Chapter 20
Josephine startled awake as the coach jolted to a halt. Her neck ached from sleeping upright, and for a moment she was disoriented—until she blinked and made out the familiar stone facade of The Nag’s Head, its thatched roof looking oddly quaint against the dark countryside.
Her uncle’s gentle voice pulled her fully back to reality.
“We have arrived, my dear.”
She straightened, rubbing her eyes. “I must have fallen asleep. Why didn’t you wake me?”
He smiled in that endearing, slightly mischievous way he always had. “Why would I do such a thing? You needed rest, and I am hardly a man to deny someone a blessing they so clearly require.”
The footman opened the door and set down the step. Uncle Leroy alighted first, then turned and offered his hand.
“Careful, the gravel is slick,” he warned.
Josephine stepped down, steadying herself before pulling her arm gently free and clasping her hands before her. The inn door opened, revealing the round, rosy-cheeked Mrs. Crockett.
“My lady. My lord,” she greeted warmly. “Your rider has already arrived. Your rooms are prepared just as you prefer.”
Josephine inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs. Crockett.”
“Will you be needing anything? A bath? A meal?”
“Food sounds wonderful,” Josephine admitted. “May a tray be brought up?”
“Of course, my lady. You are in your usual room.”
“Very good.”
Mrs. Crockett stepped aside. “A fire has been laid in your hearth as well, per your rider’s instructions.”
A sigh escaped her. A warm fire, a quiet room, a tray of food… anything that allowed her to stop thinking about Jude and the pain of leaving him behind.
They entered the inn, passing the rowdy laughter from the main hall. It felt strange to be surrounded by such noise when her heart felt so very fragile.
“This way, my lady,” Mrs. Crockett urged.
Josephine followed her up the narrow staircase and down the corridor to the last room on the right. Mrs. Crockett unlocked it and held the door open.
The room was small, rectangular, and sparsely furnished. A single bed faced the hearth, where flames flickered weakly. A little table sat by the door, upon which stood a vase of fresh flowers.
Josephine smiled. “I do enjoy the flowers.”
Mrs. Crockett beamed. “They are from my own gardens. I thought they might brighten things a bit.”
“They do. Thank you.”
Martha entered with a valise, panting slightly from carrying it. “Shall I prepare you for bed, my lady?”
“That is my cue to leave,” Mrs. Crockett said with a kind nod. “Your tray will be up momentarily.”
The door clicked shut behind her. Josephine sank onto the bed, wincing as the thin mattress gave a pitiful groan beneath her. At least it wasn’t stuffed with straw, she thought wryly.
Martha retrieved a brush. “Let me remove your pins.”
“You shall hear no complaints from me.”
Josephine sat quietly while Martha worked, dropping pins into a small dish one by one until her scalp felt lighter, freer. The brush strokes followed—slow, rhythmic, soothing.
But Martha, it seemed, was not content with silence.
“How are you faring?”
Josephine exhaled heavily. “Well enough, I suppose.”
“I suppose that will do for now,” Martha murmured, twisting the hair and tucking it beneath a cap. “Would you like to change into your nightgown?”
“No, thank you. The tray is coming.”
Martha sat beside her. The bed groaned again. “My lady… are you certain you do not wish to return to Town?”
“I am,” she said more firmly than she felt.
“Well then, I won’t question it.” She hesitated. “However… do you not think Lord Pendryn will come after you?”
Josephine froze. The thought had haunted her since she’d climbed into the coach a few hours ago. Jude’s touch… his voice… his nearness… every bit of him weakened her resolve.
“He would be a fool to,” she whispered.
Martha gave her a pitying, all-too-knowing look. “I think part of you wants him to follow you.”
Josephine’s spine stiffened. “And why would I want that?”
“So he might tell you he is madly in love with you,” Martha replied plainly. “Just as you are with him.”
“It would be a lie.”
“No, my lady. It wouldn’t—and you know it.”
A knock spared Josephine from answering. Martha rose and opened the door to find a lanky servant boy holding a tray. She took it and set it upon the table.
“Here is your food, my lady.”
Josephine rose, plucked a piece of cheese, and nearly moaned at the taste. Perhaps she truly had been half-starved.
“I will return later to dress you for bed,” Martha said before slipping out.
Josephine locked the door, then returned to her tray. Once she’d eaten, exhaustion pulled her onto the bed. She closed her eyes only for a moment—
A knock jolted her awake.
She blinked, disoriented. Moonlight spilled through the window; the fire was little more than embers. She stretched stiffly.
Another knock.
