Chapter 1

Da,

I find I'm in a bit of trouble. You'll have heard by now, I'm sure, but I wished to assure you I did not kill Lord Richmond, no matter how richly the bastard may have deserved it. He tried to kill Ash and stabbed his sister instead when she got between them. I pray she is recovering well. The wound did not appear deep, but I had not the time to look closely.

Richmond ran off when he saw I meant to teach him a lesson and he led me a merry dance. I finally tracked him down, hiding in the marshes close to Millbank Prison. A sorry sight he was too, weeping and begging for forgiveness for having murdered his own sister. Before I could speak a word to him, however, some villain clouted me good. I ought to have known better, for it was a vile place and perfect for an ambush, but the next I knew I woke up in the marshes at daybreak, filthy and sodden and relieved of my valuables. Richmond was nowhere in sight.

I felt a right numpty I can tell you, and I can hear your rebukes ringing in my ears now. Believe me, you cannot berate me any more than I have done myself. Now, however, there is a hue and cry for me, and I would be more than grateful if you could use your influence to put things to rights. The last I saw of Lord Richmond, he was very much alive. I'm afraid he must have seen what happened to me and who did it, which meant he got tougher treatment than I did when they stripped him of his goods. I can't pretend I'm sorry, but he did not die at my hands. I swear it.

―Excerpt of a letter to the Right Hon'ble Gordon Anderson, The Earl of Morven, from his son, The Hon'ble Muir Anderson.

24 th March 1850, somewhere near Alconbury, Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, England.

Upon reflection, Delia had to admit that being kidnapped was not half so thrilling as it had appeared to be in the scandalous novels she so adored. Indeed, so far had been disorientating and uncomfortable, but most of all, a great bore. Of course, that was entirely the fault of her kidnapper. In the romantic stories she favoured, the villain was always a charismatic devil for all his vile ways and nefarious intentions. Delia's reality was something of a disappointment.

Sourly, she glared at the man on the opposite side of the carriage. Mr Enoch Goodfellow, the son of her father's steward, had been a playmate of hers since they were children. They had been brought together by proximity, though her father would have had a fit if he'd known the extent to which Enoch had sought her out. The temptation to tell him had been strong at times, but the duke was a cruel man and Delia could never bring herself to do it.

When they had been small children they had rubbed along quite nicely, with Enoch ready enough to join in her imaginary games, of which she had a wealth to choose from. Pretending to be explorers or cats, highwaymen or pirates, had not seemed to trouble him at all, and they'd had a good deal of fun. Little by little, however, he had changed, much to her dismay. As he had grown older, however, he had appeared to model his behaviour upon that of her father. A worse example of what a man was ought to be was hard to fathom, but Enoch seemed to think that by parroting her father's words and ways, he might gain the man's respect. She could have told him it would never work – she had told him, but Enoch seemed not to believe that the duke despised him, not only for his toadying ways, but simply for being from another class. It was a class he longed to belong to, and it seemed he would stop at nothing to gain admission.

Any affection she had felt for Enoch had long ago worn off. Delia did not appreciate his attempts to reprimand her or speak to her as someone who had the right to comment on her behaviour. It had not taken her long to discover that he seemed to take pleasure in being cruel enough to make her cry, for the pleasure of comforting her afterwards and pretending he was sorry. He always told her he had done it only because he cared for her so very much. Enduring her father's sermons had been bad enough, from Enoch it was intolerable. Thankfully, since her brother Wrexham had taken over her guardianship, she had no longer to endure either of their lectures, and it had been over a year since she had seen Enoch at all. This, she supposed, accounted for her stupidity in not being on her guard when he had presented himself to her so unexpectedly. She had even managed to pretend some pleasure in seeing him again after so long, enough to be polite, at least. More fool her.

