The thought should have disturbed him, this cold anticipation of violence. Instead, it steadied him, gave him purpose beyond the gnawing fear for Courtney’s safety.
Lockwood had made the gravest mistake of his miserable life when he’d threatened what Lucien held most dear. And before this day was over, he would understand exactly how grave that mistake had been.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Consciousness returned toCourtney like waves lapping at a distant shore—first the rhythmic jolting that seemed to shake her very bones, then the musty smell of worn leather and unwashed bodies, and finally the nauseating roll of her stomach that threatened to empty itself at any moment. Her head pounded with each bump and sway of what she quickly realized was a moving carriage, and her mouth felt as dry as parchment.
She kept her breathing steady and her eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness while her mind raced to assess her situation. The chloroform had left her feeling weak and disoriented, but anger was already beginning to burn through the fog in her thoughts. Lockwood. The bastard had actually done it—kidnapped her in broad daylight from her own father’s house.
Through her closed eyelids, she could sense the dim light filtering through what must be drawn carriage blinds. The vehicle was moving at considerable speed, the springs creaking with each rut in the road. She could hear at least two male voices, though the noise of wheels and hooves made it difficult to distinguish words.
Carefully, she tested her bonds without moving visibly. Her hands were tied behind her back with rough rope that chafed against her wrists. Her ankles were similarly bound, though not as tightly—perhaps they’d been more concerned with speedthan thoroughness. The ropes were tight enough to restrict movement but not so tight as to cut off circulation entirely. A small mercy, though she suspected it had more to do with Lockwood’s need to present her as relatively unharmed for their forced marriage.
She was wearing her morning dress of pale yellow muslin, though she could feel tears in the fabric and suspected her appearance was far from that of the composed lady she’d been when Lockwood had smashed through the terrace doors. How he was going to explain that to anybody, she had no idea. Perhaps she could use that as evidence she’d been abducted.
Ashley. Fear clenched her stomach as she remembered her friend’s brave attempt to help her, the sickening sound of Lockwood’s hand striking her face. Was Ashley alive? Badly hurt? The uncertainty was almost worse than her own predicament.
She forced herself to concentrate on the present. The carriage was well-sprung and moving fast, which suggested they were on a major road—likely the Great North Road toward Scotland. Gretna Green, where marriages could be performed without banns or parental consent. Where Lockwood intended to force her into a union that would give him legal claim to her dowry and her person.
Over her dead body.
The thought gave her a grim satisfaction. She would not go quietly to her ruin. If Lockwood thought a bit of chloroform and some rope would turn her into a compliant victim, he was about to discover his error.
But first, she needed information. How many men were with them? What were their plans? How far had they traveled? She strained to listen to the conversation taking place in the carriage.
“—should reach the Swan and Crown by nightfall if we keep this pace,” one voice was saying. She didn’t recognize it—presumably one of Lockwood’s hired thugs.
“Good,” came Lockwood’s cultured tones, though she detected an edge of strain beneath his usual smoothness. “We’ll change horses there and push through the night. I want to be in Scotland as soon as possible.”
“Driving at night could be dangerous. If a horse stumbles in a rut at night, the carriage could go over.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. They won’t be far behind me.” She could hear fear in his voice. And so he should fear. Tarquin would want blood and Lucien—hell, he’d want to kill him.
Lucien. She knew he would come for her, and so did Lockwood, but it also meant he was pushing hard—perhaps too hard. Tired horses and exhausted men made mistakes.
“What about the girl?” asked a third voice, rougher than the others. “She’s been out a long time. That stuff you used…”
“She’ll wake when she wakes,” Lockwood replied dismissively. “And when she does, she’ll find herself in circumstances that require…cooperation.”
The casual cruelty in his tone made Courtney’s skin crawl, but she forced herself to remain limp and unresponsive. Information was power, and the more she could learn while they believed her unconscious, the better her chances of escape.
“Speaking of cooperation,” the first voice continued, “you sure that Irish whore won’t be talking? Looked pretty lively when we left.”
Courtney’s blood turned to ice. Irish whore. They had to be talking about Kitty—the woman who had known Ava in Dublin, whose testimony Lockwood had been trying to secure.
“Kitty won’t be talking to anyone,” Lockwood said with satisfaction that made Courtney’s stomach lurch. “I made certain of that before we left.”
“Dead certain?” the rough voice pressed.
“Quite dead,” Lockwood confirmed, and Courtney had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping aloud. “The knife went in clean between the ribs. She’ll be found eventually, but there is no evidence we were even there.”
Murder. The word echoed in Courtney’s mind with horrible clarity. Lockwood hadn’t just threatened and blackmailed—he’d actually killed someone. A woman whose only crime had been knowing Ava years ago in Dublin.
“What about the old madam?” the first voice asked. “She know too much too?”
“Mrs. Bellamy has also been permanently silenced,” Lockwood replied coldly. “Unfortunate, but necessary. She was becoming greedy. She double crossed me by going to Furoe. My men had her followed. Better to eliminate the complication entirely.”
Two murders. Courtney felt bile rise in her throat as the full scope of Lockwood’s desperation became clear. He’d killed two women to protect his scheme, which meant he had absolutely nothing left to lose. A man who had already committed murder wouldn’t hesitate to kill again if she proved too troublesome.
