The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “It’s their insignia. They wear it with pride, so are rarely seen without it.”

  “I didn’t see any black head scarves, or even indian people, in Linz. Did you?”

  “No. And no, I don’t know what to make of that.”

  After several minutes of listening to the soft slap of the river against the boat’s hull, she ventured, “What if these attacks aren’t the work of cultists, but just locals who’ve taken to attacking travelers?”

  Folding his arms, he leaned on the rail. “I find that difficult to believe, but I can’t argue against it—it’s possible. However, at this point my best guess is that the Black Cobra, seeking to cover as large an area of Europe as possible, sent his men through all the smaller towns recruiting locals to keep watch and act if any of the couriers were sighted, but had the cultists themselves draw back to concentrate on the major towns—those the couriers were more likely to pass through.” He paused, staring out at the night. “The problem with that is that to date the Black Cobra has always left at least one cultist to watch over any locals, to give orders and bring back whatever the Cobra was after—in this case the scroll-holders. It also presupposes the cultists have an accurate description of me, enough for said locals to recognize me, which doesn’t seem likely, although it is possible.”

  She shifted so she could study his face. “The Black Cobra—Ferrar. Have you met him?”

  “No. Delborough and Hamilton have. The pair of them spent more time in the Governor of Bombay’s office—the company’s headquarters in Bombay—leaving the other three of us to scout in the field.”

  She frowned. “Three of you, plus Delborough and Hamilton, makes five. But you said there are four couriers. Did one of you remain behind? ”

  For a long moment, he said nothing—didn’t reply, didn’t move a muscle—then he murmured, “You could say that.”

  She guessed. “He died?”

  Time passed; eventually, he nodded. “James—Captain James MacFarlane. He was the youngest—a few years younger than me. He joined our troop toward the end of the Spanish campaigns. He was an excellent soldier. He would have made a good commander. When the war was over, he went with us out to India. He was one of us by then.”

  He paused. She wanted to ask what had happened, was casting about for the right words, but then he continued without prompting, “It was he who found the letter I’m carrying.”

  There was pain in the words, so much she had to fight not to reach out and touch him—and risk breaking the spell of the past that had him in its grip. His eyes, darkened, remained fixed on the river, although she would swear it wasn’t rippling darkness he saw.

  “It was pure chance. We’d identified Ferrar as the Black Cobra within weeks of reaching Bombay, but then we’d spent months searching for proof—incontestable proof—to convict him. We’d seen too much by then, too much of the cult’s atrocities, to stop. We were obsessed, all of us. But no matter how hard we looked, how far we pushed, nothing we unearthed was good enough.” He drew in a breath and it shuddered. “Then James went on a duty mission to Poona—the hill capital—to escort a young lady, the governor’s niece, back to Bombay. In Poona he stumbled across the letter, realized it was the proof we needed. He did the smart thing—pretended he was simply escorting the young lady back. But they realized and followed him.”

  He drew in another slow breath. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t continue, but then, in a voice little more than a whisper, he went on, “They caught up with James’s troop halfway down the mountain. The odds were hopeless. He sent the letter on with the governor’s niece, along with mostof the troop, while he and a handful of others stayed behind to delay the cultists.”

  She said nothing, could say nothing to ease the pain throbbing in his voice.

  When next he spoke, his voice was lower still. “I was there when his men brought his body into the fort. I saw what the cultists had done to him—how they’d tortured him before they’d killed him. Of all the horrors I’ve seen in war, all the dead and the maimed and the gone, that sight is seared into my mind. For as long as I live, I will never forget.”

  She now understood something she’d sensed in him, a quality she hadn’t been able to define. That element of his commitment to his misson that bordered on the fanatical.

  Loyalty. Devotion. Those, she suspected, were his deepest, most ingrained traits.

  She stood alongside him, silent and still, and stared out into the night. Simply remained there, an anchor to the present if he needed one.

