Chapter 17
“You ladies will be the belles of the ball,” Jack said as he and Rafael helped Harriet and Theo into the earl’s carriage.
“Indeed,” chimed in Hendrie. “You must promise me the pleasure of a dance, that is, if these two jackanapes haven’t already seized all the spots on your dance card.”
“You are kind, sirs. Too kind, in fact.” Harriet settled herself on the plush seat and smoothed out the skirts of her gown. “I am quite aware that my looks are no more than ordinary, but as tonight has a certain fairy tale magic to it, I shall pretend your flummeries are real.”
“I never flumm,” drawled Jack.
Theo laughed as she tugged at her elegant kidskin gloves. Rafael noted that her eyes were sparkling with excitement in the glow of the oil lamp.
“Nor do I,” he added. “And the so-called glittering Diamonds of the First Water will look dull and lifeless compared to the grace and spirit that shines from the pair of you.”
Both ladies blinked, and for once, Harriet appeared speechless.
It was Theo who recovered her voice first. “Flumm or not, I am exceedingly grateful to you gentlemen for making me feel like a princess tonight.” A fluttery sigh slipped from her lips.
“Dancing, champagne—I shall savor every moment until midnight, when I turn back into a plump toad.” She made a rueful face. “Or is it a pumpkin?”
“Perhaps,” Rafael said, “you will make your own magic, a spell that will long outlast any fairy dust.”
Her expression turned pensive.
“Mrs. Ganton went to the Manor this afternoon to help with some of the last minute arrangements,” said Hendrie, craning his neck to peer out the carriage window at the vehicle passed through one of the side entrances to the estate.
“She says the flower arrangements are magnificent and that the myriad candles will blaze brighter than the solstice sun. I wonder . . .” His voice trailed off.
Jack leaned forward in his seat. “What is it, Father?”
“I’m not sure,” confessed Hendrie. “There looks to be an animal running along the road, dragging . . . I can’t quite make it out, save for that it seems to be a long, light-colored piece of fabric.”
Mystified, Harriet and Theo peered through glass panes by their seat.
“Why, it looks like a sash,” announced Theo after a moment.
“Good Lord, it’s Hero,” exclaimed Harriet. “And the sash is just like the one gracing the gown Kyra planned to wear tonight. She showed it to us yesterday.”
Rafael was already rapping on the trap to order the coachman to halt the horses. Before the wheels rolled to a halt, he wrenched open the door and jumped down to the road.
On seeing him, the exhausted hound mustered a last sprint and dropped the sash by his feet.
Woof, woof. Hero whined and tugged at his sleeve as he reached to pick up the muddy length of satin. The smoothness of the fabric sent a cold shiver galloping down his spine.
Jack dropped down beside him. “Damnation,” he muttered under his breath so the others wouldn’t hear. “Something’s gone terribly wrong.”
“I should have been more alert,” said Rafael tightly. He had made the mistake of underestimating Matherton’s cunning.
Hero tugged at his coat again, and backed away, pulling him off-balance.
“Yes, yes, amigo. Take me to her.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Jack.
“No!” He pushed his cousin back toward the carriage. “Take the others to the ball. You’re the guest of honor and your absence will stir questions. There may be a way to avoid scandal if we act quickly.”
Harriet poked her head out the open door. “What can we do to help?”
“Think of some excuse on why Kyra is not greeting the guests. A headache, a twisted ankle—bloody hell, the plague! Anything!”
“Leave it to us,” came the grim reply. “Now go!
Hero was dancing impatiently, his growls growing louder. Seeing Rafael rise, the hound whirled and raced off toward the glade of beech trees bordering the drive.
“Move faster, damn you.” Matherton punctuated his order with a rough shove.
He had put her down once they were hidden in the tangle of the trees and was now half dragging her along the narrow footpath.
She guessed he must have a carriage waiting somewhere on one of the cart roads crisscrossing the estate.
“Ballroom slippers are not made for woodland treks,” she replied, stumbling yet again as her gown snagged on a twist of brambles. “Nor,” she added defiantly, “do I dance to your tune.”
He swore again and yanked the fabric free. “You won’t dare step out of line once I’ve made you my bride.” A nasty laugh rumbled through the overhanging leaves. “Remember, a wife’s duty is to honor and obey.”
