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

by Stephanie Laurens

  Seventeen

  13th December, 1822

  Morning

  Our room in the Perrots’ auberge

  Dear Diary,

  I am almost there. I can almost taste the ultimate victory—the joy I will feel when Gareth finally, finally, tells me he loves me. In words. Out loud.

  He told me the truth last night, not in words, but in actions. Actions that spoke far too loudly for me to mistake his message.

  So yes, he is now and forever my “one,” and yes, we will marry. While he is pondering how to give me that “more” that I require before agreeing to the inevitable, I find myself wondering what our union will be like, how it will work. Not in the specific but in general terms. What manner of marriage do I want? What form will be right for us?

  Four months ago, I hadn’t even known such questions might be asked.

  It’s really quite exciting, this new life unfolding before me.

  E.

  The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into an event. News had spread, and by nine-thirty that morning, when Gareth’s party needed to leave the auberge and board their ship, the narrow streets were lined with well-wishers, all smiling and clapping and cheering them on.

  The sheer numbers of locals ensured no cultist would be likely to get close.

  Gareth sent the baggage, then the others in twos and threes ahead. Their route lay straight down the street opposite the auberge, which led to the main quay, then to the left a short way, and out along one of the lesser wharves. Captain Lavalle’s ship was berthed midway along.

  The skies were gray, but neither sleet, snow, rain, nor gales threatened. The streets were damp, if not dry, and the breeze was blowing offshore.

  At the last, after much touching of cheeks, slapping of backs and shaking of hands, he and Emily took their leave of the Perrots, and emerged from the inn.

  Smiling, nodding to those in the crowd they recognized, they walked briskly down the street, onto the quay, and out along the wharf.

  They were within a hundred feet of Lavalle’s ship, had paused to farewell a group of sailors, and were just moving on, when Gareth heard a telltale shi-ing.

  He grabbed Emily, pushed her back and down, covering her body with his—but not before that first arrow sliced across her forearm. The next arrow thudded into the wharf beside her.

  Two more found their mark in his back, but too weakly to do more than pierce his skin.

  Pandemonium erupted all along the wharf. More arrows rained down, one slicing across his arm, but the archers had misjudged their range; the force behind the arrows was enough to wound, but only by sheer luck could they kill. Realizing that, some sailors seized craypot lids and other makeshift shields, and formed a protective wall between Gareth and Emily and their ship. Other sailors swarmed aboard the two ships from whose crow’s nests the archers were shooting.

  Hauling Emily to her feet, Gareth rushed her to the gangplank and up it. Gaining the deck, he looked around and saw one cultist-archer dive from one crow’s nest into the harbor, while the other had been subdued and was being manhandled down the mast.

  Captain Lavalle came striding up. The gangplank was already aboard. “We’re away. You’ll be glad to see the last of these attackers—”

  Steel clanged on steel. Lavalle whirled. Looking past him, Gareth saw two cultists in the bow, wet and dripping, swords viciously slashing at sailors armed only with knives.

  He thrust Emily at Arnia and Mooktu. “Tend her wound.”

  With an oath, Lavalle ran for the action. Drawing his sword, Gareth followed, grimly pleased to have a release for the emotions roiling within him, evoked by having Emily hurt, especially while he’d been standing beside her.

  He’d been helpless to protect her more than he had, but he wasn’t helpless now, and one of the cultists paid. Lavalle dispatched the other.

  Duty done, violent feelings appeased, Gareth stepped back, and the sailors moved in. Once the ship cleared the harbor, the bodies would be tipped over the side.

  Gareth turned—and found Emily there. She looked into his eyes, a frown in hers, then, lips tight, locked her fingers in the sleeve of his uninjured arm and tugged. “Come and let me tend those wounds.”

  He frowned. “What about your arm?” She’d obviously ignored the wound; he could see a thin line of blood on the edge of her slashed sleeve.

  “That’s just a scratch.” Jaw firming ominously, she tugged harder. “Come on. Don’t argue.”

  He consented to let her drag him along. “Mine is just a scratch, too.”

  “Mine is a real scratch—it hardly bled at all.”

  He halted. “That’s worse than mine. You—”

  She turned on him, rising up on her toes to, quietly, shriek in his face, “You have two arrows in your shoulder! Don’t talk to me about scratches—you weren’t supposed to get hurt again, remember?”

  He’d forgotten about the arrows. Reaching over his shoulder, he found them, yanked them free of the thick weave of his coat, then brought them around to show her the arrowheads. “See—hardly any blood. They barely broke the skin.”

  She studied them, humphed. “Perhaps. Regardless, you will come below now and let me tend your wounds.”

  Looking into her face, registering her tone—determined and one level away from shrill—he nodded, and when she turned and led the way, meekly followed her to the stern companionway.

  Half an hour later, Gareth checked with Lavalle, then, seeing Emily standing at the stern watching Boulogne sink below the horizon, went to join her.

  She didn’t say anything, didn’t look his way, just lifted her face to the breeze, then sighed. “They were nice people—the Perrots and all the others—even if they were French.”

  He smiled. “True.” After a moment, smile fading, he murmured, “However, I doubt I’ll be rushing to return, not in the foreseeable future.”

