Cobra 01 The Untamed Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  And it—that other side of him—prodded him, hard, to correct that oversight. To do something to ensure she wasn’t exposed. At all. Not just to ensure she was safe but to unequivocally take her out of the action so there was no chance she’d ever be in any danger at all.

  He could imagine how she’d react if he let that part of himself loose, let it guide him.

  The response she evoked in him was extreme, ridiculous in one sense, and by and large not something he understood. But he had too much on his plate with his mission, with the Black Cobra, to spend time thinking of it, thinking through it, now.

  He just had to find ways to deal with it—to manage it for now. Later, once the mission was over, once the Black Cobra was caught, he’d have time to work through it and assuage it, but not yet. Not now.

  When it came down to it, his mission was not proceeding well. They were drawing out the Black Cobra’s minions, but those minions were local hirelings, not cultists, yet it was the cultists he needed to remove.

  They were the deadly ones, the ones with no rules, no lines they, in the Black Cobra’s name, would not cross. His decoy’s mission was to reduce their number so that the others following would have fewer to face.

  That was the crux of his mission, and in that, he was failing.

  Sangay stuck his nose out of the alley door of the fancy hotel. The icy wind whipped in, made him shiver uncontrollably, but the alley was empty. He had to go now.

  Slipping outside, he shut the heavy door, then, sucking in a breath, holding it against the chill, he crept down the alley, away from the street at the other end, toward what he’d heard the other servants call the mews—the area for carriages and horses at the rear of the building.

  The hotel stable was further along, tucked behind the bulk of the hotel itself. Reaching the mews, he peeked around the corner and saw the usual huddle of grooms and stableboys gathered outside the open door of the stable, warming their hands at a glowing brazier.

  He wished he could spend a few minutes getting warm, but he dared not. He needed to get back to the docks. He prayed to Ganesh every hour that his ship would still be there, somewhere in the huge waterways around what they called the Pool of London.

  It wasn’t really a pool, not to Sangay’s way of thinking. But he had to make it back, or he’d never see India, or his mother, again.

  Sliding unobtrusively around the corner, hugging the deepening shadows along the wall, he crept soundlessly away from the stable, away from the hotel. He’d been safe enough there, warm enough there—he’d been fed enough there for the first time in his short life. But he didn’t dare stay.

  The man would come for him, he knew. He had to go before he found him.

  His slippered feet made no sound on the cobbles. As the distance from the hotel grew, he risked going a little faster. Memory of the man drove him on. He might have been just a cabin boy, but he’d been an honest boy, a good boy. He didn’t want to become a thief, but if the man caught him again….

  He started running.

  Reaching the end of the mews, he swung around the corner—and ran into a wall of muscle and bone.

  He staggered back. Before he could regain his balance, a hand closed on his collar. He sucked in a breath, ready to protest his innocence, when from a long way above him a dark voice growled, “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  Fear shot through him. He squeaked, tried to squirm loose, but the grip on his collar tightened. The man shook him like a rat.

  Shook him until he was gasping, choking.

  Then the man’s other hand caught his chin, forced his face up until he found himself staring into a dark-featured scowl. It wasn’t the frown that terrified Sangay—it was the man’s pale eyes.

  “Let me remind you, boy, what will happen if you don’t do as I say.” The words were low, a rumble. “I’ll have your mother strung up and slow-roasted over a fire. She’ll scream and beg for mercy—mercy no one will grant her. Before she dies—and I assure you that won’t be soon—she’ll curse your name, curse the day she brought such an ungrateful whelp into this world.” The deep rumble paused.

  The cold fist of fear tightened, choking Sangay.

  “On the other hand,” the dark voice continued, “if you do as I say, your mother will never know anything about any fire, any excruciating pain, any horrible, terrible, godforsaken death.”

  On the last word, the man shook him again. “So, whelp—your choice.” The man all but snarled, “Which will it be? Will you get back into that hotel and fetch the wooden scroll-holder I sent you for, or do I kill you now and send a message back to India on the first tide?”

