Chapter Eight

An hour later, Kenna seethed over Lord Newhall’s tyrannical attitude. What made the man think he had the right to give her orders? In truth, it wasn’t his commanding tone that truly bothered her, but his judgement of her. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. He was just so maddening.

She strolled alongside Mister Davis on the garden path. The rest of the group walked ahead of them, no doubt whispering about her earlier encounter with that man, and now her walking with Mister Davis.

It had been too much to hope that Lord Wilshire would attend the luncheon. Aside from him being the perfect candidate for her plan to embroil herself in a scandal, she burned to prove to that man that she didn’t need his advice. Unfortunately, she had no idea when, or even if, she would ever see Lord Wilshire again. She simply couldn’t wait for a time she might run into him.

Mister Davis was a sweet young man who would easily fall into her trap. A slight pang of conscience struck. Would he be hurt when he realized that she’d only led him on? Nae, she was being silly. He wouldn’t fall in love with her. The next beautiful woman who crossed his path would make him forget her. All she had to do was get him to take a walk with her in the arboretum. They would be caught kissing, and the scandal would be enough to induce Lady Chastity and Sir Stirling to send her home. She half wished Lord Newhall would be the one to discover her in a compromising situation with the young man. That would teach him a lesson.

Good Lord, she was the one who had gone daft.

“We had better catch up with the others,” Mister Davis said.

Her heart fell. The worry in his voice was genuine. She couldn’t use him to fulfill her plan. Why hadn’t Lord Wilshire attended the party?

Mister Davis cupped her elbow and quickened their pace toward the bend around which the others had already passed. Rustling in the bushes to the left and behind them caught her attention. They started to turn toward the sound. Mister Davis cried out, then crumpled to the ground. Kenna jerked her gaze from his motionless body to the large man who stood behind them. She opened her mouth to scream, but he yanked her to him and clapped a meaty hand over her mouth.

Her heart leapt to a frantic rhythm. She clawed at the hand. He lunged toward the bushes. Kenna jammed her eyes shut and threw an arm across her face. They burst through the foliage. She snapped open her eyes. The brute was striding toward the trees bordering the garden.

Tears stung. He meant to rape her. Her head swam. This couldn’t be happening. Who was he? How did he get into Miss Davenport’s private garden? Kenna thrashed and kicked. Her heel struck his leg shin. He growled and tightened his arm around her waist.

She clawed his face. He released her mouth and seized her hands. She drew a deep breath and screamed. He jammed her arms to her side, his arm an iron band that pressed the air from her lungs. Then he clamped his free hand over her mouth again.

“Bloody ‘ell,” he cursed. “I ain’t going to hurt you, woman.”

She tried to stomp his feet.

He kept walking. She caught sight of a rear gate. He was taking her away? Dear God, this didn’t make sense. Would he kill her after he raped her? Panic froze her thoughts. The shrubbery swam in her vision. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real.

They reached the gate. His hand remained clamped around her waist while he released her mouth to lift the bolt from the latch. Kenna tried to drag in a deep breath, but his hold around her waist made anything more than a feeble ‘Help!’ possible. He gave her a hard shake as he swung the door open.

“Help!” she tried shouting again.

He clamped his hand over her mouth again and growled. As he passed through the gate, she grabbed the edge and slammed it into the back of his head. He groaned and stumbled backwards two paces. His hold on her loosened. Kenna twisted free and lunged into the alley toward a parked coach. No driver sat in the driver’s seat. Was the coach empty?

“Help!” she shouted. Without looking back, Kenna raced toward the carriage. “Please, someone help me.”

The pounding of boots on the gravel sounded behind her. Her heart thundered. Tears pricked.

“Help!

The door of the carriage opened.

Her heart jumped. Dear God, please.

A gentleman’s boot appeared on the step. Through a sudden flood of tears, she recognized Lord Hensley. He stepped to the ground as Kenna reached him and she flung herself into his arms. He caught her close.

She seized the lapel of his coat and looked up into his face. “Please, help me, sir. That man tried to abduct me.”

