Page 22 of A Stormy Season

She imagined taking the key from her purse, very slowly and without drawing attention, and leaping at the man sitting on the opposite seat, stabbing him in the throat, and jumping from the moving carriage. But it was speeding through the streets so quickly that she might even be killed by the fall. Besides, she didn’t want to leave Luke Watley behind.

She tucked her purse against her stomach, covering it up with her arm. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice it and take it from her.

The carriage was slowing, and before it had even come to a halt, the doors were thrown open on both sides. Men reached in and grabbed her and drew a hood over her head, and she managed to clutch tightly to her purse as they lifted her out of the carriage, gripping her arms so tightly each finger was sure to leave a bruise.

Jane thought about struggling, kicking and screaming, but she decided not to. After all, it seemed little could be accomplished by fighting against them now. She was outnumbered and blindfolded.

She felt the damp night air on her skin just before a man’s voice said gruffly, “Watch your step.” And then she found herself stumbling down some steps, and the sounds of their footsteps echoed in such a way as to tell her she was inside a structure with walls and a ceiling.

When the man leading her stopped, someone snatched the hood from her head.

“Two for the price of one.” Lenoir was smirking at them.

“The lady was with him,” the man from their carriage ride said.

“You did well to take her. We shall hold them both for ransom. We should get a pretty sum, if this is Henry Gilchrist’s sister.” He stepped toward Jane. “Are you?”

“I am Jane Gilchrist.” Jane was proud of the even, unemotional tone in her voice.

“Why didn’t you tie her hands?” Lenoir demanded, glaring at the man who seemed to be the spokesman for the ruffian kidnappers.

“I . . . I didn’t think we needed to.”

“Tie them.” Lenoir threw something at the man.

Jane’s stomach sank. How would she fight them with her wrists bound together?

“Let the lady go,” Luke Watley said. “She has nothing to do with whatever sordid business you have with me.”

There was silence as the man held her wrists together. Jane prayed he wouldn’t notice the purse, which she squeezed into the smallest possible ball in her fist.

The man wrapped what looked like dirty rags tied end to end around her wrists and knotted the ends together.

Lenoir looked at her wrists, then moved to Luke Watley.

“You should let the lady go,” Luke reiterated.

“Why would I do that? She will bring a good price from her brother.”

“And me?” Luke said, snorting derisively. “You won’t get much ransom for me.”

“You have something I want. Do you know what it is?”

“No, I don’t. You ransacked my house. Why could you not find it?” Anger was creeping into Luke’s voice.

“Your wife must have hidden it. She had hiding places, no? Places where she hid important things?”

“I did not see her very much in the months before she died,” he said dryly, his lip curling.

Lenoir nodded, crossing his arms over his skinny chest.

How could Anne have possibly chosen Lenoir over Luke Watley? The Frenchman had a certain dark charm about him, perhaps, if one was attracted by that sort of thing, but Luke was much more handsome, and in a completely different way. He had broad shoulders and a powerful chest, light brown hair, and bright, honest, open eyes—or at least he did before the woman he loved betrayed him.

“If you tell me what it is you are looking for, perhaps I can find it for you,” Luke added.

“Yes, well, it was something Mrs. Watley had written down on paper, you see. It was a list, possibly in letter form, and she was using it to . . . what is the word in English? Ah, yes. Blackmail. She was blackmailing me.”

Luke stood perfectly still. Even his expression didn’t change. Finally, he asked, “Blackmailing you for what? What did she want from you?”