  “I’ll do it! I’ll do it, sahib!” Sangay could barely get the words out through his chattering teeth. When the man abruptly let him go, he staggered, then stood, and hung his head. “I will do as you say.”

  No choice. He could barely breathe for sheer terror.

  “So, have you looked? Done anything at all since Southampton?”

  “Oh, yes, sahib, yes. I have been searching through all the general baggage, sahib, but there’s no scroll-holder there. It must be kept with the baggage the colonel-sahib keeps in his room, or perhaps with the bags his man Cobby keeps with him. Or the colonel-sahib might be carrying it with him, only I don’t think he is because I have looked closely and I cannot see how such a thing would fit beneath his coat.”

  “I doubt he’ll carry it with him.”

  “Perhaps”—Sangay brightened—“it is in the memsahib’s bags?”

  The man eyed him, then nodded. “Perhaps. You search everywhere until you find it, understand? But try to do it without being caught. We’ve a few days yet. Better you look until you find it, then bring it to me, rather than you get caught before you get your hands on it—understand?”

  Sangay bobbed his head repeatedly. “Yes, sahib. I’m to stay hidden until I find it—no one must know I am looking for this thing.”

  “That’s right. You do that, and no one will touch your mother—remember that. Now, what do you know about the other two gentlemen who go out when the colonel does? They seem to be guarding him.”

  “Yes, sahib-sir—they are friends of his.” Sangay screwed up his face. “I have not heard their names well enough to say them, but they are at the hotel, too, in other rooms on the same floor.”

  “Are they, indeed?” The man fell silent.

  Sangay shivered, unobtrusively shifting from one foot to the other. Carefully he tucked his hands under his arms and hugged himself, bowing his thin shoulders away from the wind.

  “Keep an eye on those two, but you’d best keep out of their way. But how have you been hiding yourself?”

  Sangay shrugged. “The colonel-sahib’s people think I’m one of the memsahib’s servants, and her people think I’m a one of the colonel-sahib’s servants.”

  The man looked at him through narrowing eyes. “Very clever. You’re quick, I’ll give you that. Just don’t be forgetting your maataa won’t be able to escape the Black Cobra.”

  Sangay shivered. “No, sahib. I won’t be forgetting that.”

  “Good. Now get back in there and find the scroll-holder. Once you do, all you need do is come out and slip away—I’ll be watching. I’ll come and meet you.”

  “Yes, sahib. I will be getting back now.” Receiving a nod of assent, Sangay turned and, head down against the biting wind, slipped back around the corner, then walked slowly, despondently, back along the alley.

  He hadn’t thought it possible, but he felt even more miserable, even more filled with black despair. All he could do was do as the man told him, and pray to the gods that something would happen—to the man, perhaps?—to save him from the nightmare his life had become. And to save his maataa, too.

  Five

  December 13

  Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street

  Del was still in the bath when Cobby returned.

  “Found just the thing.” Cobby shut the door.

  “A rec
ital at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. It’s only a short hackney ride away.”

  Del considered, nodded. “Perfect.” He closed his eyes, laid his head back again. “Get tickets.”

  “Don’t have to. It’s free, apparently. You can just walk in.”

  December 13

  St. Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar Square

  He should, Del realized, have registered what Cobby’s words meant. As he escorted an eager Deliah through the crowd thronging the old church’s wide porch, he berated himself for not having seen the danger.

  Yes, they could simply walk in—and so could anyone else.

  He glanced at Deliah, wondered—again—if he should suggest they leave. Once again, he held his tongue. The light in her face, in her jade eyes, stated louder than words that she was looking forward to the performance.

  Reaching the main doors, she led the way in, going straight through the foyer and into the nave. She started down it, looking right and left, evaluating the available seats. Taller than she, Del could see over the crowd clogging the aisle. Taking her elbow, he steered her to two seats in a pew two-thirds of the way down the nave.

