The Duke's Holiday (31 page)

IN WHICH
THE VILLAIN BEHAVES IN A MOST DASTARDLY MANNER

FOR
ALL that it was the worst thing to ever happen to her, being abducted was a
bore. Of course she was scared. One would have to be remarkably dull-witted or
foolish not to be. But ever since she’d watched Charlie fall from the wagon,
bleeding, perhaps already dead, her mind seemed to dislodge from her body,
floating somewhere near the carriage ceiling. She knew what was happening, and
she knew she was in grave danger – she knew as well with a sort of
detached clarity that she had little hope of rescue – yet she felt numb.

She must have been in shock.

Of course, she was not insensible – at least
physically speaking. Her hands were tingling from having her wrists bound so
tightly. The entire right side of her body, upon which she lay on the floor of
the carriage at a suprememly awkward angle, felt black and blue from having
been jostled by the rough road. And she felt a very pressing need to relieve
herself –
very
pressing. She’d
just finished off an entire flask of water right before she was abducted.

She’d never been so uncomfortable in her whole life.
 

Nor so bored. One would think that when one was abducted by
gunpoint, one might be guaranteed a sustained progression of dramatic events
and heart-stopping peril. One would think, at the very least, one’s abductor
might do one the courtesy of explaining himself more thoroughly, or make a few
menacing threats. But all Lightfoot had done was chuckle to himself, poke her
with his boot a few times, then nod off. It was rather anticlimactic.

They’d been traveling for hours, and Lightfoot had snored
through most of it. His snoring was the most god-awful sound she’d ever heard.
It reminded her of how Montford had sounded when casting up his accounts. It
went on and on, as inexorable as the squeal of the carriage wheels turning
beneath her. If she’d not been bound up tighter than a Christmas goose, she’d
have whacked him over the head.

She was irritated. And bored. And very uncomfortable. She
knew that she was not dreaming this because she felt these things, and she knew
as well that she probably should be more frightened than she was. But what use
was there in that?

Astrid was too practical to spend her time crying herself
into a stupor. She needed to preserve her energy to fight Lightwood – and
she planned on putting up quite a fight. She’d never willingly marry him, and
if he thought to coerce her into a union by taking her against her will, then
he was in for a dreadful surprise.

She was convinced more than ever of Lightfoot’s insanity in
light of his less than brilliant plan. Would he hold a gun to her head and make
her swear her marriage vows? What official, even one of the so-called anvil
priests in Gretna Green, would sanction that?

Besides, if it came to that, a choice to marry him or die,
she’d choose death. He obviously didn’t know her at all if he thought she
wouldn’t call his bluff. And she knew beyond a doubt she would rather die first
than submit to Lightfoot’s wickedness. Let him kill her, if he thought that
would get him what he wanted.

She thought of those she had left behind and was distantly
aware of the crushing pain in her heart. She would not see them again. Yet she
knew they would not suffer – they would mourn her and miss her, but they
did not need her for their own survival. The past week had taught her that.

Lying bound and helpless in a coach of a madman, she
suddenly saw her life with true clarity, and realized her folly. All these
years she thought
they
needed her,
when the truth was
she
was the one
who needed them. She was hanging on to the Hall, the brewery, and her sisters,
not because it was in their best interest, but because it was what she wanted.
She was so terrified at the idea of change, of relinquishing control over the
estate, that she had lost sight of her true goal: doing what was best for her
family.

Somewhere along the way, she’d lost sight of herself as
well, and she’d blinded herself to truly seeing other people. She had thought
she knew so much better than everyone else. She had thought she could control
the actions of others, even Montford’s. Clearly, her current predicament was a
testimony to how wrong she had been. She’d known Lightfoot was a villain and a
bit barmy, but she never would have guessed him to be capable of such a
scurrilous plot.

This was not how she had expected her life to turn out.

