The Sweetest Love (Sons of Worthington Series) Read Free

in the forest. And what appeared to be a small two-story cottage, stood nestled amongst some trees. The place wasn’t familiar to him, and neither were the surroundings. He pictured an elderly couple lived here in a private haven away from society.
    Soon, the door rattled, the chink of chains confirming his suspicion. Then the carriage’s door opened. Before he had a chance to speak, the tip of a saber entered through the open space.
    “Mark my words, my lord, one wrong move and I’ll slice this blade clean through you.”
    A person with a hooded black cape stood in the doorway of the vehicle, their face hidden in the shadows. Tristan blinked with surprise. Whoever this was had such a young voice for being someone so threatening. Tristan had no doubt the man’s words were true, however, he had serious misgivings that his captor was a full grown man. The tone of voice was more like a lad just before reaching his maturity.
    “I’ll cooperate,” Tristan replied.
    “Come out of the vehicle slowly.”
    As instructed, Tristan stepped down from the coach. His captor wore the attire of a driver, except the clothes didn’t fit him as well. Even the hat hung low on his forehead, and the brim cast shadows over the occupant’s thin face. Tristan was certain he could overpower this one—yet his captor held a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other.
    A gust of wind blew from behind, pushing Tristan forward. Drops of rain fell on him. When had the storm moved in?
    “I assure you, my lord, I’m well-schooled in the use of a saber and pistol. One wrong move and it will be your last,” his captor said loudly above the howling wind.
    Tristan frowned. The odds of escaping were not in his favor. “I believe you.” And he did. The other man’s hands didn’t tremble like someone who had never done this before. There was confidence in the way the other spoke and in his movements.
    The lad motioned toward the cottage as he tried to keep his hat from blowing off his head. “Enter.”
    Tristan held his hands up in surrender as he walked. He wanted to make the other person aware that he was unarmed and was no threat. “Can you at least tell me why you have taken me? What have I done?”
    “You shall know when I want you to know, and not a moment sooner.”
    Tristan couldn’t possibly think of why anyone would want to kidnap him. He hadn’t made many enemies except for Lord Hollingsworth, and now that the man was dead Tristan couldn’t think of a single soul. He hadn’t broken many hearts, either. Never had he claimed the title of rake—like his younger brother, Trey. Lately, the only title Tristan could claim was that of a drunk.
    Entering the small cottage, he took in his surroundings. A few lamps lightened the room. Somebody lived here, and the comforting welcome of the fire and the coziness of the furniture gave him hope that whoever this person was, they were not going to kill him. At least he hoped first impressions were correct.
    A single wooden chair sat in the middle of the room. The tip of the saber at his back had Tristan holding his breath, yet he followed the prompt of the weapon as it pushed him to the chair.
    “Sit.”
    Once again, he did as instructed. The lad walked behind him, tied his hands and legs with a rope before standing again, then moved in front of Tristan.
    He arched an eyebrow. “Will you now tell me why I’m here?” He struggled with the ties, impressed with how well his captor—as small in stature as the man was—could bind so tight. “As you can see, I’m not a threat any longer.”
    The lad kept his head down, preventing Tristan from getting a good look at him. Of course his captor stood in the shadows, so Tristan wouldn’t be able to see his face that well anyway. He still felt the other’s gaze assessing him. Usually Tristan was a patient man, but he was ready to shout with frustration.
    His captor folded his arms. “You, my lord , are in my control. I am going to ruin you