That her childhood playmate could behave so despicably, was still something she was struggling to come to terms with. When she had first come around from the deep sleep induced by the vile drug she had been given to knock her out, she had been certain she could talk him around, but that belief had died over the last couple of hours. Indeed, though she tried hard to remind herself that she had known the man all her life, and that he could not possibly be a real danger to her, her composure was beginning to slip, and the first insidious tendrils of fear slithered beneath her skin.

Enoch was a tall man, though painfully thin. With his greasy black hair, long nose and spindly limbs, he had always put her in mind of a mournful stick insect. She watched him carefully paring the skin from a small apple with his penknife. With equal care, he cut it into four neat pieces, removed the core which he threw out the window, and then put the knife back in the leather bag he carried everywhere. Delia eyed it as it slipped out of sight, wishing she might get her hands upon the knife and sink it into his cold, black heart, or at the very least somewhere exceedingly painful, if not fatal. She could still not fathom how he could treat her so abominably.

He offered her a piece of apple and whilst she was desperately hungry, the idea of eating it made her want to retch. Instead, she glared at him, gather the tattered remains of her courage.

"I see I badly miscast you in all those games we played when I pretended to be the villain," she told him, a little surprised herself by the hurt behind the words. "You ought to have played Blackbeard, and the wicked baron, and the cannibal, and the feral cat, and—"

"That's enough," he said sharply, colour rising to his cheeks. "I prefer to forget all the nonsense you talked me into when we were children. It does neither of us any credit."

"It was fun," Delia told him, finally giving into the desire to tell him what she thought of him. "It was fun, and you enjoyed it, until you decided you wanted to be a duke. If that isn't the biggest piece of make believe you've ever played at, I don't know what is. You can't become a duke by marrying me, Enoch. I do hope you know that."

His colour heightened further, followed by a flash of anger in his eyes that made her subside into silence for a little while. Silence was not going to free her from this unbelievable situation, however, and as it appeared she was not dreaming as she had at first hoped, she had better persevere.

"I shan't marry you, Enoch, so you might as well turn this carriage around this minute," she said, and not for the first time.

Enoch made a show of gathering his dignity, toying with the gold signet on his finger, a habit he had adopted upon seeing the duke do likewise. It was similar in style to one her father wore, except her father's was solid gold which Enoch's plainly was not. He sighed, pushing his spectacles up his nose before sending her a reproachful look and attempting to mimic the clipped tones the duke used. "Delia, do not, I beg you, start this all over again. I've told you there's no choice now. You've been travelling in a closed carriage with me since yesterday. You're quite ruined, my dear."

"Don't you ‘my dear' me, you horrid little sneak. I was unconscious for most of that and casting up my accounts for a good deal of the rest!"

"I have already apologised for the discomfort you endured," Enoch said stiffly, as if that ought to be an end to the matter.

"Oh, well, that's all right then," Delia said with a snort.

"Don't snort, it's most unladylike," he reproved, his dark eyebrows drawing together before he took a bite from a piece of the apple.

"I'll do something far more unladylike than that the moment I can," Delia said hotly, fighting the urge to cry. There was no way on God's green earth she would give him the pleasure of seeing her weep. "I shall brain you with the nearest heavy object, Enoch Goodfellow, and just wait until my brother finds out what you've done," she added, having the satisfaction of seeing Enoch's narrow face blanch at her words.

"It will be too late by then. We shall be married," he said, striving to sound cool, though she could tell she had rattled him. Wrexham had long ago taken Enoch's measure and despised him. He had no compunction about putting the wretched man in his place with a few sharp words. Whilst Enoch made much of pitying Wrexham for being blind, the truth was he was no match for her clever, quick-witted brother. Oh, how she wished he was here now. Instead, she was alone, with only her own wits and fortitude to protect her. The though made her throat tightened and the fear that Enoch might be right made her heart thud erratically.

He ate another piece of apple and Delia fervently wished for him to choke on it.

