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

by Stephanie Laurens

  What might have alerted a shrewd observer was the way he, and the other men in their small group, constantly scanned the crowds, but that couldn’t be helped. The cultists were sure to be hanging about the docks.

  He’d managed not to think too much about Emily, not in a personal sense. He kept trying to make his mind conform and label her Miss Ensworth, preferably with the words the Governor’s niece tacked on for good measure, but his mind had other ideas. Striding along the dock where just days before he’d saved her from an assassin’s blade, he couldn’t ignore his awareness of her—of her body, slender, warm and femininely curved, moving gracefully beside him.

  He wanted her much closer—at least his mind and body did. Both could recall—could re-create—the sensations of the moments when he’d held her tucked protectively against him.

  That instant when something buried deep inside him had surged to the surface and growled, Mine.

  He shook his head in a vain effort to dispel the distraction.

  She noticed and glanced up. “What?”

  He couldn’t fault her focus. Her eyes were wide, alert. He looked at the ships. “I was just wondering where the cultists are. I haven’t sighted any.” He pointed to the barge two vessels along. “That’s ours.”

  She nodded crisply, and made a beeline for the appropriate gangplank.

  Grasping her arm, he halted her at its foot. “Wait.” He signaled to Bister, who with a nod went racing up the gangplank, Jimmy, Watson’s seventeen-year-old nephew, at his heels.

  Two minutes later, Bister reappeared. “All clear.”

  Getting the women, their luggage, and then their men aboard took ten minutes. The captain nodded benignly; the crew all smiled.

  Shouts ran the length of the barge, ropes were cast off, and at last they were away.

  The barge moved slowly, ponderously turning on the increasingly fast-rushing tide. One of many so engaged, the throng of vessels gave them extra cover. To Gareth’s relief, all three females—Emily, her maid Dorcas, and Arnia—had retreated without prompting into the cabins built along the length of the barge. Watson had gone inside, too, taking Jimmy with him, leaving Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to keep watch.

  They found what cover they could, but the barge was carrying little freight beyond its passengers.

  Gareth had hoped that by timing their departure to the very last usable minute of the tide, then even if the cultists spotted them—as he felt sure they would—their pursuers wouldn’t be able to sail after them for at least another twelve hours, if not more.

  At this point, a day’s head start was all he could hope for.

  They got away, swinging out of the harbor and onto the ocean swell, then turning along the coast for the straits without challenge. But as they rounded the last headland, Jimmy caught the reflection off a spyglass directed their way.

  Bister drew the younger lad with him to report to Gareth. “I saw it, too, once he pointed it out. Sure as eggs, someone was watching us.”

  Gareth grimaced. “No prizes for guessing who. But at least we’ve got away, and with the straits ahead, I doubt they’ll catch us up, not before Mocha.”

  Later that evening

  Elsewhere in Aden

  “Uncle—we have news!”

  The tall bearded man known throughout the Black Cobra cult simply as Uncle slowly lifted his gaze from the pomegranate he was peeling. “Yes, my son?”

  The younger man he’d sent to supervise the watch on the harbor drew himself up, head high. “We saw the Major Hamilton leave on a barge, but the barge was on the ocean, heading for the straits, before we could get a clear sighting.”

  “I see.” Uncle paused to eat a piece of pomegranate, then asked, “Did he have a woman—the Englishwoman he saved from our blades on the docks—with him?”

  The young man turned to his colleagues, who had followed him into the courtyard. A whispered conference ensued, then the young man turned back. “She was seen briefly on the docks, but we didn’t sight her on the barge—howsoever there were cabins.”

  “Ah.” Unhurriedly Uncle finished the pomegranate, then carefully wiped his hands. Then he nodded and looked to his second-in-command. His only true son. “In that case, I believe my work here is done.”

  His son nodded. “We will catch them in Mocha—there are men already there.”

  “Indeed.” Uncle slowly stood, stretching to his full, impressive height. “Our illustrious leader has truly foreseen the gentlemen’s paths. There are men watching, ready to act, along all the routes they might take. But my mission—” He broke off and inclined his head to his son. “Our mission is not just to stop these men reaching England. The Black Cobra demands a greater retribution from those who oppose its might and power.”

  Turning to the younger man and his comrades, Uncle raised a hand in benediction. “You have done well enough. You will remain here in case any of the other gentlemen come this way. But I and mine”—he glanced at his son and smiled—“we ride to Mocha.”

  His gaze passed on to the older, more hardened men—assassins all—lined up behind his son. His anticipatory smile deepened. “Find horses. The overland route is shorter.”

  October 5, 1822

  The mouth of the Red Sea

  Dawn broke in a pearly golden wash spreading like gilt across the waves. Stepping out of the narrow corridor running the length of the cabins, Gareth drew the salty air deep, slowly exhaled. The barge was angling northwest, following others into the narrowing mouth of the Red Sea, still some way ahead.

  Seeing Watson leaning on the railing, eyes on the distant shore, Gareth ambled over. Watson glanced at him, then straightened.

  Gareth smiled. “Go in and get some sleep—I’ll take over until Mooktu appears.”

