Page 29 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Where was the bloody woman?

Lucien raked his hands through his hair and scowled around the deserted courtyard. A deeply disinterested cat sat atop the stone mounting block in one corner, licking its paw, but there weren’t any stable hands to question about where Daisy had gone.

He shouldn’t have let her out of his sight. She was Daisy Hamilton; she couldn’t be trusted an inch. She was reckless, stubborn, and infuriatingly self-sufficient. He should have known her easy acceptance of his offer to stay at Carisbrooke Hall was suspicious.

Bloody woman.

She’d probably saddled a horse the minute he’d gone back inside and set off toward Carlisle on her own.

Unacceptable.

He marched back inside to find Perry and Violet feeding one another bites of teacake in the front room of the inn.

Lucien suppressed a shudder. This was precisely the reason he hadn’t wanted the boy in his house for a moment longer.

Perry had been mooning about, trying to engage him in discussions about which of Shakespeare’s sonnets best described Violet’s quivering lips or cornflower blue eyes until Lucien had been forced to lock himself in his own study with a seventeen-year-old malt just to get some peace.

Unfortunately, his study held the desk on which he regretted not debauching Daisy Hamilton every time he entered the room, which had done nothing to improve his temper.

“Have you seen Miss Hamilton?” he growled.

Perry brushed a crumb from his upper lip. “Sorry, no. She hasn’t been in here.”

“Have you lost her?” Violet asked, blue eyes wide with concern.

Lucien bit back a sarcastic retort. Of course I’ve bloody well lost her. Why would I be asking you about her if I knew where the bloody hell she was?

No. It was their wedding day. He had to be nice.

“I have,” he said coolly. “I think she must have set off back toward Carlisle. You two take the carriage and head to Carisbrooke Hall. I’ll find her and meet you there.”

He headed back out to the yard, and since there was still no sign of the stable hands he’d seen earlier, he set about saddling a horse himself.

He was just adjusting the girth on a feisty-looking chestnut when a shuffle of straw caught his attention and he turned to see a small, nervous-looking housemaid lurking just inside the doorway.

“Can I help you?” he growled.

The girl sent a hurried glance back over her shoulder, then shuffled forward. “Happen it’s the other way round, sir,” she said. “Are you the duke? ’Is lordship?”

“I’m a duke,” Lucien qualified, speaking more softly so as not to frighten the girl. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and she looked like she might flee at any moment. “And since I’m probably the only duke here, I expect I’m the man you’re after.”

The girl wrung her hands in a nervous gesture. “I’m sorry, sir, but your lady? The one wearing the breeches? She’s been taken, sir. I seen it.”

Every muscle in Lucien’s body tensed. “What do you mean, taken? By whom?”

The girl shrank back at his harsh tone, and he forced himself to try to look less menacing. “Please, tell me what you saw.”

She pushed a thin strand of mousy-brown hair behind her ear.

“It was the Maxwell brothers, sir. The three of ’em work ’ere in the stables, when they’re not drinkin’ an’ fightin’.

Mistress Gordon is their aunt. But they’re nothin’ but trouble, sir.

Connor just got out of jail for stealin’ a goat from the magistrate.

And Jem, the youngest, ’e’s not right in the head.

Always tryin’ to take advantage o’ the maids. ”

She shuddered, and Lucien winced inwardly at the bleak look in her eyes. Jem had doubtless managed to corner her somewhere, and he sent up a silent prayer that she’d escaped with nothing worse than an unwanted kiss. His blood ran cold at the thought of Daisy in the hands of such men.

“Why would they do anything to my… woman?” he demanded.

“Happen they’ll want a ransom,” the girl said sorrowfully. “I saw the three of ’em leave with an open-top cart, and your poor lady lyin’ in the back, not movin’. Alan, the middle one, is ’andy with ’is fists.”

Lucien’s chest felt like it was being ripped open, but a cold fury was building behind his breastbone, the same sensation he’d always felt when he’d seen his comrades die, or witnessed the senseless carnage after a battle. “When?”

“A few minutes ago, sir.”

“Which way did they go? Do you know where they’d be taking her?”

