The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  The fighting raged on.

  Dragging in a breath, telling herself this was no time to succumb to hysterics, Deliah realized she was weaponless. Defenseless should another cultist come for her. Setting the used pistol aside, she reached down and pulled the cultist’s knife to her.

  It didn’t look used.

  She picked it up, gripped the hilt. The blade was longish, but not as long as a full-sized sword or a cavalry saber. It wasn’t so heavy she couldn’t wield it. Use it if need be.

  Then someone slammed the open carriage door shut. Tony. He was immediately engaged by a cultist, but he and Kumulay were now fighting one on one. She felt certain both would prevail.

  She looked the other way, at Del, then edged toward that door. There were more cultists on that side of the carriage. Gervase was still trading blows with the two before him. Del had done some damage, but still had two vicious opponents attacking him.

  Drawn, she inched closer, then, knowing better than to distract him, she crouched down inside the door and silently watched.

  With an ear-splitting yell, one of the cultists jabbing at Gervase abruptly whirled and, sword raised high, raced toward Del.

  Toward his back, exposed because the other cultists had drawn him to one side.

  Fully engaged with the opponents before him, there was no chance he could turn and meet the attack.

  Deliah swung the carriage door open and stepped out onto the high step.

  The cultist saw her and changed direction.

  Eyes alight, he charged toward her.

  Desperately she freed the sword from her skirts. Gripping it with both hands, she brought it up to ward him off.

  He ran straight onto it.

  The shock on his face was mirrored on hers.

  Stunned, his mouth still wide open, but with no sound any longer issuing forth, the cultist looked down. Stared at the long blade embedded in his chest. His own knife fell from his nerveless fingers, then his eyes closed and he crumpled, jerking the sword from her slackened grasp.

  Her appearance had spurred Gervase and Del to even greater efforts. Cursing, they left their opponents writhing and moaning on the ground, clutching wounds. They exchanged a single glance, then Del whirled and strode for the carriage while Gervase raced around to the other side.

  When Del reached Deliah, she was still staring, stunned, at the fallen cultist. Hand to her midriff, he pressed her back. “Sit down.”

  His tone, the one he used on the battlefield, had her blinking and shuffling back. She dropped onto the seat as he climbed in and slammed the door shut.

  From above, Cobby yelled, “All aboard!”

  Their agreed signal for “cut and run.”

  Gervase yanked open the other door and scrambled in. Tony followed on his heels, slamming the door shut behind him as the carriage dipped heavily—Kumulay climbing up again.

  Cobby didn’t wait for anyone to settle. He sprang the horses, spooked by the rising scent of blood and more than ready to race on.

  In a blink, they were away from the trees and thundering out into the open.

  For long minutes, they all just sat there, breathing heavily, regaining their sanity.

  Eventually, Tony stirred. “How many did we get?”

  Deliah swallowed, looked at Del. “Fourteen. All told, there were fourteen.”

  When he met her gaze, she raised her brows. “Satisfied?”

  His eyes were still hard, his jaw still set. “It’s a start.”

  What could he say?

  They’d made a respectable dent in the Black Cobra’s forces, but…

  She’d been far too involved, too exposed to real danger and death. So much for his careful planning. When he’d glanced across and seen her standing on the carriage step, one of their long knives in her hand with a cultist skewered on the end of it, his blood had run cold.

  Not at all helpful in the middle of a fraught clash.

  He’d wanted to roar at her for disobeying his strict orders, but if she hadn’t…he’d have been in much worse strife—possibly not able to roar at her at all.

  Certainly not able to ease her back into the carriage and, under cover of her skirts, hold her hand—probably too tightly—all the way to Somersham Place.

  He’d contented himself with that—with the simple contact—while the horses had raced on through the increasingly dark afternoon.

  A winter storm was massing, roiling and boiling, ready to sweep in from the North Sea. One glance at the horizon, at the color and density of the clouds building there, confirmed snow by nightfall was a certainty.