"Enoch, you do realise there are such things as trains now?" she said, fighting to keep her voice hard and angry so she might disguise the way it trembled. "You may be forced to take me by carriage to keep me hidden, but no one else will have such restrictions. They'll be at Gretna Green long before we are. I don't doubt Wrexham has half the country out looking for me by now."

"Nonsense, he won't want a scandal," Enoch said, sounding so damned sure of himself that Delia wished she were strong enough, and brave enough, to launch herself across the carriage and beat him about the head with her fists. Sadly, she had already discovered Enoch was rather more powerful than she had imagined; she had the bruises to prove it. That had been the biggest shock to her system, to discover the man who had always treated her like she was made of spun sugar, had no compunction about treating her so roughly now. "Besides which, we are not going to Gretna Green."

"Not going to Gretna Green?" Delia repeated in surprise.

"No," he said, a smug look upon his face that made her hand itch with the desire to slap it off. "There's no need. It's obviously the first place they will look, but you can marry anywhere in Scotland. Gretna just happens to be the closest. We'll cross the border elsewhere, somewhere remote, where they won't think to look for us."

"Oh, you think you have it all planned out, don't you?" she exclaimed, her fists clenched as tears sprang to her eyes despite her best efforts.

"I do have it all planned out," he replied with perfect equanimity. "And, I might add, I need not have put us both through such an ordeal if you had just agreed to marry me when I asked you."

"But I do not wish to marry you, Enoch," Delia said, striving to stay calm when hysteria threatened to overtake her. "How many times must I tell you this? What is more, I shall not marry you. Not under any circumstances."

"I think you will."

"I will not!"

"And what will you do in Scotland, with no one to help you? A woman alone, ruined and with not so much as a shilling to her name." He put the last piece of apple into his mouth, his expression one of haughty satisfaction as he chewed.

"I have my name, whatever you think," Delia said, praying he could not hear the tremble in her voice as she comprehended just how desperate her situation really was. "My brother is the Marquess of Wrexham, my father a duke, and if you think I am so poor-spirited as to give up and marry you just because I am alone and without funds, you really do not know me at all." As a speech it sounded well enough, brave and honourable, but the truth was Delia feared what might become of her. A woman alone in the world was a vulnerable creature. Might she really become this odious man's wife rather than face that? The idea terrified her so much she could hardly breathe.

"Don't be foolish, Delia. These flights of fancy of yours are entertaining enough and I've borne with your little eccentricities with a good deal of patience, but this is not one of your silly romance novels."

Hysteria won out, and having been pushed way beyond what she could bear, Delia launched herself across the carriage with a cry of rage and grasped Enoch by his hair. Holding on tight, she bashed his head repeatedly against the door, only to be thrown off a moment later. She hit the floor of the carriage with a heavy thud, leaving her sprawled in an ungainly heap. Hurriedly she covered her exposed legs with her skirts and scrambled up, pressing herself into the far corner of the carriage as Enoch's glare had become less than friendly. He raised his hand to his head, wincing as he found a tender spot, which Delia discovered gave her little satisfaction. She watched warily he reached into the bag he had kept close beside him and withdrew a small bottle and a wad of cloth. He poured some of the liquid onto the cloth, re-stoppered the bottle and turned towards her.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but you've only yourself to blame," he said, moving towards her.

Delia gave a muffled shriek and fought him off with teeth and nails, biting and kicking and raking her fingers down his cheek so hard she knew she must have scratched him badly, but the cloth closed over her mouth and nose all the same. Within seconds, the ghastly fumes invaded her lungs, stinging her eyes and she tumbled into unconsciousness once more.

Muir sighed and stared into the glass of whisky he'd been nursing for the past half hour. He was thoroughly blue devilled. The mess he'd got himself into was not half so bad as it might have been, his father had seen to that, but it had left him feeling out of sorts and in a dark mood that was quite unlike him.

