Sometimes a Rogue Read online

  Murphy gazed to the west, his expression hard. “Sure you don’t want any help on this hunt?”

  “If I did, it would be you. But at this point, speed is more important than numbers.”

  Murphy nodded agreement. “I hope you have the lass home before dark.”

  “So do I.” Rob swung onto his horse. But he doubted that would happen.

  Chapter 4

  During her calm, well-ordered life, Sarah had often longed for excitement. She hadn’t expected an adventure to be boring. Racing along a rutted road with two large kidnappers inside and two more outside proved to be a regrettable combination of fear and tedium.

  As she clutched a handhold to keep from being thrown around the carriage, she tried to engage the men in conversation in hopes of learning something useful. But the leader, Flannery, ignored her, and the other, O’Dwyer, studied her with a disturbing leer, as if mentally stripping her naked.

  She tried to block such thoughts by imagining her rescue. As soon as Murphy returned to the church with Adam and a wagon, the alarm would be raised. There were probably already men coming for her. Who would she like to be rescued by?

  Adam wouldn’t leave Mariah when she was in labor, but his friend Major Randall was staying at the abbey. Randall was tough and immensely capable, so perhaps he’d lead the rescuers. Sarah had fancied him a bit until it transpired that Randall had fallen in love with Lady Julia at first sight, and they were such a devoted couple she couldn’t wish it otherwise.

  Murphy would come with Randall. Another capable former soldier, he was quite attractive, but she couldn’t really daydream about a romantic rescue by a groom, be he ever so dashing.

  A pity Adam’s friend Rob Carmichael wasn’t available. Sarah hadn’t been introduced to the man, but she’d seen him at the wedding of Adam’s sister. Carmichael was a Bow Street Runner, which was a shockingly intriguing occupation for a graduate of the Westerfield Academy, a school for boys of good birth and bad behavior. She knew nothing about his family, but he’d been listed in a magazine article later as the Honorable Robert Carmichael, so he was the son of a lord. A suitable object for daydreaming.

  She hadn’t noticed him at first. He’d lurked in the back of the church and he had a talent for going unnoticed. But once he caught her eye, she saw that he was tautly handsome and radiated a quiet sense of danger. Danger in a good way—just what a girl wanted in a rescuer. He looked like a man who could take on four kidnappers and sweep Sarah away to safety. She wouldn’t even insist that he ride a white horse.

  A particularly deep rut jolted the carriage so badly that Sarah lost her grip and pitched into O’Dwyer, the leering man. He caught hold of her knee as if steadying her, but his fingers dug into her thigh before she jerked away. If she had a sword, she would cut his hand off.

  Pulling as far away as she could in the tight space, she stared out the window, fighting back tears. It was all very well to daydream about rescuers, but if she was saved by a short fat ancient with three wives, she’d fall at his feet in gratitude.

  She clung to her handhold and gazed blindly out the window as the sun rose in the sky, then began to dip toward the horizon. The wide grassy hills of the downs gave way to woods and fields and villages.

  How long would it take for pursuers to catch up with the kidnappers? They were traveling almost as fast as a mail coach. They’d made a brief stop at a coaching inn to change horses. The carriage stayed on the side of the yard and she wasn’t allowed out. Flannery and O’Dwyer remained with her, O’Dwyer pointing a razor sharp dagger while the driver and guard watched over the changing of the team.

  Remarkable how much more frightening a dagger was than a pistol. A pistol could kill her quickly, while O’Dwyer’s vicious smile said that he’d enjoy carving her into bloody pieces. She tried not to look at him. “I need to go to the necessary,” she said coolly. “And I’ll require food and drink unless you plan to starve me to death.”

  “We’ll find you a nice little bush once we get going again,” Flannery said, enjoying her discomfort. “We’ll get food the next time we change horses.”

  They did indeed stop a mile or so beyond the coaching inn. Flannery escorted Sarah into a copse and watched while she relieved herself. It was the most humiliating moment of her life.

  Back to the carriage and the pounding pace. They were headed west into the setting sun. When they changed horses again, Curran, the guard, handed a basket of food and drink into the carriage before they raced off again.