  It was early evening, already full dark, by the time they reached the massive pillars that marked the drive of the Place. Cobby had never been there before, but Del had described the pillars; the carriage slowed, turned into the drive, then continued bowling steadily along.

  A welcoming light shone through the bare branches of massive oaks. Then the carriage rounded a corner and the house lay before them, as massive as he remembered, and as welcoming. Lamps on the porch were burning, casting a warm glow down the porch steps, illuminating the couple who walked out, alerted by the rattle of wheels on the gravel.

  The gentleman halted at the top of the steps. Del felt his lips curve; Devil looked the same as ever, but the lady who came to stand by his shoulder, linking her arm with his, was new.

  The carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop. A footman hurried to open the door and let down the carriage steps. Gervase and Tony waved them on. Del descended first, then turned to give Deliah his hand. She descended, twitched her plum-colored skirts straight, then, head rising, spine straight, allowed him to lead her up the porch steps to where Devil waited with his duchess.

  As they neared, Devil’s lips curved and his pale green eyes lit. “Del! Welcome, once again, to Somersham.”

  A spontaneous smile wreathing his face, Del clasped Devil’s proferred hand. “It’s beyond good to be here again.”

  Devil hauled him into a brief embrace, clapped his back. “I confess I’m amazed you’re still hale and whole—I would have sworn someone would have skewered you by now.”

  Del made a rude, if muted, noise in reply as they both turned to their respective ladies.

  Who hadn’t waited for them.

  “I’m Honoria—this reprobate’s duchess.” With an engaging smile for Deliah, Devil’s duchess held out her hand.

  “Deliah Duncannon.” Deliah rose from a curtsy and touched fingers, adding, “I unwittingly became embroiled in Delborough’s mission, and so have had to tag along. I hope my unexpected presence, and that of my household—they’re following—won’t discompose yours.”

  “Not at all! I’m delighted—and so will all the other ladies be—to welcome you.” Honoria’s gray eyes testified to her sincerity. “You’ll be able to give us a female view on all that’s going on.”

  The duke smiled and smoothly introduced himself—as Devil—to Deliah.

  She gave him her hand, and curtsied as he bowed. He was much like Del—tall, starkly handsome, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, with the long, powerful frame of a natural horseman—but in place of Del’s military bearing, Devil exuded aristocratic command.

  Then Tony and Gervase joined them. Del made the introductions, and discovered Devil had met the other two before.

  “At Wolverstone’s wedding,” Gervase explained. “There was a spot of bother we all helped him tidy up.”

  “Indeed?” Honoria’s finely arched brows rose. She shot a look at her husband. “I must ask Minerva for the story. Now, however”—she took Deliah’s arm—“do come in out of the cold. It’s positively frigid out here, and much warmer inside.”

  Warmer because of the huge fire blazing in the massive hearth at the far end of the long halfpaneled hall, and warmer because of the almost joyous welcome accorded them by the others gathered about the tables and comfortable chairs. Although it was too early for the customary yuletide decorations, here the emotional ambiance of the approaching sea
son seemed already to have taken hold. Deliah felt herself literally thawing, both her flesh and her reservations.

  She, Del, Tony and Gervase were taken on a circuit of introductions. The men all either knew each other, or knew of each other. She was the only true newcomer to the group; she’d expected to hang back, to find herself left on the fringe. Instead, as Honoria had foretold, the ladies, one and all, were not just delighted to meet her but keen and eager to hear all she could tell them.

  For all their warmth, the couples littering the big hall were an imposing and impressive lot. The males were especially notable. Scandal Cynster, who his wife Catriona called Richard, was clearly Devil’s brother, with similar features and build, but cornflower blue eyes. The duke’s cousins included Demon Cynster, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes, and his diminuitive wife, Felicity—whom he referred to as Flick—and his older brother, Vane, a harder, quieter man, yet very much in the Cynster physical mold but with brown hair and gray eyes, and his wife, Patience. Then came a Lucifer Cynster, all dark-haired, blue-eyed elegance, and his wife, Phyllida, and a Gabriel Cynster, the epitome of sophistication, brown-haired and hazel-eyed, and his wife, Alathea.