He could not shake the idea that if he'd not chased Lord Richmond down, the stupid bastard would still be alive. Though Muir knew well that Richmond was a despicable creature who had deserved his sticky end, it was still an uncomfortable feeling to have played a part in the devil's demise. Moreover, he felt a proper twit for having been clouted over the head and robbed. He was not the kind of man people took advantage of. Built in the same mould as his father, he was taller and broader than most and well able to look after himself. Admittedly, he had landed himself in tight spots often enough, but he'd always got himself out again. Not since he was a snot-nosed lad had he been forced to go running to his da, begging for help. Though he'd not yet seen his father, thank the lord. That dubious pleasure was still to come, and he was not looking forward to it. Still, never one to shy away from unpleasantness, he'd figured he'd best get himself back to Scotland forthwith and get it over with. Keeping his head down until the story that he'd murdered Lord Richmond went away was not a bad idea, either.

"Chin up, pet, it might never 'appen," said a cheerful voice.

Muir looked up and managed a smile for the perky barmaid who'd been giving him come hither glances all evening.

"Perhaps it already did. Ye didnae think o' that, lassie, eh?"

"Coo, don't you talk funny," she said, pausing with her hands on her hips as her eyes lingered on his bare knees where his kilt had ridden up. "Scotch, are you?"

"Scottish," Muir corrected. "Aye. What gave me away?"

She snorted and took a grubby cloth from her apron, leaning over to wipe down the tabletop. "I finish in half an hour," she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

"Oh, aye?" Muir replied, taking in a generous figure with lush curves. She was a pretty lass too, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. "That so?"

"It is. Would you like to walk me home?"

Muir considered this, then thought of the lumpy bed he'd taken for the night. "Happen I would, lass," he told her with a grin before lifting his glass. "Fetch me another while I wait, aye?"

Delia woke by slow, painful degrees. Her head was spinning, and her stomach rebelled, though there was nothing in it to bring up. She tried to breathe slow and steady, but vile fumes seemed to linger in her nostrils and her eyes did not wish to open. The continuous rocking of the carriage told her she had not been rescued while she was unconscious, more was the pity.

Strange dreams had plagued her, making her wonder at first if she was still sleeping. In the dream, there had been a hero who had come to defeat the dragon who was guarding her and his hoard of gold signet rings. The dragon had been bedecked with them, one on every clawed toe, even one through his nose, which the hero had held on to when he lopped the creature's head off. Sadly, her foggy brain had to accept there was no headless dragon, only Enoch. It would have been so lovely to open her eyes to see a handsome rescuer gazing down at her with concern and admiration in his eyes, though at this point, Delia had to admit she'd have been thrilled with any kind of rescuer, handsome or otherwise. Even though her mind was still dull with ether fumes, she had clarity enough to know one thing. No one was going to save her. She knew without question that her brother would have men scouring the countryside for her, but if Enoch was not taking her to Gretna Green, Wrexham's people would have a job finding them. No, any rescuing there was to be done, she would have to do herself.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

The familiar first line of David Copperfield rang through her cloudy brain, and, despite her circumstances, she felt a little burst of certainty. She would not marry Enoch Goodfellow, no matter what happened. Somehow, she would get herself free and find her way to safety. Enoch had always treated her like a dim child rather than a woman with a mind of her own; surely he would let his guard down at some point.

As there was nothing to do at present and she had no desire to converse with her despicable kidnapper, Delia feigned sleep, praying the cobwebs would clear from her mind and she would be alert enough to act when the opportunity arose.

She did not know how much time had passed when the carriage finally halted, for she had eventually dozed off. Now she stared blearily out of the window. It was dawn, the sun appearing behind the horizon and painting the sky with fierce slashes of scarlet and gold. The fields about them were wreathed in a frail mist that clung to the long grass and gave the scene an eerie quality Delia could have done without.

"Are you hungry?" Enoch asked curtly.

Delia turned her head with some difficulty, her neck aching after so long spent in one position. She nodded, though she strongly doubted her ability to keep anything down, but if she could get inside the inn, she might have the chance to call for help.

