Chapter Twenty-One
Eventually, those who had taken them prisoner placed them on the back of a flatbed wagon.
Despite their captors’ objections, Freya insisted that Lord Duncan lay out flat on the wagon where he might rest. In her opinion, he was obviously weaker than he pretended to be.
She would like to remove his coat and his jacket and clean his wound, but that was impossible.
Instead, she sat beside him and pressed her handkerchief against the wound hoping to stop the steady trickle of blood from running down his sleeve.
The shortest of their three captors had handed off his horse to the tallest and taken up the reins of the wagon.
Lord Duncan closed his eyes and began to breathe in deep inhales and steady exhales.
At first, Freya thought he meant to control his pain, but with each inhale, he tapped the back of her hand four times.
When he exhaled, he did the same. Soon, she was following his example.
His Lordship must have realized how overwhelmed she was beginning to feel.
Soon, they were quietly tapping together.
By the time they reached where their captors meant to take them, Freya’s head rested upon Lord Duncan’s chest, where she listened to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
His free hand lightly stroked her back. Despite the peril in which they found themselves, she felt hope and knew Lord Duncan meant to protect her.
The trail to what appeared to be a small hunting lodge had been easy to follow, which made Aaran more than a bit sad, for he now knew with confidence that what he and Duncan assumed was true: Both of them had been the original targets of the Lyon’s Den’s shooter.
He stepped down from the horse and called out, “You in the lodge, I am coming in.” Aaran had a variety of weapons on him.
Naturally, he knew those who held Duncan and Lady Freya would pat his body and confiscate the weapons they found.
The hope was they would only find the obvious one-shot weapons, not the American style gun assigned to Duncan’s division of the Home Office.
He had been fascinated by the weapon, and so Duncan had presented the first one the Home Office acquired to him.
Initially, Aaran had practiced with it, but, basically, simply carried it—learning its weight until it became second nature to have it on him and waited for more ammunition to arrive so he could also learn something of the gun’s accuracy.
In his opinion, it was a top-notch weapon.
Before he reached the door, it opened, though he could not view who or what awaited him, for the person stood in the shadows, but Aaran knew he was looking upon the man who had plagued their lives for the last year.
“We were expecting you, Lord Graham,” the man said, but there was something about his tone that had Aaran listening more carefully. Was there an accent? A softness in the tone despite the ominous insinuation?
“We are thankful you did not make us bargain with you for the young lady’s life,” the man continued.
“Straight ahead. Please place your hands on your head. My partner will remove the gun you carry when you reach the end of the hall. Any variations in your response to my instructions will earn you a bullet in the back.”
Aaran released the breath he held and started forward.
There would be no room for error. He knew Duncan had been shot, but he did not know how badly nor how Lady Freya was coping with this step from the normal.
Would she still agree to marry him once this madness knew an end?
This would be the tipping point for both of them.
“Keep your hands on your head,” a second man instructed when Aaran reached the inner door. Even without turning, he knew the first man had stepped outside to learn if he was alone. He and Duncan had had to argue with Aaran’s brothers, who had demanded to come with them.
“Someone will be killed if we swarm this person’s hideaway,” Duncan had explained over and over again. Finally, Duncan, as both their father and their leader, had won the argument. His brothers would know where to find them, for Aaran had marked the trail at each turn and juncture.
The man by the inner door ran his hands over Aaran’s body and reached into Aaran’s coat to remove the British-made gun that Aaran wore in a specially made holster that resembled a sash or a belt wrapped across his chest. Thankfully, the fool did not search for another weapon, meaning the man expected a gentleman and an earl would be carrying only the single weapon.
The first man returned. “Graham is alone,” he announced. “I moved his horse around to the barn.”
“I have his weapon,” the second one announced.
“I despise both fools and martyrs!” the first said in disgust. “I have long prayed for this day—the day we bring down both the almighty Duncans and good-for-nothing Grahams!”
Aaran ignored the bragging going on behind him.
Instead, his eyes rested upon a beautiful sight.
