Page 3 of Her Scandalous Rake (The Worthington Legacy #8)

T ristan’s pulse quickened, the dull thud of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. The familiar cobbled streets of the city had been replaced by a narrow dirt road cutting through open fields. The moonlight painted long, eerie shadows across the ground, and the trees that lined the path swayed gently in the night breeze, their branches resembling skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. With each passing second, Tristan’s dread deepened, knotting tighter in his gut.

He squinted through the window, desperately searching for some sign that he was mistaken, that this was merely a detour. But the truth was undeniable—they had left the city behind entirely. The moonlit fields stretched endlessly, broken only by the occasional silhouette of a barn or a distant tree line. There was no bustling city noise, no distant glow of lanterns, no sense of home. Only the lonely hum of the countryside and the steady rhythm of the wheels grinding over uneven terrain.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head as if the motion alone could dispel the nightmare unraveling before him. His alcohol-addled mind fought to make sense of it, but clarity came crashing down in a wave of horror—they were heading in the wrong direction. Far from home. Far from safety.

Panic gave way to anger, and Tristan’s jaw tightened as he pounded his fist against the roof of the coach. “Dudley!” His voice cut through the night like a whip, sharp and demanding. “Where are we going?” His breath hitched as he waited, straining to hear the familiar voice of his driver offering some explanation. But all he heard was the crack of the reins and the pounding of the horses’ hooves—faster now, more urgent.

The coach suddenly surged forward, throwing him off balance. He slid off the seat and hit the floor hard, a curse tumbling from his lips as the impact jarred his senses. Gritting his teeth, he scrambled back up, gripping the edge of the seat for support. The vehicle swayed violently, nearly tossing him again, so he dug his fingers into the fabric of the seat.

What was Dudley doing? Why weren’t they slowing down?

Determined to put an end to this madness, Tristan lunged toward the door and grabbed the handle, yanking it with every ounce of strength he could muster. The leather of his gloves squeaked against the cold metal as he pulled harder, ready to confront Dudley and demand answers. But the door didn’t budge.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried again, shaking the handle, twisting and pulling. Panic swelled like a rising tide, drowning his initial anger. This wasn’t a stuck latch—something was holding the door shut. His mind raced, frantically searching for an explanation, until a chilling sound reached his ears.

A faint, metallic rattle. Like chains brushing against each other.

His breath hitched, and he froze for a moment, the sound cutting through him like a dagger. Slowly, he leaned closer, listening. The noise was unmistakable—metal links shifting with the swaying motion of the coach. His fingers trembled as he tried the handle one last time, but it was no use.

The door had been chained shut.

A cold shiver crawled down his spine, settling deep in his bones. His breath quickened as dread wrapped around him, squeezing tighter with every passing second. This wasn’t an accident. Someone had locked him in here, and whoever it was, they had no intention of letting him out.

Tristan’s mind raced as he tried to think, to form a plan, but the fog of alcohol clouding his thoughts made it nearly impossible to focus. His gaze darted around the dark interior of the coach, searching for anything he could use—a weapon, an escape route, anything that could free him from this trap. But the space was suffocatingly small, and every second that ticked by seemed to drive the walls closer, trapping him like prey.

He pressed his palms against the window, his breath fogging the glass as he tried to peer outside. The horses galloped wildly, their hooves tearing up the dirt road, and the shadow of the driver’s silhouette loomed faintly at the front of the coach. But there was no sign of anyone else. No sign of an accomplice. Just the eerie glow of the moon and the endless expanse of countryside rushing by.

Tristan’s throat tightened as he realized how isolated they were. Even if he managed to force the door open, where would he go? The fields stretched endlessly in every direction, and the coach was moving too fast to jump without risking serious injury. But staying inside wasn’t an option either. He had to act, and fast.

He pounded his fist against the door, the thudding noise reverberating through the cramped space. “Dudley!” he shouted again, his voice laced with desperation. “Stop the coach!” But there was no response. The horses didn’t slow. The chains didn’t loosen.

Sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned back against the seat, his mind spinning with questions. Who had done this? And why? His instincts told him this wasn’t just a random act of sabotage—this was deliberate. Someone had planned this, and whoever it was, they had made sure Tristan wouldn’t escape easily.

But Tristan Worthington had survived worse. If they thought chaining him inside a coach would break him, they were sorely mistaken. His fingers curled into fists as determination ignited within him, burning away the last remnants of drunken stupor.

He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Tristan pounded again. “Hear me now. If you do not stop this vehicle immediately, I will have you thrown in prison for kidnapping.”

He waited for Dudley to comply, but his wish was not granted.

