Chapter Twenty-Two

H ope grimaced as George directed the horse to slow down and turn into the courtyard of a coaching inn. She'd long since lost any sense of where they were or how long they had been travelling. She knew from the scant details George had offered that he was taking her north, and since he'd admitted he had not decided whether or not he planned to wed her, she presumed they were not going directly to Gretna—a small mercy which she was thankful for. She also knew that the farm from which George ran his nefarious operations was somewhere near the Scottish border, not far from the Solway Firth, where the rivers Esk and Eden meandered out to sea. She had to assume, therefore, that that was where they were headed.

Realising that, however, served only to make Hope begin to panic. Despite her best efforts, she'd had little success in loosening the rope which bound her to the cart, and with each passing mile she felt the weight of her fate bearing down upon her. If she could not escape now, while it was just the two of them on the road, what chance did she stand once she'd arrived at his farm, no doubt living under the watchful eye of his many criminal accomplices? She had other, more immediate concerns too, such as what George had planned once darkness fell. Surely, he could not hope to travel all the way to the border today; they would have to stop somewhere tonight. At this, Hope shuddered—the thought of spending the night anywhere with that monster, and all that such a night might entail, did not bear thinking about. Which was why, when he turned into the coaching inn, she felt her heart sink.

‘Why are we stopping here?' she asked, trying her best to sound curious rather than fearful.

‘Because I need a drink, and so does the horse.' He glanced at her, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Hope, but I don't plan to take a room here for the night. I know you've been used to living like a duchess as Hayton's harlot, but you'll have to make do with a straw bed tonight—unless we forgo that and sleep under the stars,' he added, giving her an unpleasant wink.

‘And where is this bed of straw, exactly?' Hope asked. If she could draw some specific information from him, she might better understand where she was. Information which she needed, if the opportunity ever arrived for her to make a bid for freedom.

‘A friend's cottage,' he snapped. ‘That's all you need to know.'

Hope suppressed a sigh as the horse drew to a halt in the courtyard and George climbed down from the cart. He was never going to tell her anything useful; he was far too cunning for that. She glanced down at her wrist, which was red and raw-looking from all the wriggling she'd done in a vain effort to free herself. Sitting next to him, she had not dared use her free hand to try to remove the shackle; to do so would have surely drawn his attention. However, if he left her to fetch a drink...

‘I'll remain on the cart,' she said quickly. ‘I can keep an eye on the horse while the stable boys attend to him.'

George began to laugh, walking round to her as he shook his head. ‘You must think I'm stupid.'

‘No, I'm just not thirsty, that's all.' A lie, of course. She was thirsty, hungry, tired, terrified—all of it. She was running out of options, running out of opportunities. If she was honest with herself, she was beginning to despair.

‘I don't care what you are,' he said through gritted teeth. ‘You're not leaving my sight.'

He untied the rope, liberating her poor sore wrist—another small mercy, she supposed, although likely useless to her whilst ever she remained under his watchful eye. Unceremoniously, he hauled her down from the cart, all but dragging her along as he approached two wide-eyed stable boys and handed them some coins to attend to the horse. His thirst for beer clearly growing, he hurried her around towards a small kitchen at the rear of the inn, coins again crossing palms—this time those of the innkeeper, who looked at Hope with some concern when he observed George's rough handling of her. However, he said nothing, instead wordlessly pointing them both through a weather-beaten wooden door and into a humble room, where they found a table laden with bread and beer mugs and a handful of other travellers crowded around it. Several male faces glanced up briefly to see who had joined them, before returning to regard their fare once more.

‘Here. Sit.'

George pushed her towards a wooden stool, forcing her to sit down. He remained close at her side, still standing as he grabbed a hunk of bread and a mug and ate and drank as though he'd had no sustenance for years. Hope tried hard to ignore her dry mouth and empty, groaning stomach; she'd sworn she was not thirsty and, besides, she would take nothing that he'd paid for. As her father had learned to his cost, this was not the sort of man you wanted to owe a debt to. This was the sort of man who would always want something in return.

