Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

He had five pounds, thank God.

“Before I give you anything, tell me what you have.”

“It’s names, me lord, names and places the gentleman what gave me the papers said yer pa would want to see. Some letters too.”

Five pounds. Even if it was worthless, it was worth the five pounds, to be sure.

James was reaching into his pocket for money when the man dropped the papers, jerked up a gun, and said, “Ye don’t move now, me fine lord. Ye just stand there nice and straight and don’t ye even wink an eyelash.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Life is simply one damned thing after another.

ASCRIBED TO ELBERT HUBBARD

JAMES WAS ALREADY in motion. His leg shot out, clipped the gun, and sent it flying into the ivy against the garden wall. The man yelped, grabbed his hand. James was nearly on him when a thick blanket came flying down over his head and he heard the voices of two men, one of them whispering, “No, don’t yell, ye fool. We’ll jest bundle him all up like this so’s he can’t kick out and break our necks.”

“I want to kick ’is balls off, Augie, kickin’ Billy like that, nearly broke ’is wrist the bastid did.”

James was jerking at the blanket, trying to find a corner, when a gun barrel nicked him on the shoulder, then another one hit him hard on the head. He was cursing loud enough to bring the watch when the pain bowed him to his knees. Another blow on the head. He fell, swaddled in the thick wool, and knew no more.

Corrie’s scream never came out of her throat. There was nothing she could do except yell and jump on them and likely get herself banged on the head with a gun, and what good would that do James? She looked on, horrified and enraged, and stuffed her fist in her mouth.

She watched them gather him up, then one of the men, much larger than the others, heaved James, still wrapped in the blanket, over his shoulder.

“Not a feather, this one. Let’s git our braw lad out o’ this place, quick.”

Her heart was pounding loud enough for the Lord to hear, but she followed, her slippers light on the cobblestones as she ran toward the back garden gate. She watched them push the gate open, saw a carriage in the alley, two bays harnessed to it, standing quietly, heads down, at rest. One of the men climbed onto the bench and picked up the reins. It was Billy. He leaned back. “Git moving, Ben, ye want to tie our gent up good. He’s a strong ’un, kicked me wrist so sharp it sent pins through me fingers. I ain’t niver seen a man move like that. We’ll keep an eye on ’im.”

She watched them toss James onto the carriage floor, then jump up after him.

A man leaned out the window, hissed, “Go, Billy, scrabble ’em, now! We’ve gots a ways to go.”

Corrie watched Billy click to the horses and wave the reins. The carriage slowly moved toward the entrance of the alley, behind the mansion, onto Clappert Street.

She didn’t think, didn’t weigh consequences. She simply ran after the carriage and leapt lightly up onto the back runner, grabbed the straps and pulled herself close to the carriage. It was the tiger’s perch, and she knew it well. When she’d been younger she’d loved to ride in the tiger’s perch behind James or Jason, singing at the top of her lungs, feeling the wind tearing at her old leather hat and braid, tearing her eyes.

The only difference between now and then was that she was wearing a beautiful white silk ball gown, lovely white slippers on her feet, and no old leather hat. Nor did she have a wrap.

It didn’t matter. Three bad men had kidnapped James. Where were they going to take him?

She had to keep down, keep quiet, not fall off, and not let the men see her. Well, she’d certainly hidden from James and Jason enough times, following them, even plastering mud on her face so they wouldn’t see her in the bushes, and they’d never known she was there, watching them wrestle, throw knives at targets, practice cursing. But this was different, she’d agree with that. What would she do when they stopped, well, something would come to her, it had to.

Why had they taken James? To get to his father, of course. The note that waiter had pressed into James’s hand, all a ruse. He shouldn’t have come out into the Lanscombe garden alone, the idiot.

Thank God she’d seen everything. She drew in a deep breath as the horses lengthened into a trot. The streets were nearly empty. Thank God for the half moon. She would figure out something. She had to save James. It was that simple.

She had no idea which direction they were going because they’d gotten nowhere near the Thames. Suddenly she saw a sign to Chelmsford. Ah, they were going east. Wasn’t Cambridge in this same direction?

Corrie didn’t know how much time passed. Her arms ached, her fingers were numb.

Whining never helped unless you did it to another person, so she gave it up and hummed to herself. She held on to those straps, that was all she had to do.

She remembered when James had picked her up and tossed her into a pond near the back of her uncle’s property. Unfortunately, her breeches, stolen from the charity clothes in the sexton’s closet at the vicarage, got snagged on a tangle of reeds underwater and she’d nearly drowned. She would remember until she croaked how white his face had been when he’d realized what had happened and pulled her out. He’d nearly crushed her ribs he’d pressed down so hard to get the water out of her lungs. And he’d held the eight-year-old Corrie, rocking her back and forth, begging her to forgive him, until she’d vomited up the nasty pond water all over him.

Corrie didn’t remember if she’d forgiven him or not, the miserable sot. Of course, the next week, he’d tied her to a tree when he wanted to take Melissa Banbridge for a walk in the woods and he’d seen her following them.

She’d gotten the rope untied, but couldn’t find them. She’d slipped a half dozen frogs into his boots standing downstairs to be cleaned by the boot boy. Unfortunately, she’d heard one of the footmen say that for some reason they’d found a wagon load of frogs flying around in the mudroom and how had that come about?