  Flannery investigated the basket. “Eat this.” He handed Sarah a cold and disgustingly greasy mutton pie. She was so hungry she ate it in small, wary bites, though it settled badly in her stomach. The saltiness of the pie made her even thirstier than she’d been already. Hoping to wash the greasy taste from her mouth, she asked, “Do you have any small beer in there?”

  O’Dwyer pulled a jug from the basket and took a deliberate swig, then handed it to her. Restraining a desire to kick him, she ostentatiously wiped the mouth of the jug before drinking. Instead of small beer, the vessel contained harsh, cheap whiskey. She began to cough, feeling as if her throat was on fire. O’Dwyer laughed uproariously and even Flannery smiled.

  Furious, Sarah upended the jug and let the spirits pour out on the floor. “If this is what you drink, no wonder your brain has rotted!”

  “Damned bitch!” O’Dwyer grabbed the jug before all the whiskey was gone. He looked ready to strike her, but a hard glance from Flannery caused him to drop his hand. Muttering under his breath, he finished off the whiskey.

  Sarah resumed watching the passing countryside. At least the kidnappers didn’t want to kill her, or they would have done so already. That and the knowledge that her family would come after her at full speed were her only sources of comfort.

  Though she’d never been sick in a carriage before, the jarring ride, greasy mutton pie, and whiskey roiled in her stomach nauseatingly. She felt so wretched that at first she didn’t notice that the carriage had stopped again.

  Flannery opened the door and ordered, “Get down and don’t say a word or you will deeply regret it.”

  She clambered from the coach and found that they were by a pier with a yawl moored in the water beyond. There was land visible on the other side of the water, but the distance was so great that she guessed that they were on the bank of the Severn River where it had broadened unto the Bristol Channel on its way to the sea.

  A hard hand grasped her elbow. “Come along, your prissy grace,” O’Dwyer said. “We’re going for a little sail.”

  Her heart sank. They could be heading anywhere, and this would make rescue much more difficult. As O’Dwyer marched her along the pier to a dinghy, she looked around for help, but she saw no one. This was a mere village with a single pier and half a dozen fishing boats settled for the night. A small livery stable stood on the opposite side of the street, but there were no people about.

  “Into the dinghy,” Flannery ordered.

  Reluctantly she took his hand as he helped her down. She tried unsuccessfully to keep her feet away from the dirty water sloshing in the bottom. As she sat, she asked, trying to sound calm, “Where are you taking me?”

  Flannery climbed down behind her while O’Dwyer took the oars. As the dinghy wallowed toward the yawl, O’Dwyer said nastily, “To Ireland, where no one will ever find you.”

  Ireland? She stared at him, aghast. The Irish were rebellious and angry with English rule, so it wasn’t a good place for an unprotected Englishwoman. She pressed her hand to her belly as fear churned her already uneasy stomach.

  As O’Dwyer gloated, she decided to stop fighting her distressed stomach. She leaned forward with dizzy satisfaction and vomited on the horrible man.

  His furious roar was the best moment she’d experienced all day.

  It took less than half an hour for Rob’s instincts to be confirmed. A small tavern on the road west had half a dozen old men sitting in front, puffing clay pipes and watching the world pass by. T
hey’d noticed the tan carriage because it was traveling unusually fast for a vehicle that was neither a mail coach nor the crested traveling coach of an aristocrat.

  Rob summoned the landlord of the tavern and sent a message to Ralston Abbey. Then he set off again, blocking out his fatigue and giving thanks for a fresh, strong horse.

  Throughout a long day of riding, he gradually gained on the kidnappers. He tracked the carriage to the waterside village of Burnham, where he found the mud-spattered vehicle parked in front of a livery stable facing the small harbor. An ostler and a boy who looked like his son stood outside grooming a pair of carriage horses. Two already groomed beasts were munching on hay inside the building.

  Steeled for bad news, Rob dismounted. “Good day to you. Did the fellows who came in this carriage set sail from here?”

