The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her lungs seized even before he halted directly before her, before he raised his hands and framed her face.

  Mouth dry, she moistened her lips, waited for him to bend his head and kiss her.

  Instead, his gaze searched her face. Drank in every feature, then he looked deep into her eyes. “I need to tell you something—something I had absolutely no intention of telling you, not now, not ever. I never intended to let the words past my lips, not because I don’t want you to hear them, to know them, but because of how they make me feel.

  “But today everything changed.” Rafe dragged in a breath, held her gaze, let it hold him. “Today … I thought, for one moment in that parlor, that I would die without telling you these words. Without letting you hear them, letting you know them. Without giving you the truth—that you are the most important thing in the world to me, and that I cannot live without you. That I would not want to live without you. If you had died in that parlor, I would have died, too—nothing is more certain. But even that … those aren’t the words. The words I need to say.

  “The words I can no longer not say. I can’t hold them inside me any longer. They’re too powerful. To me, they’re too real, and too insistent. Too much now a defining part of me.” He held her blue eyes, those lovely periwinkle blue eyes, and simply said, “I love you. I love you, Loretta Michelmarsh, and I want you to be my wife, to have and to hold, to defend and protect, from now until the end of my life. I want you by my side, now and forever. I want to spend my days near you, and my nights beside you. I do not want us ever to be apart.”

  “I want the same thing.” Loretta raised one hand to cradle the back of his. “I didn’t know, not until that same moment in the parlor, that I could feel like this—that I did feel like this. That the emotion that was already a part of me was so powerful, so complete. I didn’t know it could wipe away fear, that it could bolster courage to such a degree—that it could make me do what I did, and leave me knowing I would do the same again, in an instant, if that was what was needed to keep you safe. To keep you with me. But even then I didn’t know, not until we reached here, that this is how love is supposed to feel. That this, all we feel, you and me together, for never doubt that we’re together in this, is the glory and the wonder that others speak of, that others strive for—and it’s already ours.”

  His lips curved. “Ours if we wish to seize it.” He bent his head.

  “I do.” She stated it fiercely, tugged him nearer.

  “As do I.”

  Their lips met, and love rose up. Not simply passion, not mere desire, but something so much finer.

  They knew the difference, felt it, tasted it, knew it in their hearts.

  Sensed it in their souls.

  This was joy, the ultimate pleasure, a delight that knew no bounds.

  This was meant to be. Was how they were meant to be. Together in passion, in adventure, in joy. In reckless abandon and flagrant wonder.

  In love.

  Soft touches melded with murmurs, whispers of silk slid across heated skin.

  Fingers touched, caressed, lingered.

  Pleasure welled.

  And love took them, joined them, raised them high on her passionate sea, and welded them anew, let desire and need and hunger collide and light the spark of her bounty.

  Let ecstasy explode like a nova upon them, in them, over them.

  Let bliss pour, at the last, through them. And fill the void.

  Then love laid a gentle hand upon them, in benediction, in grace, and left them sleeping, tangled and slumped, sated and wracked, amid the billows of the bed.

  At peace at last, truly home at last, together in each other’s arms.

  Epilogue

  December 24, 1822

  Elveden Grange

  On Christmas Eve, with the hint of snow in the air, all those involved in the capture of the Black Cobra gathered at Elveden Grange for a celebration, not of the end of the fiend’s reign, but of life, love, and the future.

  Of the passing of one year and the promise of the next.

  The party was swelled not just by the Cynsters but by all those who’d joined them at Somersham Place for their customary Christmas Celebration. Minerva had ordered the rarely used ballroom opened; she and the small army of ladies staying at the Grange had spent the intervening two days flinging themselves with joyous abandon into the task of creating the perfect setting for their yuletide celebration.

  Their children had helped, running here, running there, fetching and carrying, contributing in myriad ways both to the event and even more to the atmosphere. Even the infants had been brought down by their nurses to see and to be enthralled. To share in the event and be touched by the uplifting, invigorating spirit that seemed to flow and swirl like fairy dust through the house.