Lord Hensley swung her into his arms. She buried her face in his shirt. She couldn’t catch her breath. Through a haze of tears, she realized he was stepping into the carriage. Kenna looked up as he sat on the cushion and settled her across his thighs.

She pushed away from him. “What are you doing?” Kenna tried to scoot off his lap, but he held her fast.” Let me go,” she demanded.

Someone appeared in the doorway and Kenna drew a sharp breath at sight of her kidnapper. The man closed the door, then the carriage listed slightly and he realized he was stepping up into the driver’s box. She froze when the horses lurched into motion.

Kenna snapped her gaze onto the viscount’s face. “What do you want?”

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you, my dear,” he replied.

She stiffened. “Then release me.”

His hands loosened around her waist and she scrambled off his lap and onto the opposite seat. She stared, willing her pounding heart to slow.

At last, she said, “Why have you kidnapped me?”

He hesitated. “I could think of no other way to get your attention.”

Kenna blinked. “You have had my attention in the past—and without kidnapping me.”

He shifted and she pressed into the cushion back. He stilled.

“You do not understand. I…I want to marry you.”

Of all the things Kenna had expected to hear, a marriage proposal wasn’t one of them.

“Are you daft?” she demanded. “I would no sooner marry a man who kidnapped me that I would a…a—I cannot even think of anything. Stop this carriage and let me go.”

He shook his head. “You must marry me.”

Kenna stared. “I must marry you? I have no money and you cannot be in love with me. We met only two weeks ago.”

“Then you would be wrong,” he said with conviction. “A man can be struck by a woman’s beauty and grace. I cannot live without you.”

“You sound like a sixteen-year-old schoolboy. You are old enough to know better. Order this carriage over and let me go.”

He leaned forward and grasped her hand. She stiffened.

“I can give you a good life. You can attend all the parties you like. Sir Stirling will give his blessing, I promise you.”

She regarded him. “How do you know Sir Stirling will give his blessing? Did he tell you to kidnap me?”

“Nae, but I am a viscount.”

She yanked her hand free. “I care not if you are the king. I do not marry men who kidnap me.” She reached for the door.

He grasped her hands and eased her back into the seat. “I am sorry, Miss Ramsay. But I cannot let you go. Once we are married, I will do everything to make you happy. You will see.”

***

When Mister Davis finished retelling his tale of being hit over the head then regaining consciousness to find his friends surrounding him and Miss Ramsay gone, Bryson looked at Stirling and said, “Who the bloody hell would kidnap her?”

Stirling shook his head. “I have not the vaguest idea.”

Bryson faced Davis. “You are certain you do not know the man?”

Davis shook his head. He rose from the divan and faced Bryson. “I am certain.” He spoke in a hoarse voice. His face, Bryson realized, was still quite pale. “As I said, I glimpsed him for but an instant,” the young man said. “He was a rough sort, perhaps a stable hand.” His mouth thinned. “I cannot believe I allowed him to take her without so much as a whimper.”

“Anyone can be caught unawares,” Stirling said.

A knock sounded on the open door of the parlor. Bryson snapped his head in the direction of the door as a footman entered, trailed by Sir Stirling’s driver.

Stirling strode to them. “Did you find anything, Lucas?”

“Perhaps so, sir. There is a lad who sweeps the streets. He described a coach that waited in the alley near the Davenport’s home. A lion in gold carrying a sword.”

“Hensley,” Bryson said in unison with Stirling.

Bryson pinned him with a hard stare. “I told you Hensley was not a match for her.”

Stirling’s mouth hardened. “Do no’ be a fool, man. Of course, I knew Hensley was not a match for her.”

“But you said—“

“I simply played along when you jumped to the conclusion that I had facilitated an introduction between them.”

“You mean, you did not try to match them?”

“Nae,” he said in a whisper. “I matched her with you, you fool.”

“With me?” Bryson staggered back a pace and caught himself. “But how did you know?”

“Never mind that. We must catch Hensley before he does something that will cause one of us to kill him.”

