A Christmas Abduction
MADELINEHUNTER
Chapter 1
Thirty miles out of Carlisle, the light snow turned to rain. For Adam Prescott, Baron Thornhill, it was a fitting end to a miserable journey.
By the time the mail coach careened around a bend and slowed to a stop in the coaching inn’s yard, his greatcoat hung heavy with damp and a steady stream dribbled off his hat’s brim onto his nose. He told himself that even this was better than being inside the coach with Mr. Liddle, an odiferous gentleman whose fashionable garments did not mask a lack of washing. Adam felt bad for the two elderly ladies inside who could not take refuge in the open air on the top of the coach. One had gazed longingly when he did so himself at the first stop outside London.
Now he climbed down to stretch his legs while the coach changed horses for the final stage of the journey. The other passengers hurried inside to warm themselves, but his mood did not beg for company. Rather he paced the yard for a few minutes, then took refuge under the inn’s eaves and watched the steady drizzle make tiny ponds in the dirt.
Thirty miles more and he would be in another coach, this time with a warming pan and a fur rug, and with a velvet cushion under his ass instead of a board. No one would crowd him and no one would, heaven forbid, smell. After a pleasant afternoon ride through the country he would be welcomed into his cousin’s family for a week of unfettered luxury at someone else’s expense.
And after that, an entire lifetime of comfort, if Nigel’s plan worked.
With such promise awaiting him at the end of this journey, he shouldn’t even notice the rain or smells or his sore hindquarters. He should be dreaming about the fortune within reach.
So why wasn’t he?
He had begun turning his mind to the unfortunate answer to that question when a disturbance distracted him. Scuffles sounded around the corner of the inn. Ruffians were engaged in a fight from the sounds of it. He took a step in the opposite direction; then a voice caught him up short. “Unhand me, you rogue,” a woman hissed lowly before she gave a short cry.
Any inclination to retreat disappeared. He pivoted and marched to the end of the inn, then turned the corner.
And found himself facing the end of a pistol barrel. He stared, frozen in place.
A young blond-haired man in a broad, rustic hat held the gun high, peering down its sights. Not that Adam noticed him much, due to that pistol being so close to his face. Nor did he much note the bit of skirt disappearing around the back of the inn, although he absorbed he had been the victim of a ruse.
“You come this way now,” the man said, stepping back. “I said this way. Are you looking to see me fire?”
Adam took a slow step forward. “I was merely distracted by how very large and black this end of a pistol appears when it is all but up your nose.”
“A bit more now.” The man took another two steps back.
Adam paced forward, wondering if this man really would shoot, or was any good at shooting if he would. He could perhaps simply turn and run back around the building. The close proximity of that barrel to his head made him reject that rash idea. Even the worst aim would probably find its mark this close.
“I must tell you that I have very little money on me.”
The blue eyes taking aim wandered a moment, up and down. “A gentleman like you should have enough.”
“You would think so, eh? Although, really, what is enough? I ask you, is there ever enough? Well, never mind. My situation is such that right now, on this day, I do not have enough, whatever your enough is. You chose the wrong gentleman. Now, Mr. Liddle, when he comes out, is probably flush with blunt. He is the sort who always would be. I should warn you that he smells, so you won’t want to insist he follow you this closely. However—”
Just then the horn sounded, as the coachman warned the passengers of an imminent departure.
Adam cocked his head to see past the pistol. “I need to go now. What do you say we just forget about this? You go rob someone else, and I’ll be on my way.”
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
Sounds of feet and voices moving to the coach came around the corner. Adam patted his coat, opened a button, and reached toward his purse. In doing so his hand hit the folded vellum tucked into his frock coat. “I’ll give you what I have, but I truly must return to the coach immediately.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“What then? My hat? It is a very good one. It is yours.” He removed it and handed it forward.
“I’ve no use for it.”
Probably not. And yet, perhaps once he did. This criminal’s speech lacked the tone and syntax one would expect of a pistol-toting thief. At some point this man had been educated.
“If not my hat and not my purse, then what do you want?”