The girl glanced over her shoulder again, clearly uncomfortable with telling tales on her employer’s nephews but determined to prevent another injustice. Lucien delved into his pocket and withdrew a handful of guineas.

“Here. Take this. Just tell me where she might be. Please.”

“The Maxwells live over at Blackford, ’bout ten miles east,” she said quickly. “Take the Carlisle road, but after ’bout six miles there’s a crossroads for Todhills and Rockcliffe. Head toward Todhills, and Blackford’s another few miles after that. The Maxwells farm all the land thereabouts.”

Lucien nodded and shoved the coins at her. “Thank you, miss.”

“Elsie,” the girl mumbled.

He compressed his lips. “Elsie. If you want to leave here, use that money and make your way to Carisbrooke Hall, near Barnard Castle. I’ll make sure you’re found a position that doesn’t include being molested by the stable hands, you hear me?”

The girl nodded again and a relieved smile brightened her face. “Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

Lucien didn’t listen to the rest of her gratitude. He led the prancing chestnut into the yard and mounted in one swift move, then clattered out onto the road, his heart pounding against his ribs.

God, Daisy would never have succumbed without a fight, which meant those thugs would have had to hurt her. He kicked the horse into a canter. He would find her. And he’d make the men responsible for taking her wish they’d never been born.

Thoughts of bloody retribution filled his brain as he galloped back toward Carlisle, and after a few miles a familiar figure sitting atop his ducal carriage came into view.

Finch sent him a wave, but Lucien cursed as he realized the toothless stable hand he’d ordered to bring replacement horses must have been one of the bastard brothers who’d abducted Daisy.

He reined in and Finch’s brows rose as he saw his expression. Years of fighting together meant he immediately grasped the seriousness of the situation.

“Where’s the trouble?” he demanded.

“Daisy’s been taken. Three men and a cart. Did they come this way?”

Finch’s brows rose. “Aye. At least, two men with a cart and another on horseback passed by, not twenty minutes ago. I asked if they’d come from Gretna, but they didn’t stop.”

“Did you see her? In the back of the cart?”

“No. It was filled with straw. They must have hidden her under it.”

“Fuck.” Lucien shook his head. “I should have brought another horse for you. I didn’t think.”

“You want the pistols from the carriage? They’re primed and loaded.”

“Yes.”

Finch had just handed them up when a faint sound caught Lucien’s attention and his spirits rose as they both turned toward the south.

A lone figure on horseback was approaching, and as it got closer Lucien could see that it was some kind of cleric, dressed in the distinctive black robes, white ecclesiastic collar, and flat-crowned hat associated with the profession.

The man was proceeding at a glacial pace, and Lucien curbed his impatience as they waited for him to draw level.

He wasted no time with niceties. “Ten pounds for your horse, sir.”

The vicar, or curate, or whatever he was, looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to buy your horse for ten pounds. Right now.” Lucien thrust his hands in his pockets, then cursed inwardly as he realized he’d given his last coins to the maid back at the inn.

“That scrawny nag’s not worth ten shillings,” Finch muttered. “Let alone ten pounds.”

Lucien sent him a quelling glare.

“But how will I get to Gretna if I sell you my horse?” the vicar asked.

Lucien ground his teeth. “My nephew will be coming along shortly in another carriage. He’ll stop when he sees this carriage.

You can tell him his uncle orders him to convey you to Gretna, to procure two horses and a coachman, bring them back to be hitched to this carriage, and to continue to Carisbrooke Hall. ”

The vicar sent him a dubious look. He was clearly a man who liked to debate every matter under the sun. “But if he takes me back to Gretna, and your man leaves with you on my horse, this carriage will be left unguarded. Someone might come along and steal it.”

“Without any horses?” Lucien growled. “That’s extremely unlikely. And in all honesty, I don’t give a fig for what happens to this bloody carriage. You can have it, for all I care.”

The curate looked shocked, but Lucien couldn’t tell if it was because of his language or the sentiment.

“That carriage must be worth hundreds of pounds!” he gasped. “Who are you, sir, that you would give it away so carelessly?”

Lucien sent the man his finest ducal glower, and he’d never been more glad of his title and its ability to impress. “I’m the Duke of Cranford, and the cost of this carriage is nothing compared to the cost of a woman’s life.”

