Page 73 of Disciplined by the Duke
His jaw clenched. “If that’s the case I don’t want you there. But, trust me, I will do everything in my power to save your sister.”
“I do trust you.” She reached up and grabbed his hand between both of hers. “But I still need to go. She’s my sister. We are each the only family we have left in the world. I need to be there.”
Rothchild stepped forward, leading three horses by the reins. Where he’d acquired them Liz had no idea. “We need to leave.”
Marcus searched her face, his dark gray eyes flickering over every surface. Whatever he found made him sigh with frustration. Running a hand through his hair, he nodded. “Let’s go.” He lifted Liz to the saddle of one of the horses and leaped up behind her, taking the reins from his friend. “Summerset, make haste.” The man turned on his three-inch heels and jumped into the carriage, pounding the roof to urge the driver on.
Rothchild swung up onto his horse, dragged the head of his mount around, and tossed the reins of the third horse to Dunkeld. “You’ll most likely crush this poor mare with your size, but she was the best I could do on short notice.” Ignoring his friend’s scowl, he kicked his heels into his mount’s flanks, and was off down the street.
Marcus secured her body against his before urging their own horse into a gallop, Dunkeld pounding up behind them.
The ride through London was frantic. Dust from the horses’ hooves clogged her throat and burned her eyes. Angry shouts followed them as they darted in and out of traffic, scrambling through intersections. Liz’s breaths came in short bursts; whether from the exertion it took to remain on the hurtling animal or from the panic that was simmering in her blood she didn’t know. She couldn’t believe Westmore had been able to order Amanda hanged so quickly. They had to reach her sister in time. The other option was unthinkable.
The crowds became thicker, slowing their progress. When they turned a corner, Liz saw why. The gallows loomed into view and the London public was settling in for their afternoon’s diversion. Loaves of bread were broken and the pieces handed out among families. Delighted cackles of laughter battered her ears.
She searched for her sister’s form, hope blossoming when she realized the crowd still waited for their entertainment.
Marcus pulled their horse to a halt beside Rothchild. “Over there.” He pointed to the left of the gallows. “Three prisoners and some guards.”
Liz narrowed her eyes. Where . . . ? A bowed head, long strings of scraggly dark hair blocking the face, appeared between the shifting crowds and disappeared again. Mandy. She wiggled to get out of Marcus’s grasp and off the horse. She had to get to her sister.
He grunted and pulled her tight to his chest. “We need a plan.”
“I’ll go, persuade the guards to release Miss Wilcox. But I might need some time.” Rothchild swung his leg over the horse’s head and jumped to the ground. He looked back up at Marcus. “I’ll need you to delay the executions.”
Liz twisted and tried to slide under Marcus’s arms. “Why you?” She plucked at his fingers and hissed to Marcus, “Put me down.” She turned back to Rothchild. “Marcus and I will go.”
“No offense, but I’m much more charming than Montague.” He winked up at her before weaving his way through the throngs, his horse trailing behind him.
Dunkeld dismounted. “I’ll go with him. In case charm fails.”
When she lost sight of them, she turned back to Marcus. “Why are we still on this horse? Let me down.”
“Shh. I need to think.” He scanned the crowd, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. He frowned at her. “I have an idea. I don’t like it, but it’s all I can come up with.” Lowering her down to the ground with one arm, he threw a leg over the horse’s head and jumped to his feet. He crowded her against the heaving flank of the horse. “I apologize for this.” With no further warning, he grabbed the neckline of her dress and ripped the shoulder seam apart.
She gaped at him, shocked. He tilted his head and studied her. “Your hair is sufficiently disordered from our ride. That should do.”
“Do for what?” She fingered the torn edge of the shoulder of her gown. She glanced back and forth between her torn dress and his face. His actions made no sense.
“For this.” He darted his hand out and grabbed the back collar of a young man walking past. “Ruffian!” he shouted, throwing the stunned man to the ground before picking him up and tossing him back down again. “Guards! I need a constable immediately!” He continued bellowing until two men in uniform pressed through the crowd. Their angry visages cleared when they caught sight of Marcus. There was no mistaking the expensive tailoring of his clothes or the fine quality of the material. A man of means stood before them, and they knew it.
“Sir—” one of the guards began.
“That’s ‘Your Grace’ to you.” Marcus raised one imperious eyebrow.
Both guards swallowed, and the young man in Marcus’s grasp let out a frightened “eep!” An old woman missing her front teeth muttered, “A duke!”
Marcus nodded to her and the guards. “I am Marcus Aurelius Beaufort Hawkridge, the eighth Duke of Montague and Marquis of Harrington, Earl of Berring, and Baron Hawkridge of Stoven. And this boy here”—he gave the young man a shake, the lad’s faded cap flying from his head—“assaulted this woman.”
Liz’s stomach rolled around like eels in a bucket. She stood on her tiptoes, could just see the top of her sister’s head. Rothchild talked to the remaining guard, faces close together, one hand resting on his shoulder. The guard gave a definitive “no” shake to his head.
She understood Marcus’s plan now. They needed this distraction to give the earl time to secure Mandy’s release. But what would happen to this frightened young man whom Marcus shook around like a rug on cleaning day? He couldn’t go to prison to save her sister.
The taller guard tugged on the bottom hem of his coat. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice became stilted, the accent forced. “I am sorry, miss, for your misfortune.” He peeked at Marcus from the side of his eye, and laced his fingers in the buttons of his waistcoat. He cleared his throat again. “Can you i-den-ti-fy this man as the one who has performed the assault? Upon yourself.” He smiled, looking pleased with himself.
His fellow guard stared at him, slack faced. “Why are you talk—” Tall Guard elbowed his friend in the ribs, his question ending in a wheeze.
Liz looked at the man hanging from his collar in the duke’s hand. His slight shoulders were rounded with acceptance. She stepped close to Marcus. A soft smile passed with lightning speed across his face, so fast she thought she might have imagined it, before he became the grim duke again.