Page 50 of The Trouble With Her Duke
Concurrently, Sunshine and Hero began high-pitched neighing, snorting, and kicking their stalls. Lydia heard wood splintering.
Hearing a sound behind her, Lydia was about to turn around when a foul-tasting rag was shoved in her mouth and a large sack covered her head.
“Sunshine, we’ve got something for you,” a man’s gruff voice said.
“Grrrrrrrrrrr.” Rosie growled and attacked.
Lydia heard the pup frantically defend her. Worried about Rosie and desperate to free herself, Lydia squirmed and kicked and yelled behind her gagging, but brawny arms hefted her up and flung her over a set of wide shoulders while someone else tied her legs. Rosie barked furiously, and then she heard a man’s anguished howl.
“Damn dog bit me. Tore me britches,” the gruff voice said. “Bloody ’ell!”
A piercing cry from Rosie was followed by a thud. Rosie! Lydia’s heart cried. She heard no sound from the dog—only the fury of the horses. Where was the stableboy?
“That should take care ’o ’er stupid mutt. The widow isn’t paying ’nuff to lose m’leg,” the gruff voice said.
“Charge ’er more, something different,” a nasal voice suggested. “I ’ear she gives it fer free to the titled men.”
“This fine piece on my shoulder might be nicer,” the gruff voice said, reaching up and pinching Lydia’s breast and making her cry out behind the gag from the sharp pain. “And this ’ere fine horseflesh . . .”
“Leave ’em,” the nasal voice ordered. “The widow wants the woman. His lordship can find another whore. Steal ’is ’orses and ’e’ll ’ave our necks stretched.”
Cold fear ran through Lydia. Was the kidnapper right? Would Damon do everything to find her? What if he tried for a day or two and then gave up? After all, she wasn’t his wife. She wasn’t a mother to his children. She was only the governess. She imagined Annabelle might be the first to miss her when she brought her my morning chocolate, or perhaps when she didn’t show up for the children. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks.
The kidnappers had mentioned the widow. The only widow she knew who had the gall to do something so horrid was Lady Withers. Lydia prayed she could figure out a way to escape before they hauled her away. God only knew where she’d end up.
The gruff-voiced kidnapper shifted her on his shoulder and uttered a curse. “I smell smoke. One of the ’horses must’ve kicked over a lamp. Let’s get out of here.”
My God! A fire? Panic gripped Lydia’s heart. The horses! Rosie! Fury replaced self-pity. She had to do something. She couldn’t let them perish. Lydia began to squirm and kick with all her might. Butting her head into the brute’s face, she heard him howl and felt a meaty fist hit the side of her head sending hot pain coursing through her body. She became dizzy and felt encroaching darkness pushing against her. “No, I must stay alert.” She opened her eyes, fighting to see, but the pain proved too much. Slipping into darkness, her last thought was of Damon.
“Father, there’s smoke coming from the stable!” Michael shouted, rushing into Damon’s study.
Damon leaped from his chair and looked out the window. A black curl of smoke rose above the tree line from the direction of the stable. A chill gripped his heart. Slamming the door open, he shouted the alarm. “Jenkins, there’s a fire at the stable!”
“Father, I’m coming, too.” Michael followed him down the hall to the front door.
“You’ll do no such thing!” He stopped and crowned down, placing his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Get back in the house, son. Take care of Mandy. Make sure everyone is safe.”
“But Miss Hammond and Rosie aren’t here.”
Oh God! Lydia was on her morning walk. She would have gone to the stable with apples for the horses.
Jenkins approached at a run.
“The stable is on fire. Round up as many men as you can and meet me at the stable. Wait. Has anyone seen Lyd . . . Miss Hammond or Rosie?”
“They haven’t returned from their walk,” Jeffrey said, catching his breath.
Damon looked at Michael. “You and your sister stay with Mrs. Jenkins and Annabelle. I want to know where you are.”
“Y . . . yes father,” Michael said with a quivering bottom lip. “Take this. In case Rosie needs it.” He withdrew Lydia’s handkerchief from his pocket.
“We’ll find them, son. I promise.” Damon held the cloth in his hands and ran to the stable with his heart in his throat. Something had happened to Lydia. He knew it. “Start the water brigade,” he shouted. A small stream leading from the pond ran parallel to the stable. His father had chosen the location for that reason when he built the structure years ago. “Five men. Help me with the horses.”
Relief flooded Damon as he made his way through the stable and saw the fire had not spread. The flames had started behind the structure. Someone had set a torch to an old wagon filled with straw, that had been parked next to the stable. The back wall of the stable was on fire, but it hadn’t spread to the roof. This was intentional. Why? He looked around and saw something near a stall. Lydia’s boot. She had been kidnapped. There was only one person he could think of who would do such a thing. Lydia’s account of the trip to the modiste whirled through his mind and he felt sick. Naomi.
“Men, use the farthest practice ring from the stable to secure the horses. Hurry.” Damon found Hero and the dappled grey lathered and frenzied in their stalls. The horses had nearly destroyed their stalls with their hind legs. A few more minutes and Hero would have freed himself. As he inspected the area, Damon found Rosie limp in the corner. “Rosie, girl. What happened?” When he moved the dog, she whimpered, and he saw blood where she had been hit or kicked. To his surprise, she stood—wobbly but determined—and put her paw on a piece of cloth. Damon held it to his nose. “You tore this in a fight, didn’t you?”
Rosie barked and growled at the bloodied cloth. Picking her up, he ran from the stable and met Jenkins coming his way.