  Eventually, he breathed in deeply, eased his back. “I felt so damned chuffed when I realized I’d drawn the scroll-holder with the original document—that I would be the one to ferry the evidence James gave his life to secure back to England, to place it in Wolverstone’s hands so he could ensure that the Black Cobra was brought to justice—and so James would be avenged. I was thrilled to have drawn the critical, most vital role in the mission.”

  She’d shifted her gaze to his face, so saw his lips quirk.

  “But with that came responsibility.” He glanced at her, met her gaze. “I’m not generally so careful, so cautious.” He hesitated, then said, “You’d probably be surprised to hear that among the troop, my nickname was Reckless.”

  Holding his gaze, she nodded. “I am surprised. You’ve been anything but reckless in protecting us and in advancing your mission.”

  “It hasn’t come naturally.”

  They’d edged back from the darkness. Enough for her to be able to say, “You’re not alone, you know. I know we’re nottrained soldiers, but for what it’s worth, whenever you need it you’ll have Esme’s, Rose’s, Gibson’s, and my support. We can and will keep our eyes open for any cultists—you can’t look everywhere at once, and we’re all involved in your mission now, whatever you may think.”

  He frowned.

  She pretended not to notice and went on, “They’ve attacked us all and will keep attacking us all.” Placing a hand on his arm, she gripped lightly. “We, us four women, are your weakness. Your enemies know it and so do we. So you and Hassan won’t be alone in fighting back. We’ll fight back, too.”

  “So I saw in the church.” His lips curved, in appreciation, not disparagement. “I would never have thought of hymnals and cushions as missiles, let alone a curtain, but they worked.”

  “Women fight with what they have to hand—we’re more accustomed to making do.”

  He smiled more definitely. Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he raised it as he said, “I forgot to thank you earlier for keeping your heads.” Eyes on hers, he brushed her knuckles with his lips. “But I do most sincerely thank you.”

  She sensed he was thanking her for other things, too. He remained leaning on the rail, looking at her. He didn’t let go of her hand; his fingers shifted lightly, caressingly, across the backs of hers.

  Shifting closer, she lifted her face and kissed him. Not a light peck, not a mere brush of lips, but a definite, deliberate kiss. Drawing back a fraction, her lips all but brushing his, she whispered, “Thank you for protecting us. For defending us.”

  Time stood still. Desire and more simmered between them.

  Then he closed the distance, closed his lips over hers, and kissed her.

  He wasn’t a green lad with no experience. He didn’t rush her, overwhelm her; instead he took her mouth with a slowdeliberation that curled her toes. There was no tentativeness, no hesitation, just an open desire to have, to taste, to know.

  To take, to possess.

  With lips and tongue he did, claiming her mouth as if he possessed some inalienable right.

  Her hand rose, hovered, uncertain, but then she let it rest on his shoulder, gripping, steadying her.

  Against the tide of unexpected yearning that swept through her.

  A dim recollection of “keeping him at arm’s length” briefly surfaced in her mind, then sank without trace.

  She needed this, wanted this, wanted to follow and see where it led.

&nb
sp; Without breaking from the kiss, he slowly straightened. She followed, moving closer, against him, into him, following his lips with hers, unwilling to surrender the contact, to break her fascination.

  Rafe knew he should release her, that somehow a simple thank-you kiss had spun out of control and transformed into something else. But when she moved into him, all resolution fled. That he wanted her wasn’t even a question in his mind. Hadn’t been for some considerable time.

  To be offered her mouth, freely, without guile, was too precious a delight to cut short.

  He angled his head, his lips shifting over hers; closing his arms about her slender frame, he drew her in, locked her against him. Even through the thick pelisse, she was all warm softness and supple strength in his arms, all firm curves and tempting hollows. Graceful arms reaching up to twine about his neck, rounded hips pressing seductively against his thighs. Instinctively he turned so her back was to the rail, his body shielding her should anyone come up onto the deck and see them.