  All the Cynster men had fought alongside Del and his three friends—the other three couriers—at Waterloo. In addition, the Earl of Chillingworth—who, from his interaction with Del and Devil, Deliah placed as Gyles Rawlings, the third of the schoolboy trio—was there, with his countess, Francesca; brown-haired and gray-eyed, he, too, possessed a commanding presence.

  Deliah made a mental note to inquire at some point as to how the men had come by their odd names, but even more than the men, she was curious about the women.

  Physically they varied dramatically, from Catriona’s serene, red-haired beauty, through Phyllida’s dark-haired vitality, and Alathea’s, Patience’s and Honoria’s perfectly groomed shades of calm and collected brown, to Flick’s blond vivacity and Francesca’s black-haired, gypsylike vibrance. In appearance they were widely dissimilar, yet in presence and character, in their attitude to their world, they seemed of one mind. They were confident, assured and assertive, not afraid to state their opinions and make their wishes known.

  Not one was the meek, mild or retiring sort. Not one was prim and proper, any more than Deliah was.

  Which was something of a social shock.

  Other than Alathea, who, Deliah suspected, was a few years older than she, most of the ladies were younger, ranging in age down to Flick, who must have been in her early twenties. These ladies, with their positions, connections and wealth, would be part of the core of the current society-defining generation, the arbiters of social acceptance for the upper class, for the ton.

  All her life, Deliah had been lectured on how she needed to behave to be socially accepted, yet these ladies, one and all, were of a vastly different stripe from those she’d always been instructed she should emulate. These ladies were…

  Like her.

  From Honoria, with her rich chestnut hair gleaming in the firelight, her gray eyes alert and all-seeing, to Flick, with her guinea gold curls bouncing and her blue eyes bright with interest, these ladies, each in her own way, were bold, determined and decisive.

  Why they were the Cynsters’ chosen mates wasn’t any great mystery.

  To Deliah, with just a few words exchanged recognizing like-minded souls, meeting them was both eye-opening, and an immense relief.

  With these ladies, she could be herself.

  Honoria turned aside to speak with a majestic butler who had come to hover by her elbow. “Dinner at eight-thirty, I think, Webster. That will give our latest arrivals time to settle in.” She glanced to where the men had gradually gravitated into a group halfway up the hall. “And allow the gentlemen time to satisfy their collective curiosity.”

  On the word, she looked at Deliah, then at the other ladies gathered in the chairs before the fire. “Might I suggest we adjourn to my sitting room? We can sit and chat, and have tea in comfort.”

  “And greater privacy.” With a conspiratorial smile, Francesca stood.

  Honoria turned to Webster. “Tea in my sitting room, Webster. And please convey my compliments to Mrs. Hull and tell her and Sligo of Miss Duncannon’s arrival, and of the imminent arrival of Miss Duncannon’s household, and the colonel’s, too.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace.” Webster bowed low and departed.

  As the ladies rose, Devil strolled up. He smiled—innocently—at Honoria. “We’ll be in the library.”

  She smiled back, not even feigning innocence. “We’ll be in my sitting room.” With a wave, she sent the other ladies ahead, then linked her arm in Deliah’s and glanced up at her spouse. “We’ll see you all at dinner. Eight-thirty.”

  Deliah grinned as, with that parting shot, she was determinedly led to the stairs.

  Strolling beside Devil, Del followed the others along the corridor to the library. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’d forgotten you’d have so many children here. For my peace of mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d post guards around the nursery areas.” He met Devil’s green gaze. “Just in case.”

  Devil smiled, but it wasn’t a humorous gesture. “It’s already taken care of. And now that Sligo has been reinforced by Cobby, I doubt there’s any likelihood of anyone getting past their pickets.”

  Del inclined his head in agreement. Sligo—now Devil’s majordomo—had been Devil’s batman at Waterloo, just as Cobby had been his. The two batmen had forged a friendship under fire, one just as close as their masters’.