"I'll have something brought out to you," Enoch replied, dashing her plans.

"I need to use the necessary," she said urgently, and though she hoped that too might give her an opportunity, she was suddenly aware it was no more than the truth.

Enoch's grimace and frustrated look of impatience suggested that he thought she should be above such ordinary bodily needs. "Fine," he said tersely. "But I warn you, Delia, you had better not cause trouble."

"That's Lady Cordelia to you," she said coldly. "I rescind any right for you to call me Delia, that is a privilege given to my close friends and family."

"And your husband," he added with an equally frigid smile.

"Which you shall never be," she retorted.

His lips compressed into a hard line. "Do you wish to relieve yourself or not, Delia?"

Delia's clenched her fists with frustration, but she really did so she just gave a taut nod.

Enoch returned a thin smile before stepping down from the carriage and offering her his hand. Delia took it and said nothing as he escorted her to the privy. "I'll be just outside," he told her.

"Well, really," Delia protested. "Can I not have a moment of privacy?"

"Yes, you can close the door," he snapped irritably. "Now hurry. We've still a long way to go."

Delia shot him a look of utter loathing before entering the privy and taking care of her most pressing requirements. Once done, she took a moment to gather her wits, and to wonder if perhaps she had been foolish. A change of tack might be in order. Enoch had never credited her with much of a brain, not that he was alone in that. As someone who preferred to daydream rather than take part in a formal dinner party, her distracted air often gave people the impression she was dim. Her preference for talking to animals – any animals whether alive, stuffed or painted – did not help much either.

As promised, she found Enoch waiting outside.

Doing her best to look dejected and repentant, Delia cast him a despondent look from under her lashes. "Please, Enoch, might we go inside? I'm m-most dreadfully cold. I promise to be good, and… and I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused you. Only… Only you did frighten me so. It's all been so very trying, and that horrid ether has made my head ache wretchedly."

Enoch returned a suspicious glance, considering her words, which Delia was dismayed to discover had more truth behind them than she liked. "I am sorry for having frightened you," he said, frowning. There really was something resembling remorse in his expression too, reminding her for a fleeting moment of the boy she had once called her friend. "You left me no choice, of course. A man must take drastic action sometimes, you see, my dear. It was for your own good, you must understand that. I've always known you'd marry me eventually, but—"

"You did?" Delia interrupted, so astonished by this piece of impudence she almost forgot she was being meek and subservient.

"Of course I did. You need a firm hand, Delia. Someone to curb these foolish flights of fancy you have and keep your feet on the ground before you do or say something foolish enough to damage yourself. Your brother has indulged you and let you get away with murder, not that he could do otherwise," he said with an air of condescension, giving Delia a kindly smile. "He is blind, and a good Christian must remember to show compassion and understanding for that fact. I cannot blame the man for failing you when he is not a whole man at all."

Delia bit her lip to contain the explosion of words crowding on her tongue. Wrexham was ten times the man Enoch Goodfellow was and would still be if he were deaf, dumb, and blind.

"You are too kind, Mr Goodfellow," she managed, though the words almost choked her. "And I hope you can show a mite more kindness and understanding and allow me to go inside for a little while. Just for a bite to eat by the fire. I won't keep you for above ten minutes, I promise, and then I shall be quiet and cause no more trouble."

He laughed softly. "No more playacting and make believe," he told her, shaking his head and smiling like she was silly little girl. "I'm not so foolish as that and you are not a kidnapped princess waiting for a heroic highwayman to rescue her. However, I shall let you go inside, if you give me your word of honour you will behave yourself."

Delia glared at him, her cheeks blazing with mortification.

"Your word upon it, Delia," he said sternly, sounding so much like her father it was extremely disturbing.

Delia swallowed hard and returned his gaze. "I give you my word," she said, hiding her crossed fingers in the folds of her cloak.

