Mary Jo Putney (4 page)

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.

R
ob 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 mysterious 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
!”

G
iving 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.

Lights were on in the house and she was gasping by the time they reached a shed beyond the main stables. Carmichael said, “Wait,” and released her hand. He opened the wide double doors to reveal two saddled and bridled horses. “How good a rider are you? If you’re inexperienced, I can carry you on my horse, but that will slow us down.”

“I can ride,” she said as she panted for breath.

“Then I hope you can ride astride since I didn’t have time to find a sidesaddle.”

“I’d love to ride astride!” she exclaimed. “I was never allowed to.”

“Then into the saddle you go.” He linked his hands to help her mount.

She hiked up her skirts, then set her left foot in his hand and swung onto the horse. It felt odd to stretch her right leg over her mount, and this one had a broad back. But once she settled into the saddle, the position felt natural even though her skirts were rucked up to her knees. As Carmichael adjusted her stirrups, she tucked her skirts around her legs, covering as much bare skin as possible, and crisscrossed her blanket around her.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “You can have my coat.”

“No need. Let’s be off before they come after us.”

Carmichael nodded and mounted his own horse. He led the way out to the road at a fast walk, increasing his speed when he saw that Sarah kept up easily.

There was enough moonlight to show the way and when they reached the main road, they moved into a swift canter. This time Sarah did laugh out loud from sheer pleasure.
This
was the sort of adventure she’d dreamed of—flying through the night with a dashing hero who had saved her from durance vile. It was so much more enjoyable than being pawed by smelly drunkards and fed a starvation diet.

At this hour, they had the road to themselves. They put a good distance behind them before a mass of clouds obscured the moon and reduced the visibility to near zero. As a light rain began to fall, Carmichael slowed his mount to a walk and fell back beside Sarah. “Well done, Miss Clarke-Townsend. You’re a game one.”

“Call me Sarah,” she said. “It’s simpler. You’re Adam’s friend Rob Carmichael, aren’t you?”

He gave her a curious glance. “How did you know? We’ve never met.”

“Not formally, but you attended Lady Kiri’s wedding. My sister pointed you out as one of Adam’s old schoolmates.” Sarah smiled a little, remembering how Carmichael had intrigued her. “One of the society columns in a woman’s magazine listed you as the Honorable Robert Carmichael.”

“The magazine was wrong,” he said tersely. “I no longer have a right to be styled that way. Call me Rob or Carmichael as you prefer. Honorable, never.”

He was no longer an Honorable? Restraining her desire to ask what he meant, Sarah said, “Rob then, since we’ll surely be well acquainted by the time we return home.” Having a quantity of questions, she started with, “How did you manage to find me so quickly? You’re based in London, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but Bow Street Runners take commissions all over Britain. Ashton gave me an open invitation to stay at Ralston Abbey whenever I’m in the area. By sheer chance, I was taking him up on his hospitality the day you were abducted.”

Sarah’s friend Lady Kiri would call that fate, not chance. Hands tightening on her reins, Sarah asked, “Is my sister all right? I left her going into labor while hidden in the crypt of an abandoned church.”

After a hesitation, he replied, “She was safe back at the abbey and still in labor when I left in pursuit of you. Ashton and her friend Lady Julia were with her.”

Though that was some comfort, Sarah had a nagging feeling that the birth had been very difficult. But not fatal. Surely she’d know if it had been fatal.

She was sending a silent prayer for Mariah’s health when her horse lurched, scrambled desperately for footing, then pitched over. Sarah went flying and landed with a splash in water that covered her head. As she thrashed frantically for air, strong arms lifted her head above the surface.

“Are you all right?” Rob asked sharply. “Any bones broken?”

“I . . . I don’t think so,” she gasped as Rob lifted her to a sitting position. She’d landed in a water-filled ditch, not deep but capable of drowning her if she’d been alone and unconscious. “Water and mud are softer than solid ground.”

He lifted her the rest of the way out of the water and set her on her feet, one arm around her waist for support. “Your horse lost his footing on the edge of the ditch.”