I will never be your wife, Kyra vowed. Drawing a deep breath, she made herself gather her wits. It was imperative to stay alert. She knew the estate like the back of her hand, and if she could choose the right place to break free, there was a chance she could evade recapture.
If only she wasn’t hampered by her cursed skirts! But Matherton looked even more uncomfortable in the woods. Slapping at the branches, stumbling over the roots, he was swearing most foully. In a footrace over rough ground, she just might win.
Looking around, Kyra saw they were heading in the direction of the river and the stone bridge leading to the abbey ruins.
The abbey ruins. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced herself not to think of that fateful evening.
That was in the past—having Rafael in her life gave her the courage to believe tonight would not bring another tragedy.
With that in mind, every few steps she made a point of snapping a twig or stamping a footprint in the damp earth.
Not that she had any real hope of Rafael discovering what had happened, but the small actions helped to buck up her spirits.
After thrashing to the top of a steep rise in the way, Matherton halted to wipe the sweat from his brow. His carefully cultivated aura of polished charm had given way to edgy agitation. He looked desperate. Which of course made him more dangerous than ever.
“Bloody Hell, how much farther to the bridge?” he asked.
“Maybe a half mile,” she replied, deliberately exaggerating the distance.
He swore again and raked a hand through his disheveled curls as his gaze lingered uncertainly on the fork up ahead. “Which way? And I warn you, don’t trifle with me or you’ll be very sorry for it.”
“To the right,” answered Kyra without hesitation. Both ways led to the river path, but the left was far shorter. “Be assured, milord, I realize that I am at your mercy.”
Her meek reply seemed to steady his jumpy nerves. Though he kept a grip on her arm as he started forward, it relaxed ever so slightly. Bidding her time, she moved with him. When the right moment came, she would be ready to seize it.
And if the right moment didn’t come? Well, she would simply have to make her own luck.
Hackles raised, Hero circled the shattered vase that lay in the middle of the garden walkway, emitting a mix of whines and growls.
Rafael studied the scuffs in the gravel, needing only a moment to read what had happened.
A struggle, and it took little imagination to picture the confrontation.
Matherton had stolen a march on him. However, the dastard couldn’t have much of a headstart, and logistics dictated that his carriage was hidden some distance away to avoid being spotted by any of the revelers.
Familiar with the area through his daily walks, Rafael quickly decided there were only two likely possibilities.
But he couldn’t afford to make a mistake
“Kyra—find Kyra!” he said to Hero.
The hound had already anticipated the order. Tail waving like a battle flag, he raced to the footpath leading through the sloping grove of trees to the left of the hothouses and turned with a low bark.
Rafael was after him like a pistol shot. “We must move quickly, amigo. Once he gets her to a carriage, our chances of stopping his nefarious plans become far more difficult.”
He could well guess what Matherton had in mind.
Marriage was the miscreant’s only hope of dodging ruin, so he would be heading to the Scottish border to force an over-the-anvil union.
That Kyra would refuse would not matter.
There were far too many unscrupulous men willing to overlook a drugged or bruised lady and perform the simple rites for a price.
The legalities could be contested, but the damage would be done.
It could take ages to unknot the tangle of conflicting claims, giving Matherton a powerful hold over the duke.
As for Kyra, she would not be free.
No, he must catch them now, before they took to the roads and the trail grew too cold. And when he did . . .
He took no pleasure in violence, but at the moment he would have cut out Matherton’s liver without batting an eye.
Nose to the ground, Hero zigzagged back and forth through the underbrush but kept following the footpath. Twilight was deepening, making it difficult to see. But as he round a thicket of brambles, Rafael caught sight of a few gossamer threads of pale silk hanging from the thorns.
“Bueno,” he said under his breath. A moment later, the sound was echoed by the hound’s low woof, as he hesitated at a fork in the path, and then swung to the right.
A broken twig, a deep footprint—Kyra was leaving a clear trail to follow now. A fleeting smile tugged at his mouth. She was pluck to the bone, even when she must be frightened and acutely aware that the odds of being rescued were not in her favor.
Rafael quickened his pace, intent on changing those odds. Matherton may have won the first skirmish, but the battle was far from over.
Up ahead, he saw Hero slow to a stiff-legged walk, his ears flattening, his hackles rising. A low growl reverberated in his throat. Rafael hurried to his side and crouched down. “Silence, amigo.”
The sounds ceased.