The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Once Rafe had been sure they weren’t being pursued, he’d paused to consult his map, then turned the horse north toward the village of Hadleigh.

  Five minutes later, they crested a shallow rise and saw the village ahead of them.

  “It’s near a minor crossroads, but we’re far enough from any main road—the village itself should be safe enough.” Rafe added, almost to himself, “Assuming there are no cultists actually stationed there.”

  Tense, eyes scanning the pavements, the tiny connecting lanes, they trotted along the main street, then, steeling himself, Rafe took the risk of turning beneath the archway into the inn yard.

  A quick survey showed no cultists lounging anywhere. A lad came running to take the horses. Rafe stepped down, rounded the gig, and lifted Loretta down. Taking her arm, he caught the ostler’s eye. “We’re stopping for a late breakfast. Have you seen any foreigners around? Indians or the like?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, sir. None.”

  Rafe tossed him a coin, which the boy deftly caught. “Let me know if you or any of your friends spot one.” With his head Rafe indicated the inn. “I’ll be inside.”

  The boy grinned, tugged his forelock. “Yessir.”

  Still feeling as if his senses wanted to be searching everywhere around, Rafe guided Loretta up the steps and through the inn’s side door.

  A rotund innkeeper came sweeping up to them. With a manufactured smile and the application of a little charm, Rafe organized a private parlor and requested a late breakfast.

  Loretta glanced at him, then informed the innkeeper, “A large breakfast, with a large pot of tea.”

  The innkeeper smiled and bowed them into the parlor. “Indeed, ma’am. Right away.”

  Following Loretta into the parlor, Rafe scanned the small room, waited until the door shut, then walked to the window. It looked out over the inn’s rear garden, but was screened by a large tree. Safe enough.

  “I didn’t see hide nor hair of any cultist.” Loretta placed her bag on a chair by the window. “And if that lad didn’t know of them—”

  “We might be safe—at least for the moment.” Rafe removed his satchel and left it with her bag, then trailed her to the table and held her chair.

  “At least long enough to eat a decent meal.” She sat.

  He took the seat diagonally to her left, facing the door and the window.

  Their meal arrived, borne by the innwife and a small tribe of serving girls. When all the platters were deposited and displayed, Loretta smiled and declared they were satisfied and would ring for anything more they required.

  The gaggle of females withdrew, and they settled in unexpectedly pleasant peace to eat.

  Not that they relaxed.

  When Rafe finally heaved a huge sigh and pushed away his empty plate, Loretta, sipping a last cup of tea, arched a brow at him. “What next?”

  He studied her for a long moment, then said, “We have to make a decision. Do we run and hide? We could, for instance, go to London, take refuge at some place like Grillons, then send word to the Cynsters. They’ll know how to contact Wolverstone. That’s one option, but it will give the cult more time to track us and try to take the letter.”

  She studied his face. “Such a course would prolong your mission.”

  “And extend the time we’d both be at significant risk from the cult.”

  “So what’s our other option?”

  He frowned. “I believe we have two. At this time of year the Cynsters will be at Somersham Place—that’s in Cambridgeshire, this side of Cambridge, so not too far away. They’re involved in this and will know where Wolverstone is, so we could try to go there. However, I’d wager they’ll have been involved in the later stages of the other couriers’ journeys. If so, the cult will know of them—there might even be cultists watching the roads, waiting for me to head that way. So"—he grimaced—"I don’t think that’s a wise option either. Which leaves us with our original direction—go to Felixstowe, meet with my guards, and learn where we’re supposed to go next.”

  She lowered her cup. “The Black Cobra doesn’t know that you don’t know where Wolverstone is, does he?”

  He shook his head. “So I’m hoping he’ll expect me to head on toward wherever the other couriers went, and won’t imagine that I’ll circle back to Felixstowe.” Sitting up, he pulled the map from his pocket.

  She moved the platters to the far side of the table and he spread out the map.

