Gwendolyn was frightened and yet curiously calm.

She had been tossed in a coach, her arms bound to her sides and her ankles tied together. A gag kept her from crying out.

It was vanity that had gotten her into this mess. Well, that, and a strong desire to help Beckett by discovering all she could

about the singing marchioness’s death.

The cardplayers had played whist for a solid four hours. She and Lady Orpington had done very well. They had not played against

Lady Middlebury and Reverend Denburn, but that would happen, and soon.

Lady Orpington had been upset when Lady Middlebury had announced the end of card playing for the day. Lady Orpington had happily announced that they would continue after dinner as they always had. Lady Middlebury had told her no. She’d said the young people wished to play charades and other games. As a good hostess, Lady Middlebury insisted she must oversee the activities. As good guests, she expected that all the cardplayers participate in the evening’s plans.

Of course, Lady Orpington had complained, but honestly, Gwendolyn was tired of whist. The play had not been all that challenging.

No wonder Lady Orpington and her late lord had done so well.

Gwendolyn was also anxious to see Beckett, to have a moment for a few words with him. She wondered what he had been doing

while she’d been cooped up inside on a truly lovely day. She had yet to inspect the gardens.

Shortly after the cardplayers left their tables, Lady Middlebury had sought her out. “Would you walk with me in the garden,

Miss Lanscarr? It is a lovely afternoon. Seems a shame to not enjoy such good weather while we have it.”

Gwendolyn had not been able to turn down such an invitation. This was the first time her hostess had singled her out, and

Gwendolyn was curious as to why. Unfortunately, all Lady Middlebury had seemed prepared to discuss was a bit of the garden’s

history—that is, until they reached the lily pond.

Gwendolyn had watched fish flit around under the layer of water plants, wondering how to politely suggest they return to dress

for dinner. She liked gardens as well as any woman, but she’d seen enough.

Suddenly Lady Middlebury had said, “Marriage isn’t easy.”

Gwendolyn turned, the change of topic catching her off guard.

Her ladyship continued, her gaze on the pond, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. “I hadn’t anticipated that my husband would ascend to the title. You must understand that. It was not foreseen.”

Gwendolyn had kept her tone carefully neutral. “It must have been a shock to have his brother die at a relatively young age.”

“So many deaths.” Lady Middlebury had shaken her head as if it had still surprised her, and perhaps that was true. She might

not have known the last marchioness had been murdered.

Murder... The word gave Gwendolyn a shivery chill.

“I’ve had a very good life,” Lady Middlebury had continued. She’d nodded to the gazebo, and they had started moving in the

direction of the thicket. They went inside. It was quite close, and the humidity mingled with the scent of earth and growing

things. “Middlebury built the gazebo for me the year he came into the title. He designed it himself from a picture I admired

of a Chinese garden. He combined the Orient with the English. He is clever.” She’d said this last as if reminding herself.

They came out of the thicket, the exit placing them right at the gazebo’s open entrance.

“It is quite unique,” Gwendolyn had murmured. Of course, she preferred the simplicity of the river cottage.

“See the flooring?” Lady Middlebury had said. “It took the masons weeks to copy the pattern of the floors inside the house.”

Gwendolyn had looked down to inspect them. But as she did so, she used the moment to change the subject. “Why did you decide we should play whist today?”

“I thought it is what you and Lady Orpington wished. Ellen has been most vocal.”

“Absolutely, and yet you shut her down. But then you changed your mind abruptly. Why, my lady?”

The marchioness had eyed her. “Time was needed to make arrangements. Cards were the easiest excuse to keep you here.”

“For what reason?” Gwendolyn had asked—just as two masked men had climbed over the railing from the thicket. She had caught

their movement in her peripheral vision and had given a shout of alarm. The men had grabbed her arms. She’d struggled, but

they had held her tight.

Lady Middlebury had watched the attack before shaking her head. “It is a pity I won’t be able to play whist against you, Miss

Lanscarr,” she had said. “You may blame Mr. Curran for that lamentable fact.” She’d left the gazebo.

Gwendolyn had fought to free herself from the men’s rough holds. She’d doubled her fists and kicked and attempted to cry out

for help, but she’d been overpowered. They had stifled her with a vile rag stuffed into her mouth. It tasted of sweat, and

she wanted to spit it out but couldn’t.