"Very well. I confess I should like to eat a meal whilst sitting still myself. Come along, my dear." He offered her his arm, smiling at her indulgently.

As there was little alternative, Delia took his arm and allowed him to guide her inside the coaching inn.

It did not surprise her to discover that it took Enoch some time to gain the innkeeper's attention. For all his aping of her father's mannerisms, he did not have the aura of a powerful man, one that commanded attention with ease. He was not a prepossessing specimen and, though he could bully Delia if he drugged her and used physical force, she knew the other boys had bullied him at school. She had pitied him greatly for that and had been extra kind to him when he had returned home for the holidays. Even then, however, she had understood why he was bullied, but though she had tried to make him see that he would make more friends if he stopped trying to be something he wasn't, he never would listen. Instead, he had become the kind of man people overlooked, or avoided, in order to escape his prosy ways and dull conversation.

The innkeeper, by contrast, was a large, ruddy man, currently overrun by the amount of traffic and demands for breakfast, many of which came from more insistent voices than Enoch's.

One such voice boomed over their heads, making Delia jump as a man pushed past Enoch.

"You, there. A pint and a sirloin and don't tarry. I've no desire to hang about in this damned backwater."

"Yes, my lord, at once," the innkeeper said, recognising the voice of command when he heard it.

Enoch and Delia turned, and her heart skipped as they came face-to-face with Lord Malmsey. Oh, lud . If only it had been a friendly face, or at least someone prepared to help her, but she knew very well that Malmsey was a vile creature and far more dangerous than Enoch.

Malmsey almost strode past them without blinking but his gaze snagged on Delia and an arrested expression lit his eyes. "My Lady Cordelia," he said in surprise, looking from her to Enoch. "And… who the devil are you?"

"Enoch Goodfellow," Enoch said stiffly.

"What is this?" Malmsey said, a suspicious note to the question as he stared between them. He eyed the scratches on Enoch's face with obvious interest.

"Our honeymoon," Enoch told him, with more sangfroid than Delia had credited him. "We were married two days ago. We are on our way to visit my mother in York."

"That so?" Malmsey replied, a calculating glint in his eyes. "Funny, I don't remember reading an announcement in the papers or hearing a thing about it."

"I expect her brother forgot. He's blind, you know, and in any event, it was a quiet affair. Close family only."

Delia gritted her teeth and told herself to hold her tongue and not contradict her husband. Malmsey was far more dangerous than Enoch. He would not lift a finger to help her, quite the reverse. More like he would spread the news far and wide to ensure the biggest scandal possible.

"Close family only, but not your mother?" Lord Malmsey enquired politely.

"She's an invalid," Enoch said, quick as a wink.

Delia admitted herself impressed by the ready lie, for Mrs Goodfellow was as round as Enoch was thin and, the last she had seen, as fit as a flea.

"Ah," Malmsey said, amusement lurking in his dark eyes. "Yes, of course. Well, I shall not detain you any longer. And congratulations on your nuptials."

With that, he executed a stiff bow and carried on into the taproom.

Enoch let out a huff of indignation. "Disgusting excuse for a man," he muttered irritably, and, for once, Delia could not fault his opinion. "Did you hear about that business with Lady Fidelia Ponsonby?"

Delia nodded. "Lady Fidelia De Beauvoir now," she said with a smile. "Apparently, Mr De Beauvoir flattened him and Lord Richmond. Did you notice the shadow of a bruise on his eye even now? And it must be a fortnight since," she added, hoping to keep his attention on the gossip and to forget he was supposed to keep a close eye on her. Enoch always had loved to stick his nose into other people's business, especially if it was scandalous.

"They say Lord Richmond attacked him with a sword," he said, diverted as she'd hoped he would be.

When they were finally shown to a small and rather dingy private parlour, Enoch was in a much better humour and told her everything he had heard about Lady Fidelia's elopement and subsequent marriage, and the fact that the duke had suffered an apoplexy.

