Page 50 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“Yes, Muir,” she murmured, gazing up at him with a hazy look in her eyes he thoroughly approved of.

“That’s better,” he said, his expression smug, before he bent and kissed her again. His hand slid down her skirts, tracing the shape of her thigh beneath, down over her knee, reaching for the fabric of her gown. “I want ye, Delia. I need to make ye my wife and I dinnae want to wait.”

Though he knew he was an impatient wretch, and he ought not to push her, his fingers closed over the hem. He dragged the fabric higher, whispering softly… as a heavy weight descended upon his head, painful sparks exploding behind his eyes as he fell into darkness.

Delia screamed, but the enormous man who had hit Muir so savagely over the head stuffed a foul piece of material into her mouth, silencing her. They were a long way from the farm here, the spot private and hidden from view, which was the reason Muir had chosen it, so she doubted anyone had heard her. He yanked at her arms, tugging her none too gently to her feet as another man hurried over to Muir.

“Christ, did you kill ’im?” A second fellow, smaller and wirier, stepped out of the shadows, regarding Muir with alarm. He crouched to inspect the body, his expression one of anxiety. “I don’t want to get brought up on some murder charge.”

“I doubt it. Bloody Scots have heads like granite.”

“There’s a deal of blood,” the fellow added, showing the big man his bloody palm.

Delia shrieked around the gag, struggling to get to Muir, but she was held in a bruising grip that no amount of writhing would loosen. “Head wounds always bleed. Just get on and tie him up, and make sure it’s good and tight and then cover him with the straw. I don’t want to find him on our heels.”

As the smaller man worked, the man holding Delia bound her wrists tightly together, the bindings so tight they bit into her skin. She wriggled and tried as hard as she could to get free of him, but it was entirely pointless. Delia could do nothing but stare at Muir in mute despair. He was so still, and there was a good deal of blood pouring from a gash in his head. She prayed the big man was right about him having a hard head and promised herself she would retaliate on Muir’s behalf the first chance she got, though her own situation was not looking very promising.

“Hurry,” the man holding her grunted as the smaller one covered Muir in the stooks they’d been sitting against earlier.

He hefted Delia over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her through the barn and out of the back door where three horses waited. She kicked and struggled as hard as she could, but the fellow didn’t seem to notice. He slung Delia over one, her head on one side of the horse while her legs dangled on the other. Tying her tightly in place, he covered her with a thick blanket and ordered the other man to get a move on. Soon they were riding, with Delia jolting over the horse’s back in the most uncomfortable and ungainly manner she could imagine. It was all she could do not to throw up, but the idea of being sick with the gag in her mouth forced her to do her utmost to keep calm and her breakfast where it belonged. The painful jouncing and jolting seemed to go on forever, but finally the horses slowed to a walk and then stopped. She heard the men dismounting and Delia thought she heard other horses too, tack jingling and a carriage door opening.

Rough hands snatched the smothering blanket that covered her and undid the ropes tying her to the saddle. Delia slid to the ground in an ungainly heap. She landed on a sharp stone that struck her elbow and made her cry out in pain, but at least it brought her back to her senses. Staring about her, she blinked, trying to make sense of the scene.

“Up you come, my pretty,” the big man who had attacked Muir said, grasping her bound arms and hauling her to her feet.

With no other choice, Delia stood, swaying, her gaze focusing on the carriage as a man stepped out. Rage burst through her chest, scalding fury like nothing she had ever experienced burning through her veins as she recognised the man who looked at her with a smile of smug satisfaction.

“Ah, Delia. How glad I am to see you again.”

Chapter 13

Angus,

Sorry to have left you to manage things, but I know you’ll do a grand job in my absence. My brother is getting married, or at least he’d better be, and I mean to hang around to make sure it happens, and he doesn’t muck things up. I hope to be back in a week, maybe ten days, depending on how pig-headed he is. Keep me informed of how things are going on, but I trust your judgement in the meantime.

It's good to be back here in the Highlands. I hadn’t realised how much I have missed it, but I’m eager to get stuck back into work too, so don’t go getting too comfortable at my desk, a chuilein.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Hamilton Anderson to his secretary, Mr Angus Stewart.

18th April 1850, Brabster Farm, The Highlands of Scotland.

“Wake up! Muir! Come on, laddie, back to yer senses now.”

Muir groaned and clutched at his head as rough hands shook him. “The devil with ye, Dugald. Stop that or I’ll boke.”

“Sit up, then,” Dugald said, hefting him up.

Muir put out a hand, demanding he stop manhandling him as his stomach churned. He breathed deeply, willing the sensation away as the barn came back into focus and his wits returned to him. Blearily, he stared at Dugald. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely, his fingers delicately probing an enormous lump on the back of his head. They came away sticky with blood. “Did a beam fall on me?”

“Nae, someone clouted ye good.”

Muir stared at him in bewilderment. “Who—?” A cold sensation lanced through him, settling in his guts like a lump of ice. He reached out, clutching at Dugald’s arm as dread filled his heart. “Delia?”

“Aye, lad. Reckon they came here for her, which is why we must hurry.”

“They?” he said stupidly, forcing himself to stand as the barn seemed to spin around him.

“Two men. Strangers. Fergus saw them riding off, leading a third with something slung over its back.”