Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The man stepped fully into the light then, and Isla’s dread was confirmed. She had hoped it was a specter, a dream.
It was Lord Lamfort and not an apparition.
His gaunt face and burning, familiar eyes confirmed her worst fears. He wore a dark, heavy coat, and the pistol in his hand was steady, glinting faintly in the hall light as he held it to Oliver’s head.
“Scream, and the boy dies now,” Lamfort hissed at her, his voice a low rasp. “You hear me, you little Highland harlot?”
Isla pushed herself into the small space between Lamfort and the bed in an instant, her arms instinctively raised. It was as if she were transported back in time, just as she had placed herself between her siblings and the cursed black boar.
She knew if she alerted the staff, Lord Lamfort, cornered, would make good on his threat.
And so, she shielded Oliver’s still, small form with all her might.
She could feel the barrel of the gun only a few feet away, but she did not care for herself.
She would protect Oliver with her life if it came to it.
Her mind raced for an answer, what to do, and what he could even want from them.
“My Lord,” she breathed finally. “If ye must take someone, take me. Leave the child alone. If it is ransom ye are after, I am sure me husband will pay any price ye like. Ye daenae need to do this.”
Lamfort’s eyes, full of desperate fanaticism, narrowed on her as he scoffed.
“No. I did not come for you, Your Grace. I came for what I’m owed, and it is not money.”
“Then what could ye want from us?”
“I came for Oliver!”
“Oliver?”
“He is all that I have left of Cecilia, all that remains of what His Grace took from me. She should have been my wife; she would have lived if she were with me!”
“You are speakin’ madness!”
“He has no place with you!” He gestured with the pistol toward Oliver. “Get out of the way and let me leave with the boy now. No one will get hurt if you listen to me.”
“No,” Isla repeated. “Ye willnae be able to control him without me.”
“What do you mean, Highlander?”
“He trusts me. He will fight ye if ye try to take him, and ye will not get far. If you want the lad, then I go, too.” She took a daring half-step closer, forcing Lamfort to hold his position or move the gun. “Taking me is the only way ye get what ye want, Lamfort.”
“You are most interesting, Your Grace.”
“Take us both,” she rasped between gritted teeth. “How would Cecelia feel if harm came to her only son?”
Lamfort hesitated, his mind clearly turning over the logic. He must’ve read the truth in her eyes.
“Very well, Your Grace,” Lamfort sneered, lowering the pistol slightly but keeping it trained on her. “You have bought yourself a seat in the carriage. Wake the boy. Quickly. Silently. Do not make a fuss. Do you understand?”
“Aye, I do.”
Isla carefully shook Oliver awake. He stirred, groggy and confused as he reached up to her. She scooped him into her arms, pressing his head against her shoulder.
“Isla? Where are we going now? Is Oonagh here?”
“Hush, mo chridhe. We are going on an adventure. A surprise trip. Ye must be very, very quiet for me, all right?” Isla whispered in his ear.
Oliver only nodded against her neck. Lamfort forced them swiftly out of the nursery, down the shadowed back staircase, and out a servants’ entrance without a soul seeing them.
Where is everybody? Isla thought. While most servants have retired to their quarters, it is strange there is nae one about at this time of night. I need someone to see us… to send word to Benedict…
A black, closed carriage waited in a narrow, cobbled lane behind the townhouse, the gaslight barely reaching it. As Isla was hustled towards the carriage steps, she caught a glimpse of movement in the shadow of the pantry door.
Oh please, do nae be a trick of the light…
An elderly housekeeper, reserved only for the London home named Mrs. Darst, was peering out the back door. Her face was white with shock as she squinted to see what was happening outside.
Isla met the housekeeper’s eyes and placed a finger to her own lips in a swift, urgent gesture for silence. Then urgently gestured towards the street to the carriage.
Get help, Isla pleaded silently to Mrs. Darst. Oh, please, hear me silent prayer!
As Lamfort shoved Isla and Oliver into the carriage and slammed the door, Isla saw Mrs. Darst in motion. She was not screaming, not calling. Her stout figure scurried towards the front of the house, where Benedict’s quarters would be more easily accessible through his private entrance.
Please, Benedict… come for us.
Isla closed her eyes, clutching Oliver tightly, a sliver of desperate hope piercing the darkness.
Benedict returned a few hours later, his anger cold and sharp from the conversation with Kenneth and the pointless ride through the city.
