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

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Not a cultist in sight,” Jack reported. “They must have taken the bait, which means they should be coming up the road behind us.”

  “I don’t know about you”—with his glance, Tristan included Mullins, Mooktu, and Bister—“but after all this, I’d like to be in at the end.”

  “Me, too,” Jack said. “So we vote to stop at an inn in Bury, get the carriage off the road, and watch Ferrar and his flunkies go past. Then we can join the others on their trail.”

  No one argued. They found the perfect inn in Westgate Street, and hired the front parlor, from which they could see back down the road up which they’d come, as well as see some distance left and right. Whichever route Ferrar took, he was likely to pass their position; they settled to wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ferrar, alone, came jauntily riding along Westgate Street, smiling as he tacked this way and that through the late-afternoon traffic. He passed the inn window right to left. Emily seized Gareth’s sleeve. “He didn’t come the way we did.”

  Jack and Tristan crowded the window, peering at Ferrar’s back. “He must have taken that minor lane to Bury.” Tristan stared the other way, in the direction from which Ferrar had come. “Where are the others?”

  For a full minute, they looked back and forth, at Ferrar’s back, then the other way, hoping to spot their comrades, who should have been on his trail.

  “Damn!” Jack said. “He must have lost them.”

  He and Tristan were out of the door on the words. Gareth rushed after them; Emily rushed after him. Jack’s and Tristan’s horses were still saddled. They swung up to their backs and rode out of the inn yard.

  Using his major’s voice, Gareth commandeered a carriage horse. It had no saddle, but the long reins were still there. Grabbing the horse’s mane, he swung up to its back.

  “Gareth!”

  He looked down into Emily’s eyes.

  “You can’t leave me here!”

  He could. But…teeth gritted, he beckoned her closer, bent, gripped and hoisted her up to the horse’s back before him. “Hold on. But if we need to ride hard, I’ll have to set you down.”

  “No, you won’t.” Locking her hands in the horse’s mane, she stated, “I have it on excellent authority that I’m a devilish good rider.”

  Be that as it may…he guided the horse, a steady beast, into the traffic thronging Westgate Street. Bury was a market town; from what they’d seen, today was market day. Which was helpful—the crowds in the street kept Ferrar to a slow walk, and gave them excellent cover as they followed him. “Not that he seems at all supicious,” Gareth said. “He hasn’t looked around once.”

  “Overconfident,” Emily stated. He had to agree.

  He tacked around a curricle, only to have a big gray horse fall into position alongside.

  Even before his eyes had reached the rider’s face, Wolverstone drawled, “I might have known.” His gaze was resting on Emily.

  Gareth shot him a look that stated very clearly: Yes, he might.

  Emily ignored him. “We thought you’d lost him.” She wriggled and tried to look back. “Where are the others?”

  Wolverstone regarded her for a moment, then decided not to take issue with her first statement. “Delborough, Gervase, and Tony are behind me. The Cynsters and Chillingworth remained to engage the cultists. Sadly, only eight stayed to play.”

  Emily looked into his eyes, and got the impression she was treading very close to some edge. She looked ahead, nodded forward. “Jack and Tristan are closer. Do you have any idea where he might be going?”

  “No.” On the word, Ferrar turned into a commercial stable. Royce angled his horse across Gareth and Emily’s, steering them to the curb. “We’ll wait here and see what he’s up to.”

  Up ahead, Jack and Tristan had similarly halted by the opposite curb. They were chatting as if they were neighbors.

  Royce looked at Emily, then Gareth. “If Ferrar comes out, try to keep your heads down—we don’t want him to recognize you. Although I have to admit he’s been singularly unwatchful thus far.”

  Emily was too keyed up to even pretend to chat. Then Ferrar came striding out of the stable and crossed the street. He passed within yards of Tristan and Jack. They shifted to keep their faces from him, but he didn’t even glance their way.

  Looking at Royce, Emily saw that his head was up, that with a glance he was collecting his men.

  Ferrar strode on, oblivious, heading away from the center of the town, then without breaking stride, he turned through a wide gateway set in the thick stone wall bordering the other side of the street.