“Where do you think he has gone?” Bryson asked.

“Grier has always been a little unhinged,” Stirling said. “There is no telling how he thinks he can get away with such chicanery.”

Bryson’s hands fisted at his sides. “You knew he was unstable and allowed him near Miss Ramsay?”

“We attended a luncheon, Newhall. Even Grier shouldn’t be such a fool as to carry her off from here. He must know that we will deduce he is the kidnapper. It can only mean one thing.”

Horror washed over Bryson. “He intends to marry her.”

 

Bryson made all speed through Inverness to Hensley’s townhouse. Stirling had agreed that Hensley wouldn’t risk anything less than the vows being repeated before a parson for fear the so-called marriage would be deemed unlawful. By now, Stirling was probably already meeting with the bishop, in hopes he might know of a parson Hensley might be able to talk into performing an illegal marriage.

Bryson stopped his horse in front of Hensley’s townhouse and dismounted. Stirling’s pistol pressed Bryson’s side where he’d stuffed it into his waistband. Bryson wondered if he would be able to keep from shooting Hensley if he found him. Stirling had warned him that Miss Ramsay was sure to marry another man if Bryson ended up in prison.

Wind snapped the hem of his greatcoat as he bounded up the stairs and then pounded the door knocker. A maid answered the door.

“Is his lordship home?” Bryson demanded before she could say anything.

“Nae, sir. He is not expected home for two or three days.”

“Where is he?” Bryson demanded. The girl’s eyes widened. “Tell me, girl. It is a matter of life and death.” Not a lie, for if he reached Hensley before Stirling did, he would kill him.

She retreated a step. “We are not allowed to give information about his lordship.”

Bryson stepped into the hallway. “Either tell me where he is or get me someone who can. Otherwise, I will call a constable.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait here.” She spun and fled down the hallway.

Bryson paced for two minutes before the butler appeared.

“Where is Lord Hensley?” Bryson snapped as the man approached. “Do not think to turn me away,” he added when the tall, dark-haired man opened his mouth to reply. “Your master has kidnapped a young woman. If you do not tell me where he is, you will be party to the kidnapping, and I will be sure the constable knows that.”

The man stopped in front of him. “I cannot say with absolute certainty where he is gone, sir,” the butler replied without hesitation. “He may have gone to Caystoke, or perhaps Archiwick. His father maintains an estate there.”

“A hundred miles apart,” Bryson muttered. “Where is he most likely to take a woman if he thinks he will force her to marry him?”

“Caystoke is more secluded, sir.”

“I assume he is not here,” Bryson said.

“I have not seen him since late this morning.”

“He will need a parson,” Bryson said more to himself than the butler.

“I understand Lord Hensley has known the parson at Caystoke since he was a child,” the butler said.

“Do you know Hensley well?”

The man shook his head. “His lordship hired me only four months ago.”

So, Hensley couldn’t keep a staff for long.

“I want to you to send a message to Sir Stirling James,” Bryson said.

 

Half an hour later, Bryson left Inverness behind. Another forty-five minutes later, he started up the treed hills that ran alongside the River Beauly. He glanced up at the fast-moving clouds that scudded low across the sky. He flipped up his collar against the chill wind as he wound north, a mountain to his left, the river, beyond the trees, to the right. Hensley had a two-hour head start, but a single rider could make double the time of a carriage. The knot in Bryson’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t fathom what he would do if Hensley had harmed her. What if the viscount found a parson who would marry them before Bryson reached them? He forced the thought aside. A forced marriage wouldn’t be upheld by the church or state.

The drive to Caystoke took five hours. In all likelihood, the viscount believed no one suspected him in the kidnapping of Miss Ramsay, so he probably traveled at a sedate pace. Bryson would reach Falcon Inn in another forty minutes. Hensley would have to change horses there. If luck favored Bryson, the viscount might linger there for a short meal. There was simply no way—

A shot rang out. Bryson hunkered down and whipped the reins across his horse’s shoulder. The animal galloped faster. The trees sped past. They neared the top of the hill and turned the bend. The carriage—Hensley’s carriage—stood on the side of the road up ahead. Bryson reached the vehicle an instant later, but found it empty. He wheeled his horse in a circle. Where were the occupants?