  “Aye, about two hours ago. They just caught the tide.”

  “Did they hire the carriage from you?”

  “Nay, we only hire out horse and carriages for local use, not long distance.” The ostler patted the horse he was brushing. “This carriage was hired in Bristol and the team works on the Bristol to London road. We’ll be sending carriage and team back to Bristol in the morning after the horses have a bit of a rest. They were used hard today.”

  Rob gazed out to sea, his expression bleak. By this time, the kidnappers were well away and could be headed anywhere. “How many men were in the coach?”

  The ostler thought. “Four. A driver, a guard, and two men inside.”

  The stable boy piped up, “And a girl! A right pretty blonde.”

  Glad for the confirmation, Rob asked, “Did she seem injured?”

  The ostler frowned. “You seem powerful curious.”

  “I’m a Bow Street Runner.” Rob summoned his authority as an officer of the law. “The young lady was kidnapped and I’ve been sent to rescue her.”

  “A Runner!” the boy breathed, his eyes widening. “The girl was kidnapped? One of the men was marching her along with a hand on her elbow and she was drooping.”

  A drooping blonde? Miss Sarah must lack her sister’s bubbling energy. All the more reason to rescue her. “Do you know where the ship was heading?”

  The ostler shook his head regretfully, but the boy piped up, “Ireland. Cork.”

  “You’re sure?” Rob tensed, his mind spinning. Inspired by the American and French Revolution, many Irishmen yearned to throw off English rule and become a republic—and Cork was a hotbed of republican sentiment. Was there a political dimension to the kidnapping? Given Ashton’s rank, that was quite possible.

  The boy nodded vigorously. “I heard the guard and coachman talking about how long it would take to reach Cork in these winds.”

  “Excellent! Can you describe the boat?”

  “A two-masted yawl,” the ostler said. “With the name St. Brigid on her stern and a figurehead of the saint on the bow.”

  Rob’s gaze swept the harbor as he examined the fishing boats moored there. “I need to hire the fastest boat available. Who would be the owner?”

  The ostler blinked. “You don’t waste time.”

  “There is no damned time to waste,” Rob said tersely.

  Chapter 5

  Three days as a kidnap victim had crushed Sarah’s ability to view her situation as a romantic adventure. Her captors continued uncommunicative, but a day’s sail brought the ship to a port that was obviously in Ireland, though Sarah wasn’t sure where. It seemed too small to be Dublin.

  She’d immediately been hustled into another carriage, this one shabbier than the English vehicle. They didn’t travel with the same urgency as in England, but they made as good speed as possible on the rough roads.

  When it became too dark to travel, they stopped at a substantial house. Sarah was locked into a closet under the staircase, along with a rough blanket for warmth. The next morning the party continued west into the countryside. She refused to relinquish the blanket and used it as a cloak.

  The second night, they stopped at a similar house and she was locked in a revolting root cellar. The space was dark and damp and cold, with things crawling in the darkness and a disgusting stench of rotting potatoes.

  Sarah warily felt around the pitch black space hoping to find some way to escape. Unsurprisingly, she found nothing. The kidnappers were nothing if not careful. She wrapped herself tightly in the blanket and sat up all night. It was a struggle not to have strong hysterics. Only the knowledge that weeping and wailing wouldn’t help and would leave her in even worse shape helped her maintain her control.

  She tried to think of happy things: her sister and the new baby, her parents, the knowledge that her family would never stop searching for her. But it was hard to be optimistic in the cold, reeking blackness. She almost wept with relief after they released her in the morning.

  During the long days of rattling along in the carriage, she maintained the cool reserve of a dignified duchess while listening carefully for something that might help her. Some of the conversations were in Irish and completely unintelligible to Sarah, but the rest were in English. Apparently Flannery and his men were members of some secret organization, and they stayed at the homes of other members.

  The air of secrecy made her wonder if she’d been taken by political rebels. Perhaps her captors wanted to imprison a duchess to make some bizarre political point. Would she be better off revealing that she was plain Miss Sarah Clarke-Townsend? Probably not. If they wanted a duchess and found that she wasn’t one, they might kill her out of hand.