  Royce frowned. “The abbey ruins are through there.”

  As soon as Ferrar passed through the gateway and out of sight, they all hurried across the road, closing in on Tristan, who stood waiting in the gateway’s shadows. Jack had already slipped through.

  Delborough, Gervase, and Tony joined them as they halted by Tristan’s side.

  Jack reappeared. He looked faintly surprised. “He’s…wandering. Aimlessly ambling as if he had not a care in the world—as if he’s out for a stroll among the ruins, as, incidentally, quite a few others are.” He glanced back through the gateway. “I had no idea ruins in winter twilight were so much in vogue.”

  Emily frowned at him. “You should read the Ladies’ Gazette.”

  To a man, they stared at her, then Royce said, “Is he early for a meeting? Or…is he a student of ruins?”

  “He stabled his horse, so his lair must be near,” Delborough pointed out. “Within walking distance.”

  “Which covers the whole town.” Royce walked through the gateway, rapidly scanned the area, then came back. “Here’s how we’ll handle this.”

  He directed Emily and Gareth to stroll through the gateway, then along the stone wall to where they could observe the grassy promenade that ran across the backs of the buildings built into the west side of the ruins—houses filling the arches of the old abbey, as well as the town’s cathedral built out of the old abbey’s main gate. “You’ll be able to keep your distance, but still see if he goes into one of the houses, or even into the cathedral. From there he can reach the rest of the town.” Royce looked at the others, his expression predatory. “He might have seen all of your faces, but he hasn’t seen mine. I’ll follow him directly—or as directly as I can without alerting him—while you five take the flanks. If he’s meeting someone, I want to know who.”

  Everyone nodded and set off, quickly disappearing amid the huge stone blocks littering what proved to be a very large expanse, eyes scanning the deepening shadows for a glimpse of Ferrar.

  “That misbegotten idiot!” From the top of the cathedral’s Norman tower—the tower that had once housed the abbey’s main gate and now afforded an unrivaled view of the abbey ruins far below—Alex stared down at Roderick—and the men who were fanning out ominously in his wake. “Just look how many followers he’s managed to collect!”

  Daniel stared in disbelief. “He doesn’t even seem to know they’re there.”

  Horror-struck, they watched from above, as Roderick paused, leaned back against a large fallen stone, reached into his coat, and drew out a rolled white paper.

  “He’s got it—copy or original, it matters not.” With one last deadly look over the parapet, Alex whirled and strode for the stairs. “Come on!”

  As they clattered as fast as they could down the dark stone stairs, Alex thought furiously.

  When they reached the bottom and stepped out into the cathedral foyer, Alex seized Daniel’s arm. After one quick glance around to make sure no one had seen them, with head lowered Alex steered them quickly out of the cathedral and along the narrow passage down the side, then leaned close and hissed, “Roderick’s gone. Nothing we can do will save him. He has the letter, and those following him know it. Did you see the men hunting him? See how they moved—see their faces?”

  When Daniel returned a puzzled look, Alex shook his arm. “Aristocratic faces—the faces of men of power,
of the ton, who will be listened to.”

  They emerged onto the promenade at the back of the cathedral and swiftly crossed into the ruins. Alex’s eyes scanned the deepening shadows, the fallen stones.

  Alex’s voice lowered even more. “They’re going to catch Roderick, and this time, he won’t be able to talk his way out of it—not even our sire will be able to explain why he’s got that letter in his hand. Any second, and they’ll have him.” Halting, Alex looked into Daniel’s dark eyes. “No one knows of our involvement. We can just walk away. But Roderick can’t. Not this time.”

  Alex paused, then asked, tone colder than the descending wintry chill, “Do you think, once caught, he’ll let you and me slip away?”

  Lips tight, Daniel shook his head.

  “Nor do I. And I’m not about to let all we’ve worked to create with the Black Cobra be wiped out by Roderick’s insufferable belief in his own superiority.” Turning, Alex led the way deeper into the ruins. “Come on. We have one chance—only one—to escape.”