  Devil paused by an open door, through which the comforting ambiance of a very male library could be glimpsed. He waved Del through. “Come, sit, and tell us the whole story.”

  Del preceded him into the luxurious yet comfortable room, and proceeded to do just that.

  He told the tale of his mission, from its beginning in the Marquess of Hastings’s office months before. Describing the Black Cobra’s atrocities while sitting in leather-cushioned luxury, a crystal tumbler filled with the finest malt whiskey in his hand, only made the details doubly stark, and even more disturbing.

  There were grim looks all around, and softly muttered curses, when he described James MacFarlane’s death.

  “He was a good man.” Devil drained his glass, then reached for the decanter. His words were echoed as the others did the same.

  Del nodded and continued, detailing the events that had led to the four of them—he, Gareth, Logan, and Rafe—leaving Bombay, then described the action he’d seen on his journey, all the way through to that afternoon. Tony and Gervase supplied their observations, and the outcomes of their attempts to gain some clue as to the Black Cobra’s lair.

  Tony shook his dark head. “Until today, we’d seen nary a sign of any cultist. But clearly they’re here—the Lord only knows where he’s hiding them. With their peculiar costume, they’ll have no hope of blending into the scenery.”

  Devil met Del’s eyes. “That’s a point we should convey to Wolverstone. We’ll send a rider before dinner. The weather’s closing in, so we’d better seize the chance to let him know you’ve arrived safely, and that there are indeed cultists about.”

  “How far away is he?” Del asked.

  “He’s at Elveden Grange, about thirty miles due east.” Devil sipped, then went on, “Our orders are to have all three of you remain, for a few days at least, in the hope—distant though it might be—that the Black Cobra will try a sortie. It’s possible that, not knowing you were headed here, he won’t have had time to do any reconnaissance, and so won’t realize how many ex-cavalry there are in the house.” He paused, head tilted. “If he could throw fourteen at you on the road, it’s possible he might feel he has the numbers for a foray against this place.”

  Del grimaced. “That’s a long shot. On his own ground, he’s showy and confident, but he’s been careful, watchful and wary over here.”

  Devil levelled a sharp gaze on him. “Don’t disillusion us. You’ll have noticed none of us have taken you
to task over reducing the enemy by fourteen, all by yourselves? You were supposed to share.”

  Del hid his curving lips behind his glass. “Sorry. Blame our success on Deliah—if it weren’t for her, we’d never have drawn the cultists out.”

  Demon snorted. “Typical female. And she killed two as well? Haven’t you explained that’s our job? She’s supposed to sit quietly and leave it to us.”

  Del’s brows rose. “I don’t suppose you’d like to undertake to explain that to her in words she’ll accept?”

  Quite a few men choked.

  “Once he’s worked out how to do that with his wife,” Scandal put in, “no doubt he’ll oblige.”

  A heavy sigh sounded, drawing all attention to Vane, who’d been prowling behind Devil’s chair. He turned from the window, letting the curtain fall closed. “I hate to further dampen spirits, so to speak, but it’s started snowing.” He looked at Devil. “You’d better get that rider on his way if you want him to reach Elveden tonight.”

  There were groans all around.

  Devil rose and rang for Sligo.

  Del, listening to the others’ predictions, recalled that in that season, in that part of the country, the snowfalls could be considerable.

  Slumping back, he grimaced. “It doesn’t look as if we’re going to have much luck in getting the Black Cobra to come to us.”

  Upstairs in the duchess’s sitting room, Deliah had just finished telling the other ladies everything she knew of Del’s mission.

  Relating the details of the incident that afternoon had left her more shaken than she’d been at the time.

  Honoria calmly handed her another cup of tea. “It’s often worse reliving it—that’s when you realize all the things that might have gone wrong, how much worse it all might have been.”

  Deliah sipped, met Honoria’s eyes, glanced at the others, all nodding sagely. Amazing. Not one of them had paled, let alone looked likely to faint when she’d described shooting a man, then running one through—although technically he’d run himself through. She’d just held the sword.