Page 2 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“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.