Sometimes a Rogue Page 4

  “If you won’t let me take your arm, yer grace,” O’Dwyer said mockingly, “I’ll lead you there by your titty.” He latched on to her left breast with bruising force.

  After an instant of shock, Sarah exploded with fury. Knotting her right fingers, she swung her fist up from her side and smashed it into O’Dwyer’s crotch.

  O’Dwyer shrieked and let go of Sarah’s breast as he stumbled backward, clutching his hands over his damaged private parts. “Ye vicious little bitch!” he gasped. “I’ll kill you for that!”

  “No, you won’t,” Flannery said with a grin as he guided O’Dwyer into a chair, then put a glass of spirits in the man’s hand. “Can’t blame the girl for fighting back. More like an Irish colleen than a duchess, and I like her the better for it.”

  His face becoming stern, he told Sarah, “Now into the pantry with you, and right smart if you don’t want to be tossed in bodily.”

  Knowing better than to push her luck any further, Sarah wrapped the blanket around her and walked into the pantry with as much dignity as she could manage. The small room was lined with shelves loaded with sacks of vegetables and flour. Nothing that would supplement her supper. Hams and bacon and cheeses were stored elsewhere.

  Before the door closed behind her, she had enough light to see something scuttle across the flour at the back of the pantry. She shuddered and shrank back against the door. Mice, or worse, rats.

  Biting her lip, she told herself not to be foolish. Of course vermin would be drawn to the pantry. They wouldn’t bother her as long as she didn’t lie on the floor so the creatures could nibble on her.

  She shuddered again at the image. She was too tired to stand all night, but the pantry shelves were wide enough for a small person. Giving thanks for her lack of size, Sarah felt down the shelves on the left till she found one that was about hip high and a foot under the next highest shelf. Enough space for her.

  She yanked everything off the shelf, shoving each item toward the back wall. A cloud of flour fluffed into the air, followed by the smash of pottery and the sharp tang of vinegar as a small crock of something pickled went flying. It didn’t smell very appetizing, so she didn’t investigate further.

  When the surface was clear, she wrapped the blanket around her like a cocoon and crawled onto the shelf. There was just enough space if she didn’t try to roll over.

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she realized that there was a bit of light from a high, narrow window, enough to reveal the shapes of the shelves and the door. Though the window was far too small for her to escape through even if she could scramble up that high, she liked not being in total darkness.

  Resting her head on her arm, she closed her eyes with a sigh. At least she was off the floor if there were rats.

  After an eternity in dark nothingness, Mariah slowly floated up to awareness. She was in her own bed, she realized. At Ralston Abbey. In the dim candlelight, she recognized the richly woven canopy over her head.

  And she wasn’t alone in the bed. With enormous effort, she turned her head to the left and saw Adam. He lay on top of the covers dressed only in buckskin breeches and a rumpled shirt, his dark hair tangled on the pillow, one hand resting on hers.

  He was dozing, but when she turned her head, his eyes shot open. He caught his breath as he gazed at her, then pushed himself up on his elbow, his green eyes blazing. “Mariah! You’ve returned, haven’t you?”

  “Adam.” Her voice was so faint she barely heard herself, but she managed a smile. “The baby? Well?”

  “Wonderfully so.” He touched Mariah’s cheek tenderly. “He’s a fine and healthy lad.” Sliding off the wide mattress, he continued, “Our young Richard is sleeping in his cradle on your side of the bed. Do you want to hold him?”

  “Please!” Coming more awake, she watched as her husband rolled from the bed, circled around, and carefully lifted the wrapped infant from his cradle. With equal care, Adam tucked the baby into the crook of Mariah’s arm.

  Though she had no memory of seeing her child earlier, he felt utterly right and natural as he gave a small yawn, then settled against her. He was a bonny, wee boy with masses of dark hair like Adam. They’d decided to name him Richard Charles Lawford after their fathers. She studied his tiny face, entranced. Her baby, Richard. Her son! She and Adam had made this small miracle together.

