Blake awoke to cold water being splashed onto his face. It took him a moment to fully regain consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he found he was lying on the ground in a dimly lit cave with three burly men standing over him.
A voice from behind him spoke. “Well, well, well, the famous cartographer finally comes to.” The speaker had a moderated, well-polished voice; this was no smuggler. There was something in his tone that Blake recognized but couldn’t quite place. He tried to turn and look at the man, but his head whipped backward as his jaw was pounded by a large fist. Blood trickled from Blake’s lip.
His captor said, “Don’t turn around. Our instructions were not to harm you, so if you just follow our lead, all will go smoothly.”
Focused on the three brutes in front of him, Blake slowly regained his wits. All three were similar in looks, possibly brothers or cousins. Their features forever burned into his memory. Blake assessed his odds of escaping. They were not in his favor. Perhaps silence would make his captors uncomfortable and he could gain critical information.
“Nothing to say, Devonton? You and Harrington made my job so much easier. I was anticipating having to subject myself to the idle entertainments of the London ton. I had not planned to return so soon; this means we have a few days to become acquainted before we sail. I’m sure you will find our company and accommodations satisfactory.”
Blake rested his eyelids and kept his lips tight and closed. Who was this man? His accent was definitely British but with a slight Parisian influence, as if he had been in France for an extended period. It was risky to hold him captive on English soil for days rather than set sail straight away. Did they not have the required coin or connections? Was there another orchestrating Blake’s abduction?
From behind, the gentleman commanded, “Give him some bread and water and then see he is moved without issue.”
He was to be moved. But, where was he to be transferred? A blindfold was placed over his eyes and secured tightly. With no chance of Blake seeing his identity, his captor left the cave with quick, decisive steps.
Would the man’s orders be followed? How loyal were the trio to the gentleman? Thirsty, Blake could only hope the bread and water would appear soon.
One of his captors hauled Blake up by the arm. With his hands bound behind his back, Blake made a motion to strike the man with his leg. As he made contact and the man’s legs were swept from under him, Blake was freed and fell to his knees, pitching forward until his forehead hit the ground. A boot to the stomach was the reward for his attempt to escape.
Muttering to himself, “Bloody hell, Devonton. What were you thinking, the odds were so slight?” Damn. His return to polite society had caused him to curb his tendency to talk to himself in the third person. A habit born out of only having himself for company. Now was not the time for its return.
While a rope was being synched around his ankles, he rubbed the back of his head against the ground to loosen the knot of his blindfold. Unfortunately, his captors were efficient, and he made little progress before he was lifted like a stuffed pig on a spit.
Having been in similar predicaments during the war, horrible memories came flooding back. His breathing became erratic at being restrained once more. Blake was no sloth but knew his success in escaping would be the result of him using his wits rather than brute strength.
The motion of flying through air abruptly ceased as he landed on his side. The wood beneath him creaked as he rolled onto his back. The smell of straw overpowered his senses as it covered him from head to toe. Blake hated the suffocating feeling. Why had they chosen a cart to transport him? Disguise was the most probable answer, or was it also to travel a great distance?
He tried to remain calm, slowing his breathing and mentally reminding himself he was back in England and not in some foreign country under attack by Napoleon. He needed to focus his thoughts so he could figure out how to escape. He worked relentlessly at the knot binding his wrists, but the motion was rubbing his skin raw.
After what seemed like hours in the back of the cart, he was able to breathe once more as the straw was removed. Roughly, one man grabbed him by the ankles while the other crudely carried him by his arm, which felt like it was about to come out of its socket. As he dropped to the floor, his blindfold slipped enough for him to see he lay upon a stair landing. Pushed, he was sent rolling down, each riser bruising his body. His descent stopped as he curled up in what felt like a corner, two walls supporting his aching form. He attempted to sit upright, scraping his back up against the cold stone wall.
His fall had loosened his bindings, and his wrists were now free. Slowly, he ran his hands over his thigh, squeezing to assess any damage. He bent his knee, pulling his legs closer to his chest, and he flinched as pain coursed through his rib cage. Taking a shallow breath, he continued to evaluate his condition and found no broken bones in his lower limbs. His arms and shoulders were badly bruised, but again he found no indication of any breaks.
Wood creaked as heavy footfalls echoed down the steps. Pulled upright by the back of his shirt, Blake slumped and faked unconsciousness.