She leaned against Rob, every muscle in her body aching. “Is he hurt?”

“A lame ankle, but I think no worse. Time for us to go to ground in a nice quiet barn near here.”

Sarah nodded, shivering. A bitter wind sliced right through her saturated garments and she’d lost hold of her blanket when she fell. This time she didn’t object when Rob peeled off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. It fell almost to her knees and helped some, but she still felt like a block of ice.

“I’ll put you on my horse and lead yours to the barn,” he said as he helped her back onto the road. “It’s not far, perhaps a quarter of a mile.”

Rain was beginning to fall again. Sarah squinted into the darkness. “You can see in this?”

“I noted places that might be useful when I rode through this afternoon,” he explained. “Habit.”

The habit of a good Bow Street Runner, she guessed. When he helped her onto his horse, she could barely lift her right leg over its back and her fingers were so numb she couldn’t feel the reins.

By the time they reached the barn, which was at the end of a muddy lane, Sarah was shivering so hard she could barely stay on horseback. Rob unlatched the door and led the horses inside.

It was dark as the inside of a barrel, but getting out of the pouring rain and cutting wind was heaven. Sarah tried to control her chattering teeth and wondered wearily if she’d ever feel warm again.

“Time for some light.” Rob produced a tinderbox and struck a spark, which he used to light a candle.

At this season supplies of fodder were low, but there was a large pile of hay in one corner. Other than that, the barn was mostly empty except for some farm tools leaning against one wall.

A lantern hung from a hook in one of the overhead beams. Rob lifted the lantern and set his candle inside. The reflective tin behind the candle increased the light, though it wasn’t much for the size of the barn.

Sarah was half unconscious when Rob lifted her from the saddle as easily as if she was a child. “I’m going to do something that would embarrass you if you thought about it, so close your eyes and don’t think about it,” he said mildly as he set her on her feet.

She gasped, shocked awake when he moved behind her and started unlacing the back of her sodden, daffodil-colored gown. “Mr. Carmichael . . . ?”

“You need to get out of these wet clothes before you freeze to death,” he explained as he deftly peeled off her gown, leaving her standing in her saturated shift and stays and stockings. “Because I thought the journey out of Ireland would be simpler if you were dressed as a boy, I bought some used boy’s clothing in Cork.”

“As . . . as long as the garments are clean,” Sarah said through chattering teeth. “No, never mind clean. I’ll settle for
warm
!”

“You will be soon.” Still behind her so she didn’t have to look him in the eye, he stripped off her under-things and began rubbing her naked body with a coarse blanket.

It was the strangest experience of Sarah’s life. Someday she might think of this as wonderfully wicked. Now it was just . . . strange to be standing rigid and stark naked in a barn with a good-looking man and mostly thinking of how cold she was.

The friction of the blanket warmed her skin a little. He started with her back and arms, then her front, hips, and legs. She closed her eyes as he’d suggested.
Think of the blanket, not the large, strong male hands moving the deliciously rough fabric over your tender bare skin....

The rubbing ended. Rob raised her arms and dropped a boy’s shirt over her head. Made of well worn and often washed linen, the fabric fell smoothly over her torso and well past her bottom. Grateful to be covered and a little warmer, she turned to face him. “I trust you have more than a shirt?”

“Drawers, trousers, stockings, boots, and a coat,” Rob said, as unruffled as if he’d just rubbed down a horse. “Can you manage, or do you need help?”

“I can manage.” She accepted the stack of folded garments and scrambled clumsily into the drawers and trousers.

As she rolled up the trouser legs and tugged on the stockings, Rob unsaddled the horses and pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from his saddlebags. “Have some cheese and bread. Food is warming.”

Sarah pounced on the packet and tore it open greedily. The bread and cheese had been sliced into small pieces so she didn’t have to waste time tearing it up. “This is the best cheese I’ve ever eaten,” she said reverently as she put a second chunk of cheese on a slab of bread. “The bread is really good, too.”