  She found the strength to tighten her arm around him protectively. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered as she tried to order her thoughts. “I was very ill, wasn’t I? How long?”

  “About five days.” Adam perched on the edge of the bed. He looked exhausted and he hadn’t shaved in days. “We . . . I . . . I almost lost you, Mariah. You were bleeding so badly.” He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “If Julia hadn’t been here, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “How has Richard been fed since I’m useless?” she asked with sudden concern.

  “We have an excellent wet nurse from the village,” he said soothingly. “Julia has been looking out for both you and Richard.”

  Mariah closed her eyes, blinking back sudden tears. She felt so weak. Thank heaven for Julia, who had to be one of the best midwives, and best friends, anywhere.

  She tried to remember what had happened. She’d persuaded Sarah to take them for an early morning drive. Then . . .

  Her blood froze as memories rushed in. The pains that struck at the abandoned church. The villains bent on kidnapping her. The horrible dark crypt where she hid while her sister had placed herself into the hands of violent strangers. “Sarah! She was kidnapped! Have you found her and brought her home? She was so brave!”

  Adam’s expression turned grave. “Not yet. By the sheerest of good luck, Rob Carmichael arrived for a visit when we were bringing you back to the house after the kidnapping. He went in pursuit immediately.”

  Mariah had been aided by Carmichael in the past and knew that he was an alarmingly capable man. “But he hasn’t found her yet?”

  Adam shook his head. “She was taken to Ireland. Rob sent a message just before crossing after the kidnappers. We haven’t heard from him since. But he’ll find her if anyone can.” He hesitated before continuing, “The situation is grave, Mariah. The abduction might have been political.”

  Mariah saw in his eyes that he feared Sarah might be murdered by the scoundrels and Mariah should prepare for the worst. “She’s all right!” Mariah said stubbornly. “I’d know if something had happened to her. Even when I didn’t know I had a twin, I sensed her presence. Surely Rob will find her soon.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Adam said softly as he rested his hand on her shoulder.

  So did Mariah. She wasn’t sure how she could live with herself if her sister died in her place.

  Chapter 6

  Rob had overtaken his quarry at dusk. As the kidnappers’ carriage stopped for the night at a sizable stone home, he watched with his spyglass from the road on a hill above. Though he couldn’t make out details, he saw a small figure in the middle of the group of men as they descended from the carriage and entered the house. He was glad to see that the girl didn’t move as if she’d been injured, both for her sake and because it would make escape easier.

  As the sky darkened, he worked his way down the hill close to the house. An empty shed near the stables provided a place to conceal and tend his two horses. They were sturdy beasts with good stamina, but he’d not had time to locate a sidesaddle. He hoped Miss Sarah wasn’t too much of a lady to ride astride.

  As he waited for the lights in the house to be extinguished, he made a scant meal of soda bread and cheese. He spent some time in the stables with a sharp knife to ensure that the harness and tack for the carriage and horses would fail quickly if he and the lady were pursued.

  Then he scouted around the house, looking for ways to break in. Getting inside would be simple. Locating the girl within the building without waking anyone would be more difficult. He’d have to rely on a combination of logic and his myst
erious finder’s intuition.

  There were still a fair number of lights on inside the house when someone exited from the back of the house. After studying the figure, he identified a strapping female wearing a plain dark cloak and carrying a small lantern. She headed briskly down the lane. Rob guessed she was a servant heading to her home in the nearby village.

  Giving thanks for this stroke of luck, Rob followed her silently until she was well away from the house. Then he moved up behind her and caught her in a hard grip, trapping her arms and covering her mouth with one hand.

  As she tried to struggle free, he said softly in Irish, “I’ll not be hurting you, lass, but I need information about that young lady who was brought to the house this evening. Will you promise not to scream if I take my hand from your mouth?”

  Relaxing slightly, the woman nodded. When Rob removed his hand, she said warily, “Who are you and why are you asking? All I know is that she’s a sweet little thing and they say she’s a duchess.”

  “I’m Rob. And you are . . . ?”

  “Bridget, cook and kitchen maid to Mr. McCarthy.” She nodded toward the house.