  While the ladies had been engaged and their families absorbed, the men had taken care of business. Royce, backed by Devil and Christian, had notified the authorities in London of the known crimes and capture of the Black Cobra, of the involvement and subsequent murders in England of Roderick Ferrar and his half brother Daniel Thurgood, thus setting in motion the Black Cobra’s trial.

  On the day of her capture, Kilworth had remained outside the Laughing Trout Inn. He’d waited until Royce had come out and confirmed his half sister’s involvement; from a distance he’d watched her led out and driven away. He’d taken on the duty of notifying his father of the fact, and of exactly who had been responsible for Shrewton’s legitimate son’s and his illegitimate son’s murders.

  After some discussion, Royce had written to Shrewton informing him of his illegitmate daughter’s arrest as the Black Cobra, and of her pending trial. He’d included the information that she was being held in the Bury St. Edmunds jail in case Shrewton wished to visit her.

  None of them imagined he would.

  That done, the assembled gentlemen had wandered into the ballroom to view their ladies’ efforts—and had promptly been conscripted and dispatched to the farther reaches of the surrounding woods to fetch boughs of fir and holly of the right size and conformation to garland the many doors, windows, and fireplaces in the house’s reception rooms. They were also instructed to return with any mistletoe they might find, an order much more to their taste.

  For two days a joyous bustle had filled the house. By the time Royce and Minerva quit the open double doors of the ballroom and turned to mingle with their assembled guests, all lingering vestiges of the Black Cobra’s dark malice had been swept away.

  Dodging a streaming line of laughing children—it was just after five o’clock; in view of the distance the Cynsters and their guests would have to travel home, and the light dusting of fresh snow that had appeared overnight and the everpresent promise of more to come, Minerva had decreed an early start to the festivities and had stipulated that all children, both at the Grange and at the Place, were also included in her invitation-cum-summons—Royce glanced at his wife, cynically if resignedly inquired, “Did you plan this from the start?” When she glanced his way, gray eyes widening in question, he clarified, “Is this why you invited all the Bastion Club wives plus their families to stay? So we could have”—he gestured about them—“this?”

  Minerva blinked at him. “Well, of course.” Her lips curved. Claiming his arm, she stepped close to avoid a throng of young Cynsters, Pevenseys and Gascoignes. “You’re the one who’s known for planning to the last degree. It was obvious that, if all went well, the adventure would end here, at this time, and that everyone involved would be in need of”—she mimicked his gesture—“this.”

  “Ah—I see.” He did. While he had, indeed, planned to the last degree all that was physically, militarily, and politically possible to ensure the mission’s success, he hadn’t thought of, let alone planned for, the emotional requirements, although he now saw, understood, and acknowledged the need.

  Glancing over the assembled throng, from the corner of his eye he saw Minerva’s smile deepen. He turned to meet her eyes.

&
nbsp; “Yes, I know.” She held his gaze for a moment, then stretched up and fleetingly touched her lips to his. “But that’s why I’m here—it’s one of the many reasons you need me.”

  Stepping back, drawing her arm from his, she pressed his hand. “Now go and circulate, and I’ll do the same.”

  Royce smiled and let her go.

  She started into the crowd, but then glanced back and called, “I meant to warn you. Once we all sit and you finish welcoming everyone, there are a number of announcements—Devil will follow you and make them.”

  He arched his brows, but Minerva merely waved and headed into the melee. He hesitated, then made his own way into the chattering, constantly shifting sea of guests. He had a strong suspicion as to what Devil’s announcements would be, but as he was bailed up, first by Lady Osbaldestone, then by Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, supported by Lady Horatia Cynster and Augusta, Marchioness of Huntly, all of whom demanded a full and complete accounting of all that had been going on—and expected him to provide it—he got no chance to speak to Devil or any of the four gentlemen he assumed were involved to verify his assumptions.

