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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

  Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

  She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

  He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes—that’s how it should feel.”

  And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

  Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

  Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

  He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

  He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

  He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

  Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed—a quiet vow in the fading moonlight—that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

  Not ever.

  Twelve

  19th November, 1822

  Early morning

  Still in my bed, but now alone

  Dear Diary,

  WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man—the right man—is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter—the reality was better than my dreams.

  Of course, there was—as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man—a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.

  Yes, we will—that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”—but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.

  I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.

  He will need to do better than that—especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.

  So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger—my ultimate goal—I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.

  As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.

  Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.

  E.

  By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way—at last—to Marseilles.

  Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.

  With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.

  Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there—this was the Mediterranean—but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.

  His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.

  He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.

  On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach—his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome—that he needed her as his wife—and that was enough.

  Probing further…

  After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.

  No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.

  The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.

  Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.

  He hoped his master would be pleased.

  Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.

  19th November, 1822

  Evening

  Once more in a shared cabin on a xebec

  Dear Diary,

  We left Tunis today on a fair wind, which I have been informed by Captain Dacosta is likely to remain with us all the way to Marseilles. Dacosta is much like Laboule, and thus like Gareth, too, which brings me to my point.

  Men of action, like Gareth, our xebec captains, Berber chieftains, and the like, appear to share certain similarities of character, especially in a personal sense. I have been mulling over the wisdom the older Berber women—who have spent a lifetime observing such men—deigned to share. In taking guidance on the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I could do far worse.

  My conclusions are that while he clearly feels something for me, and indeed, all the signs point to that something being love, it is important—in fact, critical—for our future happiness that he acknowledges that fact, and accepts that love—mutual and enduring—is the true basis of our marriage from the start.

  So how do I bring that about?

  As ever resolute.

  E.

  The attack came with the dawn.

  Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.

  Feet thundered past—the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.

  A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.

  He looked at her. “Stay here.”

  His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.

  Emil
y looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.

  Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.

  In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them—our attackers—from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”

  Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t think she would be able to wield a knife—just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish—but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.

  She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.

  Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”

  She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.

  They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.

  And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.

  Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.

  She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.

  A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.

  He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.

  She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.

  He slumped—unconscious, not dead.

  She could manage unconscious without a qualm.

  Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.

  Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close—close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.

  One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.

  Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.

  Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless.…

  A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.

  But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.

  His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.

  She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.

  Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get below!”

  Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close—close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley—the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship, taut in the breeze—the fair wind was still blowing—then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn—”

  She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”

  He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.

  An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”

  “Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.

  Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.

  He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”

  He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.

  Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”

  “Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket—a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.

  But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”

  Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”

  He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area—you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”—he nodded at the bottles they held—“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”

  He turned to Emily. “You stay here, down here, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare—it had always worked on soldiers.

  It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her—desperately wanted to taste her lips for just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.

  Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.

  Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.

  His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.

  He found Mooktu, and with a word and a glance had him shoulder to shoulder, then Mullins saw, and although not knowing why, came to join them in clearing the area around the hatch and holding all comers back.

  Gareth noticed Arnia at Mooktu’s elbow, and Dorcas behind Mullins. Both women looked dishelved, but neither had wounds, and both had knives. He knew Arnia could use hers, and Dorcas’s was bloodied.

  Then another wave of cultists charged their little wall, and he had other things to t
hink about.

  The first incendiary lobbed out from behind him. Bister’s direction was good, but his range less so. The burning bottle smashed on the other ship’s deck. Surprised crew quickly stamped out the ensuing fire.

  But the next bottle struck the lower part of the middle lanteen sail.

  The oil soaked in, then flared, and the sail caught.

  As he’d expected, the sailors rushed to douse the flames, but Watson lobbed his bottles in quick succession, and fires bloomed on the rear lanteen.

  With shouts and curses, the sailors on the other ship rushed to fill buckets. But before the flames were fully doused, Bister hit the middle sail again, and the very top of the rear lanteen.

  The other ship started to lose speed and fall back—bringing their front lanteen into Bister’s firing range. Watson concentrated on keeping the fires going on the middle and rear sails.

  One of the advantages that until then the cultists had had was that they could remain intent and focused, uncaring of what else was happening on the xebec. But with their own ship in difficulties, that changed. Distracted, they glanced across the waves, only to see their ship drifting further back and away.

  The tide of the battle, until then with the cultists, swung the other way. Dacosta and his crew sensed it. They were quick to capitalize, pushing hard to lower the number of cultists they had on board.

  Some cultists decided the waves were safer.

  And then, quite abruptly, the fighting on the xebec’s deck reached the mopping-up stage. Bister popped up at Gareth’s elbow as he stepped back from the waning fray.