Once they’d had her trussed up, the men had carried her like a sack of grain to a coach waiting deeper in the forest. They

had dumped her into it without even trying to be gentle. She’d found herself face down and half on, half off a coach seat.

After the door had been slammed behind her, she’d heard one captor say, “Now for the next one.”

“Me shoulder is giving me problems,” the other had complained.

“I’ll ’elp ya carry the man,” had been the answer.

The man. That meant Beckett. She was certain of it.

Gwendolyn had struggled to sit up, her mind frantic with the knowledge that Beckett was about to be attacked. Long skirts

had not made the endeavor easy. She’d managed to push herself up and leaned back in the seat. She hated the gag to the point

of tears, but before she could break down into angry, frustrated sobs, she realized she was in Lady Orpington’s coach.

And that was when the strange sense of calm had descended upon her.

The coach shades had been drawn but she could crane her neck and see around the edges. She suspected she was being used as

bait to trap Mr. Steele. That action confirmed that Lady Middlebury knew who he was. The true him. The supposed dead fifth

marquess.

However, was Lady Orpington involved? Had her asking Mr. Steele to find her a whist partner been part of an elaborate ploy?

Gwendolyn’s mind chewed on the possibilities. Lady Orpington had behaved oddly all afternoon. Even though she had nagged everyone to play cards, she had not been good-humored about it. A few times, she had played the wrong card when Gwendolyn had known she’d had a better card in her hand. It was unlike Lady Orpington to be so distracted over whist. Had she been nervous about this abduction? Gwendolyn hoped if she was involved, she experienced some remorse. This was a betrayal, and she wanted Lady Orpington to feel the sting of it.

She also prayed that Beckett saw through whatever ruse they created to lure him to this coach. And that he was on his way

to rescue her.

The bindings on her wrists were too tight. Gwendolyn moved her fingers, trying to keep the circulation in her hands. Evening

was beginning to fall. The summer days were growing shorter. Soon it would be time to sit down to dinner. Would anyone notice

her missing? Or would there be a plausible excuse as to why? She prayed they didn’t claim she’d had a fit of the vapors. She

was made of sterner stuff than that.

Of course, the worst part of her situation was the waiting. She strained her ears, listening for the slightest sound.

Nothing, save an occasional stamp of a hoof or a snort of the nostrils from the coach horses—

She heard voices arguing. Were her kidnappers returning, or was this Beckett coming to rescue her...?

“Will you move yer arse? He weighs more than an ox,” a grunting man complained.

Her heart sank. They had Beckett.

The coach door was yanked open. One of the attackers propped it open with his shoulder as he adjusted his hold on a bound

and gagged Beckett. “Come on, shove ’im in.”

“Shove ’im? He’s not a sausage. He’s deadweight. You’ll have to do some guidin’,” the other complained.

With a growl of impatience, the man at the door climbed in and shoved Gwendolyn over, and they unceremoniously pushed and

pulled Beckett into the coach. He was a large man, a long and heavy one. Carrying him must have been hard work. His hatless

head hit the doorframe.

They didn’t even give a care to Gwendolyn, so she ended up with the weight of Beckett’s bound feet resting on hers. They bent

his torso so he was propped on the seat across from her.

The man by the door caught her watching them and gave a toothy grin. “Yer a lovely one.”

“Mouser, stop flirting.”

“I kinna help it. I like ’em dark.”

“Shut the door.”

Before obeying, Mouser reached out and cupped Gwendolyn’s left breast. Shocked, she tried to turn away from him. He laughed

and gave it a hard squeeze before sighing. “’Tis a pity.” He let go and shut the door.

Gwendolyn was furious. His fingers seemed to have left an imprint on her skin even through her clothes. If she hadn’t had

this gag in her mouth, she would have scorched him with her tongue. It would have been the last time he ever touched a woman

uninvited.

The surge of anger did her good. Her spirits revived.

She was done with waiting. As soon as Mr. Steele regained consciousness, their two kidnappers would pay for their crimes—

The coach leaned as the heavy men climbed up into the driver’s box. Then it lurched to roll forward.