  “Hmm.”

  A long moment passed, then he quietly said, “I’ve had enough of traveling.” He glanced at her. “How about you?”

  She turned her head, looked into his eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too.” She looked over the water. “I’ve had enough of adventure, of being in danger. Especially now that I’ve found what I was searching for.”

  They both thought of what that was. Of what it would lead to.

  The seas grew choppier and he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her from the worst of the snapping breeze as they watched Boulogne disappear and their past fall behind them, sliding away in the wake of the ship, and consciously let their minds look ahead. To the lives they would lead, and the future they would share.

  13th December, 1822

  Afternoon

  Aboard Lavalle’s ship bobbing in the Channel

  Dear Diary,

  He still hasn’t said he loves me, but I would be foolish indeed to doubt it. Even more than his actions, his motivations, his reasons, his reactions, all of which have remained unwavering for some weeks, speak of his true feelings.

  I can no longer doubt him on that score, so my question now is how much more—what else—should I seek from him in order that our marriage is based from the first on the very best foundation possible?

  Once again, I feel in dire need of my sisters’ advice.

  Regardless, I will persevere.

  E.

  The light was fading as the white cliffs of Dover rose up out of the sea to greet them. With Emily beside him, Gareth stood in the prow and watched the white line expand and draw nearer. The rest of their party were belowdecks, sharing stories of home and hopes for the future.

  For him…the future was not yet.

  Emily, thank heaven, understood. Sliding her arm in his, she leaned against his shoulder. “We’ll be dodging cultists again shortly, won’t we?”

  He nodded. “This is my first sight of England in seven years and…” When she said nothing, just waited, he dragged in a breath and said, “I can’t help thinking how lucky
I am, cultists and all. MacFarlane won’t see home again—and I don’t know where the others are, if they’ll make it home, too.”

  Her hand slid into his, and she gripped. “You know what they’re like, those three friends of yours. I saw them, remember? They’re as determined as you. They’ll fight, and win through. They always have, haven’t they?”

  His lips quirked. He inclined his head.

  Eyes on the still distant land, he forced his mind to the immediate future. “The Black Cobra is going to know we’re here soon after we land. Once he does, he’ll come at us with even greater—even more deadly—force. He’ll do everything he can to stop us—to stop the letter I’m carrying getting into Wolverstone’s hands.” He paused, then went on, “Even after that, we—none of us in our party—will be safe. Not until the Black Cobra himself is brought down.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “We will win. We’ll see this through, and after that…”

  Perhaps. His jaw firmed. “When this is all over, we’ll talk about…what’s next.”

  About their marriage. He now knew beyond question that he would do whatever he needed to to ensure she said yes. To ensure she remained his—his lover, his wife, and more.

  Coming home with her by his side was both a joy and a burden. That he had found her, the only woman he’d ever considered marrying, that she was with him, and one way or another would remain, was all he could ever have dreamed of by way of joyous homecomings. Yet the potential danger she would face setting foot on English soil by his side muted that joy, placed a heavy weight on his shoulders and set a vise about his heart.

  Returning the pressure of her fingers, shifting his to close his hand around hers, he silently vowed that no matter the threat, he would keep her safe. If he wanted a future, he’d have to—without her, he wouldn’t have one.

  They stepped off the gangplank and onto the docks, shrouded in gray drizzle with night rapidly closing in. With heavy coats and thick cloaks wrapped about them, they followed their baggage, loaded on a small cart, out of the harbor and into the town.

  Bister appeared at Gareth’s shoulder. “Cultist on the far corner to the left. He’s seen us.”

  Gareth glanced through the damp veil and saw a shocked brown face staring in their direction. “They didn’t expect us to get through their blockade, which means there’ll be no huge welcome waiting for us around the corner.”

  Bister shivered artistically. “Just as well. We need to get out of this wet before the cold gets into our bones.”

  They’d all forgotten England’s dampness.

  Wolverstone had stipulated they put up at the Waterman’s Inn in Castle Street. They reached it without incident. Giving his name at the counter, Gareth discovered that rooms had already been arranged—the entire first floor of one of the inn’s wings.

  “Arranged by a gen’leman who’s waiting in the tap, sir.” The innkeeper nodded to a doorway to the right. “Him or his friend’s been in every day for a week, now. Would you like me to fetch him, or…?”

  “No need.” Gareth turned, glanced at Emily by his side. “Wolverstone’s guards, I imagine.”

  Rejoining the others, they sorted out rooms. As the others trudged upstairs, overseeing the lads ferrying up the trunks and bags, Gareth arched a brow at Emily. “Do you want to go up and change, or”—he tipped his head toward the tap—“shall we go and see?”

  In answer she turned toward the tap. Together they walked through the open doorway.

  There was a goodly crowd dotted about small tables and booths, couples and friends sharing a drink at the end of a winter’s day. A cheery fire burned in the hearth. Pausing on the threshold, Gareth scanned those present. His gaze halted on a brown-haired man seated in a booth along the side wall, trying to read a news-sheet in the light shed by a wall sconce.

