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But the men who encircled her in the late afternoon light were strangers. Desperately, she tried to see past them to where Kylemore must wait for her.
“I’ll kill the bastard!” Ben staggered upright. “I told you not to trust him, lass!”
“Get down!” The largest of their captors aimed a kick at Ben’s legs. Her brother collapsed with a groan. “Tie him up.”
Verity was confused. The orders were delivered in an English accent. In Scotland, the duke always relied on local retainers.
“Kylemore?” she called in a puzzled voice. “I won’t fight you. You must know that.”
The man who had spoken reached down to grab her arm in a bruising grip. “Shut your gob,” he growled, wrenching her to her feet.
“I told you I won’t resist.”
She stumbled before she regained her balance. Surely, her lover knew he had no need to force her to go with him. They’d moved on so far since Whitby.
Hadn’t they?
Foolish to be frightened. He’d never hurt her. He’d sworn that, and she believed him. But chillingly, she remembered his anger when she’d refused his proposal then abandoned him in London.
Hadn’t she done exactly the same this afternoon?
Her heart thundered with wild apprehension. Trembling and at last completely alert, her eyes raked the deserted stretch of road. Deserted except for four men, the hired vehicle, a makeshift barricade of rocks and branches, and an elaborate closed carriage a few yards away.
Ben still fought to break free, but, as at Whitby, sheer numbers made it impossible. He swore savagely, but the devils restraining him paid no attention while they trussed him and left him prone under the trees that crowded the roadside.
One of the men left Ben and hurried to open the coach’s door, which was painted with the familiar golden eagle of the Kinmurries. By the time the occupant emerged, Verity’s wits had returned and she experienced no jolt of surprise.
“Well done, Smithson.” The Duchess of Kylemore sent a heartbreakingly lovely smile to the huge brute who loomed beside Verity.
“My pleasure, Your Grace.” The man bowed briefly. “Shall we dispose of them? It will look like an attack by footpads.”
“No!” Verity gasped, beginning to struggle in earnest. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, when she’d relinquished her powerful lover so he could follow the dictates of duty. “Ben’s done nothing to deserve this!”
“Quiet, bitch.” Smithson slammed his free arm across her throat and yanked her back against his coarse linen shirt. Her head swam with the stench of stale sweat, and she gave an involuntary moan that squeaked into silence as his arm tightened.
The duchess’s cold, cold eyes settled on her. Verity shivered at the absolute hatred in those indigo depths.
“You’ve been a thorn in my side since my son first saw you,” the duchess said, her tone as pitiless as her gaze.
“But I’m leaving him. You know I’m leaving him,” Verity gasped, fighting for breath.
She squirmed to loosen Smithson’s hold, but to no avail. She raised her hand to claw at his hand. He gave a satisfying grunt of pain, then jerked hard against her throat, making her gag.
“Stop that, you poxy trull,” he muttered. “Stay still or I’ll hurt you in earnest.”
He released the punishing pressure on her airway and the blackness gradually receded from her vision. As the pounding blood rushed back into her bruised flesh, it throbbed painfully.
She dragged reviving air into her lungs and focused on the duchess. Smithson was merely a bully. The real danger stood before her in the person of this beautiful, perfectly dressed woman with frozen eyes. Fear made Verity’s head spin, but she fought to hide her spiraling terror.
“I’m never going to see His Grace again,” Verity rasped out. Talking scraped painfully at her abused throat.
The duchess’s eyebrows arched with patent disbelief. “I know my son. Justin won’t accept his dismissal so easily. I shudder to recall the laughingstock he made of himself when you left London. I could hardly hold my head up in society.” Her voice rang with self-righteous outrage. “I’m afraid you’ve aroused my displeasure, Soraya. And you must pay.”
Verity stood perfectly still in Smithson’s hold and raised her chin.
“Kill me if you must,” she said in a low, shaking voice. There would be no escape. She could see that the duchess’s calcified soul held no mercy for a recalcitrant harlot. Still, she had to try and save Ben. “But my brother has done you no ill. Please let him go, Your Grace.”
The duchess’s stained lips curved in a disdainful smile. “Oh, very moving, my dear. I should have guessed that more than just your pretty face drew my son to his downfall. He’s always had such pathetic admiration for courage.”
