“Good. On yer feet, then. Try to make a run fer it, and I’ll shoot ye in the leg and ye’ll still be coming with us.”
“If ye make the lass faint we’ll have to carry her, so shut up,” another voice muttered.
Including the devious little boy there were at least three of them, then. Hands grabbed her beneath the arms and yanked her to her feet. The tall, wet grass tangled around her feet and the hem of her gown, but they continued hurrying her along. The already faint sounds of the courtyard faded, but she had no sense of which direction they were heading.
Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might burst from her chest. If she could manage to pull the covering off her head she might at least have a chance to escape, but to where? For all she knew, everyone at the Cracked Hearth worked together to kidnap travelers. For ransom, she supposed—and hoped. If this was for money, then she had a chance to survive it.
She swallowed, her throat so tight she almost choked. If this wasn’t about money, if she’d been grabbed because she was English, or because they regularly grabbed and murdered strangers… Oh, good heavens. Marjorie stumbled.
“Keep her on her feet,” the voice on the left ordered, pulling her upright again. “We’re nearly to the wagon.”
“I’m trying,” the voice on her right returned. “Ye’d best be certain she is who ye think she is, or we’re all in fer it.”
“I heard it plain. She’s the Duke of Lattimer’s sister.”
They sounded young, or younger than she was, anyway. The two who held on to her were at least her height, though, and she doubted she could wrestle free of one, much less two or more.
“Her name’s Marjorie. That’s what she told me,” the boy Connell said from a few steps behind her.
“And ye told her yer name, duckling.”
“She asked me,” he protested. “Ye didnae say I should lie, Brendan.”
“Saint Andrew’s arse. Stop talking, bairn.”
“Dunnae yell at me. I did what ye said.”
“I’m… I’m nae yelling. Go hold the horses while we load her in.”
She bumped into something wooden at the level of her thighs and nearly fell over again. It felt safer to simply do as they said, but Mrs. Giswell and Stevens and Wolstanton were somewhere behind her. The wagon would not be taking her anywhere she wanted to go. Oh, the lectures she would be getting from Mrs. Giswell after this. And she would deserve them.
That thought actually steadied her a little. Squaring her shoulders, she dug the toes of her walking shoes into the soft ground and locked her knees. “It’s time for you to let me go,” she said in her calmest voice. “We’ll call this a jest, and I’ll be on my way with no one the wiser.”
“Ye’re nae to talk,” the left voice, Brendan, countered. “Step up.”
“No. You’ll have to shoot me. Which will make a great deal of noise, I’d like to point out.”
What sounded like Gaelic profanity followed. Then came another few words she didn’t understand, and one of them seized her shoulders. The other one lifted the sack half off her head and then pulled a strip of cloth tight around her mouth and knotted it.
Marjorie kicked out, but someone grabbed her foot. Pulled off balance, she half fell onto what she assumed was the back of the wagon. Fear stabbed through her again. She squirmed, punching out with her joined hands and connecting with something solid.
“Hold ’er still, fer Lucifer’s sake,” Brendan hissed, falling across both her legs.
“She hit me in the damned eye,” the other one grunted.
“We’ll tie her arms doon, then. After I get her legs. I told ye we’d need all this rope.”
No class in boarding school or finishing school had ever dealt with how to avoid or fight against a kidnapping. And wrestling and fighting were so completely unacceptable they weren’t even mentioned. Several headmistresses would be receiving a sternly worded letter if she survived this.Whenshe survived this, she hurriedly corrected. Yes, she seemed to be thinking very frivolous thoughts, but school, the order and… safety of it, felt very comforting right now. And anything that helped keep her calm could be useful.
“There,” the one named Brendan said, his weight finally leaving her legs. “Ye’d best settle yerself, Lady Marjorie Forrester, because ye’ve got a bit of traveling to do. Ye can blame yer Sassenach bastard of a brother fer it, but ye’re going to help make things right. Fer all of us.”
Chapter Two
“With the wagon?” Graeme Maxton asked, handing his wet coat over to the butler and shaking rainwater out of his too long hair. With the money troubles he had, a visit to the barber seemed like a luxury, but if he didn’t hack some of the mess off soon, he wouldn’t be able to see.
“Aye,” Cowen returned. “Aboot an hour ago Connell and Dùghlas came galloping up, fetched Brendan, and the three of ’em headed oot in the wagon together.”
“Well, it’s the wrong time of year fer kits and goslings or whatever other baby animal Connell likes to rescue, so hopefully Dùghlas shot a buck and we’ll have venison fer dinner.”
