The ladies tottered aboard the coach once more, followed by Mr Jackson. Luke and Toby gently lifted the invalid, then settled Bert on the worn upholstery. Although Toby winced on hearing the lad moaning, Luke was gladdened by the sound.
‘He has not fallen too far into unconsciousness,’ he reassured the driver. Pulling Toby away from fussing over the boy, he slammed shut the door. Once up on the driver’s perch Luke took the reins firmly; he didn’t want Toby Williams turning them over in a ditch in his agitated state.
‘Should you not tie your horse to the back of the coach, Mr Wolfson?’ Toby attempted to calm himself and be of assistance.
‘No need to worry about him—Star will follow.’ Following his concise reply about his finely trained stallion, Luke set the team to a trot. They’d soon cleared the woods and he put the horses to a faster pace, his eyes narrowed and straining to see through the darkness for hazardous obstacles littering the terrain in order to avoid them in good time.
But as much as he was occupied by the job at hand an image of a woman with fawn hair and golden eyes was in his mind, too. Luke knew that if Collins had harmed a hair on Fiona Chapman’s head the dragoons on the smuggler’s trail wouldn’t be needed after today; Luke would find the lawless bastard and kill him himself.
* * *
Fiona felt scarcely able to breathe with a silencing gag wedged between her lips. As she’d been carried off she’d kicked, scratched and yelled so much that the two men had reined in after a short gallop to secure her hands and ankles together. They’d called her foul names while roughly curbing her thrashing. Then, when satisfied they’d quietened her, they’d carelessly flung her across the horse’s back in a way that knocked the breath from her body and made her feel faint.
Now her head was hanging low, banging against the animal’s belly and she could feel a heavy hand pressing down into the centre of her back to keep her from sliding off the beast. A hammering at her temples was making them ache abominably, but instead of feeling frightened she felt enraged, and instead of self-pity she inwardly berated herself for not putting up a greater fight and making good her escape.
She was incensed to be suffering such treatment. No man had ever raised a punishing hand to her, not even her father when she deserved chastisement. When Cecil Ratcliff’s attempts to manhandle her had grown beyond bearing she’d hit him across the face with her silver-backed brush, then packed her belongings shortly afterwards.
But she realised others had suffered, too, at the hands of these ruffians. Young Bert might have perished and Mr Jackson was certain to have sustained concussion at the very least. Fiona felt tears prickle her eyes, not just because of her own uncertain fate, but because of that of her fellow travellers.
The junior highwayman had stolen the spare horses, tethering them behind his own mount, and the drumming of a dozen or more hooves was increasing the pounding in Fiona’s skull. Just as she thought she could stand no more of the interminable journey, and of struggling for breath while blocking out her aches and pains, the horse was slowed to a trot.
Moments later they were at a standstill and her captor dismounted, pulling her down so she collapsed to her knees at his feet. Her hair, wound neatly at her nape that morning, had escaped all its pins and Fiona could feel its heavy weight on her shoulders and straggling around her face. She remained still, listening, sensing that others were around. She heard muffled male voices, then boots on gravel. A moment later she was hoisted up by an arm and the blindfold and gag were removed.
By a filtering moonlight Fiona saw that a rather thin, nondescript fellow was gazing at her and that they were standing within the grounds of a graveyard. The bulky outline of a church, its spire soaring against a navy-blue sky, was outlined on a mound some yards away. Closer to her were scattered headstones and box-like tombs topped with eerie sculptures. She suppressed a shiver, not wanting these vile rogues to know that they, or her surroundings, intimidated her.
‘Jeremiah Collins, at your service, my lady.’ He raised a hand, taking a thick fawn tress between calloused thumb and forefinger. ‘Would I be right in thinking you are the Duke of Thornley’s daughter?’ He cocked his head, inspecting her.
‘No, you would not, you buffoon,’ Fiona snapped, slapping his hand away from her hair.
Jeremiah chuckled. ‘She’s the spirit of a highborn lass right enough, Fred...but I’m not sure. The major said the jaunt had been cancelled.’ He turned to the senior of the two felons who he’d addressed as Fred. ‘She’s plain as a pikestaff and older than I expected. I think you’ve brought me a pig in a poke, not a ransom.’
Fred Ruff was embarrassed by his boss’s criticism. He ripped down his neckerchief so he might speak more clearly, uncaring of Fiona seeing his face now. If Collins were right and he’d taken a worthless woman, then she’d need to be disposed of. In that case it would be immaterial whether his victim could recognise him again. ‘Mayhap the major’s been playing with us so he might keep all the money in his own pocket,’ Fred blustered, but shot his youthful accomplice a baleful look. Sam Dickens had convinced him they were on to something big and that Jem Collins would praise them to the skies for using their initiative and abducting the chit.
‘That’s her!’ Sam also removed his disguise while wagging a finger in emphasis. He knew he was in trouble if he’d led Fred up the garden path. ‘Megan told me they was talking about the estate and the old duke’s pheasants and a society wedding feast. They said about this one eloping...whispering they was like it was a big secret, Megan said.’
‘We were! But the Thornley wedding plans are nothing to do with me personally!’ Fiona interjected in exasperation. She glowered at the youth. Now she knew where she’d seen him before: he was the stable hand who’d been flirting with the serving girl at the Fallow Buck. ‘My name is Miss Chapman and I’ve journeyed from London.’ She realised that the dolts had confused her with a duke’s daughter, living locally, and abducted the wrong person. She felt like shouting a laugh. Sooner or later they’d realise their mistake and if her stepfather were approached to pay up for her release the miser would pay them not a penny piece. And her mother had nothing left now of value to offer.
Collins turned towards Fiona, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. ‘You might be right, Fred, about the major trying to cut us out of the deal. He might want to pin the deed on us, but keep all the spoils. If that’s what he’s about, then the fellow will be close by and mad as hell that we’ve got to this little lady before him.’ He circled Fiona, looking her up and down. ‘Perhaps you aren’t as bad looking as I first thought.’ He cocked his head. ‘You’re Quality, no disguising that, even dressed in these plain things.’ He fingered her woollen cloak. ‘But then you’d want to look unexceptional, wouldn’t you, my dear? Drawing attention to yourself would be a mistake till you’d got your lover’s protection.’
‘Perhaps her swain would stump up a ransom for her, too,’ Sam suggested brightly. ‘We could play ’em one off against t’other.’
‘He’s poor as a church mouse, according to the major’s report, that’s why she’s eloping—because her father won’t hear of the match.’
‘But maybe we can’t trust his word!’ Sam exclaimed.
‘You’re all talking rot!’ Fiona shouted in frustration. ‘And you might as well let me on my way, for I’m expected elsewhere to take up a position in service. The authorities will be on your tails by now. My travelling companions will have reported this outrage.’
‘She’s no domestic, I’ll stake my life on it! She’s lying!’ Sam triumphantly declared.
‘I’m a governess and I’ll be missed by my employer. He’ll send a search party if I don’t turn up,’ Fiona warned.
Jeremiah Collins again raised a hand