“I’m coming,” she called hoarsely. Strange. Martha was rarely so persistent.
She unlocked and opened the door. “I should have just given you the key—”
Her words died.
It wasn’t Martha.
It was Mr. Broderick.
He smirked. “A key would have been nice.”
Her heart leapt painfully into her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he drawled. “I’ve come to collect my bride. We leave for Gretna Green at once.”
Josephine reared back. “I am going nowhere with you.”
He stepped forward. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
“You cannot be seriously attempting to abduct me from an inn,” she stated, feeling braver than she felt.
“I absolutely can,” he said. “Most everyone is asleep, and I doubt they would care about your screams.”
Josephine shoved the door, but he jammed his boot in the threshold.
He chuckled. “It won’t be that easy to rid yourself of me.”
“I will not marry you!” she cried. “I will say no!”
“Say it all you like. I’ve secured an anvil priest who cares only for coin.”
She backed away, the room shrinking, pressing in. “I will jump from the moving coach again.”
“This time I’ll tie your hands,” he snarled. “Face it, my lady, you are mine.”
“Never!”
He slapped her—sharp, brutal. Stars exploded across her vision. Before she could recover, he bent and hauled her over his shoulder.
She pounded his back with her fists. “Let me go! Let me go this instant!”
Broderick strode out into the hallway.
“Help!” Josephine screamed. “Someone please help me!”
A door flung open and her uncle stepped into the corridor. His eyes widened… then hardened. “What is the meaning of this, Broderick?”
“Nothing that concerns you, old man,” Broderick snapped. “Go back inside and keep quiet.”
Josephine lifted her head, desperation tightening her chest. “Uncle—please! Please help me!”
To her horror, he hesitated… then stepped back and shut the door.
Her heart plummeted.
“Uncle!” she cried, her voice breaking.
Broderick barked a laugh. “No one is coming to save you.”
Josephine thrashed violently, kicking at him. “You vile, despicable creature! I’d rather die than marry you!”
“Keep screaming and you just may get your wish,” he growled.
But she screamed anyway—fought anyway—every ounce of strength, every shred of fear, every desperate hope that someone would hear her.
Someone. Anyone. Please, she thought. Let someone come.
The cold night air slapped her cheeks the moment Broderick carried her outside. Josephine’s breath hitched as her gaze fell upon a black coach waiting in the gravel drive—the same coach, she was certain, that had nearly cost her life once already.
No. No, no, no.
If she were forced inside that coach again, this time she truly might not survive. She would rather risk death than become Mr. Broderick’s wife.
A liveried footman stepped forward and opened the coach door. The lamplight flickered across his impassive face, as if the entire scene meant nothing to him. Josephine kicked and twisted, pounding Broderick’s back, legs, anything she could reach, but he grunted and tightened his grip.
“Put me down!” she cried, her nails digging into his coat.
“It is pointless,” Broderick snapped.
Without ceremony, he bent and dropped her into the coach, her body hitting the hard seat with a painful thud.
“You are wasting your breath,” he said coldly.
Josephine lunged towards the door, but Broderick caught her by the arm and struck her hard across the cheek. The impact sent her head slamming against the inside paneling. Her ears rang.
“Stop fighting,” he ordered.
“Never!” she spat, tasting blood on her tongue.
He reached beside her and grabbed a length of rope from the bench. “Stay still, now,” he warned, “and I promise I won’t hurt you too much.”
“Stay still while you bind me?” she asked. “You are deranged.”
She tried to wrench her hands away, but he caught her wrists easily—his strength far surpassing hers. The rope looped around her hands, cinching tight.
“There,” he said, tightening the knot. “That should keep you.” He turned his head towards the window to shout up to the driver, “To Gretna—”
Josephine did not hear the rest.
That split second—when he wasn’t looking—was all she needed.
She leaned back, bracing herself, and then kicked him squarely in the stomach with every ounce of strength left in her. He doubled over with a strangled oath.
Before he could recover, she twisted, wriggling, falling more than climbing out of the coach. Her bound hands made her clumsy, but desperation fueled her. She hit the gravel hard, scraping her palms even through the rope, but she forced herself upright.
“Josephine!” Broderick shouted behind her.
She did not stop.
She did not look back.
She ran towards the dark line of trees at the edge of the coaching inn’s property. Her boots sank into the soft grass as she reached the first shadowed trunks. Branches clawed at her sleeves. The night swallowed her whole.
She ran until the inn lights disappeared behind her and the only sound in her ears was her own ragged breathing.
Only then did she allow herself a single, terrified thought. Please—someone find me. Before he does.