Page 129 of Courting the Country Miss

“He did. Your mother said the doctor agreed to allow her out of bed in six weeks’ time if all goes well, so we may have the wedding then—before the baby comes.”

She let out a breath. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

His gaze moved downward. “You’re wearing Oma’s brooch.”

“I wear it every day.” She fingered his gift.

The first footman cleared his throat. “Shall I send the urchin away, miss?”

“Oh, dear. Molly. I almost forgot.” She peeled herself off Tristan. “Molly is at the kitchen door. I’d best see to her. I fear what her father may have done now. I’ll return in a moment.”

Without taking time to remove her gloves or reticule still dangling from her wrist, she strode to the kitchen, passing servants bustling to prepare dinner, opened the door, and peered out.

A boy of perhaps six—with hair that looked as if it had never seen a comb—looked anxiously at her. “Miss Wentworth?” At her nod, he continued, “Molly wants you but she’s too scared to come.” He turned and gestured over his shoulder.

Leticia handed him a coin and followed him out. At the gate leading to the kitchen entrance, Molly slumped over, weeping and shuddering. A black bruise spread over her cheek and one eye swelled shut.

“Oh, no. Molly.” Leticia rushed outside to the child.

Molly lifted her head and held up a hand as if trying to push her away. “No, miss. Go back inside.”

“Oh, Molly. Did your father beat you again?”

“Meddling little tart,” growled a voice behind her. Pain exploded from the side of her face and the ground slammed into her shoulder.

Dazed, she tried to breathe. A pair of arms threw a rough bag smelling of horses over her head. She kicked and struggled but another heavy blow landed on her face. Black and white sparks blazed before her vision. A feminine voice cried out from far away and she floated backward in slow rolls.

When Leticia became fully coherent, a bumping, rocking sensation suggested she rode in some kind of cart. The coarse bag over her head scratched her face. She reached up to pull it away but her hands came up together, bound. Panic left her breathless. Think. How could she escape?

She lay on a hard surface, her head covered, and her hands tied in front of her. Her pulse pounded. She tried to move her feet but they were also bound. Working with care, she pulled the bag away from her face enough to see. Gray light illuminated her hands, still in their gloves, tied with a rough rope. Her pulse throbbed where a strip of cloth tied over her mouth bit into her skin.

Near her head sat several large metal containers like the kind used to transport milk. Between the metal containers, cloudy skies and fingers of fog met her sight. Voices nearby called out the last chance to purchase wares, and the scent of fish hung heavy in the air, mixing with damp, mildew smells nowhere but the waterfront could produce. Ship bells rang out, and water sloshed and gurgled.

A hundred questions bounced through her head. Yet a single clear course of action shone through the noise: if anyone were looking for her, she must leave clues to help them find her. She wiggled and strained but could not loosen her ropes. She managed to open the strings of her reticule and pull out a monogrammed handkerchief. Odds were high that someone else would find it first, but she had to try to let Tristan know where she was being taken. She stuffed the handkerchief through a large crack between the slats of wood in the cart and watched it fall.

The cart turned, shifting her body to the right. She pulled out a tiny throwaway bottle of perfume and shoved it through the cracks. It shattered on the cobbled streets, but hopefully the scent and the gold leaves painted on the glass would be a clue. The fan would be too big to fit. She stuffed everything else in her reticule down the crack. Still, the cart continued. What else could she leave in her breadcrumb trail?

Tristan’s brooch winked in the fading light. No. She could not part with such a precious, and sentimental gift. Besides, urchins would likely find it before Tristan did.

Of course, if anyone but Tristan were looking for her, they wouldn’t recognize her breadcrumb trail for what it was.

The cart stopped. Leticia toyed with the idea of pulling the bag back over her head and pretending to be out of her senses, but the need to see where her captor was taking her overruled that thought.

A face came into view. She let out a growl of disgust. Molly’s father. She should have known. He’d used the perfect bait to draw her out of her aunt’s home.

He narrowed his gaze at her. “Ye gonna come quiet-like or are ye gonna make me ’it you agin?”

Her face still ached from the last time he hit her. Besides, bound and gagged, she had little to offer in the way of resistance.

He grabbed her feet and hauled her out from between the cans, pulled her to a seated position, and threw her over his shoulder. She let out a moan as his shoulder dug into her abdomen. As he carried her to a door and fumbled with the latch, she made a last, desperate attempt. She tore Tristan’s brooch off her pelisse and tossed it to the side of the door. It landed facedown, covered by a piece of torn plum cloth. She prayed that her rescuer would find it before someone who would see it as an expensive bauble rather than her plea for help.

Her captor carried her inside and dropped her on the ground. Her breath left in a whoosh. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The darkness in the room where she lay obscured her surroundings.

Panic stole her breath but she fought it back. Surely, if her captor desired her dead, he would have killed her already. Of course, there were worse things than death.

“If you were my wife or daughter, I’d beat ye about the ’ead and shoulders an’ then take a belt to yer backside. But I suppose that wouldn’t be decent to do wiff ye.”

Decent. She let out a snort. Such a villain didn’t know the meaning of the word. She was surprised it existed in his vocabulary.