She bent so she could see Beck in the coach’s shadows. He was so still, she started to worry that he was dead, and then reason

told her they wouldn’t have bound him if he was. For whatever reason, they had kept them both alive.

That thought gave her hope.

She lifted her feet under his, wanting to nudge him to consciousness. He didn’t stir.

That didn’t stop her from repeating the effort until her legs hurt with the strain. Evening gave way to nighttime. She worried

about where their kidnappers were taking them. She worried she would fail Beckett.

They seemed to have been driving for hours, but perhaps it was no more than an hour or so. Every minute seemed an eternity.

The road was sometimes smooth and then full of ruts so she bounced around uncomfortably.

She could no longer make out Beckett in the darkness. The kidnappers had not bothered with lighting the coach lamps. They

certainly didn’t wish anyone to catch them transporting people trussed up.

The coach rolled to a stop. The brake was set. She braced herself for the door to open. It didn’t.

What was happening? She listened hard and thought she caught the sound of water lapping the shore.

Gwendolyn tried not to think of the murdered marchioness. Drowning was not a way she wished to die. She knew how to swim, but bound as she was, she’d sink.

The thought of her sisters learning of her death brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She blinked them back angrily. She

was not going to let herself be murdered. Or Beckett either. She would save them both—

Someone shouted, “Halloooo?”

He was answered by one of her kidnappers. “O’er here.”

She heard the creak and soft swoosh of a paddle through water. They were near the river. She could smell the dankness of the

water even through the walls of the coach.

“You have the cargo?”

“We do. We will need help liftin’ one out.”

“Let’s do it, then. It’s goin’ to storm. I want to be on my way.”

A few beats later, the doors on both sides of the coach opened.

“I’ll take the lass.” The man who spoke was Mouser, the breast squeezer. He reached in for her, and Gwendolyn leaned away

from him. “Come on, pretty,” he said with mock hurt. “Dinna be that way with me.”

“Git over here and help us carry this bastard,” his companion said, hissing out the last word. “She can wait.”

The man left Gwendolyn alone to do as he was told.

They dragged Beckett out of the coach. There was just enough moon peeping in and out of the quickly moving clouds that Gwendolyn caught a glimpse of Beckett’s head hanging as the three of them carried him into the night. She held her breath, praying she didn’t hear a splash. She didn’t.

Then one of her kidnappers came for her. He wasn’t Mouser. She was thankful for small favors. The man picked her up and carried

her down a bank to a lugger, a small sailboat big enough to move cargo. In Ireland, they were popular with smugglers. The

boat was pulled up on a bit of muddy beach. The sails were tied down.

He had to wade a few steps into the water to hand her up to a man in the boat. They almost dropped her. The hem of her skirt

dipped into the water.

The man handing her up said, “Stay with that coach and prepare to drive it. We have a long road ahead of us.”

“Where are going?” the boatman asked.

“North,” was the curt answer.

With a grunt, the boatman dropped her, none too gently, beside Beckett on the deck. Her back was to his. Her skirts clung

to her legs, and her arms ached from being tied behind her for so long.

“What is the name of the ship in Portsmouth again?”

“The Duke of York . It’s sailing in two days’ time. These two had better be on it.”

“What do I say when I deliver ’em?”

That seemed to baffle their kidnapper. “Don’t know.” He paused. “Do you need to say anything?”

“I dinna?” the boatman said.

“Tell ’em they are from Colemore,” came the reply.

“Colemore? Aye, fine then. And my payment?”

“Here is half, and you will receive the other half when you have delivered the cargo.”

“Do I come back here?” the man demanded, none too happy.

“See me in one week’s time at the Riverhead in Gravesend. Do you know it?”

“I do.”

“One week from tonight.”

“And if you don’t show?”

“You can trust me. I’m married to yer sister, remember? But either way, half of what was agreed is still good payment.”

“I want it all now.”

“Dint have it. But I will, in a week.”

There was a long pause as if the boatman considered his options. There was movement at the bow, and Gwendolyn realized there

was another man on the boat.

“Riverhead, then,” the boatman agreed. “But if ye cheat me, it’ll go bad for yer.”