  It might be late at night, but instincts were hard to ignore.

  Because it was late at night, passion and desire were even harder to contain.

  He kissed her again, feeding himself, feeding her, and she followed him gladly. Encouraged him with a touch of her hand against his cheek, with the clinging pressure of her lips beneath his.

  Even if he had no idea where this was leading, neither of them seemed to care.

  But he did care, and she would, too, once she could think again.

  So he reluctantly drew back, pulled back, and supped at her lips, gently easing her back to the present. To the deck of the boat, to the rippling song of the river, to the night black and still all around them.

  Finally lifting his head, he found he had to fight to step back and set her away from him, to lose her feminine warmth and put space between them.

  She looked up at him through the dimness, for long moments studied his face. Then her lips gently curved and she inclined her head.

  Whispered, “Good night.”

  Then she stepped back, out of his arms, and he clenched his jaw and let her go.

  Turning, he watched her cross the deck, then disappear down the stairs.

  He faced forward, stood for long moments battling the urge to follow her, then he let out a long sigh, leaned again on the rail, and went back to staring at the night.

  The odd sound shook Loretta awake. She frowned, trying to place what she’d heard.

  Then it came again—a harsh, choked cry.

  She glanced at the wall beside her berth. The sound had come from beyond the wooden panels. She recognized the import from her nursery days when Chester had been prey to nightmares. From the tortured sound, it behooved her to wake the sufferer and release them from their torment.

  Tossing back the covers, she grabbed her robe, shruggedinto it as she slid her feet into her slippers, then she opened the door into the stateroom’s sitting room. Eyes adjusting to the dim light ghosting through the prow windows, she tiptoed to the door to the corridor. To her right lay the small cabin Rose and Gibson shared. She listened, wondering if the sound she’d heard might have come from there, but then another choked cry reached her.

  Chin firming, she opened the stateroom door, stepped into the corridor. A few steps brought her to the first door on the left. Without much hope, she knocked lightly. “Rafe?”

  A moment passed, then another tortured moan reached her. She eased open the door, heard the sussuration of a body threshing in sheets, along with harsh, strangled breathing.

  In the weak light, she saw Rafe tossing and twisting, solidly in the grip of some painful nightmare. Even though he’d spared her the details, she could imagine what horrors he’d seen, what hideous details might haunt his dreams.

  Without hesitation, she crossed to the berth. He twisted away from her, body taut as if in pain.

  She reached out, grasped his shoulder. Tried to shake him. “Rafe? Wake up. You’re having a—”

  He seized her wrist and tumbled her across him.

  Her eyes flew wide. “Wha—”

  His hands clamped about her face, his lips crushed hers and he kissed her—devoured her—as if his life depended on it.

  As if hers did, too. As if she and he were the last people on earth and their destruction could be held at bay only by that kiss.

  Desperation and need drove him; she could taste it on his tongue, feel it in his hands, in the hard body that held her trapped against the wall. But even as her hand closed about the back of one of his, that realization was fading, pushed aside by a need and a desperation of her own, one that welled from within her and answered his.

  To answer his. A potent need to sate his desperation, to ease the hunger behind it, to satisfy and soothe.

  To be the port for his storm.

  To draw him in.

  Her hands fell to brace against his chest, then pushed wide across the muscled expanse, palms to naked skin; he felt hot, skin taut over rock-hard flesh, elementally masculine. Tantalizing. She pushed her hands up along the powerful column of his throat, then sank her fingers into the thick silk of his hair and gripped.

  Held him steady as she returned his kiss with a fiery fervor the counterpart of his.

  Their lips melded, fused, gave and took, and caressed. Their tongues tangled, stroked, then his probed and she moaned and urged him on.

  The edge of his desperate need blunted, promised absolution and relief, he tightened his arms, locking her against him, and settled to kiss her as if she were a cornucopia of delights.