Delia listened to him drone on with half an ear while she did her best to do justice to the bacon and eggs she'd been given. She knew needed to keep her strength up, but the eggs were overcooked and rubbery and the bacon had a suspicious green tint she did not appreciate. Her empty stomach churned, and she concentrated on the cup of chocolate, which was everything it ought to be.

As Enoch held forth between mouthfuls of his own meal, Delia surveyed the room. There was little that would serve as a weapon, though the tanker of ale at his elbow might do in a pinch. Shifting a little on the hard bench, Delia looked past Enoch to the fireplace. There was not much to see. A few meagre coals glowed, and the open hearth occasionally let out a desultory puff of smoke, but there, lying on the floor beside the hearth, was a poker.

Delia stiffened, her heart leaping. Well, if she could not lay the fellow out with a poker, she did not deserve to escape. She finished her chocolate and gave a sigh.

"I'm afraid my stomach is a little unsettled, Enoch. Would you care to finish my breakfast, I'm sure you must be famished after the past days."

"Oh, well, if you are sure," he said, helping himself to her plate.

"Might I stand by the fire for a moment? I'm still rather chilled," she said meekly.

Enoch hesitated, and then reached across the table and took her hand. For a moment Delia almost resisted, her flesh creeping at the feel of his hands upon her bare skin, but she forced herself to relax and summoned a shy smile.

"You are frozen," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry, my dear. If only you hadn't forced my hand, I should never have treated you so roughly. I wish you had not made me do it."

So, this was her fault? Ha! Delia fumed but tried to keep her thoughts from her face, not that he was looking at her face. His expression had become somewhat dreamy, his fingers stroking the back of her hand in a manner she did not like one bit. Her stomach roiled and the terror that had receded a fraction during their shared meal returned in force. She needed to get away from this man and she must do it at once.

"What soft skin you have," he said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yes, and it's cold too," Delia said briskly. "If you don't mind, I'll just warm myself a little. It's a chilly day and I shall catch my death if I don't keep warm. I'm a martyr to coughs and colds, you know. The slightest chill and my nose runs like a tap and turns bright red, and the phlegm! Oh, you cannot imagine how I suffer."

Much to her satisfaction, the dreamy expression vanished, replaced with one approaching disgust.

"Er… yes, well, do go and warm yourself then, my dear."

Hiding a satisfied smile, Delia got to her feet and stood by the fire, warming her hands. When the clink of cutlery recommenced, she turned her head to assure herself Enoch was intent on his meal before bending at the knee and lowering herself down. Not taking her eyes from him, she searched the hearth with her fingertips until she found the cold iron of the poker. She curled her fingers around it and stood, her heart beating too fast. Though she knew she must escape him, it was one thing to attack a man in the heat of anger, quite another to strike him over the head from behind. Yet she was not strong enough to resist him if she fought him openly, and he was deaf to her pleas. He had brought it on himself, she told herself firmly, before taking two quick steps forward, raising the poker as she moved.

The sound it made when the poker connected to his head quite turned her stomach, and she stumbled away with a squeak of mingled alarm and disgust as he fell like a stone. The chair clattered to the floor and Delia just stood, unmoving, not even breathing, as she listened for a hue and cry and people storming in to accuse her of murder. Whilst she was quite ready to demand help and admit what she'd done to free herself, that would be easier to do without a body at her feet.

Had she murdered him? Anxiously, she got to her knees, turning him onto his back and more than relieved to see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Not dead, then. Thank the Lord.

