Chapter Twenty-Two
Freya somehow had caught him in her arms before they immediately collapsed on the floor.
His body pinned her in place. She could hear Lord Duncan begging for his son to respond.
Unfortunately, before either of them managed to disentangle their legs and rise, the shortest of their captors picked up a candlestick and struck Lord Graham across the back of his head.
His weight sank heavier against her. “Pick him up,” the man ordered his cohorts. “Place him and the girl in the small coach located in the livery. Tie them to the coach’s iron plates and joints.”
“What of us?” Lady Rayland demanded.
“Take the extra horses. Ride towards the coast. Claim the bag of coins I laid out on the table earlier. Book passage elsewhere.”
“What of Duncan?” MacAlasdair asked.
“Tie him up! Set the house on fire.”
Aaran lifted himself off of her and attempted to rise, but he struggled badly. Freya fought to right herself, but Mr. MacAlasdair caught her arms and jerked her upward, tearing her sleeve as he did so. Meanwhile, Lady Rayland kicked Lord Graham’s bad leg to keep him from rising.
Minutes later, she and Lord Graham sat on the floor, their hands tied tightly before them. “I apologize, my lady,” Lord Graham said as he tugged against the ropes binding them. “I failed you.”
Freya wanted to deny his words, but Mr. MacAlasdair dragged His Lordship upward and shoved him towards the rear of the house.
She had no time to protest, for Lady Rayland responded in the same manner with Freya.
She was surprised that a horse was already harnessed to the coach.
So this has always been a part of the plan, she thought.
Lord Graham fought MacAlasdair’s efforts all the way to the overhang where the horses were kept, but to no avail.
MacAlasdair opened the door to a small coach and shoved His Lordship’s upper body inside and then quickly lifted His Lordship’s legs to toss him in the coach, where he was laid out on his back.
MacAlasdair climbed in, purposely stepping on Lord Graham as he made his way to the opposing side of the coach.
Dragging His Lordship upward, MacAlasdair tied Lord Graham to the junctures, where the joints were traditionally cemented by white lead and oil and secured by iron loops and plates and bolts and screws, to the frame of the antique coach.
The man laced the ropes through several joints and secured the knots and left Graham half hanging and half kneeling on bent knees.
Before MacAlasdair reached for her, he used his fists on Lord Graham, leaving His Lordship hanging limply by his outstretched arms.
When it was Freya’s turn, MacAlasdair half lifted her into the coach while Lady Rayland boosted Freya from behind.
He laced another rope through the locks and metal hoops and about her waist, much as he had done with Lord Graham.
When he was finished, he turned to Lady Rayland.
“You wish to place stars before her eyes or should I?”
Lady Rayland shook her head in the negative. “We must hurry back to Rayland’s manor, change our clothes, and take what we can. I have had enough of this madness. Let Maude be their jailer and executioner. We have been involved for too long.”
Freya was about to plead for the pair to release her and Lord Graham, but the shortest of their three captors made an appearance.
“I tied Duncan to the balustrade of the staircase and started a fire in the adjoining room. I am headed out along the Thames. I shall dump the bodies of these two in the river close to where the sea meets the river. The tide will carry them out to sea.”
MacAlasdair and Lady Rayland only nodded their understanding and turned to claim their horses.
Meanwhile, their cohort climbed up in the coach and wrapped a handkerchief around Freya’s mouth, tying it off behind her head.
She imagined it was the one Lord Graham had used to secure Lord Duncan’s bandage.
It was stained and tasted bitter, but she was not in a position to prevent the abuse.
As the man climbed down to the ground and tossed the metal steps into the coach, Freya wondered how she might prevent both her death and that of Lord Graham.
Less than a minute later, the coach dipped as their captor climbed up on the bench and set the single horse in action. The coach bounced over the rough cobblestones, but soon the bouncing ceased, and they headed off into the fate that God had already written for them.
“Aaran?”
Aaran stirred from his slumber with the headache from hell, and, for a few seconds, he thought he had imbibed too heavily, but quickly realized that was impossible, for he rarely permitted himself to be influenced by drinks.