Hours seemed to mount to days, and onwards they drove. She
was aware of the sun shifting in the sky, from east to west, and of the shadows
in the coach lengthening. She tried to change positions. Her right side was
completely without feeling, and she no longer had the use of her hands, much
good they’d do her pinned at her back anyway. She managed to sit up against the
seat. Painful needles pricked down her side as feeling returned to it.

Her need to relieve herself was quite dire now. She could
no longer put it off. She kicked out her legs and managed to connect with
Lightfoot’s boot.

He stirred awake with a snort. He glanced down at her, as
if startled to find her there. Then his lips curled into an evil leer. He
leaned forward, until his face was inches from her own, and pulled down the
handkerchief binding her mouth. She jerked back and tried not to breathe. His
breath stank of onions.

“Hello, my dear,” he said.

“I need to urinate,” she said bluntly.

His brow crinkled, his leer slipped.

“I said, I need to urinate,” she repeated. “It is quite
urgent. Unless you wish for me to relieve myself here in the carriage.”

He looked disgusted. Clearly he’d not thought about such an
inevitability. After a moment’s hesitation, he pounded on the roof of the coach
and called out to the driver.

They stopped, and Lightfoot stepped from the carriage. She
scooted herself towards the door. It was dusk, and a light rain was falling.
Lightfoot and the giant henchman stared at her, uncertain how to proceed.

“You shall have to untie my legs,” she said calmly.

Lightfoot growled and did as she suggested. She stepped out
of the carriage – or rather fell. Her legs did not seem to be working
properly after their confinement. Lightfoot seized her under one arm, the giant
by the other, and tugged her into the bushes beside the road.

“Shall you untie my hands, or are you to stand over me the
entire time?” she demanded.

The two men glanced at each other, at a loss, but then the
giant grudgingly untied the ropes at her wrists.

She nearly cried out as the blood rushed back into her
hands in a painful surge.

They retreated a few paces.

“Am I expected to go while you watch me?”

Lightfoot’s face darkened. “Don’t try to run away,” he
growled.

After a few moments, the men retreated to the road.
Satisfied, Astrid hiked up her skirts and squatted.

A short time later, she felt significantly better, at least
in one regard. She glanced around her, but she could see nothing but the dimly
lit road and dark forest behind her. Nothing was familiar. She judged they were
near Cumbria, if not already in that domain. She thought about simply taking
off, but they were miles from anywhere, and she could see the giant eyeing her
over the bushes. She’d not get far.

Lightfoot returned to her side and hauled her back towards
the coach, forestalling any further notions of escape. She was tied up again
and shoved into the interior of the coach. This time, she managed to pull
herself onto the seat facing Lightfoot as the coach resumed its fast clip down
the highway.

Lightfoot stared at her in silence for some time. She faced
forwards, refusing to look at him.

“Shall we travel through the night, then?” she asked.

“We shall stop soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a bed for the
night,” he said.

A prickling of apprehension went through her. The
implication of his words was clear, and it was nothing she had not expected.
Yet even so, her pending doom felt significantly more real, now that words had
been spoken. Perhaps he would tie her down, and there would be no hope of
fighting him. She had thought at least to be given that much of a chance, but
perhaps that had been foolish of her.

She had never expected to be ruined, willing or otherwise.
She’d never even thought to marry until this past week, when she had been shown
she had no choice. She’d certainly never thought about lying with a man –
until the Duke had come along and stirred up a whole host of new and unsettling
feelings inside of her.

With a strange sense of detachment, as if viewing someone
else’s life, she thought of that night in the drawing room, when Montford had
nearly succeeded in seducing her. She’d been quite willing – at least her
body had been. Even her mind had been strangely compelled. She remembered
thinking that she didn’t want him to stop. Even when he had stopped, she hadn’t
wanted him to.

Her detachment slipped. Feeling surged through her, hot and
urgent, and filled with poignant sorrow. If only he
hadn’t
stopped. At least she’d have that memory now. At least she’d
have known what it would have been like when there was passion. Even if
afterwards she had been filled with regret and self-loathing, it wouldn’t have
mattered.

Now she’d never know. She’d never see the Duke again.