“Miss Ramsay!” he shouted.

Foliage thrashed deep within the trees. Bryson urged his horse toward the noise.

“Miss Ramsay,” he shouted again.

A woman’s muffled screams sounded. Bryson urged his mount around a large tree, swung from the saddle and dropped soundlessly to the ground. He pulled the pistol from his waistband, then angled around the animal and crept forward to a large elder tree. Carefully, he peered around the trunk. A large brute of a man inched toward the location of Miss Ramsay’s scream. The brute gripped a revolver that looked as if it had seen use in the ‘45 rebellion.

Bryson didn’t recognize him but, by the cut of his breeches and coat, he guessed the man to be a stable hand. He had to be the man who hit Davis over the head and kidnapped Miss Ramsay. Bryson grimaced. He now understood how Davis had been so easily knocked unconscious. The kidnapper was a large brute. How the devil would he incapacitate the man? He stood well over two meters, his shoulders as broad as an ox.

Bryson wasn’t opposed to shooting the monster, but that would give away his location. Where was Miss Ramsay? The way the man inched forward, it seemed he wasn’t certain of her whereabouts, either. Might she have gone down the bank to the river?

Bryson cursed. With the brute so close, he couldn’t call out to her. He had to knock the man unconscious, but had only his pistol as a weapon. Could he hit the big man hard enough to knock him senseless?

The man abruptly halted. He remained motionless for three heartbeats, then lunged down the bank and out of sight. Bryson ran after him. A woman screamed. Bryson pumped his legs faster.

“Let me go,” she shouted.

Miss Ramsay.

Bryson reached the bank and careened down at breakneck speed. The man no longer held his pistol, but gripped Miss Ramsay by the arm. She kicked his shin, but he seemed unfazed and only continued his climb up the bank.

He abruptly stopped, eyes on Bryson as Bryson stumbled more than ran down the incline. Miss Ramsay’s head snapped in his direction. Her eyes widened. She yanked hard in an effort to break free of her captor’s grasp, but he held tight as if unaware that she fought him. Bryson couldn’t shoot him for fear of hitting Miss Ramsay. He realized the man intended to either simply step aside and let Bryson’s downward momentum propel him into the water or ram his fist into Bryson belly—perhaps both.

The man reached into his coat—no doubt for the ancient pistol Bryson had seen earlier. Bryson glimpsed a flash of metal. Bryson reached them, seized Miss Ramsay’s wrist, and drove the butt of his gun into the man’s jaws as he sped past.

Bryson yanked Miss Ramsay against him. She pressed her face against his chest as he hit the ground and rolled downhill. The man howled as he, too, rolled down the hill. Bryson’s heart raced. The man barreled toward them. Bryson twisted in an effort to avoid a collision with the man. A rock dug into the back of the hand that cradled Miss Ramsay’s head. In the next instant, they went airborne. She screamed as they fell twenty feet through the air, then struck the river. The shock of cold water went bone deep. Bryson grabbed her arm and kicked upward through the ribbons of current. They broke the surface coughing and gasping for air. The current spun them.

“Rapids!” Miss Ramsay cried.

Grip tight on her arm, Bryson twisted as the current swept them downstream. He caught sight of the rapids a hundred feet ahead. The current that carried them forward was nothing compared to the thunderous roar of the whitewater. He scanned the bank on the right. Like the spot where they’d fallen, the bank was too high to climb. The left bank was a steep, tree filled, incline, but he could manage the climb. He searched for branches that overhung the water and caught sight of a perfect spot forty feet ahead.

“Hold onto my back,” he shouted. “Catch that branch up ahead.”

“I can swim.”

She started to swim, but he held tight. She snapped her head in his direction.

“Stay close,” he said, then released her. The current swept them toward the rapids as they fought the cross-current toward the opposite bank. They drew within eight feet of the branch, still too far away to reach it.

