A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(42)
Author: Tessa Dare

Colin steeled his jaw. “What’s the girl worth to you? A few minutes’ fun? I’m worth a fortune in ransom.” He flashed his signet ring and brought out his most aristocratic accent. “Thousands. Let the ladies pass unmolested, and I’ll come with you. No struggle.”

He watched greed and suspicion wrestling in the robber’s eyes. The man wanted to believe Colin, but he wasn’t sure he could.

And then, from the opposite seat, Miss Cordelia Gateshead gave Colin the best, most timely gift he could ever hope to receive.

The girl clasped her hands together and sighed, “Oh, your royal highness. You mustn’t.”

Well. That sealed the bargain nicely.

As Colin made ready to leave the carriage, he pinned Minerva with a stern glare. “Listen to me,” he whispered fast and fierce. “You go to the next town. You find a safe inn. You send word to my cousin, and then you bloody well stay there until he arrives. Do you hear?”

Her eyes shimmered with fear. “But, Colin—”

“No arguments, damn it. Just do as I say. I need to know you’re safe.”

She nodded. Her bottom lip trembled, and he couldn’t resist soothing it with a brief, if rather unbrotherly, parting kiss.

“God be with you, Prince Ampersand,” said Emmeline Gateshead, weeping into her handkerchief. “And with the people of Crustacea.”

As Colin alighted from the coach, he assessed the scene. As he’d suspected, the highwayman had associates. Two that he could see, both armed. A stocky man held the horses by their leads and had a pistol trained on the driver. The third, youthful and lean, stood several paces to the rear, keeping a musket shouldered and cocked.

The first highwayman nudged Colin with a pistol to the back. “Look what I have here, boys! It’s a prince.”

“That don’t look like a prince. He’s got too many teeth.”

“Whoever he is, let’s get him away from the road.” The stocky man released the horses’ leads and nodded to the driver.

The Gatesheads’ coach jolted into motion, and Colin rejoiced to see it carrying all four—five, if he counted Francine—innocent females well away. He took his first deep breath since entering that godforsaken conveyance some miles back. So long as Minerva was unharmed, he could endure whatever came next.

If she’d been hurt in any way, he could not have lived with himself.

Still prodding him along with the pistol, the highwayman pushed him toward the woods.

“My cousin is the Earl of Rycliff,” Colin said, as they crunched over ferns and wove through stands of coppiced hazel. “He’s trustee of my fortune. Send him a letter sealed with this”—he wiggled his signet ring—“and he’ll arrange for whatever ransom you demand.”

Possibly. Or, his cousin might send them a letter back saying, “Go ahead, do me a favor and send the scoundrel to the devil.” Depended on Bram’s mood that day. It didn’t really matter, as Colin had no intent to remain in the brigands’ custody that long. These were petty thieves, not kidnappers by trade. They’d surely slip up and give him a chance to escape. Perhaps before the morning was out.

Or perhaps not.

Once they’d made their way well into the woods, his captor spun him about. He struck Colin across the face with the pistol. The blow sent his head whipping sideways and his brain reeling off to some sparkling, painful place.

All three of the men closed around him.

“A prince, eh?” The stocky one made a fist. “Don’t be expecting the royal treatment from us.”

Colin straightened. Thanks to years of boxing at the club, he knew how to weather a few blows. He also knew he couldn’t put his fists against three armed men. But he would not cringe or beg. “I’m actually not a prince. I’m a viscount. If that helps.”

It didn’t help. But it did earn him another blow, this one to the gut.

And so, as it happened, by the time the morning was out, Colin had not found an opportunity for escape.

Rather, he’d found himself beaten, bloodied, and tied to a chestnut tree.

Staring down the barrel of a gun.

Chapter Fifteen

It was a fine day for target practice. Mild, sunny. Not overly breezy.

Kate Taylor cocked her pistol and stared down the distant bull’s-eye.

Weekly shooting lessons were the legacy of Miss Susanna Finch, a gentleman gunsmith’s daughter and Spindle Cove’s first patroness. She believed every young lady should know how to defend herself.

Susanna had married Lord Rycliff last year and was presently staying with him in London. So Kate had taken responsibility for the ladies’ schedule in her absence.

On Mondays, they had country walks. Tuesday’s sea bathing was on hiatus until summer, of course, but on Wednesdays, they turned their hands to gardening. And on Thursdays . . .

Bang.

Thursday was their day to shoot. Here at Summerfield, the Finch estate. Sir Lewis Finch always made the young ladies welcome, offering his finest weaponry and refreshments for their enjoyment. The old man obviously missed his daughter greatly, and took some comfort in hosting her friends. And for her part, Kate couldn’t get enough of being in a family home. Even if it wasn’t her own. She loved soaking up the sense of shared history, old portraits, fond memories.

Charlotte Highwood tugged at her sleeve. “Miss Taylor, look. Is that the militia?”

Kate turned her gaze, staring over the open meadow. Indeed, the members of the local militia were dressed in full uniform and marching in formation. Straight for them, it would seem.

Strange.

“I didn’t think they had drill today,” Diana said.

“Neither did I.” And even if they did, why would they be marching here, toward Sir Lewis Finch’s estate?

“It’s like a sham battle.” Charlotte perked with excitement. “Ladies versus gentlemen. Can we fall into a formation of our own? Fix bayonets and charge?”

Diana tugged her sister’s hair. “Goose.”

As the column of red-coated men approached, Kate recognized Corporal Thorne leading them. He wasn’t difficult to make out. He stood several inches taller than most of the men. His shoulders were near twice as broad.

And his demeanor was a thousand times more unpleasant.

“Ladies,” Kate called, keeping her voice even. “Weapons down, please. It seems the men have something they wish to discuss.”

With a barked command, Thorne brought the men to a halt. Another harsh order, and they’d fallen into a single line, facing the ladies.