For the first time, tears pricked her eyes. And to think
Montford was the cause of them! Not her sisters, not even what lay in store for
her this night. She would never see Montford again, or touch him, or smell him,
or harangue him, and her heart wanted to wither and die. She remembered his
last words quite clearly.
I hope I never
see you again
, screamed at her back. Well, his wish had certainly come to
pass.

She wondered if he’d truly meant it.

Of course he had.

He was probably at Rylestone by now, perhaps even on the
road back to London. She held out no false hope that he’d come for her, or even
that he’d heard her scream.

When he heard of her fate, he’d probably be relieved, or at
least filled with satisfaction. He’d probably think she’d brought this upon
herself, that it was nothing less than she deserved for behaving so
outrageously.

He’d probably be right.

“Vile coward,” she bit out at Lightfoot, her patience with
her captivity expired. “Too afraid of what I might do to you without tying me
up. You know that if my hands were free, I’d pluck out your eyes and shove them
down your throat.”

He laughed again, sounding more pleased than worried. He
reached for her, and something inside of her snapped. She lashed out with her
legs, catching her bootheels in his gut.

He doubled over with pain, then glared at her with glinting
coal black eyes. “You little bitch,” he breathed, moving towards her. She
kicked him again and caught him on the shin. He howled in pain and brought up
his hand to strike her.

She threw herself against the window to avoid the blow, and
the coach jolted over something in the road, throwing off his aim. He struck
her on the shoulder instead of the face, but it hurt. A lot.

“Pig. You’ll have to kill me before I’ll marry you,” she
spat.

Lightfoot too seemed to have lost his patience. He grabbed her
by the legs and shoved her back on the seat. She struggled against him as he
began to tear at her clothes. Her vision swam, her head felt as if it were on
fire. She turned her face away as he attempted to kiss her, pressing it up
against the glass on the window, gasping for air. Then out of the corner of her
eye she saw a flicker of movement on the road outside the window. A rider.

A giddy, ridiculous hope rose up inside of her as she
watched the rider approach. He was coat-less and riding at a furious pace. She
could not quite make out his features, but something about the shape of him,
the slope of his broad shoulders, was familiar.

She wanted to cry out with joy, she wanted to cry out with
terror. It was Montford. She would have known him at a thousand paces. He’d
come to rescue her. But her hope was tempered by the very slim chance of his
success.

He’d die, the fool.

Astrid turned away from the window. She needed to make this
easier for Montford. She spotted a pistol tucked under the opposite seat and
kicked out with her foot, knocking it into the farthest corner. But then
Lightfoot gripped her by the arms, pulling her beneath him, and jerked her
skirts up her legs, intent on his task.

She bit his arm as hard as she could, and he howled in
disbelief.

Then a gunshot exploded outside the coach, and Astrid’s
heart surged with hope. Montford was not such a fool after all, if he’d come
armed.

Lightfoot raised himself off of her and peered out the window.
He swore under his breath and moved to retrieve his pistol.

Astrid threw herself against Lightfoot, knocking him
against the seat. But in the process, she jarred her head against the squabs,
sending such an acute pain lancing through her skull that she dropped to her
knees. She tried to focus, but saw nothing but shining stars twinkling before
her eyes. She was aware of angry shouts beyond the coach window, and
Lightfoot’s furious oaths. The carriage jerked abruptly right, then left,
sending Astrid flailing wildly from side to side. She braced her feet against
the opposite seat for purchase and tried to shake the stars out of her eyes.

Her vision cleared, and what she saw sent a chill down into
the very depths of her soul. Lightfoot had jerked the left window open and was
leaning out, cursing profusely and aiming his pistol in the direction of
Montford, who was trying frantically to control his horse a few paces off.

Astrid shrieked in terror. The carriage was listing wildly,
impairing Lightfoot’s attempt to aim the gun. But if he succeeded in his
intent, Montford was done for. She gathered what was left of her wits and threw
herself forward, hoping she was not too late. But Lightfoot shot his pistol
before she could reach him.