  Excusing herself to the well-dressed lady in the corner of the pew, Deliah slid past and on, then, leaving space for Del, sat and arranged her skirts.

  After taking note of the unquestionably innocent couples filling the pew behind theirs, Del sat, then surveyed those in the pew ahead.

  All safe enough.

  Despite the season, the majority of the crowd were tonnish, the rest mainly gentry or well-to-do merchants. But he’d spotted a few less savory sorts hanging about the fringes of the crowd, and the rear pews were jammed with shabby coats and unkempt figures.

  Deliah had picked up a printed program in the foyer. Consulting it, she commented excitedly and knowledgably about the various airs and sonatas to be performed by the small chamber orchestra. Clearly she enjoyed music and had been starved of this type of entertainment over the years she’d been away.

  So had he, but this particular entertainment he could have done without. Far from feeling relaxed, every sense he possessed was on high alert. His eyes incessantly scanned, his ears constantly sorted through the babel around them, listening for accents that weren’t English, or tones that boded ill.

  If he’d been the Black Cobra, this would have been an opportunity too good to pass up. Whether the fiend had realized Tony and Gervase were their guards, he had no idea. Cobby had confirmed that the reputation of Grillon’s for absolute discretion with respect to their guests was well deserved; it was unlikely the staff had spoken of the con nection between his party and the two gentlemen. But if the Cobra did know, then this excursion—just Del and Deliah alone at night, without even Cobby, Mustaf, or her bodyguard Kumulay—was tailor-made for the Cobra’s purpose. He didn’t even need to seize both of them; either would do.

  The orchestra started to file in. There was a rush to fill the last seats as the musicians settled on the chairs arranged before the steps to the altar.

  An expectant hush fell, then the conductor appeared, walked to his lectern, bowed to the audience, then turned to his players and raised his baton.

  A lone violin began to sing, then the other instruments joined in. Even in his state of battle-ready alert, Del felt the music swell and take hold. He glanced at Deliah.

  And didn’t look away. She was caught in the music, swept away on the tide. Her eyes glowed with pleasure; her luscious lips had curved, parted.

  She was oblivious, enchanted by the music. He was enthralled, ensorcelled by her.

  As the music continued, the pieces flowing one to the other with only the barest pause to allow the musicians to readjust their sheets, he tried to remain attuned to their surroundings, watchful, alert to any potential danger, yet she—her face, her radiant expression, those lips that had from the first enticed—held a far stronger fascination.

  A fascination that was rapidly approaching obsession.

  The battle within wasn’t one he was destined to win. In the end, he surrendered, let his eyes feast, and left whatever might come later for later.

  The entire concert passed without incident. If Deliah was at all aware of his tension she gave no sign.

  It was raining when, one couple amid a sea of others, they reached the edge of the porch. The hackneys were doing a roaring trade. Taking Deliah’s hand, Del stepped onto the wet steps just as a hackney pulled into the curb below. He immediately hailed it. The driver saluted with his whip.

  “Come on.” Del hurried Deliah down the steps, opened the hackney’s door and helped her in, then followed and sat beside her. Raising his arm, he pushed up the hatch. “Grillon’s, Albemarle Street.”

  “Aye, sir. Quite a lot of traffic, so don’t worry if we’re a bit slow.”

  Letting the hatch fall, Del sat back. Nothing had occurred. Perhaps the Black Cobra wasn’t watching as closely as he’d feared.

  “That was lucky.” Deliah looked out of the window. “It looks like it’s been pouring, although it’s easing up now.”

  She then launched into an enthusiastic analysis of the performance, waxing lyrical over the first violin’s solo and the artistry displayed by the principal cellist. Del inwardly smiled, closed his eyes, and let her words roll over him. She was safe and happy, ergo so was he. The evening had gone without a hitch, providing distraction for them both, filling the hours safely.

  They would return to the suite, perhaps share a drink—tea for her—then they would retire, in amity with the world, to their respective beds.