  Daniel might have inquired as to how, but Alex had always thought faster than he. Much faster than Roderick. And there was Roderick ahead of them. He was ambling along, the letter—their vital missive—in one hand, tapping it nonchalantly on his other palm. He saw them, waved the letter.

  Alex halted in the center of an archway, three steps above the broken floor Roderick was traversing. Daniel halted one step behind.

  Roderick smiled, a smile of overweening superiority, and came on. As he neared, he said, “O ye of little faith. You have no idea how easy this was.”

  He looked down as he climbed the steps.

  Alex stepped forward as Roderick reached the last step. He looked up.

  Just as the bells summoning the faithful to evensong started carolling.

  Just as, aided by Roderick’s momentum, Alex slid a dagger past Roderick’s ribs, directly into his heart.

  Daniel’s breath seized at the look of utter, astounded disbelief that washed over Roderick’s face.

  Alex leaned in, thrust the knife deeper. “You fool!” Alex’s hand pivoted, twisting the knife. “They were on your heels, and you didn’t even know.”

  Death started to leach all expression from Roderick’s face.

  Alex stepped back, filched the letter from Roderick’s grasp, left the knife where it was. Hesitated, then leaned close to viciously whisper, “You were the rabbit leading the hounds straight to us—no escape for you this time.”

  Whirling, Alex blew out a breath, grabbed Daniel’s sleeve and hauled him around. Head close, Alex murmured, “We walk slowly, sedately. We’re just another pair of worshippers heading to the cathedral for evening service.”

  Daniel glanced back, saw Roderick, ice-blue eyes wide, slump to the ground.

  Roderick’s eyes glazed—and the Earl of Shrewton’s favorite son was gone.

  The cathedral bells were peeling and the light was fading fast. Emily tugged Gareth’s sleeve. “Come on—we need to get closer or he could slip past us in this gloom.”

  Gareth surrendered, and strolled with her along the promenade behind the buildings, searching the ruins, what they could see of them in the failing light.

  Abruptly, Emily halted. “What’s that?”

  He followed her gaze diagonally into the ruins, and saw…dark material spread over pale stone steps. “It’s a body.”

  They rushed down the avenue, but before they reached the spot, Royce materialized. He stepped past the slumped form, up through the archway beyond, then crouched.

  Delborough, Tristan, Jack, Gervase, and Tony reached the archway as they did. Royce looked up, his face unreadable. “This just happened. Did any of you see anyone fleeing?”

  They all shook their heads.

  Royce’s lips tightened. He rose. “Search!”

  They did, until the light was gone, but found nothing. They returned to the body, all wondering, rethinking.

  Hands on hips, Royce stood looking down at the body, now barely visible. He glanced at Delborough. “The dagger—it looks to be the same sort as the one used on Larkins.”

  Crouching, Del inspected the ivory handle, nodded as he rose. “It’s a type the cult assassins use.”

  “The letter?” Jack asked.

  “Gone.” Royce glanced around at the circle of faces. “No one even vaguely suspicious?”

  They all shook their heads. “There were couples leaving, and numerous worshippers heading for evening service,” Tristan said, “but no one was rushing, hurrying, trying to get away. No one glancing around.”

  Royce grimaced. They all stared down at the body of Roderick Ferrar. “So,” Royce said, accents clipped, “we have the man we were certain was the Black Cobra, but he’s been eliminated. Leaving us with two very big questions: Who killed him? And why?”

  Twenty-one

  20th December, 1822

  Late afternoon

  My room at Elveden Grange

  Dear Diary,

  I have come up to wash off the dust of travel before rejoining the others downstairs. What a day! We are at the end of our adventure, Gareth’s mission is complete, but Ferrar has turned up dead and no one is clear what that means.

  Yet even more excitingly, the exigencies of the day put Gareth’s commitment to our partnership to the test—and the dear man came through with flying colors! He let me out of his sight, let me walk into potential danger to do what I alone could in leaving the scroll holder for Ferrar to take, even though, as was later made clear to me in emphatic fashion, the moment cost him dearly. Yet he did not leave me behind at the inn, either, but allowed me to remain by his side as we hunted Ferrar.

  After today, I could not possibly doubt the strength of his commitment to our future—a future I cannot wait to address! My heart feels like it’s bubbling, so full of effervescent happiness am I.

