“Aye, sir.” With Kepper remounted as their escort, Nichols set the coach in action, while Aaran turned his attention to tracing the wheel marks in the damp earth. There had been no rain for several days, but in February in England, it was not unusual for the early hours of the day to hold onto the dew.
Aaran shoved away the urge to rush after Duncan and Freya; instead, he stayed with the plan he and Duncan had concocted this very morning. Duncan had insisted, “We are doing this just as we would react with any other investigation.” Aaran and all his brothers had been trained to handle a variety of confrontations by the best that the United Kingdom had to offer, a Scottish mastermind. Lord Macdonald Duncan trained his men to handle any kind of dastardly postulation of events. For nearly a year, their enemy had strung them along—practicing stratagems which none of them had considered previously, but would never forget. Thompson had broken part of the code, and Aaran would make all the necessary connections. “It has been my domain from the beginning,” he told the open road as he raced to locate where the shooting had occurred.
Earlier, both Aaran and Duncan had agreed they were weary of being victims of a shadowy threat targeting their family. The impact of evil on those who held a special place in his heart wearied Aaran. He was sick and tired of guessing the identity of an unknown enemy. “I am not about to lose either the only man who ever saw me as more than an invalid nor the woman I love to this violence!”
Scrubbing his palm over his face, Aaran did not waste time wondering on when he first knew he loved Lady Freya Cunningham. He suspected it was on the Scottish road to his southern estate when he assisted Beaufort and Lady Annalise in finding happiness. The admission of his true feelings should worry him, but it did not. “I love her,” he announced aloud. “After all these years, love has found me.” No condemnationfollowed his admission. All he felt was a sense of rightness. Nothing and no one would stop him from claiming Lady Freya Cunningham as his wife.
“As to today, as long as no one goes off script, this plan will work. Duncan is a master strategist. Whoever has plagued our days of late is in for an unexpected reckoning.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Eventually, those whohad 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 theperil in which they found themselves, she felt hope and knew Lord Duncan meant to protect her.
The trail towhat 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 removethe 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 onthe 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.
