Once Cilla had finished, Beryl, who was crying in embarrassment or shame or a combination of the two, performed the same office for Livy. Livy kept herself from such emotions by focusing on her anger. Jasper and Curston would pay. Especially Curston. Livy would make sure of it.
*
Bane
By the timethe two sons of Lord Finch joined the hunt, Garry had found a trail through the woods, and carriage tracks leading away. The young men had had the forethought to bring a groom with them to lead Garry’s bay and Wart’s chestnut back to the stables.
“They have a thirty-minute head start on us,” Bane said. Thirty minutes was more than enough for a ravishment, especially if they did not wait until their destination, wherever it was.
“I don’t think they’ll rape our ladies in the carriage,” Drake pointed out. “Not with Jasper’s sister present.”
That was true, and something of a comfort. Not that it changed Bane’s determination to offer Livy the security of his name, but at the idea of his Livy suffering an intimate assault, he wanted to howl. He wanted to tear Curston limb from limb.
“We are here far sooner than they could have expected,” Garry said. “Even checking every offshoot of the path, we shall make up much of the time, especially if they have any distance to travel.”
They took off from standing to a full-out gallop, watching both sides for any indication of a side path, slowing to a walk from time to time to make certain they were still following the carriage and horse tracks. The trail soon turned to run between dense hedgerows with few gates, and with the late spring growth lush and tall around many of those, so that a carriage and escort of horses, such as they followed, could not have left the road without leaving obvious signs of passage.
At the few side lanes or forks in the road, they paused to confer about which way their quarry had taken. “Garry must have eyes like a hawk,” Drake muttered at one of their stops. Bane was glad of it. Garry had dismounted to check some tracks that Bane and Drake had not even noted.
“They stopped here,” he said. “Two people—probably men from their weight—left the carriage and mounted horses.”
Without further words, he wheeled the mount Finch had supplied and rode off at a slower pace toward another crossroads.
“He must be a good hunter,” one of the Finches commented.
“Very,” said the other. “Was the bay with the white blaze his? Came from London in under two hours, and looked ready to keep going.”
“It is part Turkmen,” Bane told them, “from the Earl of Sutton’s stud.” The Earl of Sutton, the Duke of Winshire’s heir, was crossing his stallions and mares with the best that England had to offer. “If you have a lot of money, you might be able to buy one,” he said.
Garry had chosen a road to follow, and the other five riders turned in that direction.
The young man’s eyes lit up. “Did you hear that, Ras?”
“Doubt your allowance’ll run to it, Albie,” said his brother.
At that moment, they reached another long stretch where they could give their horses their heads, and there was no more talking.
Ten minutes later, Garry stopped again. “They turned off here,” he reported, pointing to flattened grass and fresh wheel ruts and hoof marks barely visible in a patch of dry earth where a gate into an overgrown lane had been pushed back until it was half open, leaving a space barely wide enough for a carriage to edge through.
He dismounted and began walking cautiously along the edge of the lane, keeping low, scanning the terrain as he walked.
A turn in the lane brought them within view of a barn, with a glimpse of a cottage beyond. “Let’s tie the horses and go on foot,” Wart suggested.
They were skirting the barn when they heard voices from an open window above their heads. Men—at least three of them, by the different voices—arguing about whether or not they needed to set a guard.
Garry pointed upward and jerked his head toward the side door to the barn. Would the kidnappers have taken the women to the barn loft? Surely not, and Bane’s heart yearned toward the cottage. Every second they spent here might be one more second of suffering for Livy and Cilla.
But they had to check the barn. There were too few of them to risk splitting their forces. He exchanged glances with Drake, who had also been gazing in the direction of the cottage. Bane pointed to Garry, Wart, and the Finch brothers and up toward the barn loft, then to himself and Drake, and to the cottage.
Garry nodded, and led the way into the barn through a side door.
Bane and Drake continued on around the barn. From above, the voices continued arguing until they were suddenly cut off. One man had time to yell, but as Bane and Drake approached the cottage, the bulk of the barn muffled the noise from the open window on its far side.
It was a small cottage—the kind that had bedchambers in the roof and a simple downstairs plan of several rooms. From within came the sound of a woman, shouting.
“You can’t, Jasper. It is wicked. Don’t do it. Don’t let Curston do it.” The voice was somewhat familiar. Not Livy, nor Cilla. Beryl, then. Drake was at Bane’s shoulder as he hurried toward the door.
“Get out of my way, you silly bitch.” That was Curston.
