Chapter Twenty-Two
Consciousness returned to Courtney like waves lapping at a distant shore—first the rhythmic jolting that seemed to shake her very bones, then the musty smell of worn leather and unwashed bodies, and finally the nauseating roll of her stomach that threatened to empty itself at any moment.
Her head pounded with each bump and sway of what she quickly realized was a moving carriage, and her mouth felt as dry as parchment.
She kept her breathing steady and her eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness while her mind raced to assess her situation.
The chloroform had left her feeling weak and disoriented, but anger was already beginning to burn through the fog in her thoughts.
Lockwood. The bastard had actually done it—kidnapped her in broad daylight from her own father’s house.
Through her closed eyelids, she could sense the dim light filtering through what must be drawn carriage blinds.
The vehicle was moving at considerable speed, the springs creaking with each rut in the road.
She could hear at least two male voices, though the noise of wheels and hooves made it difficult to distinguish words.
Carefully, she tested her bonds without moving visibly.
Her hands were tied behind her back with rough rope that chafed against her wrists.
Her ankles were similarly bound, though not as tightly—perhaps they’d been more concerned with speed than thoroughness.
The ropes were tight enough to restrict movement but not so tight as to cut off circulation entirely.
A small mercy, though she suspected it had more to do with Lockwood’s need to present her as relatively unharmed for their forced marriage.
She was wearing her morning dress of pale yellow muslin, though she could feel tears in the fabric and suspected her appearance was far from that of the composed lady she’d been when Lockwood had smashed through the terrace doors.
How he was going to explain that to anybody, she had no idea.
Perhaps she could use that as evidence she’d been abducted.
Ashley. Fear clenched her stomach as she remembered her friend’s brave attempt to help her, the sickening sound of Lockwood’s hand striking her face. Was Ashley alive? Badly hurt? The uncertainty was almost worse than her own predicament.
She forced herself to concentrate on the present.
The carriage was well-sprung and moving fast, which suggested they were on a major road—likely the Great North Road toward Scotland.
Gretna Green, where marriages could be performed without banns or parental consent.
Where Lockwood intended to force her into a union that would give him legal claim to her dowry and her person.
Over her dead body.
The thought gave her a grim satisfaction. She would not go quietly to her ruin. If Lockwood thought a bit of chloroform and some rope would turn her into a compliant victim, he was about to discover his error.
But first, she needed information. How many men were with them? What were their plans? How far had they traveled? She strained to listen to the conversation taking place in the carriage.
“—should reach the Swan and Crown by nightfall if we keep this pace,” one voice was saying. She didn’t recognize it—presumably one of Lockwood’s hired thugs.
“Good,” came Lockwood’s cultured tones, though she detected an edge of strain beneath his usual smoothness. “We’ll change horses there and push through the night. I want to be in Scotland as soon as possible.”
“Driving at night could be dangerous. If a horse stumbles in a rut at night, the carriage could go over.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. They won’t be far behind me.” She could hear fear in his voice. And so he should fear. Tarquin would want blood and Lucien—hell, he’d want to kill him.
Lucien. She knew he would come for her, and so did Lockwood, but it also meant he was pushing hard—perhaps too hard. Tired horses and exhausted men made mistakes.
“What about the girl?” asked a third voice, rougher than the others. “She’s been out a long time. That stuff you used…”
“She’ll wake when she wakes,” Lockwood replied dismissively. “And when she does, she’ll find herself in circumstances that require…cooperation.”
The casual cruelty in his tone made Courtney’s skin crawl, but she forced herself to remain limp and unresponsive. Information was power, and the more she could learn while they believed her unconscious, the better her chances of escape.
“Speaking of cooperation,” the first voice continued, “you sure that Irish whore won’t be talking? Looked pretty lively when we left.”
Courtney’s blood turned to ice. Irish whore. They had to be talking about Kitty—the woman who had known Ava in Dublin, whose testimony Lockwood had been trying to secure.
“Kitty won’t be talking to anyone,” Lockwood said with satisfaction that made Courtney’s stomach lurch. “I made certain of that before we left.”
“Dead certain?” the rough voice pressed.