This couldn’t be happening. Worry tightened around his chest, constricting his breath as fear surged through him. His mind raced with possibilities. Would this disrupt the wedding tomorrow? Part of him, admittedly, wished for an excuse to delay it, but the thought of causing more worry for his mother tightened the knot of dread in his stomach.

He realized he had no other choice but to sit back and wait, helpless to whatever fate awaited him. Was this a kidnapping? Or perhaps the coach had spiraled out of control without the driver at the helm? But that thought didn’t hold. If something had happened to the driver, the door wouldn’t have been chained shut. No, Tristan was sure of it now: he was being kidnapped.

What felt like hours passed, though his sense of time was warped by the pounding of his head and the growing unease. The coach continued its relentless pace until, with a sudden jolt, it stopped. Tristan quickly glanced out the window, his heart pounding harder.

They had stopped deep within a forest, surrounded by towering trees that blocked out much of the moonlight. The dense foliage made it difficult to discern exactly where they were, but nestled among the shadows stood a small two-story cottage. It looked secluded, isolated, the perfect place to remain hidden from the world. The place was completely unfamiliar to him, as were the surroundings. For a fleeting moment, he imagined an elderly couple living here, tucked away in a private retreat far from Society’s watchful eyes.

But something told him this was no cozy homecoming. The stillness around the cottage felt unsettling, the air thick with tension. Tristan’s pulse quickened as he waited for whatever—or whoever—was about to come next.

The door rattled, the unmistakable clink of chains sending a chill down Tristan’s spine. His heart rate increased as the door creaked open, and before he could utter a word, the sharp tip of a saber slid through the opening, gleaming in the faint light.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Every instinct screamed at him to react, but the sudden presence of the weapon held him still, the cold steel mere inches from his chest. Whoever held that blade had the upper hand, and Tristan knew better than to provoke them without understanding the situation.

“Get out,” a voice commanded from the shadows outside the coach, low and unfamiliar. The figure holding the saber remained hidden from view, but the tone left no room for argument.

Tristan swallowed hard, carefully raising his hands in a gesture of submission. He moved slowly, his muscles tense, sliding toward the edge of the seat. His mind raced, searching for an explanation, a plan—anything—but all he could do was comply for now. As he stepped down from the carriage, his gaze darted toward the mysterious figure standing just beyond the door.

This was no accident, no out-of-control coach. He was caught in something far darker, and escape, for the moment, seemed impossible.

“Mark my words, my lord, one wrong move and I’ll slice this blade clean through you.”

A figure cloaked in a hooded black cape stood in the doorway, their face concealed in deep shadows. Tristan blinked, momentarily taken aback by the strangeness of it all. The person before him had spoken with a voice that seemed too young for someone so threatening.

Despite the menacing situation, Tristan couldn’t shake the suspicion that his captor might not be a full-grown man at all. The tone—sharp, commanding—lacked the depth and weight of a seasoned adult. Instead, it carried the unmistakable timbre of a lad on the cusp of manhood, just shy of full maturity.

Tristan’s mind whirled. Was he really being held at saber-point by a mere boy? It seemed absurd, yet here he stood, the cold tip of the weapon inches away, his freedom slipping through his fingers. He studied the cloaked figure, searching for any other clues, but the hood obscured any defining features.

“What is this about?” Tristan asked, his voice measured but laced with tension. He needed answers, and fast. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. What do you want?”

The figure remained silent for a moment, the blade steady, before finally responding, the young voice carrying an unsettling authority. “All in good time. For now, follow me—quietly.”

Tristan’s misgivings deepened. Whoever this was, they were clearly skilled enough to wield fear and authority, despite their youth. Resigned to his fate for the moment, he nodded. The figure motioned toward the dimly lit path leading to the isolated cottage.

“I’ll cooperate,” Tristan replied.

His captor wore the attire of a driver, except the clothes didn’t fit him as well. Even the hat hung low on his forehead, and the brim cast shadows over the occupant’s thin face. Tristan was certain he could overpower this one—yet his captor held a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other.

A gust of wind blew from behind, pushing Tristan forward. Drops of rain fell on him. When had the storm moved in?

“I assure you, my lord, I’m well-schooled in the use of a saber and pistol. One wrong move and it will be your last,” his captor said loudly above the howling wind.

Tristan frowned. The odds of escaping were not in his favor. “I believe you.” And he did. The other man’s hands didn’t tremble like someone who had never done this before. There was confidence in the way he spoke and in his movements.

The lad motioned toward the cottage as he tried to keep his hat from blowing off his head. “Enter.”