  Even as he looked, the man glanced their way—an idle glance that immediately grew more focused, more intent.

  Lips curving, Gareth steered Emily toward the booth.

  As they neared, the man stood, slowly uncoiling to his six-foot-plus height. Brown brows remained level over shrewd hazel eyes. “Major Hamilton.”

  It was a statement, uttered with the same assurance Gareth felt in approaching the man. Like recognized like. This man had been in the Guards, too, and there wasn’t any other in the tap who could possibly have been one of Dalziel’s ex-operatives.

  Gareth smiled and held out his hand. “Gareth. Wolverstone didn’t convey any names.”

  “He never does.” Their new guard shook hands. He had a ready smile, one he shared equally between Gareth and Emily. “I’m Jack Warnefleet, here to make sure you remain hale and whole throughout the rest of your journey.”

  Gareth introduced Emily. Jack shook hands, then waved them into the booth. While they settled he asked, and went to fetch drinks—mulled wine for Emily, ale for Gareth and him.

  When he returned with their glasses and passed them around, Gareth sipped, smiled. He glanced at Emily, then looked across the table. “Speaking of our onward journey…”

  “Indeed, but first, is all to your liking here? How many do you have with you?”

  Gareth told him.

  Jack nodded. “We’ve bespoken enough rooms. Before we look forward, tell me how you’ve fared.” Jack’s gaze included Emily.

  And Gareth recalled no one knew she was with him. “I’m unsure how much you know of the beginning of this venture, but Miss Ensworth was instrumental in ferrying the vital letter from MacFarlane to us in Bombay.”

  Jack looked at Emily with growing respect. “I was told some lady had.” He smiled charmingly. “It’s an even greater pleasure to meet you, Miss Ensworth.”

  “As it transpired, Emily left Bombay at the same time I did, and our paths crossed at Aden—luckily, as it happened, for cultists were stalking her, too. From there…” Gareth condensed their travels to the minimum, including only the operational information.

  Jack’s expression grew satisfied as he absorbed the details of their recent encounters at Boulogne. “As usual, I don’t know what Royce—Wolverstone—is planning, but I suspect he’ll view the number you’ve managed to draw and eliminate around Boulogne as something of a victory. You’re one of the decoys, so drawing the enemy and reducing numbers was precisely what you were supposed to do.”

  “Have you heard anything of the other couriers?” Gareth asked.

  “Delborough’s here—he came in two days ago through Southampton. I gather his route will be via London and then on into Cambridge, to Somersham Place. I haven’t heard anything yet about the other two.”

  “So what’s our onward route?”

  Jack grinned. “Your first stop is Mallingham Manor. That’s Trentham’s—your other guard’s—family estate. It’s in Surrey, not far away. Once we have you safe there, we’re to await further orders.” He straightened. “It’s late, and you’ll want some dinner and a good night’s rest. As you saw, there are cultists in town, not many, but we need them to let their master know you’re here. If you have enough men to stand watch through the night…?”

  Gareth nodded. “We’re used to it.”

  “Good. In that case, I’ll take the news of your arrival back to the manor, and we’ll send off a messenger hotfoot to Royce. Then, tomorrow morning, Trentham and I will join you for breakfast here, and we’ll make our plans.” He glanced at Emily, then back at Gareth. “If you think you’ll be ready to go on?”

  Gareth nodded decisively, from the corner of his eye saw Emily do the same. “We will be.”

  “Excellent.” Jack stood, and they did, too. They shook hands again, then he saluted them. “Until tomorrow.”

  He strode out, leaving the tap by the street door. With Emily on his arm, Gareth headed for their room.

  Uncle trudged along a road—he didn’t even know where it led. Darkness had fallen; he needed to find shelter of some kind to see out the freezing night.

  The villagers of Boulogne had chased him out of their town. He wa
s still stunned that they had dared to lay hands on his august person. He’d gone to the chateau expecting to find men, weapons, and the coin cache hidden there. But the chateau had been deserted. Someone had found the coins and taken them.

  Mindlessly, he’d turned south. He refused to let himself think of his son. The major had lied—he must have. His jailers had told him some cultists had attacked the major’s party on the docks, but again had been defeated. The attackers had been killed. Was there no one left?

  On the thought, a shadow separated from the trees just ahead. Uncle reached for a knife, but he no longer had one. Then he recognized the man beneath the cloak. Uncle brightened. “Akbar!”

  Uncle made his legs go faster, already making plans. “How many others have we?”

  Akbar didn’t move, didn’t reply, not until Uncle halted before him and peered into his face.

  “None,” Akbar said.

  “All gone?” Uncle couldn’t credit such failure. Facing forward, he narrowed his eyes. “We will have to cross the Channel and join—”

  “No.”

  He blinked, focused on Akbar’s face again. “What do you mean, no?”

  Akbar’s eyes, flat and cold, held his. “I mean…”

  Uncle felt steel slice through skin, through flesh, slide between his ribs…

  Akbar’s lips curled cruelly. “I’ve been waiting for you, old man, just so I could tell you that this”—he thrust the knife in to the hilt—“is the last deed I will do in the Black Cobra’s name.”