Chapter Eight
Catherine groaned as her head bounced against her captor’s back with every step, making it spin, and making her gorge rise.
“Have a care with her,” Tiverton snapped. “She’s to be my wife.”
Oh. The horror. Catherine renewed her resistance, whipping about and flailing her legs. She caught her captor in the groin—or somewhere soft—and he stumbled. A foul imprecation issued forth from his lips and though it was beneath her, she rather enjoyed it.
But then the man who was carrying her passed her off to another, and this fellow was much more wary of her toes.
She heard the creak of a gate and then was dropped onto the floor of a carriage. The equipage dipped again—to admit Tiverton, one would assume—and then, on his order, lurched forward.
When he reached down to lift her into the seat, she wrenched away and he laughed. It was not a humor-filled laugh. “I do love a woman with a little fight in her,” he said as he tied her hands.
The rope was rough and scraped against her wrists.
It was only when he was certain she was tied securely that he removed the hood.
She glowered at him. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“I should think that was obvious.”
“And Peter?” Yes, she was fairly certain that had been but a ruse.
Tiverton confirmed this with a laugh. “Your one weakness.”
“My brother was not in a duel, then?”
He lifted a careless shoulder. “As far as I know, your brother is at Ross House licking his wounds. Though I must say, it was not difficult fleecing him. He’s such a trusting lad.”
“You’re the one who tricked him into gambling everything away?”
“It was hardly difficult. As I said, he’s a trusting lad. It would all have worked out well, had that damned Scot not stepped in and offered for you. But we’ve put paid to that, now, haven’t we?”
“You bastard. How dare you?”
She’d never been so outraged in her life.
“How dare I? My dear, I am a lord of the land. And I am saving you from yourself.”
“From myself?”
“Yes.” He patted her hand. She swiped at his. “You are not marrying that Scot. I simply cannot allow it.”
“It is none of your affair.”
“I think I made it clear, it is my affair. Because I want you. And,” he said, sitting back in his seat, “I take what I want.”
“I will not marry you.”
Tiverton chuckled. “Of course you will. You will have to.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Quite simple, my dear. I have kidnapped you. I have utterly besmirched you. By the time word gets out—and I have made certain all my friends are aware of my plans to elope with you to Gretna Green—your reputation will be in tatters.” His smile widened in a truly horrifying show of teeth. “No other man will have you.”
“What nonsense.” Duncan would.
Wouldn’t he?
Even if she was . . . besmirched?
A trickle of fear dribbled through her but she sucked in a deep breath and deliberately pushed it away. She would not let Tiverton have this kind of power over her. She would not let him make her doubt Duncan’s love or dedication. And she would absolutely not allow this worm of a man to make her afraid.
In fact, she resolved in that moment to make his life a living hell for a long as the two of them were in each other’s company.
To that end, she kicked his shin. While her slipper was a poor choice for such a salute, and her toe smarted, she thoroughly enjoyed his howl.
* * *
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Duncan’s gut roiled as panic whipped through him. He stood with Bower and Hamish in a private room at Lord Daltry’s. They’d pulled him aside to tell him the news.
“Tiverton took her.”
He narrowed his eyes on Hamish as though glowering at him could change the facts. “What do you mean, he took her?”
“I spoke to the coachmen in the mews. They saw Tiverton and several men toss a bundle into his carriage.” Bower’s expression was dour. “The bundle was kicking and screaming.”
At the same time, Duncan was suffused with a rush of pride and one of horror. Of course Catherine would fight. She was a strong and stubborn lass. But the fact that she had suffered such indignities was more than he could take.
Along with that, he suffered the cold trickle of fear for her safety.
By God, if Tiverton hurt her, if he so much as touched a hair on her head, he would eviscerate him with a butter knife. Or perhaps a spoon.
“Do we know where he’d headed?” he asked.
Bower scrubbed his beard with his palm. “Word is, he’s taking her to Gretna Green.”
Duncan frowned. “Are you sure?”
“It’s what he told his friends at White’s.”
“Bastard.”