  So when, half an hour later, he rose and, looking down the long tables filling the huge room, raised his glass and welcomed the assembled multitude to his home, when he asked them to raise their glasses in a toast to the season—to the success of the past year, especially of the past months, weeks, and days of their recently concluded endeavor, and to the promise of the year to come—and they all drank, he had no real notion, as he turned to Devil, seated beyond Minerva, whether it was appropriate to say, “And now I believe Devil has something to say regarding that promise of what is to come.”

  Devil’s grin as he pushed back his chair told him he’d guessed right.

  Rising as Royce resumed his seat, Devil considered his glass, then raised his head and looked out over the room, at the many eager, expectant faces. “We’ve come here today—been brought here today—by a confluence of events. Events that started many months ago in faraway Calcutta. Those events set in train a series of four journeys undertaken by four close friends, friends who, to accomplish their vital mission, reached out and tapped us”—with his glass he gestured to those seated around about—“many of us here, on our shoulders. We responded and banded together, and under Royce’s direction, with the help of all involved our four friends have come into safe harbor, and have successfully completed their mission.

  “So our four friends are with us again, hale and whole, but with one pertinent alteration. Through their journeys each met a lady, and each had to learn, was forced to learn as so many of us here already have”—smiling, Devil inclined his head to Minerva and Honoria, then swept his gaze over the other ladies seated nearby—“to trust, to value, appreciate, and venerate the talents and support of such ladies of like mind.”

  Devil paused to let the laughter, understanding and warm, roll through the room. As it quieted, he continued, “And just as those of us who have gone before them, our four friends and their four ladies have concluded that a successfully shared adventure is a sound basis from which to progress to a successfully shared life.”

  Devil raised his glass. “I would therefore ask you all to charge your glasses, to rise and hold them high, and to drink to the betrothals of Captain Derek Delborough and Miss Deliah Duncannon, Major Gareth Hamilton and Miss Emily Ensworth, Major Logan Monteith and Miss Linnet Trevission, and Captain Rafe Carstairs and Miss Loretta Michelmarsh.”

  With roars and cheers, clapping and laughter, to the sound of chairs scraping the company rose and as one raised their glasses and shouted after Devil, “To the promise of shared lives!”

  All drank. Then under cover of the clapping, the laughter and smiles, eyes met, and couples who already knew the reality of the magic of a truly shared life shared glances, private smiles. To quirked brows, laughing eyes, and wordless vows, they sipped again, toasting each other.

  Then the company sat, Minerva signaled her staff, and the banquet to end all banquets began.

  Royce leaned back in his massive carver, looked out over the room, then reached out, caught Minerva’s hand, drew her near. He met her widening eyes, raised her hand to his lips, kissed, then simply said, “Well planned.”

  January 5, 1823

  City of London

  Rafe met Gabriel on the pavement before the building in which Sir Charles Manning maintained a business office. Rafe glanced back at the unmarked black carriage that stood waiting at the curb half a block away. Loretta had accepted that dealing with Manning would be best left to men, but had wanted to be near to hear the results immediately.

  Gabriel blew on his hands and glanced about. It was early afternoon, yet even in this season the city pavements were bustling with clerks of all descriptions scurrying hither and yon. “Roscoe should be here soon.”

  Rafe nodded. Neville Roscoe’s involvement in their plan had been a surprise to everyone. Christian had suggested asking Roscoe, who apparently knew a great deal about the shady side of London business dealings, for his opinion on Manning and how best to deal with him. Montague, the highly respected Cynsters’ man of business, who also acted for Esme, had supported the suggestion; he, too, knew of Roscoe and patently valued the man’s insight.

  Royce and Minerva had come down to London as Royce had more yet to do with bringing the charges against the Black Cobra. Rafe was staying with the ducal couple at Wolverstone House while Loretta had returned to her brother’s roof. But as soon as Manning was dealt with and Esme’s release from captivity assured, Rafe and Loretta would head into the country, first for a visit with Margaret, Loretta’s eldest sister, then to stay for a time with Rafe’s family, who were, after all these years, eager, even ecstatically so, to embrace him and his betrothed to their collective bosom.

