Secrets to Seducing a Scot

TWENTY-FIVE

Darkness.

Flashes of sound broke through Earlington’s nothingness. He stirred, and pain pounded out a staccato in his head. The ache made him wince, but he forced his eyes to open.

He found himself lying inside of a crate. His knees were wedged up against the wooden sides, and his arms were bound behind him. He lay on his right side, rendering his right arm completely numb. Around his head, damp straw lay scattered upon the wooden planks.

From inside the confined space, he heard the turning of carriage wheels. Daylight seeped in between the wooden planks, creating prison bars of sunbeams. He shimmied as close as he could to see out.

The crate appeared to be mounted on the back of a dogcart or trap, and he saw the hills hurtling past the carriage. He heard men’s voices, but he couldn’t make out how many there were or what they were saying.

Within minutes, the carriage came to a halt. He heard the sound of wrenching as the lid of the crate, which had been nailed shut, was pried open. The sun exploded in his face, and he winced. Two pairs of hands lifted him forcefully from the box, and set him on unsteady legs.

“Wake up, Your ’Ighness. Ride’s over now.”

It was a gutter-class English accent. His eyes adjusted on the man’s face. The man’s hair was matted to his head, and his leathery skin was pockmarked. It was the same man he’d seen last night, the one who’d tried to smother him with his own pillow.

“Who are you?” Earlington demanded, the effort of his voice creating a throbbing pain throughout his head.

The man smiled, revealing places where his teeth used to be. “I’m your coachman, sir!” he mocked. “And it is my duty to make sure you’re delivered safe an’ sound to your final destination.” He turned to the other man, who had hopped back onto the driver’s seat. “Right. You can take that coffin back, now. Not too far, mind. We may need it later.”

Earlington spun around and looked with horror at the crate out of which he’d just emerged. It was, indeed, a pauper’s coffin. A small stain of blood was left behind where his head used to be.

“Come with me, Your Majesty.” The man grabbed Earlington around his elbow and dragged him toward what looked to be an ancient castle fort or garrison. The Englishman hollered through the portcullis. A kilted man appeared behind the iron grille.

The kilted man was in his seventies. A thin white beard, at least a foot long, drizzled onto his shirt. “Is that him?”

“Yep. This ’ere’s your prize.” He stretched out his hand. “And now I’d like mine.”

The old man looked Earlington up and down. He signaled to someone in the room above the portcullis, and slowly, the heavy barrier was lifted. “I have your purse of monies inside the bailey. Take the ambassador to the stronghold. Then we’ll settle accounts.” The old man handed the Englishman a ring of keys.

“Right you are.” The Englishman pushed Earlington through a courtyard with an ancient cobbled floor. They entered through a doorway at the foot of the keep, and turned down a set of narrow stone stairs that had been worn smooth from use. They passed through an iron gate and stopped in front of a heavy oak door. He fitted the key in the lock; with a rusty complaint, the mechanism turned.

The Englishman shoved him through the door. The air inside the cell was fetid, and a ghastly smell emanated from what appeared to be a bucket for human waste in the corner. A single small opening served as a window, and it was high above the floor. Against another wall, a cot strung with rope was the only piece of furniture. The floor was nearly black with use, and ground in between the flagstones were things he thought best not to contemplate.

“Kneel down for me, sir.”

Fear shot through him. God only knew what indecency this man had in store for him. His abductor was not a tall man nor a brawny one, but he had the compact strength of a man of violence, and the inclination to use it.

“Why?”

He leaned in and his breath came out in putrid puffs. “You’re going to be knighted.”

Hesitantly, Earlington sank to his knees. His nightdress was still damp, and it clung to his skin in places.

The Englishman pulled out a knife from a sheath in his belt. The blood drained from Earlington’s face. The Englishman went around behind him, and Earlington held his breath.

The Englishman lifted up his bound wrists, forcing Earlington to bend forward. Earlington grimaced. But the man only sliced at the rope that bound his wrists together. When his hands were freed, Earlington’s elbows and shoulders screamed from the cramping. He wanted to rub the deep ligatures in his wrists, but his hands wouldn’t respond properly.

His captor sheathed his weapon and headed for the door.

“You’re English,” remarked Earlington.

The man chuckled. “Right you are. Glad I’m not being confused with one of these skirt-wearing, thistle-assed barbarians.”

“If you don’t like them, why would you ally with them? Can’t you see that having me abducted is a prelude to war? A war with your own countrymen?”

The man spit on the floor. “Listen ’ere. I don’t give a squeaky fart about politics. Run ’em all through, that’s what I say. It’s the only way to get rid of this Scottish vermin once and for all.”

“Then why would you help them by abducting me?”

His back straightened. “Because Your Lordship is worth two hundred knicker. And their money is just the right color for me.”

“But there is money to be had in England, too. A man with your skills is highly wanted—”

The man broke out into hollow laughter. “Oh, they want me all right. They want me dead. I’m not a soldier. I’m a criminal. And England has become too hot to hold me.”

Earlington held up his hands. “Listen to me. I’m in the middle of peace talks with the Scots. If you set me free, or at least tell someone that I am being kept here, I will make sure that you are not only pardoned, but rewarded for your patriotism.”

The man put his hands on his knees to bring his face on a level with Earlington’s. “If you want my advice, milord, forget talks of peace. The only peace these savages understand is the pieces they hack each other to.”

He turned around and walked out. The heavy door thudded shut, and the lock ground closed.

Earlington clambered to the cot. He was now just the chess piece that had stood in front of the king, the final chess piece to be toppled before war broke out.

But now he was here, useless, leaving his daughter vulnerable and exposed. He wrung his hands. Had they taken her, too? Or, worse—he shuddered to contemplate—had she been killed? The mystery of it was almost worse than the fact.

He buried his face in his hands in self-recrimination. Why hadn’t he taken her back to London, where she would have been safe? Why had he been so concerned about these people that it blinded him to the needs of his own daughter?

Serena, he thought, if you’re still alive, please head to safety.