  At least she wasn’t dead yet.

  By the time Rob reached Cork, he was more than a day behind the kidnappers. Even so, he took the time to visit a few taverns and take the measure of the city’s mood. He learned that Cork still nourished a rebellious spirit, and that a new group called Free Eire had formed here in southeast Ireland. They were said to be more radical than the United Irishmen, a liberal group that included Protestants, Catholics, and Dissenters. He had no proof that Free Eire was behind the kidnapping, but his instincts were twitching.

  He bought two strong riding horses and followed the trail of the kidnappers west into the heart of southern Ireland.

  With the coach jolting too violently for Sarah to rest, she spent her time hanging on to a strap and observing the very green and usually wet countryside. Riding horses would be more sensible than this old and rather battered vehicle, but she guessed her captors didn’t want to give her a chance to escape.

  Wise of them—if they gave her a horse and even a slim chance, she’d be off like a cannon ball. Not that she’d get far. She didn’t speak Irish and she’d stand out like a goose in a flock of pigeons. But that certainly wouldn’t stop her from trying.

  As night approached, they turned into a lane that eventually led them to a substantial stone house about the size of a vicarage. After her captors escorted her inside, Flannery and the elderly homeowner talked over her head in Irish until the owner said doubtfully in strongly accented English, “You’re a duchess, child?”

  Not surprising that he was doubtful. Sarah had been rained on until her sunny gown was a mess, and her hair was surely a disaster. “Duchesses come in all sizes, shapes, and ages,” she said crisply. “Including hungry.”

  The homeowner clucked. “You haven’t fed her properly? I’ve nought fit for a duchess, but I’ll have my kitchen maid heat up the mutton stew before she goes home.”

  Flannery snorted. “No need, McCarthy. I’ve been feeding her precious grace boiled potatoes and milk so she’ll know what Irish peasants live on.”

  “But she’s a duchess!” McCarthy exclaimed, shocked.

  “All the more reason she learn how the Irish live,” Flannery retorted.

  More and more, Sarah thought her kidnapping must be political. She wondered what her ultimate destination was. From things she’d overheard, she was being taken to the leader of some mysterious organization. And then—ransom? Imprisonment? A spectacular and public execution of the “duchess” to mak
e their political point?

  Sometimes Sarah wished she didn’t have so much imagination.

  “Come this way, your grace,” Mr. McCarthy said politely.

  “Don’t you go bending your knee to her!” Flannery snarled. “We’re after getting rid of bleeding aristocrats like her!”

  McCarthy scowled. “Aye, but there’s no call to be rude to a lady.”

  Flannery made a disgusted sound, but had enough sense of what was proper to stop arguing with his host. “Serve her some potatoes while I check to see if your pantry is tight enough to lock her up tonight.”

  McCarthy gave Sarah an apologetic glance before leading the group to the long kitchen at the back of the house. While Flannery opened the door to the pantry to study it, McCarthy gave orders in Irish to Bridget, his pretty red-haired kitchen maid.

  The girl hung a pot of mutton stew on the hob to heat for the men, then fried up potatoes and onions for Sarah. With butter and parsley, the potatoes were delicious. So was the rich whole milk; most of the time, Sarah was given plain boiled potatoes and thin milk with the fat removed for butter or cheese.

  When Sarah thanked the girl, the girl said in halting English, “I wish I could help you, my lady, but there’s naught I can do.” She cast a disgusted glance at Flannery.

  “I understand,” Sarah said softly. “I appreciate your making so fine a meal of what they ordered for me.”

  Bridget bobbed her head, then moved to the hearth to stir the mutton stew. It smelled very good after three days of milk and potatoes, and scant amounts at that.

  Before Sarah broke down and started salivating, O’Dwyer grabbed her left arm and yanked her to her feet. “Time to lock you up for the night, yer bloody grace.”

  Sarah jerked her arm free, then scooped up her blanket. It was coarse and ragged around the edges, but it was all that stood between her and shivering through the night.