  All safe.

  Deliah’s fingers closed about his wrist. He realized she’d stopped speaking, had been silent for a few minutes. He opened his eyes.

  She was staring out into the night, then, her fingers tightening warningly, she leaned close, murmured, “This is not the way to Albemarle Street.”

  He looked out of the hackney window. It took a moment to see enough through the drizzle to get his bearings, then he softly swore. They were on the Strand heading deeper into the City, the opposite of the direction in which they should have gone. No matter the traffic—and the carriage was stopping and starting, barely crawling—there was no sense at all in the jarvey taking this route.

  Del took Deliah’s hand in a firm grip. Through the shadows he whispered, “Be ready to jump out behind me.”

  She squeezed his fingers in reply, shifted to the edge of the seat.

  He waited until the next snarl of traffic forced the hackney to a rocking halt. Silently opening the door, he slipped out onto the pavement, turned and smoothly lifted her down, then quietly shut the door just as the carriage jerked forward again. His concentration fixed ahead, the jarvey hadn’t noticed his lighter load.

  Taking Deliah’s hand, Del strode quickly back the way they had come. Courtesy of the rain, there were few people on the streets, no cover as they hurried back along the Strand. If the jarvey looked around….

  Passing the third hackney lined up behind theirs, Del glanced at the carriage—and saw two pale faces staring out at them.

  Surprised. Shocked.

  “Damn!” He clutched Deliah’s hand tighter. “Run!”

  He dragged her on with him, hauled her alongside, glanced back as a “Hoi!” rang out.

  Two—no, three—burly men jumped out of the hackney and started pounding along the pavement after them.

  Deliah had taken a quick glance, too. Catching up her skirts, she started to run in earnest. “Come on.”

  The slick, wet pavements made running dangerous, but they had no choice. With her gown, two petticoats and the skirts of her heavy pelisse swinging about her legs, her reticule banging against one knee, she raced as best she could along the thankfully level flagstone pavement of the Strand.

  Del’s hold on her hand helped steady her, yet even without looking she knew their pursuers were closing the distance.

  “Now I remember why I always preferred breeches in situations such as this.”

  “Sadly,
there’s no time to change.”

  “No breeches, either.”

  “That, too.”

  A silly exchange, but it confirmed how desperate their straits truly were. From the sublime to the horrendous had taken mere minutes; her mind had yet to catch up. But it was long after ten o’clock on a wet winter’s night. Although there was plenty of carriage traffic still about, there was almost no one on foot. No support, no succor, and nowhere to make a stand.

  Del suddenly changed direction, urging her up a side street heading away from the river. She agreed with the sentiment—the river wasn’t a wise destination—but for a moment she worried the lane they’d taken would prove to be a dead end.

  But no. The murk ahead was cut by a beam of light, then they heard the rattle as a carriage rumbled along the street at the upper end of the lane.

  “Thank God.” Deliah looked down and put her mind to keeping up, and not slipping on the wet paving stones as Del raced them up the lane.

  Neither she nor he could resist a glance back.

  The three men were too close, and gaining rapidly. They were all hulking brutes. One was carrying a club.

  They were more than two-thirds up the lane, but with the men closing ever more rapidly, ever more determinedly, they weren’t going to reach the street beyond.

  A pace ahead of her, Del abruptly stopped, hauled her up to him, then pushed her on. “Go! As fast as you can, then to the left. I’ll catch up.”

  Releasing Deliah, Del swung to face the men.

  They grinned, and fanned out as they came on.

  Behind him, he heard Deliah’s retreating footsteps. At least she was away; if either of them were going to fall into the clutches of the Black Cobra, he’d much rather it was he.

  The bruiser in the middle was the one with the club. He slowed, smiled evilly, then stepped in and swung the club at Del’s head.

  Wondering who had taught the man to fight, Del stepped inside the swing, grabbed the man’s arm with one hand, his throat with the other, and used the man’s own momentum to heave him into the man on his right.