Lady Freya was sitting on the edge of a long bench seat where Duncan now rested.
His two captors directed Aaran to where he most wished to be.
He must be in a position to evaluate how to proceed by first knowing his father and his future wife were safe.
Though no one announced his presence, Lady Freya had stood immediately, as if she meant to defend Duncan, if necessary.
Their eyes met, and, despite the continued danger surrounding them, a bit of hope passed between them.
He knew her first instinct had been to rush into his arms, and the idea pleased Aaran greatly, but she simply studied his entrance.
Despite the guns being held on him, Aaran walked with strict control, as if he were a prince of the land.
Such was what Duncan had always taught him.
“Even when you are in the worst of situations, keep your head high and your stature as one of true greatness might stand. Doing so will both confuse and intimidate your enemies!”
She waited his approach with equal dignity. He caught her hand to squeeze the back of it and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. “You well, Freya?” he asked.
She simply nodded, but he recognized her need to bury herself deep in his embrace; yet, she did not move. “Lord Duncan is injured, Aaran.”
“We will see to him,” he assured her with as much confidence as he could infuse into his tone. He wanted her to believe him, for then she would trust him in what must be done.
“What makes you assured that we will permit you to attend to Lord Duncan’s wound,” the taller of the captors asked.
“Because, if you do not, I can warrant you will all know the heavy hand of Lord Liverpool. I can guarantee His Lordship lacks compassion in such matters. The Luddites learned that lesson well a matter of weeks prior.”
“You are very assured of yourself,” the taller said in irritation. “You are all our prisoners. We could simply bind you and leave you for dead, and no one will know our identities.”
“As you say,” Aaran spoke with authority. “I shan’t disillusion you with explaining the reality of what you have done.”
“Perhaps we should simply shoot you and go about our lives,” the man continued to threaten Aaran.
“You must do what you think best, and I will follow my heart. For now, I plan to tend to my father,” Aaran told the pair.
“He is not your father!” the shorter of the two masked men growled.
“Not in blood,” Aaran argued, “but Lord and Lady Duncan were the only ones whoever truly cared whether I lived or died. The Lessiers, to whom my mother sold me, never starved me nor beat me, but they also never permitted me to forget I was not the child for which they had bargained. My leg prevented me from doing many tasks required on a tenant farm. It was only when I came to live with the Duncans did anyone address how I might still prove to be a whole man and how I might move more comfortably in this world in which I had been thrust. So, you may object to my calling His Lordship ‘father,’ but your censure cannot change my heart.”
“Permit him to tend to Lord Duncan,” the man said from his place across the room at the interior door.
Aaran listened closely. It was the first time he could confirm what he and Duncan suspected, but he kept his revelation unspoken for the moment. He turned to where Duncan rested upon the bench seat. “I am here, sir,” he said as he bent over Duncan, who was paler than Aaran wished his father to be.
“I held no doubts you would come, my boy.”
“Permit me to make you more comfortable,” Aaran instructed. “We will start with your jacket and shirt. I fear the accommodations are crude, but we have known worse.”
“We have, son,” Duncan said on a sigh.
“Might I have some soap and water?” Aaran asked over his shoulder to those looking on.
“Who will fetch it?” the tallest of the three asked. “We are not your servants!”
“I shall,” Lady Freya declared.
“Go with her,” the shortest instructed, “but do not assist her. Let her learn what hard work she will face if she aligns herself with the Grahams!”
The middle captor in height, who had remained by the inner door, gestured for Lady Freya to lead the way outside.
Meanwhile, Aaran supported Duncan to a seated position.
They did not attempt to talk to each other.
Both knew their roles in this charade. Aaran wrestled Duncan’s arm free of both the coat and his jacket and then ripped open the sleeve.
“We might use some of the sleeve as a bandage,” he said as he examined the wound.
“It does not appear that any part of the bullet is within, sir.”
“Burnt like an iron branding rod,” Duncan grumbled.
“No mere man would be strong enough to bring you down, sir. You are incomparable, and I am proud to be your son.”