His tongue on her ear made her want to retch. She jerked away, but his grip on her hair would not relent, and the force of her attempt at escape sent a hot rush of tears to her eyes. “Do not do this, Lord Willingham,” she begged. “Release me or I shall scream.”
He continued to navigate the curricle one-handedly, releasing a bitter chuckle. “Do not try anything clever, my lady. I have a pistol in my pocket, and I am not afraid to use it upon you if I must. Moreover, we are fast heading into a place where no one would care if I bent you over and ravaged you on this bench.”
She forced back her fear. “I will fight you.”
He released her hair, shoving her back into her seat with abrupt force that sent her toppling. “I hope you do. In the end, I will only enjoy it more and use you harder.”
She choked down bile at his vicious words. Somehow, by some means, she had to escape him. It was the only choice she had.
*
With Hazlitt andtwo other guards at his side, Duncan stormed through the reeking halls of the grim East End tavern where Willingham had taken Frederica. If any harm befell her, Duncan was not just going to thrash Willingham to a bloody carcass; he was going to damn well kill him.
Thank Christhis instincts had made him have one of his men stand guard over her after he had issued the warnings to Amberley. He had not trusted the earl’s reaction to the news Amberley would bring him, and something inside Duncan, some niggling understanding, had protested urgently that selfish, vainglorious bastards like Willingham did not simply relinquish what they wanted and walk away.
Men who took by force did not like to be bested.
As he reached the chamber where they had been told Frederica had been taken—Duncan had far more coin to grease the palms of the tavern keeper than Willingham did, and in the end, greed won—a scream tore through the air. The scream belonged to Frederica.
Every thought fled, and he was mindless. A weapon. He threw himself into the door, shoulder first, determined to get to her. To tear Willingham apart with his bare hands if he must. On the second attempt, the door splintered open, and he crashed into the chamber with a warrior’s cry, his pistol raised.
The earl had been grappling with Frederica, but upon Duncan’s forced entry, he spun, holding her against him in a tight grip, pointing a pistol to her temple. Her dress had been torn to the waist, revealing her shift. Her hair was in wild disarray, her eyes wide and fearful, sobs making her chest rise and fall in jerky motions, tears on her cheeks.
“Release Lady Frederica,” he ordered Willingham with a bravado he little felt, given the gun pressing into Frederica’s skull and the finger of a demented scoundrel upon the trigger.
“Take one step closer, and I will end her,” the earl warned, his tone one of deadly intent.
“If any harm comes to her, this day will be your last,” Duncan warned. He had a pistol in his hand, and three armed men at his side—including Hazlett, who was a madman when the situation warranted it—and he was not going to allow the soft-palmed lecher before him to hurt Frederica.
Lords did not strike him with awe as they once had, before he had been wise and world-weary enough to know better.
Men of honor, men who upheld their words and promises, who were honest, loyal, and steadfast in their actions and promises, those men impressed him. Men like Willingham? They were not men at all.
He just needed time. Distraction.
“You are too late,brother,” Willingham taunted. “I already had her.”
The earl’s claim hit him like a blow. He stiffened, absorbing the shock, the denial. For a moment, his gaze searched Frederica’s frantically. My God, had he been too late?
He stepped forward, spurred by the need to protect Frederica and the need to decimate Willingham. “If you have hurt her, I will kill you myself. Slowly.”
Holding Duncan’s gaze, the earl grabbed a fistful of Frederica’s shift and tore, revealing her breasts. And then he palmed one roughly, squeezing until she cried out in pain and her creamy skin reddened with the force of his violence. “She likes it rough. I’ve heard you like to watch, Kirkwood. Perhaps I ought to fuck her again in front of you. Will that be evidence enough that she is damaged goods? My seed is already inside her, but I will show you once more if it would convince you to leave what is mine alone.”
Frederica’s eyes were closed, her nostrils flared. The sight of her being hurt before him was pure torture. Bloodlust rose within him, pure and true, and he vowed the earl would pay for this. He made to take another step forward, but Hazlitt halted him with a hand on his arm and a meaningful look. There was a reason Hazlitt was his right hand.
“She is not yours,” he told Willingham flatly. “You cannot fathom her father would willingly give her hand to you after you have abducted her and abused her. Your game is at an end. Release her now, and we will allow you to walk away with impunity.”
“She is mine, and I will do what I want to her.” To emphasize his proclamation, the earl roughly twisted Frederica’s nipple, pinching it, pulling it.
Frederica’s eyes shot open, luminous and shockingly green, the greenest he had ever seen them. “I love you, Duncan,” she said.
“And I love you.” The words left him of necessity, without thought, without restraint. He loved her more than he had even imagined possible, and he regretted deeply telling her for the first time whilst she was being held captive by a lunatic.
And then he realized, in the next horrifying instant, that she meant to sacrifice herself.
Everything unfolded in a mad jumble. With a roar, he leapt forward. Frederica jammed her elbow into Willingham’s midsection. Pistols fired. His. Another’s. Plaster rained. A scream rent the air. A hoarse cry echoed. Duncan fell to his knees. A body dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. Blood rushed over the dirty floorboards, filling in the gaps between planks with their dark red abundance.
Chapter Nineteen