“Where else might he take her?” One had to suspect Tiverton might lie, even to his friends.
“He has an estate in Leeds,” Bower said.
“Excellent. That is on the way.” Duncan whipped off the stupid domino and tossed it onto a chair, then headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hamish called after him.
“I’m going to rescue my woman.”
“Not without us,” Bower growled.
Duncan sighed. “I appreciate your assistance, but you have a job to do here. What would the duke say if you abandoned his cousins?”
“They can eschew the season until we return,” Bower said with a shrug.
“They are women,” Duncan snapped. “They willna want to eschew anything.”
“They are also Catherine’s friends,” Hamish reminded him. “They will want her safe. They will understand.”
“Quite right.” Bower nodded. “Now, let’s get them home and prepare for the flight north. We have a carriage to catch.”
And if they were fast enough, if they were lucky enough, they’d be back, with Catherine in tow, before the morning dawned.
* * *
They were not lucky.
Though they rode the night straight through, they saw neither hide nor hair of Tiverton’s coach. Though it slowed them considerably, they stopped at every posting house to question the grooms and the innkeepers to no appreciable avail. Duncan was certain Tiverton would stop for the night at some point—he certainly did not have the stamina to ride straight through to Scotland, but as dusk fell on the second day, and they had not one confirmed siting, he began to worry.
Had they gone the wrong way? Taken the wrong road? Had they somehow missed him at one of the many posting houses?
Or—and this was a truly horrifying thought—had he decided to ride straight through and sleep in the coach? Duncan could only imagine what Catherine was going through if that were the case.
When they reached Leeds, Hamish turned off and headed for Tiverton’s estate, while Duncan and Bower continued northward. With each passing mile, Duncan’s worry grew. And with it, his fury at Tiverton.
His fury with the world in general.
From Catherine’s father to the prancing lords of London, it seemed that everyone was determined to keep them apart.
But, by God, he had not waited this long for her, worked so hard, or fought so determinedly to lose her now.
It wasn’t until they reached Yorkshire that they had their first hint of hope. An innkeeper remembered that a carriage with a crest matching Tiverton’s had stopped there the evening before. He’d thought it odd that no one alighted other than one of the drivers, who ordered food for the lord and lady and then trundled on.
He also thought it odd that something of a ruckus had arisen from inside the coach, the yelps of the laird and muffled curses of the lady.
Duncan was exhausted and bleary-eyed, but the news reinvigorated him. Even though Bower had recommended that they take some rest, he’d bounded back onto his replacement mount and hied off after her.
They were too close to rest now. Far too close.
* * *
Catherine was miserable. It wasn’t bad enough that she was trapped in a smallish carriage with someone as revolting as Tiverton. He also insisted that they not stop, except for extremely short periods to change horses, collect food and relieve themselves. It was mortifying that her captor, or one of his men, stood watch over her while she did so.
Though he had deigned to untie her after that first night, there had been no opportunity to escape due to their vigilance.
Catherine had never enjoyed a feeling of captivity—who would?—but she entertained herself by finding new ways to annoy Tiverton. Waking him from a sound sleep, singing off-key and bouncing on her seat worked well. Though at one point, she realized that she might be overdoing it, as he became increasingly sour-faced.
At one point, he hauled back a hand as though he intended to hit her. As fun as it was to rile him, she had no desire to meet the end of his fist.
She decided instead to focus more on opportunities to escape. They were coming close to the border and she needed to be free of Tiverton before they reached Gretna Green.
When they stopped in Yorkshire, the meal was a nice roast beef and pudding, and though it was difficult to eat in a moving carriage, it did come with one major benefit.
A knife.
And when the meal was done, Tiverton, who for some reason had not gotten much sleep lately, forgot to take it from her.
She slipped it into the pocket of her domino—which she still wore. Though it wasn’t terribly sharp, it was a weapon and she would use it if needed.
Tiverton had wine with dinner, which, as Catherine suspected it might, caused him to fall to sleep shortly thereafter. She waited a while, watching him snuffle and snore while occasionally glancing out the window to gauge the landscape. Though it was night, the moon shone on the fields as they passed. She waited until the coach slowed as it took a corner, then she opened the door and . . .
