The man shook his head, in sorrowful acknowledgement of human failings. Then he drove the butt of his stick into Daizell’s stomach.
He didn’t see it coming fast enough. The blow knocked the air out of him to sickening effect and he went over, down to the ground, knowing his head and neck and back were now horribly vulnerable to blows and kicks, but unable to do anything except gasp fruitlessly for breath. There was a flurry of violent motion above him, with a cry cut off, andthen a boot landed hard in his side. Daizell curled round the pain, trying to brace himself against more.
It didn’t come. There was more scuffling, but the sound was retreating. Daizell uncurled cautiously and saw the coach across the roadway, the driver standing waiting, two men dragging a third, oddly shaped figure with them. It took him a moment to realise the third had a blanket over his head.
‘Cass?’ he croaked.
Vier’s men started bundling Cassian into the coach. He wasn’t making it easy, although he was muffled in cloth: he was kicking and struggling, but there were two of them and they were big. Daizell forced himself to his feet, side and belly aching, and made himself run. It was more of a stagger, with one arm round his painful side. ‘Hey!’ he shouted.
The coach door slammed. The driver cracked his whip. The coach rattled off with Cassian inside, and Daizell stood staring uselessly after it.
Chapter Nine
Cassian had no idea what was going on, but it was terrifying.
Being confronted by large men in gathering darkness had been alarming, but he’d told himself Daizell would talk their way out of it. After all, theydidn’thave Miss Beaumont: they could prove it. He hadn’t expected the sudden, frightening violence that doubled Daizell over, and he really hadn’t expected what happened next.
As far as he could tell, someone had thrown a blanket over his head, because he’d found himself enveloped in scratchy, close, dusty darkness and hauled off with a brutal grip on his arm. He’d shouted and struggled, but someone had got a hard hand over his mouth, pushing the sacking against his lips, and then he’d been fighting an enemy he couldn’t see, far stronger than himself, with no idea what they were doing or what had happened to Daizell.
And now he was sprawling on the floor of a coach, and it was moving.
A hand closed on his arm, hauling him up to the seat. ‘Sit there and shut up,’ growled the man who’d hit Daizell. ‘Damned nuisance. Caught me on the bloody jaw.’
‘What are you—’ Cassian began, high-pitched with fear and indignation, and was cut off by a hand grabbing at his throat.
‘I said, shut up,’ the man growled. ‘Little bitch. Serve youright if we treated you like your sort deserves. Keep your mouth shut now or I’ll take my belt to you.’
Cassian’s jaw dropped under the sacking. He had never in his life been spoken to in such a way and the urge to demandDo you know who I am?could only be held back by the fear that the brute might find out. He didn’t speak. After a couple of seconds, the hand at his throat released its grip, dragged roughly and deliberately down over his chest, and moved off.
Little bitch. Your sort.Cassian didn’t like the sound of that at all, and the fear was unfamiliar and sickening. Had he and Daizell been seen holding hands, or caught in a betraying look?
He knew very well his predilections were dangerous. They got other men in bad, sometimes fatal trouble, brought them disgrace or shame even if the cruel law wasn’t involved. He’d always been excruciatingly, soul-sappingly discreet himself. And yet, if the Duke were caught with a man, the consequences would all be to his self-esteem: humiliation, widespread gossip, his family’s opinions. Those were bad enough, but nobody would assault him, gaol him, pillory him. He was safe from all that because he was Severn.
Right now, he was only Cassian, and he was terrified.
He made himself breathe and think. These were Vier’s henchmen, out to retrieve Miss Beaumont. If they’d taken Cassian, it was surely because they thought he could lead them to the runaway heiress. The odds were that the insults were just casual ones, aimed at his unimposing physique. He hoped to God that was the case.
Why had they kidnapped him rather than Daizell, though? It made no sense. Unless, of course, someone had recognised him.
That was a grim thought. If Sir James intended to accuse the Duke of Severn of abducting an underage heiress, things might well become difficult. And if everything had gone wrong and the vengeful Vier found out about the Duke and Daizell . . .
There was no point frightening himself with possibilities. Probably he’d been taken as Daizell’s companion and the easier target, and all would be resolved when he explained he had no idea where Miss Beaumont was. Until he had an opportunity to do so, he ought not to make bad worse by thinking. He was a duke even if disguised, and thus untouchable, he told himself, though the blanket over his head was rasping his skin and its dust made his throat tickle, and he was unpleasantly aware of the two large men sitting at his sides.
He’d find out what was going on soon enough; in the meantime, he would not attempt to struggle against a pair of bravos in a small space. Instead, he bent his mind to considering where they might be going. He had a good innate sense of direction, and had pored overPaterson’s British Itineraryin his plod around the staging-posts outside Stratford. Between that and the reasonable road surface, he was fairly sure they were heading up the Warwick Road.
They weren’t long on it, turning off to the east on to what was clearly a wretched track. The coach jolted and jerked as it rattled along, and Cassian pressed his lips together under the cover of the blanket, and clenched his fists against the consuming fear. He wished Daizell were here, with that casually kind hand pressed to his knee, offering comfort unsought and unquestioning. He set his mind to that touch, and then to the other touches of their glorious morning, which now felt a very long time ago, and managed to keephis feelings of alarm to a manageable level until the coach stopped.
‘Right. Get out. Mind those dainty feet.’
Cassian found himself half-lifted out. He stumbled along, pushed by unseen hands into a building. There were murmurs of speech, then sounds of appalled protest in a female voice, to which Cassian’s captor growled, ‘Shut your mouth. I want the back room key.’ He let go of Cassian’s arm as he spoke.
‘But that’s not—’
‘I know what I’m doing, jade! The key, I say.’
Now he was on his feet, out of the coach, and in the presence of a witness, Cassian felt able to act. He pulled the horrible blanket off, and blinked in what briefly seemed bright light.
He was in a rather mean house; if it was an inn, it wasn’t much frequented. The ceilings were low and it was lit with tallow candles. He could see his captors, and a thin-faced woman in a drab dress, and a brutish-looking man behind her. They were all gaping at him.