  “We’re here.” He pointed at the spot marked Hadleigh. He paused, then with his finger traced a route northward via a series of tiny lanes to another village. “I think we should go here, to this village.”

  Leaning forward to peer at the map, she frowned. “Why there?”

  “Because Somersham is here, Felixstowe is here, and that village lies on the road between, and I’m betting that wherever we need to go, wherever it is that Wolverstone’s waiting, it’s somewhere in that general area—between Somersham and Felixstowe. Given I’m the last courier carrying the vital evidence, I can’t see it being any other way.

  “As for why that particular village, although it’s on the road, it’s so small there’s no reason the cult would be watching it.” He glanced up, met her eyes. “I propose to leave you at an inn at or near there—something quiet and small, off the main road if we can find such a place. Somewhere no one will imagine you might be. I’ll leave the gig there and hire a horse, and ride back to Felixstowe—I’ll be approaching from the last direction anyone would expect me to come from, and I’ll be a lone rider on a horse, not part of a couple.”

  She’d opened her mouth to protest, to argue, but as his words sank in, she closed her lips. After a moment of thinking, of studying his eyes, his face, lips compressing, she nodded. “All right. I don’t like letting you out of my sight, but you’ll make better time on horseback, and be safer without having to protect me as well.”

  He smiled, a charming smile that warmed her. “Good. With any luck, the cult will be scouring the area around the marshes and will have given up on Felixstowe by now.” He rose, drew back her chair as she stood.

  Crossing to the window, she handed him his satchel, lifted her bag. “So, how long to Needham Market?”

  An hour of driving as briskly as possible down the narrow lanes saw them nearing the outskirts of Needham Market. From a rise outside the hamlet of Barking, they’d seen the roofs of the village ahead, but then woods closed in about the narrow lane, a mixture of trees including sufficient pines and firs to provide protection from the cold wind.

  The sky was an unrelieved steel gray as Rafe guided the gig over a wooden bridge spanning a tiny stream.

  Almost immediately a large clearing opened to the left of the lane. A many gabled, white-painted lathe-and-plaster Tudor building sat comfortably sprawled on a wide lawn, the white of its walls stark against the black of the timber beams. Just ahead by the side of the road, a post supported a swinging sign proclaiming the place to be the Laughing Trout Inn.

  Rafe slowed the gig. After one comprehensive survey, he glanced at Loretta.

  At her encouraging nod, he turned the horse past the post and into the gravel drive that led to a small forecourt before the inn’s front door.

  Halting the horse, Rafe sat and took stock. “This looks promising.”

  “Indeed. It doesn’t look like they get much traffic here.”

  “The main road must be at least a quarter of a mile further on.” Rafe glanced toward where they’d seen the village roofs. “And the village itself is further west along the road.”

  Tying off the reins, he climbed down, then went to lift Loretta down. Feeling her slender, supple form between his hands, sensing her passionate vibrancy even just for that instant, reminded him of how lucky he was, not just to have her with him, his in all but name, but that they were so close to the end of his mission and she had remained safe. Unharmed, unthreatened.

  As her feet settled on the gravel and he reluctantly released her,
a middle-aged man appeared from around the back of the inn.

  The man nodded. “Good day to you, sir. Will you be stopping long, or just for a meal?”

  “At least for the rest of the day.” Rafe waved at their horse. “If you could unharness him and rub him down, I’ll settle matters inside, then I’ll be out to take a look at your hacks. I need to ride to a meeting, but will be back by nightfall.”

  “I’ve just the horse for ye.” The man saluted. “Just ring the bell and the missus will help you. The stables be ‘round the back.”

  The man led the horse and gig away. Rafe followed Loretta across the gravel to the front door.

  She tugged the dangling chain of the bellpull. He pushed open the heavy door, held it for her, then, ducking slightly to avoid the wide lintel, followed her into a black-and-white tiled hall.