Unlike Samuel. Generous and decent Samuel, who had wanted nothing from her. Kind and loving Samuel, who had given her so much more than sanctuary. If only she really had been Hope Swynford. If only she really had been a gentleman's daughter and an heiress. Then, perhaps...

She did not realise that she was crying until one of the other travellers, an older, stocky man with a round, kindly face, remarked upon it.

‘Now then, lass, I'm sure it's not so bad,' the man said, offering her a small smile. She watched as he glanced warily at George, who was still devouring his bread and beer. ‘Do you want to eat something? There's plenty to be had.'

‘She doesn't want anything,' George snapped, his mouth full.

Hope watched as the man's keen gaze continued to flit between them both, as though he was trying to work something out, and a seed of an idea began to grow in her mind. She raised her sore, rope-marked wrist above the table, giving it a rub so that he could clearly see the marks upon it.

‘I'm afraid I'm not very keen on plain bread and beer,' she said softly, putting on her Hope Swynford voice as she eased back into character. ‘I much prefer tea and cake, you see. Two of the very best things in life, I can assure you.'

Next to her, she sensed George cease chewing. One by one, each pair of eyes around the table seemed to settle upon her captor, and for several moments no one moved.

‘I dare say they are, miss,' the older man said, although he barely tore his gaze from George. ‘But those are things you'll find in the parlour, not the back kitchen. Perhaps if you went in there, you'd find something more suited to your tastes.'

‘Don't you dare move.'

George gripped her arm so tightly that it made her cry out, and stools scraped in unison against the stone floor as several of the men rose to their feet.

‘What is this man to you, miss?' the older man asked, his kindly expression long gone as his eyes blazed thunderously at George. ‘Are you in need of some assistance?'

At that moment Hope saw her chance, and she seized it with both hands. ‘This man has kidnapped me!' she cried out, getting to her feet. ‘He has stolen me away and means to marry me at Gretna against my will so that he can steal my inheritance. He is a villain and a scoundrel!'

Together, the men rounded on George. Apparently startled by what was unfolding, he took several steps back, his eyes wide with something which almost resembled fear. As the men drew nearer, Hope moved away, finally out of George's grasp. What happened next was as confusing as it was alarming—a frantic scramble of limbs as punches were thrown and angry, expletive-ridden words were exchanged between George and the men. At one point George launched forward, clattering into the table and sending bread and beer flying about the room. For several moments Hope simply stood there, frozen, until three simple words spoken by the kindly older man brought her back to her senses.

‘Run, miss. Run!'

Of course—there was nothing else for it. Without another moment's hesitation, Hope hurried towards the door, and towards her freedom. Towards her life, towards the unknown. Towards whatever lay ahead of her. This was it, she realised—she would not get a better chance. Indeed, she would likely get no other chances at all.

Quickly, Hope turned the knob on the door, poised to flee.

Then a gunshot rang out.

Samuel was a good number of miles into his journey before he realised that he hadn't quite thought this through. Rockcliffe, he had managed to ascertain, lay to the north-west of Carlisle—reaching it within the day would be pushing the endurance of both himself and his horse, especially at the speed he'd so far travelled. He had indeed been riding hard; his best chance of finding Hope was to catch up with her and her abductor on the road, although how likely he was to manage this, he did not know. He'd no idea by what means this man was taking Hope away with him, and therefore how many miles they would manage to cover before darkness fell. He prayed it was by old horse and rickety cart—the more elderly and ramshackle, the better.

Unfortunately, despite covering a good number of miles of road and making brief enquiries at every inn on the way, so far there'd been no sign of either Hope or the dreadful George, and riding so fast was quickly wearying his horse. Stopping to rest was the last thing he wanted to do, but as he rode towards the latest coaching inn he realised it was a necessity. The poor animal needed water and sustenance at the very least, and if he was honest with himself, so did he. He'd barely eaten or drunk anything that day, such had been his complete preoccupation with finding Hope. With a heavy sigh, he turned his horse into the inn's courtyard, catching the eye of a young stable boy and giving him a beckoning nod. Perhaps, he reasoned, it would be best to change the poor creature while he was here.

