hands so she might eat, as he had earlier, when bringing her a lump of greasy pork she’d been unable to stomach. But he’d not been so squeamish; when he’d returned to again fasten her wrists, he’d gobbled up the meat before leaving her alone.
The youth sauntered into the room and put down a plate of bread and cheese on the rickety stool below the window. The single-square pane was set high up and looked far too small for Fiona to slip through, even had she managed to reach it to break the glass. Earlier, she’d used the three-legged seat to stand on to test whether it would be possible to wriggle out into the graveyard. It had proved a fruitless exercise; the tempting glimmer of light had remained beyond her stretching fingertips.
Awkwardly Fiona pushed to her feet by using her clubbed fists. The muscles in her legs were horribly stiff and unobtrusively she tried to ease them by flexing them beneath her skirts. In a moment, if luck were with her, she must run as fast as she could.
Alarmed, Fiona saw the youth turn towards the door without approaching her. ‘What about my hands?’ she burst out. ‘I cannot eat like this.’
Sam turned back, looking churlish. His master was above stairs and had told him to take no chances with the sly minx. ‘You can if you’re careful...see...’ Sam mimed having his wrists tethered in front of him and picked up a crust, taking it to his lips.
‘Please... I cannot... I have pins and needles because the twine is too tight.’ Fiona raised her arms. ‘See how white my hands have become.’
Sam tutted impatiently, then, after a moment of pursed-lipped consideration, his conscience got the better of him and he drew a knife from a pocket.
‘Thank you, Sam,’ Fiona said in a shaky voice. ‘You’re kind...not like the other two...’
‘Don’t try to sweet-talk me.’ Sam spat. ‘I can be as tough as me pals. Don’t go thinking different.’
Fiona nodded to humour him. ‘I can see you’re a strapping lad. Megan is your sweetheart, then?’ She held out her wrists for the binding to be cut, hoping that if she kept him talking she might eventually win him over and make him see how stupidly he was acting. Then he might not only free her hands, but assist her in escaping. He looked to be no more than seventeen, yet he was risking a premature and degrading end on the gallows by associating with Collins.
‘Ain’t telling you nothing, so keep quiet.’ Sam slashed the rope.
‘Megan will be distraught if you’re sentenced to hang,’ Fiona persisted.
‘I said keep quiet!’ Sam snarled and raised the knife to touch her throat.
Fiona sadly realised he might be young, but he seemed as steeped in evil as his older colleagues. She stole a glance at the oil lamp on the floor. If she could just get him to turn his back for a moment she’d swing the stool at his head and dart outside. She didn’t want to hurt him, but then she feared that Sam Dickens would have no qualms about hurting her...perhaps fatally...
‘Would you light the lamp for me? It’s getting dark.’ Fiona indicated the brass implement on the cold stone floor opposite the stool.
Sam muttered in irritation, but drew forth a tinderbox from a pocket and crouched down. Silently Fiona lunged for the stool, sending the plate of bread and cheese flying as she swung the wood with all her might at his bowed head.
Sam grunted and toppled forward, but beyond that Fiona didn’t tarry to see what damage she might have done to him. She flew out of the door and up the narrow winding stairs, holding her skirts high to prevent them tripping her up. She could hear Sam groaning a vile curse after her, but Fiona plunged on, the thud of blood in her ears making her deaf to any more of his abuse.