“Quite dead,” Lockwood confirmed, and Courtney had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping aloud. “The knife went in clean between the ribs. She’ll be found eventually, but there is no evidence we were even there.”
Murder. The word echoed in Courtney’s mind with horrible clarity. Lockwood hadn’t just threatened and blackmailed—he’d actually killed someone. A woman whose only crime had been knowing Ava years ago in Dublin.
“What about the old madam?” the first voice asked. “She know too much too?”
“Mrs. Bellamy has also been permanently silenced,” Lockwood replied coldly. “Unfortunate, but necessary. She was becoming greedy. She double crossed me by going to Furoe. My men had her followed. Better to eliminate the complication entirely.”
Two murders. Courtney felt bile rise in her throat as the full scope of Lockwood’s desperation became clear.
He’d killed two women to protect his scheme, which meant he had absolutely nothing left to lose.
A man who had already committed murder wouldn’t hesitate to kill again if she proved too troublesome.
“Anyone see you at the brothel?” the rough voice continued.
“No one who matters,” Lockwood said dismissively. “Mrs. Bellamy’s establishment isn’t the sort of place where respectable witnesses congregate. A few whores and drunkards, perhaps, but who would believe them? And who would care enough to investigate?”
The casual way he dismissed the lives of people he considered beneath his notice made Courtney’s hands clench involuntarily. She forced herself to relax, to maintain the illusion of unconsciousness while her mind raced.
Lucien would care. When he discovered what had happened—and he would discover it—his rage would be terrible to behold. She’d seen glimpses of the harder man he’d become during his years in Ireland, the steel beneath the gentleman’s polish. Lockwood had no idea what he’d unleashed.
But Lucien would also blame himself. She knew him well enough to understand that he would see this as the consequence of his own choices, his own secrets. The knowledge that Lockwood’s victims had died because of information about his past would torment him.
She had to survive this. Not just for herself, but for Lucien, for Ava-Marie, for the life they were trying to build together.
She couldn’t give a toss if society knew he was never married.
They had each other, and their true friends, and that would be enough.
She had to find a way to escape or at least delay their journey long enough for rescue to arrive.
The carriage hit a particularly deep rut, jarring her against the seat and making her stomach rebel violently. She couldn’t quite suppress a small groan, and immediately felt all attention focus on her.
“Ah,” Lockwood’s voice held satisfied amusement. “Sleeping Beauty awakens. How are you feeling, my dear? I do apologize for the dramatic departure, but you left me little choice.”
Courtney opened her eyes slowly, blinking as if disoriented, though her mind was razor-sharp with purpose. She let herself appear weak, confused—exactly what Lockwood would expect from a gently bred lady who’d been drugged and kidnapped.
“Where…” she managed, her voice convincingly hoarse. “What have you done?”
“Merely expedited our engagement, darling,” Lockwood said with false cheer. “I decided waiting until tonight’s ball was unnecessarily theatrical. This way is so much more…efficient.”
Courtney struggled against her bonds as if only now discovering them, letting real fear show in her eyes while her mind catalogued every detail of her surroundings.
Two men sat across from her—the scarred brute from her drawing room and a younger, leaner man with cold eyes and quick hands.
Both were armed, she noted, with pistols visible beneath their coats.
Lockwood himself sat beside her, impeccably dressed despite their hurried departure, his pale eyes holding a mixture of triumph and calculation that made her skin crawl. He was watching her with the focused attention of a predator with cornered prey.
“You’re insane,” she said, putting genuine conviction behind the words. “My father will never consent to this marriage.”
Lockwood’s smile was cold and confident. “I think you overestimate your father’s principles, my dear. Once we’re wed, once you’re thoroughly compromised, and with child, and I keep you hidden with the threat of harm hanging over you, he’ll find it expedient to accept the situation and pay me.”
The awful thing was, he might be right. Her father was a good man, and he’d do anything to protect his daughter. “There is nowhere in England you can hide me that Lucien and my brother won’t find. They’ll never stop looking.”
“Who said I’d hide you in England. Perhaps the Americas,” Lockwood continued conversationally, “I’ve heard the lands are so vast, you’d never be found.”