“Grab my waist,” he shouted. “We won’t make it otherwise.”

She threw her arms around his waist and hugged his back. Bryson lengthened his strokes and kicked with all his might. They neared the branch. He gave one final, mighty push and the branch loomed. He grabbed the branch. Her weight pulled as the current dragged her. She kicked in a clear effort to try to help him push closer but only succeeded in yanking harder with each kick. He cursed as a jagged knob slashed his thumb. Then they were racing alongside the bank.

Bryson grabbed for Miss Ramsay’s hand. Their fingertips brushed, then she swept out of reach. He kicked with all his might and swam toward her. Her head went under and fear ripped through him. She surfaced ten feet away and flailed. The rapids were fifty feet ahead. Stroke after stroke, Bryson kicked until the rush of water was the only thing he heard. She screamed.

Keep swimming Bryson ordered himself.

He drew nearer. Five feet… She tried to swim against the current toward him. Four feet… The water spun her away. Three feet…

She disappeared beneath the surface. Bryson dove underwater, kicking in the direction he’d seen her go under. In the murk he caught sight of her two feet to his left. Her legs were twisted in her skirts. He kicked and grabbed. His fingers closed around her arm. She twisted. Bryson hugged her to his chest and propelled upward.

They broke the surface, her back flush against his chest. She’s coughed and he dragged in great gulps of air. The rapids were twenty feet away. They wouldn’t escape.

His feet hit something. The riverbed. One arm around her, Bryson rolled onto his side and swam toward the bank. Seconds later, his feet touched bottom. He swam two more strokes and could stand chest deep. He slipped on the slick rocks, flailed, and lunged toward the shore. The water was waist deep.

They neared the tree line. He grabbed a branch of the nearest tree. Miss Ramsay wrapped her arms around him as he pulled them up the bank. Bryson shoved her onto shore among the ferns and climbed after her. They lay on their backs gasping. His legs and arms ached. Each breath burned his lungs as if they’d caught fire. He closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow. Deep slow breath in—

Whap! Something hit his chest. Bryson bolted upright.

She batted his chest with her fist. “Why did you do that?”

He grabbed her wrists. “Do what?”

“Drag me into the water.” A good portion of her hair had come loose of its chignon and hung across her face. She yanked, and he released her.

“To save you from your captor,” he said.

Miss Ramsay shoved her hair out of her eyes. “You think nearly drowning us both is a way to save me?”

“He was very large and had a pistol,” Bryson replied.

She pushed to her feet, wobbled, then promptly fell on her backside. “He did not intend to kill me. You almost did.”

Bryson frowned. “Perhaps I should have let him keep you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” he said through tight lips.

“Looking for me? Why?”

“Because Hensley kidnapped you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You know about that?”

“Not just me, everyone knows.”

“How interesting,” she murmured.

“Interesting?” Bryson narrowed his eyes. “You left with him of your own accord?”

“Are ye daft? Of course not. He had the large man steal me from the garden.” Her brow furrowed. “How is Mister Davis? That terrible man hit him over the head and knocked him unconscious.”

“I am well aware you were kidnapped under that fool’s nose,” he muttered, despite knowing he was being unfair.

Her brows shot up. “You nearly drowned us in order to avoid a confrontation with the man. I do not think you are in a position to disparage anyone.”

“Indeed, I am,” he snapped. “There is a huge difference between saving you from a man who has a pistol and that man getting the drop on me.”

She barked an unladylike laugh. “Spoken like the man who wasn’t hit over the head by that large man.”

She was right, of course. Still, his new friend jealousy stabbed. “I suppose you feel sorry for Davis.”

“Of course, I do. It is not his fault that man conked him over the head.”

“Whereas, I should have let him make off with you.”

“Nae, but you could have formed a better plan then charging willy-nilly down the hill like a madman and—”

“Nearly drowning you,” he finished for her. “I heard you the first time.”

What stung was that she was right. Still, one would think she would understand the risk he’d taken to save her, and offer at least a small thanks. Nae, she was saving her gratitude for Davis.