Samuel climbed down from his saddle and the boy walked forward. He glanced around briefly, suddenly struck by how eerily quiet the inn was. It was not so much that there were no carriages or coaches—indeed, he could count several, sitting stationary at the far end of the courtyard. It was more that there were no people standing outside—no ladies or gentlemen hovering, waiting to depart, no carriages being readied, and no drivers checking their horses or the position of their passengers' luggage. It was, without doubt, very strange.

‘Where is everyone?' Samuel asked the stable boy who, it struck him now, looked a deathly shade of white.

‘Most are in the parlour, sir.' The boy's voice was barely a whisper. ‘A few have gone behind the stables. They dare not come out.'

Samuel frowned. ‘Why?'

‘There was a sound like a gunshot. It came from the rear kitchen not so long ago.' The boy paused, swallowing hard. ‘The master went to see what was afoot and...and there's a man in there, sir, waving his pistol about. Says anyone who comes in will get their brains blown out. The master's sent for the constable and says everyone's to stay hid—except us, on account of the horses we've to attend to, but everyone else.' The boy looked at the horse, reaching out to give him a gentle stroke. ‘You could go, sir. He's tired but the next inn's only a few miles away. He could manage it at a trot.'

Samuel pressed his lips together, absorbing the details of the boy's story. Could this murderous and unpredictable man be the one he was looking for?

‘This man you mentioned—do you know if there is a lady travelling with him?' he asked.

‘Aye, sir, although if I had to guess, I'd say she's not come with him willingly. Poor lady was shackled to the cart when they got here. The master reckons he's taken her from a fine house somewhere. Says the man's trying to hide it, leaving her looking grubby and without a bonnet, but there's no mistaking that her dress is quality.'

‘And the lady, what does she look like?' Samuel tried to remain focused on ascertaining the facts but, despite himself, he felt his fists curl. The thought of any woman being so mistreated made him angry, and the idea that it might be Hope was frankly unbearable.

The boy frowned, apparently recalling. ‘Small. Dark hair, all matted and hanging loose like she's been in the wars. But very pretty—meaning no impertinence, of course, sir. Just an observation.'

Any lingering doubt in Samuel's mind was immediately blown away by the boy's description. It was Hope, he told himself, his heart beginning to race. She was here, and she was locked in a room with a madman wielding a pistol. A room, and a man, he had to now work to free her from.

Samuel gave the boy a nod and a tight smile before pressing a shilling into his palm. ‘Be good to my horse,' he said. ‘Hopefully, this won't take too long.'

‘But sir, you can't surely...'

Samuel did not hear the rest of the boy's protest. He was too preoccupied, creeping towards the kitchen which sat at the back of the inn. As he reached the building he ducked down, tentatively edging towards the single small window which offered the only view into the room, and to understanding what was happening inside. Cautiously, he peeked in, surveying the scene swiftly from a low position and praying he would not be noticed.

Immediately he spied Hope, the sight of her making his heart fleetingly lift, before the gravity of the situation she was in made his pulse begin to race with trepidation. She was perched on a stool, her eyes cast down and shoulders slumped in an expression of utter defeat. Near to her was a man with sharp features, pacing to and fro, waving a pistol around menacingly. George—it had to be. On the other side of the room, furthest from the door, stood a handful of men, all looking glum, their hands raised in surrender. Samuel frowned. Clearly, something had happened to provoke this potentially deadly scene, but he was damned if he could discern exactly what.

