He turned his mount and headed back the way he had come. If the duke were to encounter the carriage, he would need assistance. Drake knew the enraged man could very well fire upon him, but he didn’t care. If Felicity’s brother shot him, he hoped the bullet traveled straight and true to his heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Felicity awoke ina crumpled heap on what had to be a carriage floor. The deafening rattle and grinding crunch of the thing bouncing along the hard-packed dirt road could be nothing else. Terror filled her, freezing her in place like a frightened hare. What had happened? Vaguely, she remembered a dark coach rolling along beside her and Merry as they returned from the village, then everything went dark. No, it didn’t go dark until after those horrifying men had jumped out of the vehicle and lunged for her.
She clenched her teeth to keep from sobbing aloud. This had to be a mistake. Some horrible, awful mistake. The bump and sway of the vehicle as it careened along threatened to be her undoing. Head throbbing, stomach churning, shoulders aching, she tried to pull her arms out from behind her back, only to discover her wrists lashed together with a rough rope that sawed into her flesh.
“The hen’s awake,” said a man whose voice was gruff and grating as the gravel beneath the carriage wheels.
“She ain’t goin’ nowhere, trussed up as she is.” A boot nudged her, roughly shoving against her rump. “Are you, hen?”
“Could I please sit in the seat?” She tried her best to sound calm, but her voice cracked with terror. “Please?”
“Please?” the man with the gravelly voice mocked her, and no one moved to help her.
“Her ladyship ain’t used to such a fine conveyance,” the other mansaid.
“Get her into the seat,” ordered a deeper-voiced man. “I’m tired of her feckin’ head hittin’ me foot.”
“If old Rum had got us a bigger carriage, ’twould have been a damn sight better,” Gravelly Voice retorted.
All she could see was the black kickboard under the seat in front of her and her captors’ filthy boots, which smelled distinctly of manure. She gagged and fought the rising bile burning at the back of her throat.
“Pull her up,” repeated the deep-voiced man, his words tinged with impatience. “Now.”
Rough hands caught hold of her and yanked her up onto the bench.
“There, your ladyship,” said the large man with a wicked scar running across his face.
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard then took deep breaths through her nose and blew them out her mouth. The coach was sweltering with its black shades drawn, trapping her inside with the stench of manure and men who hadn’t bathed in a while…if ever. She gagged again and turned her head to press her mouth against her shoulder.
“How much farther?” The deep voice belonged to the grubby man sitting across from her. “She looks ready to shit through her teeth.”
“Leastwise she’s aimed at you,” said the mountain of flesh beside him.
The grubby man turned and glared at him. “How much farther?”
“Nearly there,” said the man with the scar after squinting through a crack in the shade.
“Why are you doing this?” Felicity fought not to vomit all over herself and everyone else.
“Because we can.” The grubby man sneered at her as if she were the most contemptible creature on earth. “And old Rum turned loose a fair bit of blunt to see it done.”
She had no idea whoold Rumwas, and it really didn’t matter. Atthe moment, she was scared witless and only wanted to go home. “My brother is the Duke of Broadmere. He’ll give you even more blunt to take me back home.”
All the men laughed. The two across from her elbowed each other, grinning at her obvious stupidity. “It ain’t wise to cross old Rum, and even worse to go against Catherty.”
“Who are Rum and Catherty? What have they against me?” Never had she heard those names before.
“You?” The fleshy man beside the grubby man snorted. “They ain’t got nothin’ against you. ’Tis the company you keep.” He shook a chunky finger at her. “You chose poorly, your ladyship, when you took up with the likes of Lord Wakefield.”
All the men laughed again, their hooting louder this time. “Lord Wakefield, my hairy arse,” the mountain of flesh said. He nudged her foot with his. “You done engaged yourself to a man of the gentry, hen. Marry him, and your name will be Mrs. Pemberton.”
Head throbbing harder, Felicity struggled to focus. “My intended is the seventh Earl of Wakefield.”
The ruffians laughed even harder.
“Ain’t noseventhearl till the sixth one dies, hen,” said the man with the scar.
