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Lashing out, Ian gripped the groom’s smaller hand in his own. “Give it over.” he demanded, rage lacing each syllable.
Ben dared bravado.
“S…sir?” he gulped, terrified. His eyes, already bulging in fright, widened further when his gaze swept the barn.
Ian glanced over his right shoulder. His men had formed a semicircle behind him. Their loyalty in the wake of Vangie’s flight was balm to his wounded pride. He squeezed Ben’s hand mercilessly, ignoring the cur’s gasp of pain.
“Ye better do as he says, lad. It will go better for ye if ye do,” Gerard advised solemnly before spitting.
With a cry of defeat, Ben relaxed his hand.
Blood and hair matted the horseshoe nail Ian snatched from the groom’s palm. Seizing Ben’s lapels, he jerked the boy eye level with him. “You ought to be thanking God my wife was able to ride away.” He gave the groom a teeth-cracking shake. “And you’d better be praying she isn’t injured, or so help me God, I’ll…”
Ben went ashen beneath the light fuzz smattering his pimply face.
“Hell.” Ian shoved him away.
Staggering backward, Ben almost fell. Not a single man offered him a hand.
“The only reason I’m not beating you to within an inch of your miserable life is because I don’t have the time to waste.” He returned his attention to hastily saddling his horse. Teeth clenched, he grated, “You have exactly fifteen minutes to gather your belongings and leave Somersfield lands.”
“Good riddance.”
“Rotten scunner.”
Seemed he was no favorite with the other grooms. Ian jabbed a finger toward him. “Venture within twenty miles of Somersfield again and I’ll have charges brought against you—after you’ve felt the lash.” Ian veered his gaze to Gerard. “You’ll see to it, and notify the magistrate?”
Not that informing Sir Doyle amounted to a whole lot. The man was an incompetent, dishonest buffoon.
Nodding, Gerard spit again. “Aye, yer lordship, with pleasure. Never took to the boy. Her ladyship insisted I hire the corn-faced lad. Distant relative, she said.” He snorted, giving Ben a hard shove. “Get on with ye then, ye bloody cur.”
Tell-tale moisture darkening the front of his trousers, Ben scurried to do Gerard’s bidding.
Hourslater, after making numerous inquiries, Ian located the Romani encampment. Sitting atop a knoll, he peered down on the deceptively peaceful scene. Except for a dagger concealed in his boot, he’d come unarmed. In his haste to reach his wife, he hadn’t thought through with his usual logic. Truth be told, he didn’t have a plan of any sort.
Rage and worry had befogged him. Only within the past half hour had his rationale returned. He couldn’t very well ride into the encampment and demand they hand over his wife.
Can I?
The Roma were notorious for their hospitality and their skill with knives. Scrutinizing the encampment once more, he wiped his brow with his forearm. What had Vangie told them? Would he be received as friend or foe? He released a gusty breath. It mattered not. They had something of his. Something precious he’d not leave without.
He highly doubted the fiercely loyal and occasionally hot-tempered gypsies would see it his way. He oughtn’t to have come devoid of reinforcements, but it was too late to remedy the oversight now. Perhaps riding into the camp unaccompanied would be less threatening to the leery travelers, and perchance his unannounced arrival would work in his favor.
Ian sent a silent prayer heavenward that it be so. He’d done more praying since meeting his wife than he had the whole of his life prior. Shaking his head, he grunted. He was becoming soft. No, love was subduing him. He smiled wryly. Ah, the truth will out.
Pericles took a couple prancing steps, and Ian patted his neck. He didn’t doubt there’d been a short nail or two impaling the horse’s back beneath the saddle when he’d tossed him weeks ago. Poor beast.
Standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs, he stiffened.
One broken curricle wheel.
His rump hit the saddle with a sharp thud.
Two thrown riders.
Pericles side-stepped and snorted his displeasure.
Three random robbery attempts.