Oh. Her heart thudded as she saw the ground rushing past, but there was no time to think her rash plan through.
She sucked in a deep breath and flung herself onto the road.
Her body hit the ground with a breath-stealing thud and she nearly cried out in pain. It took everything in her to remain silent. She peered up at the passing coach and held as still as she could. The driver would not see her, of course, but the other man Tiverton had brought sat in the boot and would have a clear view of her.
She nearly collapsed in relief when she realized he had pulled his hat down over his face and was likely sleeping. Still, she didn’t move until the coach passed out of sight.
And then, it was slowly and with a great groan.
Everything hurt. Her hip, where she’d landed; her ankle, which had turned; and her shoulder, which had found a rock. She must have looked like an old woman as she hobbled her way back down the road the way they’d come.
She had no idea how she would get back to London, but she was determined to do so. With each step she cursed Tiverton for his perfidy.
It was one thing to berate her for her choice to marry another man. It was another entirely to steal her from him.
But by God, no one would keep her from Duncan. Not if she had any say over it.
She walked all night and was dead tired by the time dawn broke. She wanted nothing more than to lie down, curl up and sleep. But she didn’t stop. If she could get back to that inn before Tiverton realized she was gone and found her, she might be able to find a ride back to London.
But luck was not with her.
Still miles out, she heard a coach fast approaching from the north. She knew, just knew, it was Tiverton come to collect her and her heart stuttered. The road at this point was surrounded on every side by flat fields. There was no place to hide, blast it. She should have stayed in the woods a few miles back.
So she did the only thing she could. She turned and faced the oncoming coach with a straight back and a strong determination. Oh, and a knife in her fist.
She was not going with Tiverton. No matter what it took.
The coach came to a halt in a cloud of dust and Tiverton launched himself to the ground without waiting for the steps to be brought down.
“You bitch,” he bellowed. “How dare you escape?”
Catherine was tired and dirty and hurt, overwhelmed and furious, so there was absolutely no call for her to laugh in his face, but at the moment the absurdity of his cry was overwhelming.
Tiverton reared back and gaped at her. “What is so funny?” he snapped.
“You are,” she said.
His face turned an odd shade of purple and then he did what she’d feared all along. He hauled back and hit her.
He was much larger and stronger than she, so she went flying through the air and landed on her back on the hard road. Stunned for a moment—by the violence and the pain—she didn’t move.
Tiverton stood over her with a snarl on his face, then he turned to his minions and snapped, “Get her back in the coach.”
But she had no intention of going back in that coach. She’d had quite enough of this, thank you very much. A righteous rage rose within her and when the first man bent over to lift her up, she levered her knife and took a swipe at him.
He lurched back with a howl and stared at her as though she’d gone mad.
And perhaps she had.
For when the second man made a run at her, she leaped to her feet and stabbed him too. Only in the shoulder, but you would have thought it had been in the groin the way he squealed.
She whirled around and headed for the first man again. With an eep he ran behind the coach.
“Get her,” Tiverton bellowed.
“She’s got a knife!” the men yelled in tandem.
“She’s a girl!”
“She’s a furious girl,” she said in a menacing tone, and, with a gleeful smile, headed directly for Tiverton. It probably wasn’t the smartest move, but frankly, she was beyond logical thought.
At any rate, Tiverton took one look at her expression and the bloody knife in her hand, then leapt into the carriage and slammed the door shut.
“You’re mad,” he sputtered. “You are a madwoman.”
There was no telling what might have happened next, given her sense of vindication, empowerment, and outrage, but this tawdry little scene was interrupted by the pounding of hooves from down the road.
“Thank God,” Tiverton gushed. “I’m saved.”
But he wasn’t. Not really.
Because the man on the leading horse was Duncan Mackay, and, judging from his expression, Tiverton would have been better off with mad Catherine and the knife
Because the man on the leading horse was Duncan Mackay. Judging from his expression, Tiverton would have been better off with mad Catherine and the knife.