With no time to lose, Delia scrambled to her feet. She did not know how long she had before Enoch revived, so she ran for the door and tugged it open. For a moment she toyed with the idea of going straight to the innkeeper, but there were so many people about and she had no desire to ruin herself. With luck, her brother had kept the whole affair under wraps, and if she got home with no one the wiser, there would be no damage done. Wrexham would have no trouble silencing Enoch once she was safe. No, the best thing was to get her hands on a horse or gain passage onto a carriage heading back to London, though she quailed a little at the idea. As a sheltered young lady, she had never so much as set foot outside of her house without a chaperone. On the day Enoch had kidnapped her, he had blackmailed her maid into aiding him with his dreadful plan. If only the poor girl had confided in Delia that she was with child, she would have helped her, but the foolish creature had fallen prey to Enoch's nosy beak, and this was the result.

Moving stealthily down the corridor, Delia kept a sharp lookout, certain that at any moment Enoch would leap out at her, having not been out as cold as she'd hoped. A side door beckoned, and Delia's heart quickened. It looked as if it might lead out to the stables. Her hand had just grasped the latch when another, larger hand pressed against the door, over her head, holding it shut.

With a gasp, she turned, and to her horror, found herself staring up into the cold, dark eyes of Lord Malmsey.

"M-My lord," she stammered, putting up her chin. "If you would excuse me, I need to use the necessary."

"And without an escort? Tut, tut. But your poor husband is unconscious, is he not? Tricky for him to escort you anywhere in such a state, I fear. Your handiwork, was it, my pretty one?"

Delia stiffened, horribly aware that she might just have exchanged a dreadful situation for a dire one. She knew very well that Malmsey was a violent brute with no morals and not a shred of honour to his name. Enoch was a selfish, unpleasant little sneak, but Malmsey was another creature altogether.

"Unconscious?" she said, trying to feign surprise. "Oh, the poor dear. I must go to him at once." She tried to push past him, only to find herself caged in by his arms. She shrank back against the wall, truly afraid now in a way she had not been until this point.

"Nice try, pet," he said, his thin lips curling with amusement. "But I'm afraid I don't buy it. I thought perhaps it was an elopement, but I see now Mr Goodfellow had the right idea. I've recently lost out on a nice, fat dowry and a pretty little wife. But one duke's daughter is much like another, I fancy."

"I'll not marry you," she said, her voice breathless with terror. "Not now, not ever."

He chuckled at that, an unpleasant sound that made all the fine hairs on her body stand on end. "Oh, I think you will, sweetheart, given the right inducement."

There was a look in his eyes that Delia did not mistake. This was a man who had no compunction about using violence to get his own way. A ridiculous desire to find herself back in the far more manageable hands of Enoch Goodfellow hit her hard and fast and Lord Malmsey grinned, apparently reading her mind.

"Better the devil you know, eh, love? I don't doubt you're right, but you've got me to deal with now, and no fireside poker will save you this time. Try it and I'll show you just how much harder I can strike back."

Delia went cold at his words, which only confirmed everything she had ever heard about him.

"Come along, my lady. My carriage is waiting, and I think I prefer to make haste before your beloved awakens. We don't want any shocking scenes, do we now?"

Laughing softly to himself, he grasped her by the arm, so hard his fingers bit into her flesh and would certainly leave bruises. He opened the door and guided her through, holding on tight the entire time.

To Delia's dismay, the door did not lead to the stables, but out into a small courtyard behind them. Though she could hear the bustle of people and the sound of horses' hooves on cobbles, they were out of sight on the other side of a high wall. Malmsey strode quickly, tugging her behind him. At the end of the yard, he paused, for here was a door sized opening that led out onto the busy stables. Before she could think of screaming, he clapped a hand over her mouth and bent to whisper in her ear.

"We're going to move quickly and quietly, and no one will notice us. If you make so much as a squeak of protest, I shall make you sorry for it. Do you hear me, pet?"

Delia nodded, recognising the ring of truth in his words. Yet she feared what would become of her if she did not take this slender chance. What if there was no other opportunity to escape, what if this was her only hope?

Closing her eyes, she sent up a silent prayer that she would come through this ordeal unharmed and, as Malmsey took a step forward, she bit the hand covering her mouth with all her might.