His leg burned as if it were on fire, while his mind reached for a reason.
Where am I? his brain questioned, as he struggled to make sense of what had occurred.
He made himself take several deep breaths to drive away the heaviness in his limbs, but his head and arms throbbed from the effort. He could not make either cooperate.
“Aaran? My lord?” An urgent whisper filled the small space in which he was imprisoned. “Aaran?” The voice came again. Soft, but persistent.
His mind raced for the voice’s identity, and then the answer clicked. “Freya.” He forced his eyes open and cautiously turned his head to search the small space where he was being held captive. Her lovely face, though it sported a worried expression, came into view.
“Oh, thank God,” she murmured quietly. “I thought you dead.” A dirty handkerchief was tied about her neck, and he recalled what MacAlasdair had planned to do to her. He wondered how she had managed to dislodge it.
Ironically, even with a rasp and a whisper, her voice proved powerful. His sensibilities returned and filled him with strength. He shoved upward and braced himself from swaying, locking his knees, and permitting his arms a reprieve from supporting his weight.
As he gingerly adjusted his stance, he saw the one person most important to him in this world, Lady Freya Cunningham.
The brave and beautiful love of his life was obviously worried for him—more so than she worried for herself, though she was strapped in place, just as was he.
Also, as she was shorter, she was likely equally, if not more, exhausted.
Her eyes held the moisture of tears, waiting to slide down her cheeks, but she shook her head and willed them away.
“Are you…” he began, but she shook off his question and nodded towards the roof of the coach.
The trap was open. That was the origin of the bit of cool breeze creeping into the coach’s heavy staleness.
Aaran caught at the rope and pulled himself upward, though he was too tall to stand fully inside the moving carriage without ducking his head.
His ankles had been tied together and his injured leg was protesting both its overuse and the new wound he had sustained in saving Duncan’s life.
Duncan, he thought. I pray my brothers reached him in time.
He turned his head to study Freya’s constraints.
She was bound in a similar manner, but where he was forced to duck his head, she was standing on her tiptoes.
Though the coach was small, they were suspended in opposing corners, and he knew she would not be able to assist in his escape.
“We are both still alive,” he whispered. “And we are stronger together.”
He looked to the trap and could barely make out the fact someone sat upon the bench seat to drive the coach. Freya’s body blocked the side window and all he could see out the small window at the back was the bleak winter-draped tree line.
“Do you think we are truly traveling south and west, back towards London?” he asked softly.
“When we reached the main road, we made a sharp left instead of a right, but we have consistently stayed on the shire road. No tolls. No one can view our passage.”
“What did you think of our specific captor?” He kept an eye on the trap to view if the driver noticed their conversation.
“I cannot say with assurance,” she admitted. “Sometimes he sounds like a man. Other times…” Instead of finishing her thoughts, she frowned, as if what she was considering was not possible.
“I know what you mean,” he whispered. “Most confusing.” He looked again to the small rear window. “I was thinking our captor and I have a personal connection. Seems more possible now that we know my father’s second wife and MacAlasdair were involved.”
“You and Lord Duncan saw through it.” She, too, looked to the rear of the coach. “Could His Lordship now still be in the lodge? They set it on fire.”
“My brothers were to follow my trail,” he confided. “Duncan and I set plans in motion, but I pray they were not too late. The fault for all that has happened this past year lies at my feet,” he said sadly.
“You are not the cause,” she insisted. “You are a victim, the same as all your family.”
Silence held between them for several minutes as they bounced along the winter-rutted road.
He presented her the only comfort he could give her.
“My brothers will come for you.” Aaran had expected to be taken prisoner.
He and Duncan had predicted what would likely occur.
Naturally, they both had hoped their attackers would have left Lady Freya behind and taken only them as hostages.
They had erred in that manner. “You will be safe.”
“I am witness to it all,” she said in a whisper. “I shall not be set free any more than will you.” She sagged in defeat, though the ropes kept her arms above her head.