Page 8 of His Unforgettable Bride
The stranger waved the barrel of his weapon back and forth and stepped closer. “If you’re smart, you won’t try to escape. I never miss what I aim for.”
Perhaps the pair only intended to rob him. All Henry had on his person was his clothing. “Is it money you seek?”
Laughter rumbled from the toothless man’s chest. “Why else kidnap a prince for ransom?”
Kidnap? Not today, at least not without a fight.
He was a strong swimmer and could perhaps escape if he dove into the ocean and disappeared under the waves. It would be cold but not any more frigid than the North Sea, where he had learned to swim.
He took a step back. But before he broke away, the man with the long-barreled weapon swung it hard and slammed the butt against the side of Henry’s head.
Instantaneous, gut-wrenching pain swallowed Henry whole. He crumpled, then thudded into the sand, hitting his head.
Three
Beware of such vulgar interpolations as “You know,”
“You see,” “I’ll tell you what.”
“You know, a dead prince is worth far less than a live one,” a gruff voice said.
Henry was not dead yet, but he had no intention of correcting the man’s assumption that his last breaths were not imminent. Lying on the cold floor, perhaps of a steamboat, if the steady rumble of an engine was any indication. He kept his eyes shut and his body still. His head throbbed. The scent of blood, most likely his own, mixed with hay and the ripe stench of manure. He fought the urge to shiver from the cold.
On cue, a cow mooed. Was he stuck down with the animals on the lower deck of the steamer going…where?
When he strained to recall his attack, his head threatened to explode. He’d been struck. In the side of the head hard with the gun, but that did not account for the throbbing at the back of his skull. Had he smacked against a rock when he fell unconscious?
He drew in a steadying breath. How was Dobbin? Was he on the ship somewhere?
Henry prayed his friend had not been captured, too. Even worse, he hoped Dobbin had not been left dead on the beach.
Dead. Like Sutton.
Henry flinched, hoping his captors failed to notice. The anguish of losing his brother washed over him anew. If only he had done more to amend their differences. But now it was too late…
If only he had done more to fix the problems with his father, too. But they had parted ways on unfavorable terms, especially after Henry’s last escapade before leaving on his voyage.
He had donned a disguise and entered a horserace, betting a large sum on himself as the winner. But his horse drew up lame, Henry lost, and the King learned about the stunt. During his reprimand, his father threatened to cancel Henry’s trip. But Mother intervened, believing time apart was best. She hoped Henry would soon realize his actions impacted the entire family.
Guilt pressed against him again. What would it take to turn his life around? Indeed, Sutton’s death and the kidnapping were strong contenders.
Of course, he disliked upsetting his parents, who must have been consumed with grief over losing their firstborn. His four younger sisters—Amanda, Charlotte, Nora, and Maureen—were undoubtedly mourning Sutton’s loss, too. The girls adored their older brothers, and the feelings were mutual. If Henry failed to survive his unfolding ordeal, he would shatter their tender hearts even more.
He had to fix his predicament, but how?
“I tell you what, the prince should have awoken by now, you’d think,” came a slurred voice—probably the toothless one. “There’s a doctor in Everly. Suppose we get off there, have him give the prince a once-over, and then we catch a later boat.”
How long had he been unconscious? Was it still the same night as his attack? The next day? Or longer yet?
“Don’t be an idiot,” replied the gruff voice, belonging to the man who had carried the gun. “The last thing we want, you see, is someone to catch us with royalty. Use your head. We’re going straight to Hope, like the boss said. That’s final.”
Was Hope a city, a secret hideaway where criminals plotted underhanded deeds? Or did his imagination run wild? Perchance, both possibilities rang true.
“What do you suppose is the going rate for a prince these days?” the toothless man asked.
“Hard telling, but I wager it’ll be hefty.”
Moments later, one of them released an obnoxiously loud yawn. “Must be past midday. Gonna go stretch my legs.”