“You need my horse to save a soul?” the vicar gasped. This, clearly, was familiar territory, even if the saving was more temporal than spiritual.

“I do. And your arguing is impeding that task. Now, are you going to give me that damned horse, or not?”

It obviously occurred to the man that Lucien didn’t truly need to ask for permission; he could simply take the horse by force if he wished. He dismounted and handed the reins to Finch, who nodded.

“Thank ye, Vicar.”

“You can sit in the carriage until my nephew comes,” Vaughan ordered as Finch mounted up. “And make sure he pays you that ten pounds.”

The vicar nodded, still looking bemused, as Lucien turned his mount and galloped away with Finch close behind.

“So, where are we off to?” Finch demanded when they’d settled into a steady rhythm.

“Some place called Blackford to find three brothers by the name of Maxwell. They’ve kidnapped Daisy and mean to hold her for ransom.”

Finch let out a low whistle. “That woman certainly has a knack of getting herself into scrapes.”

Lucien frowned. “It wasn’t her fault this time. It was mine. Those bastards overheard me say she was going to be my duchess.”

Finch gave an astonished cough. “Your duchess? And why would you say a thing like that?”

“To salvage her reputation. It’s my fault she chased Perry all the way to Gretna. I could have sent her back to London any time these past three days. But I didn’t. Which means it’s my fault some silly bitch of a gossip saw her at the inn and assumed she’d eloped.”

“With you ?” Finch chuckled, then shook his head. “Dear God!”

Lucien scowled at him. “What?”

“It’s unlike you, that’s all. Since when have you cared about a woman’s reputation?”

“Daisy’s not some bored society wife or professional courtesan. She’s the daughter of a duke. My friends’ sister. I’ll not have her ruined and cast out of society on my account.”

“But offering to marry the girl? Surely there’s another option?”

“None that wouldn’t hurt her, or ruin her life.”

“From what I’ve seen, she’d think marrying you would ruin her life.”

Lucien grimaced. “That’s what she said.”

Finch sent him a thoughtful look. “It might be the best thing for you, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never had an ounce of interest in marrying any o’ those society chits. But I’ve seen the way you look at her. How you talk to her. It’s different.”

“How?”

“I’ve watched you with scores of women over the years. And you treat ’em all the same. You’re cool and suave, and they fall right into your lap. You converse, but neither of you really listen, because it’s all just shallow, frivolous things like ton gossip.”

“What’s your point?”

“You talk with her, really talk. And you listen. You discuss important things, like the war, and your scar, and losing friends. You’re polite with every woman you meet, except her, because she’s the only one who makes you feel things. She makes you angry. She makes you hard. She makes you jealous.”

Lucien’s heart was pounding at being so unexpectedly scrutinized by one of his oldest friends. Finch had never said anything so personal in all their years together.

“Been eavesdropping from up there on the box, have we?” he retorted, stung into defensiveness by the accuracy of the words.

“Just giving you my observations,” Finch said serenely.

“Since when did you become her greatest admirer?”

“Since she threatened to stab you on the Hampstead road.” Finch grinned. “I’ve had the same impulse myself, on occasion. The girl’s got pluck.”

“She’s a bloody menace.”

“She’d have made a good soldier. She’s loyal. Driven. Gets the job done. Never complains.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “She does nothing but complain. At least to me.”

Finch sent him a smug look. “Exactly. How many women have you met who agree with every word you say, Your Grace ? Who don’t have a single opinion of their own?

A thousand. And they bore you to tears. That girl argues with you just for the fun of it.

Out of principle. Even when she secretly agrees with you. ”

Lucien frowned. Finch was right. Daisy would argue the moon was made of cheese if he said it was butter, and she’d come up with some amusing almost-believable reasoning for her position too.

God, he’d do anything to hear her complain again. Or argue with him.

Anxiety tightened his chest as an awful sense of familiarity closed over him. He’d galloped across country like this a decade ago, a youthful knight filled with righteous fury, riding to the rescue of a different woman.

He’d failed. Elaine had died.

He would not let history repeat itself.