  “I want to know where they locked her up,” Rob said tersely, releasing his grip on Bridget’s torso. “Her family sent me to steal her away and return her safely home.”

  “That’s good then. I wouldn’t leave a dog with those bloody sods.” She turned to face him, but the darkness obscured them from each other. “The kitchen and storerooms run across the back of the house on the ground floor. They locked her in one of the pantries, the one to the left at the far end of the kitchen. The side door on the west end of the house will put you into the kitchen.”

  That was useful information. “Is she guarded?”

  “I don’t know. I left while they were still eating Mr. McCarthy’s food and drinking his whiskey.” Her voice turned sour. “A fair mess they’re making, I’m sure.”

  “Do you know who the kidnappers are?”

  “Members of a rebel group called Free Eire.” Bridget snorted. “Freedom for Ireland would be a fine thing, but I wouldn’t trust that lot of villains. My master is none too happy to have them descend on the house with a kidnapped duchess.” A worried note entered her voice. “Will there be British troops coming for her?”

  Rob understood her concern. Any kind of skirmish would be bad for the house, its master, the neighborhood, and this young woman’s employment. “No one but me, and my aim is to free the lady with no one getting hurt.” And if anyone was hurt, he would do his best to ensure it wasn’t Sarah Clarke-Townsend.

  “That’s all right then,” she said with a decisive nod. “I don’t like seeing any woman being bullied, even an English duchess.”

  Rob guessed that any man who tried to bully Bridget quickly learned better. “Will you swear not to raise the alarm? If you won’t swear, I’ll have to tie you up and leave you in a shed.”

  “I swear. The sooner you get the lady away, the better.” Bridget chuckled. “I’ll go home to my bed and be proper shocked in the morning to hear she’s gone.”

  “Good lass. Here, for your help.” He pressed a folded banknote into her hand.

  Her fingers closed over it. “’Tis not necessary, but my thanks to you.”

  “It comes with the gratitude of the young lady’s family. She is dearly loved.”

  “Then take her safe away, boyo.” A husky note entered Bridget’s voice. “And if ever you return by daylight, pay me a call. Bridget Malone, and it’s been a pleasure.”

  “For me as well, Bridget Malone.” Rob sketched a bow, then watched as she continued on her way home with a sway to her hips. He was damned lucky to find a servant with no loyalty to her master’s rebel friends, and sympathy for a girl in trouble.

  He turned and headed back to the house to plot how he’d enter the building—and how he’d get them out again.

  It was hours before the lights in the house were extinguished, but Rob had years of practice in patience. The light rain stopped and the sky cleared, revealing a waxing moon that would provide light for another few hours to aid an escape.

  Eventually the house became dark, except for a small light on the ground floor level that appeared to be in the kitchen. Since that might mean the captive was guarded, he’d enter through the front door rather than the one Bridget had suggested.

  He was good with locks, so the massive front door presented no great challenge. He eased inside, scarcely breathing, then pulled the door almost shut so it would be ready for a quick escape. As he studied his surroundings, he pulled his fighting stick from an inside pocket. He’d acquired it in India, and it was shaped and knobbed to be held in one hand to add extra striking power in a fight.

  The house appeared to have a standard layout with stairs coming down the center and rooms on each side. A sitting room was on the right, the dining room on the left. Since Bridget had said the kitchen was behind the dining room, he moved between the table and sideboard to the door that should lead to the kitchen.

  Fighting stick in his left hand, he slowly opened the door—and froze when he was greeted by a raucous snore from inside.

  Not moving, he studied as much of the room as he could see. The snoring man was seated on a bench by a long worktable on the right, his head resting on his crossed arms. Next to him was an empty whiskey bottle and the lantern that lit the room. The man seemed to be in a drunken sleep, so Rob decided not to retreat. Not when he was so close to the abducted lady.

  Silently he crossed the kitchen along the left side. The snoring man didn’t stir when Rob passed less than six feet away.

  He reached the pantry door. The key was in the lock, which saved him having to pick it. The key made a slight scraping sound when he turned it.