He replayed it repeatedly in his mind on the carriage ride home, desperate for sleep that he knew would not come.
He was barely through his private entrance when the household erupted.
Old Mrs. Darst was waiting, hysterical and frantic, her stout figure hobbling up and down.
“Your Grace! Your Grace!” she sobbed, dabbing her eyes with her apron and rushing towards him. “Oh, thank goodness you are here!”
“What are you doing up, Mrs. Darst? And in my private quarters? Surely you finished your shift hours ago,” he rasped. “Have you been in the liquor cabinets again?”
“It was one time Your Grace!”
“Well, what is it then?”
“A man! He took Her Grace and Master Oliver! Out the back! In a carriage! I saw the carriage! Heading west I saw!”
The news hit him with such raw, immediate force that it shattered his calculated indifference.
Everything faded away, and all he could see was red.
He had been sitting in a gentleman’s club, trying to drink his self-imposed sorrows away.
Meanwhile, his failure walked right into his house.
Someone took the one thing he was supposed to protect right from under his nose.
My family.
His chest seized with a terrifying mix of guilt and primal rage. He didn’t hesitate. There was no room for caution or protocol or even proper sentences. He moved with a furious pace to the door and sprinted to the stables.
“Horse. Now,” he shouted to his stable master as he bounded through the stalls, kicking the door down with a thud. He was presented with and quickly saddled his fastest horse, Fury.
“Let’s go, Fury!” He yelled to the horse, a whirlwind of frantic, desperate action. He vaulted onto the horse’s back and drove his heels into the animal’s flanks as he took off into the night. “Yah!”
The thunder of hooves against the London cobbles was the only sound, riding recklessly in the direction Mrs. Darst had indicated.
He kicked the horse harder than he would normally, veering to avoid carriages and pedestrians as he searched the streets for his wife and child.
“Watch where you are going!” A coachman yelled, who had to turn at the last moment to avoid a collision with Fury.
“Yah!” Benedict yelled as he kicked the horse once more, oblivious to anything other than his need to find them.
The carriage ride was a nightmare of grinding turns and tense silence as Isla tried desperately to think of a solution to their impossible problem.
The wheels of her mind turned in time with the carriage to no avail.
She could not figure out what would possess Lamfort to do such a thing; in fact, she barely knew him.
Why is this happenin’? Perhaps he is just mad…
Oliver, nestled in Isla’s lap, was quiet, occasionally whimpering against her chest as she tried to soothe him. Lamfort sat opposite them, the pistol resting on his knee, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, feverish triumph as the scent of stale liquor assaulted her nose.
To what end does this man think he can win, though? She wondered as she looked about, looking for landmarks. Isla tried to calculate their route, guessing they were following the Thames. We must be headin’ for some secluded dock or warehouse.
She held Oliver closer.
“Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh: gu naomhaichear d’ainm.
Thigeadh do rìoghachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a nithear air nèamh.
Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran làitheil, agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail mar a mhaitheas sinne d’ar luchd-fiach.
Agus na leig ann am buaireadh sinn, ach saor sinn o olc.
oir is leatsa an rìoghachd, agus an cumhachd, agus a’ ghlòir, gu sìorraidh.
Amen,” She whispered as she kissed the boy’s head.
“What in the devil are you speaking?”
“The Lord’s prayer,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross.
“No one can help you from your fate now,” Lamfort hissed.
Finally, the carriage lurched to a starling halt, launching them forward with a bump. Lord Lamfort yanked the door open roughly.
“Get out now,” he rasped.
Before Isla could blink, they were out of the carriage and standing on a slick, rain-damp stretch of cobblestone near the Thames.
The murky, fast-moving river glinted blackly in the pre-dawn gloom, a sliver of the crescent moon looking down on them.
A small, narrow launch boat bobbed nearby, tied to a wooden pier.
This is his escape plan.
Lamfort turned back to them, his face barely visible in the heavy mist that swirled.
“You thought the Duke could protect you? He is a man who hides behind contracts and walls, who could not protect Cecelia.”
“Watch what you say in front of the lad,” Isla implored.
“But I am the man who brought down his walls with a whisper in the shadows,” he said, ignoring her plea. “I will see it right,” he laughed, a high, maniacal sound that pierced her ears.
“Ye willnae do such a thing,” she said as she pulled the boy behind her, shielding him with her body. “Ye are nothin’ but a coward. Skulkin’ in the shadows, stealin’ away with a young lad and a duchess! Ye havenae thought this through!”