“I’ve never cheated you, Ezra. I won’t start now. Don’t like hearin’ Betsy complain. Just be certain that the man is alive

when he is put on the Duke of York . The captain will make a report.”

“Wot? These are transports?” Gwendolyn understood he was referring to them. Transports were criminals being shipped to Australia

for their crimes. “Ye know half that ship will be dead before they reach Queensland.”

“Not our problem, mate. See you in a week.”

The boatman picked up an oar and used it to push the boat into deeper water.

Gwendolyn tried not to panic over the knowledge that she and Beck were going to be loaded on a ship that transported criminals

to Australia. This was almost worse than drowning. It could take years before she’d be able to let her sisters know what had

happened and where she was—

Two strong fingers found and squeezed her hands bound at the wrists.

It was Beckett.

He was awake.

She started to roll toward him, so relieved she wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. The gag kept her quiet. His strong

fingers stopped her motion.

The boatman walked by them to unfurl the sail. The breeze was picking up.

“It’s going to rain,” his companion said.

“We’ll outrun it. Keep the course to the river entrance,” was the reply. The wind caught and filled the sails. “Those two

are all right where they lay. I’m going to close my eyes a bit.”

“Aye.”

Beck and Gwendolyn kept still during the exchange. The world fell quiet, save for the water against the hull and the creaking

of the lines as they pulled against the wind.

That is when she felt his fingers begin working the knots at her wrists. She edged closer to him to make it easier. After several minutes, she realized she would be more successful untying his ropes because her fingers were smaller. He seemed to have reached the same conclusion because he let her take over.

Patiently she picked at his knots. She tried to keep her movements to a minimum so that the boatman wouldn’t notice what they

were doing. She was aware of time passing and felt frustrated that she could not move faster.

However, her persistence was rewarded when Beckett was able to slip one finger from his bonds. Then another. Elated, she continued

to loosen the knots until he had a hand free.

With complete freedom of movement, Beckett made quick work of her knots. Their legs were still bound. However, Gwendolyn’s

first act was to pull the gag from her mouth. It took all her will to not cough in disgust.

The man at the rudder had not noticed a thing.

Beck tapped her arm for her to wait.

She felt his body curve as he brought his knees up to his chest and began untying his legs. She listened for a warning cry

that the boatman noticed. There was none.

And then Beck slowly rose to his feet. She heard his faint, sharp intake of breath at his first attempt to stand. She imagined

it hurt. The blood needed to circulate. She knew she’d feel the same when she first tried to move. She wiggled her toes in

preparation, wanting to do what she must to stave off the inevitable.

She attempted to see the man at the rudder. His face was turned skyward. Was he navigating or woolgathering?

It didn’t matter. Beckett moved with the slow, quiet patience of a panther. She watched his silhouette stay in the shadows. Three steps and then a yelp and a splash. He’d tossed the sailor overboard.

The man hollered. “Billy. Billy.” He choked on water. Then he began swimming. Gwendolyn could hear the sound of his thrashing.

Billy could, too. He came awake with a start. He jumped to his feet. “Ezra?” He saw Beckett and grabbed an oar, which he raised

over his head.

Gwendolyn sat up, wanting to call a warning. Apparently the sailor had forgotten she was there. Her sudden movement caught

him off guard. He whirled on her with his oar—

Beckett grabbed the oar. Over her head, the two men grappled with it. They fell into the sail. The boat heeled dangerously

as the sail shifted with the change of direction.

A fist was thrown and then another. The moon peeked out from the clouds, and Gwendolyn saw that Beckett held the sailor by

his shirt. They were punching away at each other—Billy lost his balance.

He started to fall and would have landed on Gwendolyn save for Beckett grabbing him and pushing him over the side. There was

another quiet splash. A beat later, a gasp and a curse.

The waves had started to pick up speed, a sign they were moving into open water and a warning of bad weather. The lugger seemed

to skim along the way.

Beckett went to the rudder and tried to steady the boat. They lurched to one side, then to another.

“Do you know what you are doing?” Gwendolyn asked. She untied her legs.

“No,” came the reply.

“Here, I can sail,” she said, and started to move toward the stern of the boat. The sensation of a thousand needles pierced

her muscles.

“Be careful,” he advised her. “Take your time to ease your muscles.”

