Chapter 5
“Alas, that ever I should be alive to be a traitor unto the most noble king that ever was.”
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur
The blanket Lord Trenwith had placed over her provided little comfort against the bitter cold seeping through the carriage walls.
Henri sat bound in the gloom of the curtained interior, her wrists secured behind her back with silk cords that refused to yield no matter how she twisted and pulled.
The gag in her mouth made every breath feel labored, and panic clawed at her chest as the full enormity of her situation settled upon her.
This was Lord Gabriel Strathmore. Viscount Trenwith. A man she had known for some time through Uncle Reggie’s political circles, someone she had thought honorable despite his reputation for being somewhat aloof. How could she have read his character so completely wrong?
And yet, for all the outrageous nature of her situation, Henri found herself strangely unafraid of him.
He had, after all, rescued her from that terrifying man with the pistol.
Whatever his motives for this kidnapping, she could not forget the way he had moved to save her, the careful control he had demonstrated in subduing her attacker without permanent harm.
There had been something almost protective in the way he had wrapped the manuscript and sketch, in how gently he had secured her bonds to avoid causing pain.
Even his promise to set her free suggested this was not the act of a madman but of someone operating under constraints she did not yet understand.
“I shall explain everything when I can,” he had promised before they departed Danbury’s estate. “This is the best solution for both of us, Miss Bigsby.”
The best solution? Henri worked frantically at her bonds, trying to find some weakness in the knots, but Lord Trenwith had clearly known what he was about. The silk was smooth and strong, giving her no purchase to work herself free.
Her reputation was ruined. Utterly and completely destroyed.
A young unmarried woman traveling alone with a man, bound and gagged in his carriage like some sort of criminal?
When this became known, and it would become known, she would be finished in society.
Her position with Uncle Reggie would be forfeit.
Her family would be scandalized. Everything she had worked to build for herself would crumble to ash.
The carriage lurched over a particularly deep rut, and Henri had to bite down on the gag to keep from crying out as she was thrown against the hard seat.
Lord Trenwith had removed anything from the interior that might serve as a weapon—the brass fittings, the small tools kept for emergencies, even the metal clasps and buckles that might be used to fray rope.
He was ruthless in ensuring her captivity, which made his betrayal all the more shocking.
What could possibly drive a viscount to kidnap Reginald Wells’s secretary?
She tried to think of reasons, turning over their previous conversations in her mind, searching for some clue she had missed.
He had always been charming in their interactions, if somewhat distant.
She had thought him merely reserved, perhaps even a bit lonely beneath that aristocratic coolness. Clearly, she had been a fool.
The carriage slowed, and Henri heard voices outside.
Lord Trenwith was speaking to what sounded like an ostler about changing horses.
She tried to make noise, to bang against the walls with her feet, but the sounds were muffled and pathetic.
No one would hear her over the bustle of a coaching inn, and even if they did, they would likely assume it was merely luggage shifting about.
This was exactly why she had never married, Henri thought bitterly as the fresh horses were hitched and they resumed their journey.
The very idea of being at the mercy of a man, of having no control over her own fate, had always appalled her.
She valued her independence, her career with Uncle Reggie, the satisfaction of being useful and needed for her mind rather than merely ornamental.
No husband would allow her to continue such work.
Most would consider it unseemly for their wives to be so involved in political matters.
Unfortunately, she had never foreseen being kidnapped and, therefore, had no plan for such a contingency. All her careful arrangements for maintaining her independence were useless when faced with superior physical strength that left women vulnerable to men’s whims.
The weather began to worsen as the afternoon wore on.
Henri could hear the wind picking up outside and see snowflakes settling on the carriage windows.
Their progress slowed to a crawl, and eventually, they stopped altogether.
She heard Lord Trenwith speaking to someone, another traveler perhaps or a local, who had warned him about road conditions ahead.
The door opened, bringing a blast of frigid air that made Henri shiver violently beneath her inadequate blanket. Lord Trenwith climbed inside, stamping snow from his boots and pulling off his gloves with stiff fingers.
“Miss Bigsby,” he said quietly, settling onto the opposite seat. “I have brought you some food from the last inn. You must be hungry.”
He produced a wrapped bundle and gently removed her gag, though he made no move to untie her hands. Henri worked her jaw, wincing at the stiffness, before fixing him with the most withering glare she could manage.
“How dare you,” she said, hoarse from hours of enforced silence. “How dare you treat me like some common criminal? I demand you release me immediately and return me to Sir Alpheus’s estate.”
“I cannot do that,” Lord Trenwith replied, unwrapping what appeared to be bread and cheese. “The roads ahead are impassable in this weather. We shall have to wait here until the storm passes.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Henri snapped. “I demand an explanation for this outrageous behavior. What could possibly justify kidnapping me?”
Lord Trenwith was quiet for a long moment, studying her face in the dim light filtering through the snow-covered windows. “There are forces at work that you do not understand, Miss Bigsby. Your safety, and the safety of others, depends upon your discretion.”
“My safety?” Henri laughed bitterly. “You are the one threatening my safety! My reputation is destroyed, my position ruined. What safety is there in that?”
“Your reputation can be protected,” he said quietly, “or restored, at least.” He leaned forward and released her bindings, tenderly caressing her wrists with his thumbs to ease the accumulated stiffness as if with genuine concern for her well-being.
Henri stared at him, trying to read the meaning behind his cryptic words. “How?”
But Lord Trenwith had already shifted back, moving to peer out the window at the swirling snow. “Eat,” he said, placing the food within her reach. “We may be here for some time.”
Henri wanted to refuse, to throw his food back in his face, but hunger and cold were making her weak. She ate awkwardly, all the while studying her captor’s profile and trying to understand what had transformed the reserved but courteous gentleman she knew into this mysterious figure.
Lord Trenwith mumbled about seeing to his cattle before producing thick woolen horse rugs and leaving the carriage briefly. He returned without the rugs and took up the seat across from her once more.
Hours passed. The storm showed no signs of abating, and the temperature inside the carriage continued to drop. Henri found herself shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely speak.
“This is intolerable,” Lord Trenwith muttered, watching her struggle against the cold. “We shall both perish if this continues.”
To Henri’s shock, he moved to sit beside her on the narrow seat, removed his greatcoat, and pulled the greatcoat and blanket around both of them, drawing her against his side.
She stiffened, every propriety screaming against such intimacy, but the warmth radiating from his body was too tempting to resist.
“Miss Bigsby.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple. “I know this seems unconscionable, but it is a matter of survival. We must share heat or risk freezing.”
Henri wanted to protest, to maintain her dignity and her anger, but she was so cold and so tired that she found herself relaxing against him despite her better judgment.
He was solid and warm, his arm around her shoulders providing a sense of security that her rational mind knew was false but that her body craved nonetheless.
“I still do not understand,” she whispered, muffled against his coat. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Sleep, Miss Bigsby,” he replied, his voice gentler than it had been all day. “Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning.”
Henri closed her eyes, knowing she should resist this treacherous comfort but finding herself unable to do so.
She was dismayed to discover how much she enjoyed his proximity, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his hand moved soothingly against her arm.
Even stranded and helpless, even furious and frightened, some traitorous part of her felt safer in his arms than she had since this nightmare began.
She fell asleep pressed against Lord Trenwith’s side, miserable and cold and thoroughly confused, but more comfortable than she had been in hours.
And if she dreamed of kind hazel eyes and gentle hands, of a different version of this journey where she was not a captive but a willing companion, she told herself it was merely the delirium brought on by cold and exhaustion.
Nothing more.
JANUARY 26, 1822