Mary Brendan - Tarnished, Tempted and Tamed

Chapter Five

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.’