“Hunger, the best of sauces.” Rob accepted a piece of cheese on bread that Sarah handed him. “But Irish cheddar is fine, no question, and so is the soda bread.” He polished off the food in two bites, then turned back to the horses.

After putting hay within reach of both beasts, he examined the lame rear foot of her mount. “No permanent damage, but this fellow won’t be taking you anywhere tomorrow. We’ll have to trade him for another horse.”

Sarah bit her lip as she began to think beyond being free and freezing. “Will the abductors pursue us?”

“Very likely.” Rob began brushing down her horse with handfuls of hay. “I suspect the kidnapping is at least partly political. Did you hear anything to support that?”

“Yes, the men are part of some radical independence group. They wanted to get me to their leader without any damage, which spared me from being ravished.” She tried to keep her voice level and was embarrassed to hear a quaver. “I’m not sure whether they planned to ransom me to raise money for their group, or execute me as a symbol of the evil English aristocrats.”

“Would you have told them that you aren’t the Duchess of Ashton?”

She shrugged. “I doubt they’d believe me. I didn’t want to tell them that too soon because that might remove what protection I had. And if I’d told them as they were raising the headsman’s ax, they would just think I was desperate and cowardly. Feeble.”

The corner of Rob’s mouth quirked up. “You’re right, it would be hard to convince them you weren’t the duchess but her identical twin sister. Too much like a gothic romance.”

She wrinkled her nose. “So it is. Vulgar and implausible.”

“Life is often both.” He reached for a fresh handful of hay and resumed grooming. “Dressing as a boy to avoid being caught is also gothic, but practical. In that outfit, you’ll be much less noticeable than traveling as an elegant young lady.”

“Elegant young lady?” she scoffed. “I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backward.”

“Which makes it particularly impressive that you still look elegant,” he said as he continued to groom the horse with the same brisk efficiency he’d used on her.

She frowned, not sure if he was serious, or had a really dry sense of humor. She was inclined to think it was humor, because she certainly wasn’t elegant.

After wringing excess water from her hair, she began finger combing the knots out, which gave her a chance to study her rescuer. Tall and lean and muscular, he moved beautifully, never wasting a motion. Though he had a dangerous edge, she felt no fear. She realized with a shock that as long as he considered her his charge, he’d protect her with his life. It was a humbling thought.

Yet he was a mystery to her. She wondered about his personal life. Did he have one? Did he have a wife or a mistress? Any family? He gave the impression that he needed nothing and no one.

Not realizing she spoke aloud, she mused, “What do you care most about?”

He looked up over the back of his horse and stared at her with cool blue eyes, his hands becoming still. His brown hair was wet and tangled and his face was lean and strong, like the rest of him. Despite his ability to fade into the background when he wished, he was a remarkably handsome man.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “That was an impertinent question.”

“True, but an interesting one.” His brows drew together as he thought. “I suppose I care most about justice.” He resumed his grooming. “Life and society are often unfair. Sometimes I can balance the scales of justice a little.”

It was an intriguing answer. But then, he was an intriguing man. “That’s why you became a Bow Street Runner? So you could uphold the law?”

“That’s part of the reason.” His voice turned dry. “Equally important is that a man must eat.”

Rarely did the sons of lords admit they must work for a living. She liked his matter-of-fact attitude even as she wondered why he was no longer the Honorable Robert Carmichael. But she didn’t want to ask another impertinent question so soon. “What is your plan for returning to England? If you have a plan.”

He tossed away the handfuls of hay he’d been using to wipe down the horse. “Make our way to the coast without getting caught and hire a boat to take us back to England. We don’t want to head straight back along the roads to Cork or Dublin. A smaller port might be better. Beyond that, we’ll just have to see how things go. Much depends on whether we’re pursued, and how much time we lose because of this fellow’s laming.” He patted the rump of her horse.

“At least the rain will wipe out any tracks we might have left.” She smothered a yawn, unsure whether fatigue or cold were stronger. “I’d best lie down before I collapse.”