  Stifling a yawn, Watson nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s been quiet all night.” He looked over the water. “Lovely morning, but I’m going to find my bed. I’ll leave you to it.”

  With a half salute, Gareth settled, still smiling, against the rails. He heard Watson stump off into the cabins. The slap of waves against the hull was soothing, the faint mumble of voices from the stern—the crew chatting—punctuated by the call of a wheeling gull.

  Over the last days, while avoiding their mistress, he’d made an effort to get to know her people. If they were to travel on together, he needed to know what manner of troops he had under his command.

  Both Watson and Mullins were unreservedly grateful for his rescue of their charge. Mullins had been an infantryman until after Waterloo. He’d returned to his home village in Northamptonshire, looking for employment, and had run into Watson, who, with Bonaparte defeated and the Continent safe again, had been setting up as a travel guide to take young gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the old Grand Tour. Watson was the courier-guide, Mullins the guard. Jimmy, Watson’s sister’s son, had been brought on this trip to learn the ropes.

  Over the years, Watson and Mullins had worked frequently for the Ensworth family, who they consequently knew well. The family was large; they’d conducted three male Ensworths around the Continent, as well as escorting the elder Ensworths on various trips. The family were valued and well-liked clients; just the thought of losing Emily—one of the younger of the brood—was enough to make both Watson and Mullins, experienced though they were, literally blanch.

  They also liked Emily herself; seen through their eyes, she was a sensible, calm, and even-tempered young lady they had no qualms over conducting halfway around the world.

  Both Watson and Mullins were in their middle years, and shared a tendency to corpulence. Although still hale, able, and active, as Gareth had earlier intimated to Emily, neither rode well, and it sounded as if Jimmy’s equestrian abilities owed more to enthusiasm than skill. It was a point he would have to bear in mind in arranging their transport onward.

  Mullins took his duties seriously; in Aden he’d asked Mooktu to help sharpen his sword skills. Meanwhile Bister had, unasked, taken Jimmy under his wing; Gareth
had seen the pair practicing knife throwing, Bister’s specialty. In terms of protecting the women in the party, they weren’t without resources.

  Not that Gareth thought Arnia needed protecting. Like Mooktu, she hailed from the northwestern frontier, and like all the females of those tribes, was as lethal with blades as her menfolk, yet the cultists would be unlikely to recognize the danger Arnia posed, not until it was too late.

  Learning about Dorcas, Emily’s very English maid, a tall, bustling and competent female somewhere in her late thirties, had required the application of a certain amount of self-effacing charm, but she’d eventually thawed enough to admit that she rode very poorly, and that she’d been with Emily and her family for most of Emily’s life.

  Dorcas, too, was grateful for his rescue and subsequent protection of her mistress, yet she continued to view him with an underlying suspicion she did nothing to hide. As he’d been careful to suppress, and if not that then conceal all evidence of his unhelpful attraction to her charge, he wasn’t sure what lay behind Dorcas’s watchful, ready-to-be-censorious eye.

  He heard a footfall—her footfall. He was turning to search for Emily even before she rounded the cabins in a gown of lilac cotton that fluttered in the breeze.

  Seeing him, she smiled and strolled his way.

  He struggled to keep his answering—too revealing—smile from his face, managed to replace it with a frown. “What are you doing up at this hour?” He glanced around. “You shouldn’t be on deck—it could be dangerous.”

  She tilted her head, studied him for a moment, then, smile still flirting about the corners of her rosy lips, she looked out across the waves. “It’s so peaceful and quiet, you’d hear any other vessel approaching, surely?”

  She looked back at him, met his eyes.

  The best he could do was humph, and lean back on the railing. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

  He was being deliberately off-putting. Just having her near…but the more he replayed their earlier conversation, the more he dwelled on the soft light he’d glimpsed in her eyes, the more he was certain she was carrying a torch for MacFarlane, and he had no intention of trying to compete with that. With his friend’s ghost.

  “I seem to have been sleeping too much, if truth be told. And it’s such a lovely morning.”

  She settled against the railing beside him.

  The warm softness of her body called to his, a siren song weakening his defenses. He told himself he should push back and move away—seize the excuse of being on guard to do a circuit of the barge.

  Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, from the corner of his eyes watching the breeze playing with her hair, teasing out tendrils to lie alongside her porcelain cheeks.

  After a moment, he forced his attention back to the waves. “I…gather you come from a large family.”

  Emily laughed. “That’s an understatement. I have three sisters and four brothers. I’m the second youngest—only Rufus is younger than me.”

  “So you’re the baby of the girls?”

  “Yes, but that’s something of an advantage. We’re all very close, although of course the other three are all married and have their own households. Nevertheless, we still see each other often.” She was perfectly willing to discuss her family, as it allowed her to turn his way and ask, “What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  He stiffened, straightened. “No.” He glanced down at her, then softened the single syllable with, “I was an only child.”

  She noted the past tense. “Your parents…have they passed on?”

  Eyes back on the waves, he nodded. “There’s no one waiting for me in England.” He shot another swift glance her way. Half smiled. “Not like you.”