  Pleasure bloomed and slid through her, welled and grew and flowed in warm waves to pool low in her belly, to throb between her thighs.

  Her breasts swelled, ached with a yearning she’d never felt before.

  Rafe could only give thanks for the sudden diversion, for whatever quirk of sleep had tipped him, ripped him, from nightmare straight into fantasy. From a nightmare soaked in blood and horror, to a dream steeped in passion and pleasure.

  Gratefulness welled as he sank into the feminine warmth, the promise of bliss, the unalloyed delight offered so freely by the fantasy of Loretta that his mind had thrown up to shield him from his worst memories.

  Would that nightmares always ended like this.

  The thought made him inwardly smile, relax, let his senses surface and consciousness rise … enough to register the supple give of the lips beneath his.

  Enough for him to realize that the warm, unmistakeably feminine weight against his chest was real.

  Snapping his eyes open, he wrenched back from the kiss. Stared. Blinked, looked again, and still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re real.”

  His voice rang half an octave above its normal range.

  He swallowed, eyes on hers tried again. “You’re really real—really here, in my bed.” He verified that by glancing around. His cabin. His bed. Loretta, en déshabillé, in his arms.

  Returning his gaze to her face, he stared into her eyes—tried to ignore her lushly swollen lips. “What are you doing in my bed?”

  That he had no idea made him nervous.

  She blinked several times, as if bringing things into focus, studied his face, her expression unperturbed, a touch curious.

  Dumbfounded, he saw a slow blush rise to her cheeks. As if feeling it, she cleared her throat, patted him on the chest. “You were having a nightmare. I heard and came to wake you, but you didn’t wake up right away.”

  She wriggled, trying to sit up.

  He gritted his teeth; he was entirely awake now. He clamped his hands about her waist. “Wait—hold still.”

  She froze.

  Gripping, he lifted her up and over him, out from being wedged between him and the cabin wall, setting her down so she sat on the berth’s outer edge.

  He released her. She fussed with her nightgown, straightening it and her robe, cinching the latter tight.

  He dragged in a breath. He was naked beneath the sheet. Sitting up might not be wis
e. He ran a hand through his hair. Opened his mouth.

  “Don’t you dare apologize.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. Even through the dimness he felt her glare.

  “I came in here to wake you, to free you of your nightmare, and now you’re awake and I have. What happened in between was no one’s fault.”

  Her eyes dared him to contradict her. When he said nothing, she tensed to rise, but stopped. Her eyes remained locked on his face. “What were you dreaming about?”

  He stared at her. A long moment ticked by, then he scrubbed both hands over his face. “You don’t want to know.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” She just sat there, on the side of his bed in the middle of the night, and waited.

  He exhaled through his teeth, looked away. “James. I see him.”

  “And?”

  Something in him snapped. “I see his body. His body as it was the last time I saw it. Tortured and beaten in the back of a damned dray. There was nothing I could do—no way to make him come back. No way to save him.”

  The horror of his helplessness still ate at him; corrosive, it gave him no peace. “I see him—that—and then I see all the others I failed. All the innocents I never got to in time to save.” He closed his eyes. Why the devil he was telling her this he didn’t know, but now he’d started he couldn’t seem to stop. Through the covers, he felt the warm weight of her hand on his knee. “There were so many in the villages the cult attacked. Women, children, old people, too. It was hell on earth—so often hell on earth.” She didn’t tell him to stop, didn’t rise; her hand remained steady on his knee. He swallowed. “I remember—”

  The worst came pouring out. The images he too often saw etched on the inside of his lids. The atrocities, the torture, the unmitigated horror.

  Loretta listened. Sat still, her eyes, her attention locked on him, and let him speak. The images formed and flowed past her; they couldn’t touch her, but they held him. Had sunk figurative claws deep in his mind.

  He was a soldier, a defender; he saw himself as having a sacred duty to protect the weak and innocent and his specters were of those he believed he’d failed.