Page 78 of An Unfamiliar Duke

Rosalind was so cold her fingers could barely move. And yet she needed them to. Desperately. They had left the Finley Park drive and were now on the country road that led toward the main thoroughfare to London. The road had been hard-packed the first time she’d traveled it in the carriage. It had been pocked with puddles when she’d ridden home with Sebastian. Now that the rain had had time to truly soak the ground, it had become treacherously muddy, and Mr. Sellers’s horse was struggling to keep up the pace his rider was demanding.

They turned a bend in the road, and the horse’s rear hooves slipped. Mr. Sellers cursed and kicked the terrified creature. Rosalind took advantage of the unexpected movement to hide her manipulation of the leather strap. The end was already free of the loop that had held it flush. All that remained was to pop the pin out from the hole and pull the strap through. She hooked her frozen finger around the pin and tugged. It moved a little but not enough.

Mr. Sellers leaned forward. Rosalind tensed, but his focus was on the horse. “Come on, you worthless animal,” he growled through gritted teeth.

The horse strained to maintain its footing on the muddy slope. Rosalind moved her arm a fraction and tried pulling at the buckle pin again. This time, it popped free. She froze, but Mr. Sellers paid her no mind. Instead, he turned to look over his shoulder, and in one slow and steady movement, she raised two fingers to guide the leather strap out of the buckle. The metal piece fell away, and just like that, the strap was free.

“It seems to me that your devoted husband is somewhat slow to respond to your plight, Your Grace.”

Rosalind reminded herself to breathe. She must do nothing that might alert him to the satchel’s precarious position. “Do not discount him yet, sir.”

“Oh, I do not intend to. I have a fairly good idea how much he would like to reclaim this satchel. And I daresay his sense of honor will drive him to rescue his wife along the way, even if he is not inclined to race after her.”

She did not need to see Mr. Sellers’s face to know that he was gloating. Even if it were true that the satchel was of more worth to Sebastian than she was, she would not own to it in front of him. “You may think what you will, but I know he will come after you. And he will find you.”

“Then perhaps it would be better if I disappeared without drawing too much attention to myself. A gentleman riding through Town with a married woman dressed in nothing but her dressing gown and a shawl would surely draw some attention.”

Rosalind gasped, and he laughed a hollow, mirthless sound.

“You, sir, are a cad.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an opportunist. And now that I am no longer in dire need of a hostage, I believe my best prospects lie in abandoning you here for your useless husband to find. It will ease my horse’s burden and, therefore, speed my getaway whilst simultaneously slowing my pursuer.” His ugly laugh returned. “A damsel in distress and a duke’s noblesse oblige. I could not have planned it better.”

A large bird sailed overhead, its lonely call sending a shiver of apprehension through Rosalind. She did not know this terrain well enough to find her way in the dark. She could perhaps find shelter against a wall or under a tree until daylight, but if she were forced to toss the satchel from a moving horse, she would never be able to find it again unless she had some kind of landmark.

Desperate to make out something—anything—that might be familiar in the darkness, she scoured the landscape. Up ahead, a faint light shone. She strained to see it more clearly. What could it be? It did not seem bright enough to be a lantern, yet it was too low to the ground to be a star. She did not dare hope for another traveler on this quiet road at such an hour, and the light was coming from the wrong direction to be Sebastian. But whatever it was, it offered hope. As long as her captor did not see it.

Mr. Sellers slowed his mount. “It is time for us to part, Your Grace.”

Rosalind barely had time to twist the satchel’s leather strap around her hand before Mr. Sellers pushed her off the horse. She fell to the ground, landing in a heap in the mud. The satchel came with her, dropping beside her with a thud. She heard his shout when he realized what she had done. Making a frenzied lunge for the satchel, she seized the mud-covered object and scrambled to her feet.

A few feet away, Mr. Sellers was dismounting his horse. Rosalind turned and ran toward the light.

“You may just as well stop now,” Sellers yelled. “There’s no escape!”

Up ahead, a dog barked. Mr. Sellers swore, and his feet slapped against the mud as he started after her. Rosalind knew she could not outrun him. Already, her breath was coming out in ragged gasps. A stone wall appeared at her right, the angular lines like black blocks in the moonlight. It was not much of a marker, but it was better than none. Taking hold of the leather strap, she let go of the satchel and swung her arm wide. Like an enormous pendulum, the bag dropped and then lifted into the air. Releasing the strap when the satchel was at its highest point, she watched it sail over the wall seconds before Mr. Sellers seized her.

“You little witch!”

The dog barked again. A door creaked open, and a man called out.

“Who’s there? Make yourself known, or I shall release the dog.”

Rosalind’s knees almost buckled in relief. They had reached the cottage. “Help me, Mr. Be—”

Mr. Sellers cut off Rosalind’s shout by slapping his hand across her mouth. “Have you forgotten that I am carrying a pistol?” he hissed, pressing the cold, hard muzzle up against her rib cage.

She held perfectly still, fighting to catch her breath through his fingers. The silence lengthened. Had her voice not been loud enough for Mr. Beckett to hear? The door creaked again, and then clicked closed.

“You have one minute to find the satchel.” Mr. Sellers kept his voice low, but there was no mistaking his fury. He pulled her along the wall until they reached the garden gate. “If you call for help, I will shoot anyone who opens the door.” He lifted the latch and thrust her forward. “Go.”

Rosalind stumbled into the garden. Tears flowed freely down her face, but she ignored them. Leaving the path, she started across the grass. There was movement in the shadows. Rosalind swung around in time to see Mr. Beckett’s sheepdog bound out from behind the cottage. The white marks on his black coat appeared as faint smudges in the darkness, but his eyes glistened, and they were trained on the man at the gate. The dog growled. Mr. Sellers spun around, his gun pointed at the animal.

“No!” Rosalind cried.

A piercing whistle rent the air. The dog dropped to his haunches just as Mr. Sellers fired.

Chapter 31