  He held still, not even breathing, but the drunk snored on. Praying the hinges wouldn’t squeal, he inched the door open and entered, closing it softly behind him.

  A shaft of moonlight from the pantry’s high window illuminated most of the tiny room. His first reaction was disappointment that the floor held only a clutter of sacks and boxes and broken crockery, not a sleeping captive.

  Something moved on a shelf to the left and a delicate face surrounded by a fluffy cloud of blond hair peered up at him. Miss Sarah Clarke-Townsend looked like an adorable little golden chick. Harmless and helpless and prey to the first fox or hawk that came along.

  Hoping she wouldn’t squeal or otherwise draw attention to them, he said in a barely audible voice, “Ashton sent me. Shall we be on our way?”

  Her eyes widened like a startled kitten and she swung her feet to the floor. “Yes!” Wrapping her ragged blanket firmly around her shoulders, she continued, “Lead on, sir!”

  Though her voice was low, he held a finger to his lips to emphasize silence. “There is a man sleeping in the kitchen. We must leave very, very quietly.”

  She nodded and pulled her ragged blanket close around her. When they got to the horses, he’d find her something warmer.

  He opened the door again and moved into the kitchen, beckoning for her to follow since the drunk was still snoring. Silently she wafted behind him.

  They were halfway across the kitchen when disaster struck. Something clattered to the floor and Miss Sarah gave a squeak of dismay. As the drunk came awake with a growl, Rob saw that her trailing blanket had snagged a broom leaning against the wall and knocked it to the floor.

  The drunk’s eyes widened as he focused on them. “The bitch is trying to escape!” he roared as he hauled himself from the table.

  Two more heads appeared on the other side of the table. Rob swore as he realized the men had been sleeping there out of sight. Outnumbered three to one, Rob had only the advantage of being awake and alert. As the two other men scrambled to their feet, Rob lunged for the drunk, who was closest. “Run!” he barked at Miss Sarah.

  Before the drunk could react, Rob slammed him in the temple with his fighting stick. The man collapsed backward from the bench, sending his whiskey bottle flying
to crash on the flagstone floor.

  Not pausing, Rob leaped over the table and attacked the closer of the two men, a wiry fellow who was pulling a knife from the sheath at his waist. Rob slugged him in the belly, then bashed the man’s head as he folded up, gasping.

  As the wiry man collapsed, Rob swung to face the last opponent—and stopped cold when he saw the barrel of a pistol pointing at him. As the third man cocked the weapon, he snarled in Irish, “I don’t know who you are, boyo, but say your prayers!”

  Rob was preparing to hurl himself back over the table in hopes of evading the shot when the air resonated with a deep, gong-like sound. The armed man crumpled to the floor. Behind him, smiling gleefully and holding a massive cast iron frying pan in both hands, was his helpless chick, looking absurdly pleased with herself.

  Backlit by a lantern, Miss Sarah’s hair was a golden cloud shining like a halo around her exquisite face. A crippling emotion he couldn’t name twisted inside him. Yearning, perhaps, because in her beauty, joy, and innocence, she represented everything he’d ever loved and lost.

  The feeling passed in an instant because his job was to save her life, not wallow in his personal sorrows. “Well done, princess. Now it’s time we are on our way.”

  He would have preferred to bind and gag the three men, but reinforcements would arrive at any moment and he had no desire for a pitched battle. He scooped up the dropped pistol and gestured toward the kitchen’s door to the outside.

  “I couldn’t agree more!” she exclaimed as she darted toward their exit.

  A dozen steps brought him to the door. He unlatched it and ushered her outside. Once they were in the damp, chilly night air, he clasped her small hand. “Now, princess, we run!”

  Chapter 7

  Giving thanks for her tomboy childhood, Sarah raced full tilt across the yard, steadied by her rescuer’s strong hand. She couldn’t believe that her fantasy had come true and Rob Carmichael had appeared out of nowhere to save her from her captivity. She’d laugh out loud with delight if she didn’t need all her breath for running.