  All those involved in dealing with Manning had met the previous evening at Wolverstone House. Royce, Rafe, Loretta, Christian, Gabriel, and Tristan had all been present, as had Montague, and, to everyone’s surprise, Roscoe had sent word that he would attend, too.

  When he’d arrived, Minerva had blinked, but then she’d smiled, welcomed him, then left them to their deliberations.

  Roscoe had exchanged a look with Royce, but then had sat and told them what he’d learned of Manning’s business affairs. Montague had confirmed some points, but had been intrigued to hear of others, his attitude leaving little doubt he considered Roscoe’s intelligence sound.

  Once all their information had been verbally laid on the table, they’d concocted a plan—a reasonably simple one they’d all felt would work.

  However, while Roscoe had agreed that their plan would release Esme from any threat from Manning, he’d pointed out that the most likely result was that Manning would sell his shares to someone of similar ilk who would then take up where Manning had left off, and Esme and her fellow shareholders would once again be besieged.

  Roscoe’s proposal to eliminate that risk had made them all blink, but Montague had seconded the idea, and after a moment’s consideration, Royce had given it his imprimatur as well. That had been enough for the rest of them.

  Which was why Rafe and Gabriel were waiting for Roscoe to join them before confronting Manning in his lair.

  The various bells of London had just started tolling two o’clock when the tall figure of Roscoe, impeccably groomed, turned the corner. He saw them and strode briskly up.

  Roscoe exchanged nods, then tipped his head toward the door. “You lead. I’ll play the part of silent and enigmatic supporter until we start explaining what will happen next.”

  Feeling very much like he was leading another charge, Rafe led the way up the narrow stair. They walked into Manning’s outer office without knocking, awed the crafty-looking secretary and sent him scurrying into the inner office to announce their presence and convey their desire to speak with Manning on a matter of urgency regarding Argyle Investments.

  Less than a minute later, they were shown into Manning’s inner sanctum. />
  The man himself—a gentleman, well-dressed, elegantly turned out, of middle age and just a touch portly—rose from the chair behind a large desk. “Gentlemen.” His gaze flicked from Gabriel to Rafe. “I take it you are the Mr. Carstairs who has recently become betrothed to Miss Michelmarsh?”

  Their engagement had been announced in the Gazette three days before. Rafe nodded. “Indeed.” He gestured to Gabriel. “I assume you’ve heard of Mr. Cynster.”

  “Ah, yes.” Manning’s expression suggested he couldn’t understand what Gabriel was doing there; the uncertainty took the edge off his arrogant assurance.

  Especially when neither Rafe nor Gabriel made any move to offer their hands. Nor did Rafe introduce Roscoe, who had hung back by the wall just inside the door.

  An awkward pause ensued, then, considerably more sober, Manning waved to the chairs before the desk. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”

  They all sat; Roscoe subsided into a straight-backed chair against the wall. Rafe hid a smile. Christian had warned that while Manning wouldn’t recognize Roscoe by sight, learning his name would have a definite effect. Apparently Roscoe ran a number of questionable enterprises with an iron fist, but the code he adhered to was rigid, unbreakable; he was one of the few men in London guaranteed to put the wind up a slippery practitioner like Manning.

  Like a jackal coming face-to-face with a full-grown lion.

  “Now then, gentlemen.” Manning clasped his hands on his blotter and looked from Gabriel to Rafe. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s more a matter,” Rafe informed him, “of what we can, or will, or might deign to, do for you.” In an even tone, he related what he’d learned in Mainz, all the Prussian had told him, and described the sworn document, now in the keeping of a magistrate, that named Manning as the Prussian’s employer in the attempted abduction and murder of Lady Congreve.