Page 7 of Kidnapping Cordelia

Muir stared at the woman he had rescued from Malmsey’s clutches and could hardly believe his eyes. He had not got a good look at her until now, but now he recognised her well enough.

He addressed her, but she only looked at him blearily before she crumpled. Muir thought perhaps she had said his name but could not be sure as he reached for her, too late realising he had just covered her gown in Malmsey’s blood. Well, there was no help for it now. Hefting her into his arms, he discovered she was not as feather light as he might have expected of such a petite little creature and carried her inside the inn.

“A private parlour for the lady,” Muir shouted at the innkeeper, who immediately dropped what he was doing and showed him up the stairs.

“I reckon her husband is below, sir. Shall I fetch him? Good Lord, such goings on in my inn. I don’t like it, I tell you. A respectable place, this is.”

“Well, Malmsey isn’t respectable,” Muir said shortly, staring at the man with interest, for to his certain knowledge Lady Cordelia had been unmarried when he’d left London and had made no announcement of a betrothal, let alone a speedy nuptial. “And I should be pleased to meet her husband. Send him up at once.”

“Yes, sir,” the innkeeper said as Muir carried Lady Cordelia to the bed and lay her carefully down.

She stirred, giving a little moan. Muir extracted a small silver flask from his person and sat down beside her, easing one arm behind her shoulders to lift her a little.

“Here, lassie, a wee drop of whisky will put all to rights,” he told her, pressing the open flask to her lips and tilting it up.

Lady Cordelia spluttered and gasped, then stared up at him with an expression of mute dismay.

“W-What was that?” she demanded, clutching at her throat and grimacing comically.

“That’s the finest whisky you’ll get anywhere in Scotland and will do ye a deal of good. Take another sip.”

She shook her head, holding her hand out to stop him from giving her another dose.

“Dinnae make a fuss, ’tis only a sip. It will give ye strength enough to deal with what’s next.”

“What is next?” she asked in alarm.

“Well, yer husband is on his way up, so I’m told,” he said, watching her expression closely.

“My—” she began, only to gasp and sit bolt upright, clasping his arm. “Oh, Mr Anderson, you must help me,” she pleaded, just as a man walked through the door.

Muir turned, frowning as he regarded the fellow. He looked vaguely familiar, though he could not say from where. A spindly fellow with an air of gravity about him… for a moment, Muir wondered if he was a curate.

“Darling!” he exclaimed, hurrying into the room towards Lady Cordelia. “Did that vile man hurt you?”

Muir felt as much as saw Cordelia stiffen as the man rushed towards her. “Don’t you come another step, Enoch,” she told him with some force. “I shall never forgive you for getting me into this horrid mess and I am not and never will be your darling!”

Well, this was interesting. Muir looked from one to the other of them, observing the livid scratches down the man’s cheek.

“Is he nae yer husband then, my lady?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both answered at once, but the thin fellow spoke louder, holding Muir’s attention for the moment. “We eloped,” he said with a chagrined smile. “Dreadful, I know, but she feared her brother would disapprove of the match, for I have no title nor fortune. Sadly, she’s got cold feet since, but now she’s quite thoroughly ruined, so—”

“You wicked liar!”

Muir turned to see the lady had got herself onto her knees on the bed and was gazing at Enoch with such blazing anger her cheeks were flushed scarlet, her lovely blue eyes glittering with the force of her fury. She was really quite splendid, considering everything she’d been through, and he could only admire her spirit as she pointed at her would-be husband with an accusing finger. “He kidnapped me, and I would rather be ruined ten times over than spend another second in his company, the vile, despicable, dishonourable rat!”

“My dear,” spindleshanks said again, trying to reach for her hand. “You’re overwrought and—”

Muir grasped hold of the fellow’s wrist, keeping him back. “Is this true?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Though recent events might give people pause to believe it, Muir was by nature a peaceable and pleasure-loving fellow who had taken nothing much too seriously over the past years. However, anyone who knew him would know that tone of voice was not one to trifle with. It seemed this fellow recognised the dangerous note in it too and stilled. He tried to tug his hand free but failed to do so.

“Answer the question, sir.”