Page 52 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“Still, I suppose if you’ve behaved like a slut with a man who’s not your husband already, you may as well do so with someone who soon will be.”

To her horror, he moved to sit beside her and for a dreadful moment, Delia thought she might freeze with the sheer awfulness of the situation. But then he reached out his hand, clasped her breast and squeezed. With rage singing through her veins, Delia struck out with the hand holding the penknife, sinking it deep into Enoch’s thigh.

He gave a howl of agony, then fell to the floor, writhing he and staring at the knife in a frenzy of panic, as if he did not know what to do.

“You stabbed me!” he shrieked. “You wicked bitch, you stabbed me!”

“Oh, shut up, Enoch!” Delia told him in disgust and smothered his mouth with the cloth.

She must have been a bit liberal with the ether, as it took barely a second before Enoch’s head hit the carriage floor with a thud. Delia surveyed his prone form with deep satisfaction, but she did not have time to congratulate herself for her cleverness before she realised the carriage was drawing to a halt. They must have heard Enoch’s hysterical screaming, she realised. They’d likely heard it in Edinburgh too.

The carriage swayed to a stop and Delia steeled herself, uncertain from which side the threat would come. She held the cloth still, fully prepared to use it. The idea of taking the knife from Enoch’s thigh was one she considered before dismissing it. She thought she’d been quite brave until now, but pulling the knife out of his body was something she could not force herself to do. There was no more time, however, as the door to her right flew open and Burt stuck his head in.

“What the bloody hell—” he began, but Delia did not wait to discover what else he might say.

Instead, she lunged for the opposite door, pushing it open and exploding from inside the carriage so fast that she fell in a tangle of skirts. Scrambling to her feet, she ran, not bothering to look back as she sprinted back up the road in the direction the carriage had come from.

Hearing hoofbeats close behind her, Delia glanced back to see Mr Smith bearing down on her. He reached out, his fingers grazing her sleeve as she fell flat to the floor to escape his grasp. Making a last-minute grab for her was his undoing, however, and she watched as Mr Smith over balanced and fell from his horse with a muttered oath. Delia got to her feet and ran once more, aware of the fellow scrambling up and running close behind her. He threw himself forward, tackling her around the legs and bringing her down as Delia kicked. Her heel made contact with his jaw, knocking his head back.

“Why, you little hellcat,” he swore, his fingers tightening painfully upon her ankles. “I’ll make you pay for that.” He clambered over her, and Delia reached up, pressing the cloth to his face. He reared back but Delia followed, keeping the cloth tight over his mouth and nose until his eyes rolled up and he slumped on the ground.

“Good night, Mr Smith,” Delia said with satisfaction, though her triumph was short-lived as she saw Burt lumbering towards her. He was remarkably quick for a big fellow, she thought in dismay, staggering to her feet once more.

Delia ran, holding her skirts high, though they caught on every twig and piece of bracken littering the floor, impeding her progress until finally she fell, her foot going down a rabbit hole. Cursing wildly, she tugged at it as Burt halted a few feet away, breathing hard.

“Got you,” he said with satisfaction, until a bellow of fury from behind took them both by surprise.

Two men on horseback exploded out of the dimming twilight. One threw himself from his horse and landed on Burt, knocking him flat.

“Muir!” Delia exclaimed, still trying to extricate herself from the rabbit hole as Hamilton dismounted and ran to her.

“Delia, are ye well, lassie?”

“Yes, oh, yes! Never mind me, help Muir. He’s injured, he ought not—”

“Ach, dinnae fash yerself, he’s got a head like an anvil,” Hamilton said dismissively until his gaze met Delia’s once more. “All right, all right, I’m going,” he said, holding up his hands and hurrying over to where Muir and Burt were wrestling.

To be fair, Muir seemed to have the situation under control as he punched Burt repeatedly in the head and gave the impression of being less than pleased at Hamilton’s intervention. He got in several more blows before Hamilton hauled him up and suggested he tend to his fiancée while he dealt with the brute.

“Delia!” Muir exclaimed, rushing to her and pulling her into his arms with such fervour that she felt rather gratified by the experience. The last time he had come to her aid he had been a heroic stranger, but now he was beloved and so very dear, and to see the genuine fear and worry in his eyes chased away any lingering doubt that he was marrying her for honour’s sake.

“Mo ghraidh, did the bastard hurt ye? Are ye sure? Christ, I’ve been out of my head with worry. When Dugald told me men had taken ye away, I thought I’d run mad. I was feart I widnae get to ye in time. Speak to me, Delia! You’re sure you took nae hurt?” he said urgently, for all she had managed so far was to shake her head at his questions.

“Well, I would if you’d let me get a word in,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time as a rush of relief and happiness overwhelmed her.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, only ye frightened me half to death.”

“I’m fine, a little bruised and rather tired, but quite well. What does mo ghraidh mean?”

Muir made a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It means, ‘my love,’ ye wee devil, because I love ye something fierce, Delia, but we are going to have to have serious words about this habit you have formed of getting yerself kidnapped.”

Delia stared at him, uncertain whether she wanted to kiss him and tell him she loved him too or take him to task for saying something so outrageous.

“Ach, Muir, she dinnae need our help, I reckon,” Hamilton said in disgust as he stalked back to them after having tied Burt up and investigated Mr Smith’s body and the contents of the carriage. “She’s already laid two of the villains out cold. The coachman swears he’d no notion of what they were up to until it was too late. The fellow who looks like starved parson told him his wife had run off and he was fetching her back again.”

“Aye, but he dinnae help her, so he’s going nowhere,” Muir said firmly. “We’ll lock them all up at Wildsyde and hand them over to the sheriff. He can decide what to do with them, for I ken well enough what I’d do.”

“Aye, sure,” Hamilton said easily, his attention fixed on Delia with interest. “But how did ye do it, lassie? Yer a wee little bit of a thing and—”