No matter. All that counted now was rescuing Hope from George's grasp, and ensuring no one else was hurt in the process. Samuel reached into his pocket, placing a careful hand upon his pistol. On the one hand, he felt relieved at having the presence of mind to come armed; on the other, he felt alarmed at the prospect of having to use his weapon. No matter, he told himself. He could not afford to deliberate on this; even a moment's hesitation could prove costly. He would do whatever it took to rescue Hope. If that meant aiming his pistol at her captor and pulling the trigger, then so be it.

He continued to watch at the window as George's pacing slowed and he came to a halt with his back to the door. This was his chance, Samuel realised. He had to act—quickly and decisively. He had to take a leaf out of Hope's book and live on his wits.

It was this thought which spurred him on as he hurried towards the door, launching himself at it with such force as to render turning the doorknob entirely unnecessary. He was aware of a deep, guttural roar coming from the depths of his throat as the door gave way, a sound which was so ungentlemanly and so unlike him that it would have taken him by surprise, had he not been so thoroughly consumed by his mission. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hope leap to her feet.

‘Samuel? Samuel!' she breathed, part-question and part-affirmation.

A shocked-looking George turned. As Samuel threw himself towards the man he saw him move to raise his pistol but, mercifully, he was not quite quick enough. Overwhelming him with the element of surprise combined with sheer brute force, Samuel wrestled George to the ground, holding him with his face and stomach pressed to the floor while he tried to get the pistol out of his grasp. But his adversary was not about to give up so easily. He flailed about, yelling obscenities as he tried to fight back with a considerable strength of his own.

Thankfully, around him, Samuel sensed the reinforcements begin to assemble. The cluster of men whom George had been holding at gunpoint now sprang into action, several of them joining Samuel in pinning George to the ground, while another, burly man managed at last to prise the pistol from George's firm grip.

Disarmed and overwhelmed, George finally seemed to concede defeat, his limbs growing still, his breathing rapid and exhausted. For several moments Samuel and a couple of his assistants continued to hold him down, apparently not quite daring to move. One of the other men ran outside, returning swiftly with a couple of lengths of rope and offering them to Samuel.

‘The stable boys say that the constable is on his way,' the man said. ‘We can use this to restrain him until he gets here.'

‘I'll do that.' The burly man grabbed hold of the rope. ‘It'll be my pleasure to shackle him like he shackled that poor miss over there, judging by the state of her wrist. You go and attend to her, sir. She's had quite the ordeal.'

Samuel nodded obligingly before hauling himself to his feet. He heard George groan as the burly man took over, holding him down with his considerable weight while tightly binding his hands behind his back.

‘You must have been very worried about her,' the man continued. ‘Is she your sister, or...?'

But Samuel was not listening. Indeed, his attention was no longer on the burly man, or on Hope's abductor, at all. Instead, his gaze had wandered across the room, towards the woman who stood there, frozen with shock, her dress filthy, her long dark curls mussed, her face drained of all colour. She lifted those emerald eyes to meet his and his heart stirred, just as it had the first time she'd gazed up at him from the floor of her bedchamber, all those weeks ago. Perhaps it had been love even then—it was hard to say. All he knew for certain was that he loved her now.

Wordlessly, Samuel strode towards her, reaching out and enveloping her in his arms. She melted into his embrace, clinging to him tightly as though she too had feared that she might never see him again. For several moments he simply held her, running his fingers gently over the knotted tendrils of her hair. Then she stirred, lifting her chin to gaze up at him, meeting his eyes with a look which spoke of tenderness, of admiration, of affection. Of love. A look which told him everything. He leaned down, his lips capturing hers in affirmation as he poured his heart and soul into that kiss. Everything she felt, he sought to show her, he felt too.

Behind them, an amused voice intruded. ‘Not your sister, then,' the burly man said.

Against Hope's lips, Samuel smiled. ‘No,' he murmured, breaking the kiss to see that Hope was smiling too. ‘Not my sister,' he said, caressing her cheek as he gazed intently into her eyes. ‘But I hope, one day soon, she will be my wife.'