My Bratty Wife
Chapter 233 - Two Hundred And Thirty Three

Chapter 233: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Three

The overgrown path, barely discernible in the fading light, ended abruptly before a dilapidated, small house. It stood hunched and silent amidst a tangle of untamed trees and thorny bushes. This had to be it.

Ryan reined Thunder in sharply, the stallion snorting and stamping, sensing his master’s urgency. He didn’t bother tethering him; there was no time. He leaped from the saddle and, without hesitation, kicked open the flimsy wooden door, half expecting a confrontation.

The house was empty. A wave of cold despair washed over him. Dust motes danced in the single beam of moonlight that pierced the grimy window of the main room. It was small, filthy, and reeked of stale beer and unwashed bodies. But Suzy... there was no sign of her.

Then, his eye caught a faint flicker of something metallic half-hidden beneath a rickety table. He lunged for it, his heart hammering. It was a small, gold chain – separated from the Blackwood ring that was no where to be found. He clenched it in his fist, the metal biting into his palm.

"She was here," he whispered, his voice raw with a mixture of hope and anguish. "They took her from here." He slammed his fist against the rough, damp wall in a gush of frustration and fear. "But where? Where could they have taken her to?" The vastness of the kingdom, the countless hiding places, seemed to mock him.

He forced himself to be calm, to think. He began a careful search of the small, dismal rooms. They were mostly empty, save for a few broken pieces of furniture and discarded rags. But as he entered what seemed to be a large gathering area, he detected a faint, lingering scent in the air – a sophisticated, floral perfume. It was expensive, unfamiliar, and definitely did not belong to his wife. He frowned.

"Someone else was here," he thought, his mind racing. "Another woman?" It didn’t make sense, yet the scent was undeniable.

His search led him to a narrow, planked door, bolted from the outside. The storage room where they had kept some important things. He slid back the bolt and pulled it open. The small space was dark and musty, filled with rough wooden crates, their contents unknown. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it – a piece of pastel colored silk, a significant strip torn from the hem of a gown, snagged on a splintered crate. He picked it up, his touch gentle, his heart aching. And then he saw the message.

Scrawled crudely on a relatively clean patch of the wooden crate, at about the height Suzy might have reached while sitting or kneeling, was a single word, written in a dark, dried substance that could only be blood:

PORT.

The word seemed to leap out at him. ’Port.’ Of course. It hit him with the force of a physical blow. They were smugglers – the crates, the shabby house, the ruthless careful abduction. That other scent, the expensive perfume – it probably belonged to a wealthy buyer, someone who wouldn’t come to such a hovel unless the merchandise was exceptionally valuable. And Suzy, a Duchess, was beyond valuable to such criminals.

"They took her to the port," he breathed, the pieces clicking together with horrifying clarity. "They’ll try to get her on a ship, out of the kingdom." He thought rapidly. "To save time, to complete the transaction quickly and minimize risk, they would have to go to the nearest operational port... that would be Aldridge Port."

There was no more time for thought, only action. He ran back to Thunder, his mind a mixture of fear and desperation. "Come on, boy!" he urged, swinging himself into the saddle. "Mummy needs us! We have to be faster than them!" He spurred the stallion onward, back towards the main road and then veering south, towards Aldridge Port, the moon now a blood-red smear on the horizon, a grim omen of the approaching night.

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The damp, salty air of Aldridge Port hung heavy, thick with the smells of fish, tar, and stagnant water. It was well past nightfall, but the quayside was far from sleep. Lanterns cast flickering, uneasy shadows on the rough cobblestones. The discordant ringing of bells from ships preparing to catch the outgoing tide mingled with the harsh shouts of sailors and the creak of loading crates. Seagulls, disturbed by the activity, wheeled and cried overhead.

Eleanor fanned herself languidly with a feathered fan, her delicate nose wrinkled in distaste. "Ugh, this dreadful stench," she muttered, more to herself than to Suzy, who slumped weakly beside her, guarded by Jem and another brutish smuggler. "One would think a port catering to... select clientele might invest in better sanitation."

Suzy barely registered Eleanor’s complaint. Her own world had narrowed to the throbbing pain in her head, the relentless ache in her stomach, and the icy grip of despair. Her gown was now torn and stained, her hair a tangled mess, the blood from her bruised lip has dried up, her face pale and etched with suffering. The Blackwood ring, Ryan’s ring, was gone, its absence a fresh, raw wound around her neck and in her heart.

"Eleanor," Suzy gasped, her voice thin and reedy, each word an effort. She swayed slightly, and Jem’s rough hand shot out to steady her, his touch making her flinch. "Please... I need to see a doctor. My stomach... it hurts so much. I feel... unwell."

Eleanor merely glanced at her, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps annoyance, perhaps a sliver of unease at the Suzy’s deteriorating condition – in her brown eyes. But it was quickly suppressed. "A sea voyage will do you a world of good, I’m sure," she said dismissively, returning to her fanning. "Fresh air will solve your problems."

They stood near a stack of barrels, waiting. The smugglers’ boss was further down the quay, deep in hushed, intense conversation with a richly dressed, hawk-nosed man – the envoy, Suzy presumed, sent to finalize her purchase. Jem had sidled off to speak with the captain of a dark-hulled merchant ship moored nearby, its sails partially unfurled, ready for a swift departure.

For what felt like an eternity, nearly an hour by Suzy’s distorted sense of time, they waited. Occasionally, the envoy would stroll over, his eyes cold and appraising as he inspected Suzy, much like a buyer examining livestock. He’d walk around her, peer at her face, even roughly lift her chin once, ignoring her weak protests. Each inspection was a fresh wave of humiliation and terror.

After the last of these demeaning examinations, the envoy finally nodded to the smugglers’ boss, a grim satisfaction on his face. The deal was clearly settled. Suzy watched in numb horror as a large pouch, filled with coin was dropped and they exchanged hands. The boss then gestured towards her. "She’s all yours," he said to the envoy, his voice businesslike.

The envoy beckoned to two of his own formidable-looking retainers, who stepped forward to take charge of Suzy from the other smuggler holding her. As the boss effectively handed her over, a lifetime of fear, of impending doom, crashed down upon her. This was it. She was sold, again. First by Count Edmund and now by Eleanor.

Just as the envoy’s men reached for her arms, a single, deafening gunshot shattered the night air, echoing across the bustling port, momentarily silencing the shouts and the creaking of ships. Figures scattered, seeking cover. Eleanor gasped, dropping her fan. The smugglers tensed, reaching for weapons.

And then, an angry, powerful voice roared out from the shadows at the edge of the quayside, a voice that cut through Suzy’s despair like a ray of impossible hope:

"Who dares touch my wife?!"