“Keep the rudder steady,” she advised back. Eventually she came to a shaky stand. Placing her hand on the lugger’s rigging,

she followed it sternward to the rudder.

Watching the wind in the sail, she slowly turned them in the direction of where she thought the shore was. The moon had disappeared

behind the clouds. There were no stars. “We’re free,” she said, a bit surprised.

“For now.” He sat beside her. “How do you know how to sail?”

“My sisters and I had a small sailboat back in Wicklow. Sailing on a lake is different than on open water.” The latter took

more strength. “I’ve never sailed at night.” She looked to him. “Do we know where we are?”

“Were you awake when they drove us here?”

“I was.”

“How long do you believe we traveled?”

“An hour, maybe more. It seemed forever.”

He expelled a heavy sigh. “Let the wind take us,” he advised. “We will sort it out.”

Beckett sounded confident. Bold, even... and he gave her courage. They would manage.

“Show me how to do this,” he said, referring to the mechanics of sailing.

“It isn’t difficult.” She explained the basics of keeping the wind in the sail.

He placed his hand over hers. “Let me try it.”

She did. The danger that they had been in was just beginning to seep in, leaving her strangely lethargic body feeling disconnected

from her head, and cold. “Why?” she asked at last.

Beckett didn’t misunderstand what she meant. “Lady Middlebury wishes us gone.”

“But not dead? Did you hear the coachmen say that we were to be kept alive?”

“I did, and that is the true mystery.”

“Well, I’m actually thankful she didn’t wish us murdered. But why did they plan to take the coach north?” Her teeth chattered

slightly on her question. Her damp skirts didn’t help keep her warm.

Beckett noticed and moved so that he was on the same side of the rudder as she was. He took off his jacket. The sleeves were

torn at the shoulder seams. He put the garment around her.

And then he put his arm around her.

She burrowed into the haven of his body. He felt safe, secure, and warm. She tried to wrap part of the jacket around him.

“Perhaps Lady Middlebury realizes I am the true marquess,” he said. “And she doesn’t wish to have my death on her hands?”

He shook his head. “What puzzles me is how she knew my true identity. Who gave me away?”

“Lady Orpington?”

“I find it hard to believe. I’m a good judge of character. I thought her trustworthy.”

“You don’t know about the coach,” she remembered. “We were kidnapped in her coach.”

“They used it to bring us to the river?”

“Yes. And then the men said they were taking the coach north. But what does that...?” Gwendolyn broke off with understanding.

“North,” she repeated.

“North?” he echoed.

“To Scotland. To make it appear as if we eloped?”

He shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense. Or does it?” He mulled the matter over. “We would be the center of all manner

of speculation, none of it particularly alarming. Couples elope.”

“Except we could have been missing for years if we were transported.”

“Exactly. Lady Middlebury wouldn’t have to worry about someone else claiming the title.”

A shiver went through Gwendolyn. “I’m just surprised at Lady Orpington’s involvement. Why go through the ruse just to turn

you over?”

He had leaned back against the bulwark. She rested on his chest. A yawn escaped her. And was it her imagination, or did he

brush his lips across the top of her head? She snuggled deeper in his arms, holding him close. “We are alive and safe because

of you.”

“Because of us ,” he corrected her. “You have more courage than a dozen men, Gwendolyn.”

No praise had ever touched her so deeply. “Do you know, Beckett Steele—if I have to be kidnapped, transported, and passed

off as having eloped to Gretna, I’m glad it is with you.”

She expected him to laugh. Instead he answered, “This is my fault. I should have anticipated this. I let myself be distracted.”

“Distracted by what?”

“You.” He looked down at her. His arm around her tightened. “I received a message that you were waiting for me in the gazebo.

I was anxious to—” He paused, shook his head, and then said, “A callow lad could have seen the ambush.”

“Anxious about what?” she pressed, uncertain if she understood correctly. His tone combined with the way he held her and his

words made her think that he had wanted to see her. But she needed to hear him say it before she’d let herself believe. The time had come for him to be the vulnerable

one.

“Now is not the time. We still aren’t out of danger.”

“Beckett—”

“Gwendolyn. I’ll see you safe. I promise.”

And in that moment, the first big plops of rain came falling down on them.