  But first we have to deal with the unexpected conclusion of Gareth’s mission, and I must rush downstairs to play my part.

  E.

  So we’re left with the questions of who killed Ferrar, and why.” Standing before the hearth in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, Royce glanced up as Emily returned. He’d just concluded relating the events of the day for the benefit of the assembled ladies—Deliah Duncannon, who had arrived with Delborough, Alicia, Tony’s wife, Madeline, Gervase’s wife, Leonora and Clarice, Kit, Jack Hendon’s wife, Letitia, Christian Allardyce’s marchioness, and his own duchess, Minerva, who had, he’d discovered, invited all the families of his ex-colleagues to join their family here for Christmas.

  When he’d stared at her, dumbfounded, she’d smiled and patted his chest. “Your timetable runs too close to Christmas—the men can’t be sure of getting home in time, and you all have young families.”

  He knew better than to argue. There were battles he could win, and ones he wouldn’t. Such, he’d learned, was the nature of married life.

  Those of his ex-colleagues already there and seated about the room had no doubt learned the same. Christian and Jack Hendon were there, ready to, in a few days, play the roles assigned them. The Cynsters and Chillingworth had rejoined them, looking thoroughly pleased. They’d fulfilled their mission, and despite a number of cuts and slashes, none was seriously injured.

  “I believe,” Royce said, as Emily settled on the end of the chaise beside the chair Gareth occupied, “that we have to revise our assessment of who the Black Cobra is.”

  Delborough nodded. “The Black Cobra is either not Ferrar, or Ferrar was part of a larger whole.”

  “I agree.” Gareth frowned. “If the Black Cobra is not Ferrar, then presumably the Black Cobra killed him, or ordered the killing—so that still means the Black Cobra is here, in England.”

  “Here in Suffolk, or close by,” Tony said.

  After a moment, Delborough shook his head. “Ferrar had to be very high in the cult’s organization. He was vital to the cult’s success through his role in the governor’s office, and given his nature, I can’t see him taking
any subordinate position while knowing he was the lynchpin for the cult’s fortunes.” Delborough met Royce’s eyes. “We saw Ferrar giving orders, and the elite guards, including the assassins, obeyed. I’d suggest that all we know favors the notion that the Black Cobra is a group—two, three, or more, we can’t say—but Ferrar was one. Presumably the other Englishman we saw was another.”

  Royce nodded. “And that other Englishman, who appeared to be Ferrar’s equal, might have been the one who killed Ferrar, or had him killed.”

  “If we accept that the Black Cobra is a multiheaded beast,” Gyles Rawlings said, “then it’s most likely the other members are known acquaintances of Ferrar.”

  Royce met Gyles’s eyes, then nodded and glanced at the window, at the dark beyond. “It’s nearly evening, but I believe it’s time we paid the Earl of Shrewton a visit. If we leave now, we’ll be at Wymondham before he sits down to dine.”

  They’d brought Ferrar’s body to Elveden in a dray, ready to deliver to his father at Shrewton Hall.

  “What about Larkins?” Devil asked. “Did Ferrar kill him, or was it someone else?”

  “From what you told me,” Royce said, “it was most likely Ferrar—it was someone Larkins trusted implicitly, so unlikely to be merely one of Ferrar’s friends. However, now that Ferrar’s dead, that’s neither here nor there, but we’ll certainly take Larkins’s body with Ferrar’s—it might help convince the earl that he needs to do whatever he can to assist us.”

  There were a number of volunteers eager to help convince the earl, but Royce kept the group to four—Christian, the other most senior peer, and Delborough and Gareth, both of whom could with authority bear witness to Ferrar’s deeds, and those of the Black Cobra, in India.

  When Devil tried to insist that he, too, should go, Minerva narrowed her eyes at him. “You”—she waved an imperious finger indicating all the Cynsters and Gyles Chillingworth—“will ride back to Somersham Place immediately. None of you might be seriously incapacitated, but I can see cuts—great heavens! I can see blood—and your wives would never forgive me if I didn’t send you home to be tended. Now.”