The brute grunted as he hauled Blake’s dead weight across a dirt floor. Metal clanged, and a key rattled as it opened a manacle which was wrapped and snapped shut around Blake’s ankle. He was hauled to his feet, and another manacle was placed around his right wrist. The manacle was secured above his head, forcing him to stand. The slam of the door and fading footsteps up the stairs were the last things he recalled before blackness claimed his consciousness.
Blake awoke, dry mouthed, lips cracked, and blood oozing from his ear. How was he going to escape? Shifting his weight, metal scrapped against his skin. With persistence, he could work on a knot and gain his freedom, but to try to break the manacle with limited reach and no tools was an incredibly daunting task to his fatigued mind.
Soft blonde curls. Grey-blue eyes.
Instead of the girlish image his mind had drug up numerous times over the past decade when he found himself in similar predicaments, a mature woman in a lavender gown now flittered through his thoughts. His instincts told him she needed him. He had to escape. When were they to move him? A few days, he could survive a few more days… for her.
Lucy peered out of the coach window and sighed with relief as she spotted the London tower. With Matthew and Mr. Smyth present, she had been relegated to the coach for the entire journey. Her attention refocused on the dozing Mr. Smyth, who sat slumped in the rear-facing seat. He had been invaluable on the trip back to London, making sure the changes of horses and drivers were done with efficiency and care.
At the last posting house, Lucy had overheard Mr. Smyth state, “Lord Harrington, it would be best if you continued the journey in the coach.”
Matthew’s immediate response was, “We have been traveling at a bruising pace. You need rest, and I need to be outdoors. You are to travel and protect Lucy in the coach.”
Lucy suspected Mr. Smyth’s request was due to finding himself being used as a pillow the last time he was subjected to riding in the coach with her. She had inadvertently snuggled into Mr. Smyth’s shoulder after falling asleep. At the time he had promptly assured her he did not mind at all and he welcomed her warmth—despite the fact that his hands were grasped tightly together in his lap. She was loath to admit it, but she found Mr. Smyth’s presence reassuring and familiar, rather like a brother, which she had openly shared with him. Had her comment offended him? She really did like the man and resolved to apologize as soon as he woke up.
As the coach approached the front steps of their town house, Mr. Smyth still had not moved. Evidently he felt the coach’s change in pace, for when the door opened, he bounded to the street.
She hadn’t even managed to alight from the coach before Mr. Smyth hurriedly stated, “I’m off to see about the package for Lady Lucy,” and disappeared down the street.
Matthew tugged on her elbow as he reached to assist her down from the coach. “Come on, Lucy. We have much to do. But first we must remove all this travel dust. Meet me in the library when you are ready.” He limped up the steps, and she followed close behind. They were greeted by an enthusiastic Edward, only his excitement subsided at Matthew’s slow movements.
“Matthew, what happened? Were you attacked by highwaymen?”
Matthew groaned, “No highwaymen…”
Edward peered around his brother to see Lucy. With brow creased, he asked, “Did Lord Devonton remain at the house party?”
At the mention of Blake’s absence, Lucy’s eyes watered. It was Matthew who came up with a plausible excuse for Blake not accompanying them. “No, Devonton had to return to his own town house to check up on the repairs.”
“Will he return tomorrow?”
“Edward, I’m exhausted. I’m glad to see you too, but can you please let us enter? I need a bath.” His reprimand came out rather harsh.
“Sorry, Matthew. I’ll be off.” Dejected, Edward turned and left his siblings milling in the foyer.
“He was just concerned for Blake,” Lucy admonished.
Brushing past her, Matthew muttered a curse and something about an apology. Tired and weary, she didn’t have the energy to deal with her twin. She needed to see to Edward first and reassure him he had done nothing wrong.
She found her younger brother in the schoolroom alone. He was standing by the small window that let in a surprising amount of light due to its position.
“Edward?” The look on the poor boy’s face made Lucy’s eyes water yet again. How could Matthew have forgotten their brother was only eight?
“I was just asking. I didn’t mean to upset Matthew.”
“You did nothing wrong, Edward. Do you understand? Matthew is just upset because… well, because he and Lord Devonton are out of sorts at the moment.”
“It’s probably Matthew’s fault. He is always saying things he doesn’t mean. Well, that’s what he tells me all the time.”
“He says it to me too. And you are likely right it was Matthew’s fault.”
Lucy hugged Edward. Behind the door, boots scuffed the floor. Who was listening? A servant or was it Matthew? Had their brother overheard all the conversation or just her last few words? Footfalls faded down the hall. Did Matthew believe he was at fault for Blake’s capture? If he had been the one eavesdropping, her comments must have had him reeling.