  The inn was ancient, but in sound condition, spick and span, and, just like the motherly woman who bustled out to greet them, warm and welcoming.

  “Good day, sir, ma’am—I’m Mrs. Shearer. And what can we do for you today?”

  It was the matter of a few minutes to hire a private parlor and a large bedchamber in which Loretta could wash and perhaps later rest. While she followed Mrs. Shearer upstairs to view the accommodation, Rafe went out and around to the stable. It didn’t take long to approve the mount Mr. Shearer had saddled and ready.

  Returning to the inn, Rafe went into the parlor. A large room, its door lay directly across the wide hall from the front door. Loretta was still upstairs. He prowled the room, checking the view from the wide window, reassured to see it merely looked over the private lawn to the thick wood bordering the stream.

  The inn seemed utterly isolated.

  Setting his satchel on the sofa, he opened it. Reaching to the bottom, he withdrew the scroll-holder. Considered it. Hefting it in his hand, he weighed his options, then turned and scanned the room. His gaze landed on the tall dresser set against the wall behind the door. He smiled, crossed to the far end of the dresser, the end close to the room’s corner; reaching up, he set the scroll-holder on the dresser’s overhanging top, behind the raised, ornate front edge.

  Stepping back, he viewed the result. Not even a man as tall as he could see the scroll-holder; only someone as tall as he could reach it.

  He’d intended leaving it with Loretta, but having it would mark her, and might land her in unnecessary danger. This was much better. He doubted Mrs. Shearer, house-proud though she clearly was, would be dusting up there this afternoon.

  With one problem off his mental slate, he turned to address another. Returning to his satchel, he rummaged.

  The satchel was resting innocently against the sofa cushions and he was standing looking out of the window when Loretta returned, Mrs. Shearer in her wake.

  He arched a curious brow at their hostess. “It seems blissfully quiet here—is it just your husband and you running the inn?”

  Mrs. Shrearer smiled. “My husband and me—we own it—and our son helps about the place. It’s quiet now, but we get a lot of customers come for the fishing.” She tipped her head at the window. “There’s a stream in the woods there that leads to a lake full of trout, so we’re busy for most of the year. Just these winter months that it’s quiet.”

  Rafe nodded. “I imagine any fisherman once he’s stayed here would remember and come back.”

  Mrs. Shearer beamed. “Aye, that seems the way of it.” She looked at Loretta. “Now, miss, would you like a tray of something?”

  “At the moment, a pot of tea would be welcome. We ate a late breakfast, so I really don’t want any luncheon. Perhaps some scones and jam a little later.”

  “Oh, you’ll like my scones—fresh from the oven they’ll be. But I’ll get that pot for you now.” Mrs. Shearer bobbed, then whisked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Rafe eyed the door, then glanced at Loretta. “Did she interrogate you as to my intentions?”

  Loretta grinned. “Not yet, but doubtless that will come.” Her smile faded as she looked at him.

  Feeling grim himself, he walked to her, took her hands in his. “I don’t like to leave you here alone, but …”

  She squeezed his fingers. “It’s best that you do.”

  He glanced at the door, then releasing her hands, stepped to the sofa. “While I’m gone, I want you to keep this with you at all times.” Lifting the satchel, he slipped the strap over his head and shoulder, then picked up the small pistol that had lain hidden under the bag. Turning to Loretta, he held it out, balanced on one palm. “It’s small, but effective.”

  She reached out, with one finger traced the fine silverwork on the handle.

  He tipped his head, looked into her face. “Do you know how to fire a pistol?”

  Jaw firming, she gripped the handle, lifted it from his hand. “I point it.” She used both hands to do so, aiming at the side wall. “And pull this piece—the trigger.”

  “Yes, but you need to cock it first—like this.” He showed her, had her prepare to fire, then ease the hammer back several times. “Best you don’t cock it until just before you fire it. You won’t want it going off accidentally.”