Tristan held his hands up in surrender as he walked. He wanted to make the other person aware that he was unarmed and was no threat. “Can you at least tell me why you have taken me? What have I done?”

“You shall know when I want you to know, and not a moment sooner.”

Tristan’s mind raced, trying to piece together why anyone would want to kidnap him. He had lived a mostly unremarkable life, aside from his ill-fated connection to Lord Hollingsworth, who was now dead. He certainly hadn’t made enough enemies to warrant such an elaborate scheme. He wasn’t like his brother, Trey, who had left a trail of broken hearts and scandal in his wake. Tristan’s only notable downfall, as of late, was his growing reputation as a drunk.

As Tristan stepped inside the small cottage, the door creaking shut behind him, he swept his gaze across the room, taking in every detail with practiced precision. The interior was modest but carried the unmistakable warmth of a lived-in space. Faded, patterned rugs overlapped across the wooden floor, softening the sound of his boots as he moved forward. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint tang of herbs, as though someone had recently brewed tea that still lingered in the air.

A few lamps were scattered strategically around the room, their flames flickering lazily and casting golden halos of light onto the walls. Shadows danced across the wooden beams of the ceiling, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm as the light shifted with the crackling fire in the hearth. The fire was robust, its glow casting a comforting warmth that Tristan could feel even from where he stood. Above the mantel, a few simple trinkets sat—a wooden clock ticking quietly, a ceramic vase filled with dried lavender, and a stack of worn books leaning precariously against one another.

The furniture was functional yet inviting: a well-loved armchair draped with a knitted blanket, its fabric worn smooth in places from years of use, and a small wooden table bearing the faint rings of long-forgotten teacups. The walls were lined with shelves containing mismatched books, jars of dried herbs, and small knickknacks that suggested someone had taken time to make this place a home. It wasn’t opulent or grand, but it had an understated charm, as though the space itself breathed familiarity and routine.

A flicker of hope sparked within Tristan as he took it all in. This wasn’t the cold, barren hideout of a killer plotting his demise. No, this place carried the marks of someone who lived here day after day, tending the fire, sipping tea, and reading by lamplight. That detail, however small, made his pulse steady for the first time since the chains had rattled on the coach door. If his captors intended to kill him, surely they wouldn’t have brought him to a place like this. Or so he desperately hoped. His instincts had failed him before—but tonight, he prayed they wouldn’t.

However, any comfort he took from the cottage’s atmosphere was tempered by the cold tip of the saber pressing against his back, reminding him that he wasn’t in control. His breath hitched as the weapon prodded him toward a single wooden chair positioned in the middle of the room. Every nerve in his body screamed to resist, to fight back, but the blade against his spine kept him compliant.

He reached the chair, and, without a word, the figure behind him gave a final nudge with the saber. Reluctantly, Tristan lowered himself into the seat, still scanning the room for any sign of who might be behind this strange ordeal.

“Now what?” he asked, his voice betraying more frustration than fear.

The hooded figure stepped around him, still keeping their face obscured. “You’ll find out soon enough,” they said, their young voice carrying an unsettling calm.

The lad walked behind him, tied his hands and legs with a rope before standing again, and then moved in front of Tristan.

He arched an eyebrow. “Will you now tell me why I’m here?” He struggled with the ties, impressed with how well his captor—as small in stature as the man was—could bind so tight. “As you can see, I’m not a threat any longer.”

The lad kept his head down, intentionally avoiding Tristan’s attempts to get a better look. The cloak’s hood cast a shadow over his face, further obscuring his features, and he stayed just far enough away to prevent any real recognition. Even so, Tristan could feel the weight of the boy’s gaze, as if he were being studied, assessed for some unknown purpose.

Frustration gnawed at him. Under normal circumstances, Tristan considered himself a patient man, but his current situation had shredded any calm he might have had. He clenched his fists in his lap, fighting the urge to shout, to demand answers. This strange, drawn-out silence was testing his limits.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Tristan growled. “Enough of this. Who are you? What do you want from me?”

The hooded figure remained quiet for a moment, the tension in the room thickening. Then, slowly, the lad shifted, still keeping his face hidden, and spoke, his voice tinged with amusement. “Patience, Lord Worthington. You’ll have your answers soon. But for now, it’s not about what I want—it’s about what you deserve.”

The cryptic words sent a chill down Tristan’s spine. Deserve? What had he done to deserve being kidnapped and held at sword-point? The realization dawned that this was far more personal than he had originally thought.

His captor folded his arms. “You, my lord , are in my control. I’m going to ruin you completely! The same way you ruined a certain woman three years ago.”