  “Ah, yes—there’ll be a fattened calf and all manner of celebrations when I get back.” And if matters unfolded as she hoped, he’d be there to share them. Her delighted smile as she looked out across the waves was entirely genuine. She’d had a sudden disconcerting thought that he might have someone waiting for him in England—some lady, even a fiancée—but his statement had been a blanket one. A species of relief slid through her veins, and left her almost giddy.

  He was prickly and stiff, but she wasn’t going to let that deter her. According to her sisters, men—strange beasts—were often that way when they were attracted to a lady but trying to hide it. As for the rest, she’d realized that “Protective” was his middle name, at least as far as women were concerned. However, she’d yet to see any clear indication that with respect to her, that protectiveness had moved beyond the general to the specific.

  But they had plenty of journey ahead of them, plenty of time for her to watch and see.

  She was still at the stage of mentally ticking items off the list of characteristics her “one” should possess. Her ideal was fairly clear in her mind, but matching the reality to her list was proving more challenging than she’d expected. There were all sorts of issues one had to take into account.

  But at this moment, she was content. She fully intended to work on him, on encouraging him to allow his attitude to her to grow less stilted. A moment’s consideration had her stating, “I believe I’ll take an amble about the deck.”

  That brought an instant frown—as she’d expected.

  “It would be safer to go back inside the main cabin.” He stepped back from the railing, frowning down at her.

  She smiled sunnily back. “If you’re on watch, perhaps you should walk with me—you can view the rest of the barge as we go.” She didn’t give him a chance to refuse, but turned and started to stroll down the walkway between the cabins and the barge’s rail.

  Then she turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  Gareth couldn’t resist. Feeling inwardly grim, he found himself following in her wake—responding all too definitely to that alluring smile.

  To his inner self she was far too attractive, and with every passing day, with each new fact he learned about her, grew only more so. She was distraction, and fixation, and potential obsession, and he knew he should back away, but…unlike the men under his command, she was elusive and difficult to manage, and—as she was demonstrating—their journey was going to make keeping his distance close to impossible.

  He joined her as, holding back her waving hair, she excitedly pointed to a cormorant diving in the waves. And he wondered why, instead of feeling weighed down, his heart felt light—lighter than it had in a long, long time.

  Three

  5th October, 1822

  Before dinner

  My cabin on our barge heading for the Red Sea

  Dear Diary,

  Matters are progressing as I’d hoped. It’s said that one learns the truth about people by observing them under stressful conditions. Our journey looks set to provide such conditions, and I have great hopes of learning all I need to know of Gareth—enough to be absolutely certain that he is the one and only gentleman for me.

  My hopes are high.

  E.

  Late that evening, while strolling the deck, eyes scanning the waves—increasingly choppy as they passed through the straits, the Bab el Mandeh, as the crew called them, that led into the Red Sea—Gareth found Bister in the stern, seated on a coil of rope polishing his knives.

  His batman looked up, nodded, and continued to buff. “No sign of any of those idiot fiends.”

  Gareth lounged on the railing nearby. “Why idiot? They nearly did for Miss Ensworth in Aden.”

  “Which proves my point. They should have laid low and taken us out first, then Miss Ensworth would have been a sitting duck. Only Mullins has a clue how to fight, and they separated him from her easily enough.” Bister held up a knife, examined its edge.

  “Not everyone has had the experiences we’ve had, but it would be unwise to treat the cultists too lightly.”

  Bister nodded sagely. “Never underestimate the enemy.”

  “Indeed.” Gareth looked away to hide his twitching lips. Bister was barely five and twen
ty. He’d joined Gareth when he’d been all of seventeen—just as gullible and inexperienced as Jimmy.

  “Meant to mention.”

  Gareth turned back, brows rising.

  Bister kept his gaze locked on his blade, kept rubbing. “Miss Ensworth. Jimmy said as she was supposed to go home via the usual route—booked on a ship of the line to Southampton via the Cape. But a day or so before, she up and changed her mind, and decided she should go via Aden.”

  Gareth let a few seconds go by. “Did she give any reason for the change in route?”

  “Nope—just that she’d taken it into her head to go this way, rather than the other.”

  “When, exactly, did she change her mind? Did Jimmy know?”

  Bister nodded, still absorbed with his blade. “His uncle heard first, as you might imagine. Jimmy said it was a bare two days before they set out—they left on the seventeenth.”

  Gareth and his household had departed on the fifteenth—the day Emily Ensworth had decided to change her plans.

  The facts lined up, but…

  Coincidence. It had to be. Aside from all else, she couldn’t have known about his leaving…could she?

  Even if she had known, why would she bother changing her plans to follow him? It made no sense.

  A niggle of a suggestion tapped his mental shoulder, but that was self-important arrogance if ever he’d heard it.

  “Let me know if you learn anything more.” Pushing away from the railing, he continued on his rounds.

  7th October, 1822

  Morning

  Still in my cabin aboard the barge

  Dear Diary,

  I have missed several entries for the simple reason that I have nothing to report. I suppose, in lieu of anything more interesting, I should remark on what I have seen.