  “No.” Loretta stared at the deadly little pistol she held rather gingerly, the barrel now pointing at the floor. She glanced at Rafe. “Best I don’t need to use it at all.”

  Turning, she opened her embroidery bag and settled the pistol in among her few clothes. Leaving the bag on the sofa, she faced Rafe. “Thank you.”

  He closed his hands about her shoulders. His gaze roved her face as if drinking in each feature. “I’ll be much happier if you don’t have to use it. Take care.” He drew her to him, bent his head and kissed her—not with overt passion, but with a deep sense of earnest desire, with profound hope, and one simple want.

  One wish.

  She kissed him back.

  His hands rose, framed her face, tipped it more fully to his so he could deepen the caress.

  Lifting one hand to cup the back of one of his, she clung to the promise embodied in the unshielded, heartfelt exchange.

  He pulled back, broke the kiss. They both felt the wrench.

  He looked into her eyes for one last instant, then released her and stepped back. “I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” She followed him with her eyes as he walked to the door.

  Rafe didn’t look back, just opened the door, strode across the hall and out of the front door. Shutting it behind him, he instinctively scanned the small forecourt and surrounds, but other than Billy, the Shearers’ son, holding the big bay gelding Rafe had hired, there was no one and nothing to disturb the pervasive tranquility.

  Reassured, Rafe strode to Billy, took the reins, vaulted to the saddle, and rode for Felixstowe.

  Inside the parlor, Loretta examined the pistol she’d tucked into her embroidery bag. While it fitted well enough, it would be awkward to retrieve it, let alone cock it before pointing it and firing.

  She puzzled over it for a full minute—trying not to dwell on the fading hoofbeats outside—then an epiphany struck. Taking her embroidery bag with her, she whisked out of the parlor and hurried up the stairs.

  Mrs. Shearer would be returning with her pot of tea soon.

  When she rushed back down the stairs a minute later, she carried her cloak and muff as well as the embroidery bag. She’d left the pelisse she’d worn earlier upstairs, and had draped a woollen shawl about her shoulders.

  Flitting back into the parlor and shutting the door, she quickly set her stage. Cloak draped over the arm of the sofa with the muff sitting in that corner, as if in preparation for a turn about the grounds. She sat, and settled her embroidery bag on her other side. The pistol was no longer in it, but in her muff.

  No one thought anything of a lady’s muff; it was one of those items that was next to invisible, but the pistol had fitted perfectly into the inner pocket, as if the pocket had been made for the purpose.

  She’d just relaxed on the sofa cushio
ns when a tap on the door heralded Mrs. Shearer and her tray.

  “Here you are, miss.” Mrs. Shearer eased the tray onto the small table before the sofa. “I’ve just put a few pieces of shortbread on a plate there, in case you’d like a nibble of something.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shearer. That looks wonderful.”

  Mrs. Shearer glanced about the room. “Is he off, then?”

  “Yes—he’ll be back in a few hours.” Loretta poured, aware of Mrs. Shearer hovering, struggling with her curiosity and her conscience.

  In the end, Mrs. Shearer shifted closer and lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, miss, but I couldn’t help but see that you wear no ring. You’re not eloping, or anything like that, are you?”

  Loretta smiled. “Sadly, no. Mr. Carstairs is a friend of my family and is escorting me into Cambridgeshire to visit with friends, but he has business to attend to near here. However, he’s unsure how long his meeting will take, and so we can’t be sure if we’ll be heading on this evening, or staying the night.”

  “Oh. I see.” While not overtly disappointed at not having an elopement to assist with, a hint of that emotion colored Mrs. Shearer’s tone. She straightened. “I’d best get back to my scones—ring when you’re ready for them, miss, and I’ll bring some right in.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Loretta watched the door close behind her hostess, then smiled, sat back, and sipped her tea.

  And wished she’d left her embroidery in her embroidery bag.

  The way her mind was already circling, imagining, supposing, simply worrying, she would give a great deal for anything powerful enough to distract her until Rafe returned.