The clocks in the town had tolled midnight a little while before, yet the hotel had been quiet for longer. In this season, there were no guests looking to revel into the night. Most of those she’d seen appeared to be travelers, on their way to some other place.
Like them.
In her case, however, she was no longer sure where she was going. To Elveden later that day, but after that? Where would life take her? Back to Mon Coeur to live out her life alone, surrounded by her people?
She shook free of the circling, distracting thoughts, ran her hand along her thigh, the soft leather beneath her palm familiar and reassuring. She’d changed into a gown for dinner, but then changed back into her breeches. If the cult came for them, now or later that day, she couldn’t run or fight anyone in a gown. Not effectively. And while she was with Logan, fighting alongside him, she needed to be at her most effective.
Her movement had caught Logan’s attention; even through the dimness she could feel his gaze.
Elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped between them, he studied her profile for a moment, then said, “Today … I shouldn’t say it was fun, but it was. So much better than just sitting in a coach, rolling along, waiting for the Cobra to strike. Sitting and waiting isn’t something that comes easily to either of us—or the other two, for that matter. Your plan was inspired, and your help with the execution much appreciated.”
She turned her head and met his eyes. Forced herself to seize the moment, the opening. “I know you mean to reassure me that you’re not repulsed by me wielding a sword.” She put a hand on his arm, squeezed gently. “I know it doesn’t matter to you—that you don’t think less of me because of it. But …” Through the shadows she tried to read his eyes—an impossibility. “Believe me, others—lots of others, indeed, most of society—will see it differently. No—don’t argue, don’t try to tell me otherwise, for that I do know.” She held his dark gaze. “I am not, and never will be, an appropriate wife for the son of an earl. Yes, I know Penny likes to ride wearing breeches, and she would probably love to wield a sword, but that’s not the point. She’s not just gently born but well brought up—she’s able to do all the things I cannot. The social things, doing the pretty in duchess’s drawing rooms, going to balls, knowing what to say.”
Pausing, she drew breath, softly said, “I am who I am, and I cannot change—not just because I would find it hard but because to be who I need to be for all the others who depend on me, I need to be who, and what, I am now.”
He’d opened his mouth once, but at her command had shut it and let her speak without interruption, had listened as closely, as intently as she could wish. He continued to look down at her, a slight frown between his brows.
Logan forced his hands to remain relaxed, lightly clasped. She’d just given him the perfect introduction to declare the, truth of his birth, but … she hadn’t yet seen all he wanted to show her before he told her the truth. She hadn’t seen, so didn’t know, all the factors that, to his mind, would convince her beyond all question that marrying a well-born bastard was what she should do.
He told himself he should speak now, regardless, yet … simple fear, for all its simplicity a cold, iron-clad vise, held him back. He couldn’t risk it. Just the thought of failing to convince her chilled him. Shook him. He needed her as his—his wife—too much.
“I don’t want you to change.” He held her gaze with his. “I want you exactly as you are—the buccaneering female privateer, the virgin queen of Mon Coeur. I value all you are now, as you are now, and the truth, the real truth, is that I would fight anyone who tried to force change upon you.”
She sighed, her lips twisting resignedly. “How’s that going to work? How will I meet the needs you’ll have once you take up your rightful position?” She spread her arms. “How am I, me, as I am, going to fit the mold of your wife?”
“There isn’t a mold.” He felt his jaw firm. “And if there is, I’ll break it.” Turning to her, he framed her face between his palms. Searched it, let his gaze linger on each now-beloved feature. Eventually looked into her eyes. “I’ll shatter any mold and re-form it—to fit you. Only you. You are the lady I want. You are all and everything I want. All and everything I will ever need, now and forever. I know you can’t yet see how that can be, how and why that—you and me, married, a team forever—will work, and I can’t explain it here, now. I will once we’re through and safe, and we have time at Elveden.” He held her gaze relentlessly, hoping to impart his certainty, impress it on her with his gaze and his words. “Trust me—you are the lady I want. I won’t have anyone else, and I’ll never stop wanting you. Only you.”
He searched her eyes. “I’ll never stop needing you. Only you.” Slowly, he bent his head, tipped her face, brought her lips to his. Whispered across them, “Like this.”
Then he kissed her.
And for once let his warrior’s shield fall. Let all he felt for her that he normally hid—not the passion and desire but the tenderness, the love, the yearning—rise up and be known, let those softer yet no less intense feelings color his kiss. Let them shine, glow.
Let her see.
Linnet saw. Enthralled, fascinated, she saw, and felt giddy. Raising a hand, she clasped it over the back of one of his—a necessary anchor. She sensed, felt to her bones the gentleness within him.
And, in that instant, believed.
In that instant knew she’d fight for this, to keep this—him and his love, for what else could this be?—forever.
Fathoms deep, oceans wide, she sensed it as something that knew no limits, no bounds.
That encompassed all he was, and was infinite in its promise.
Her lips moved beneath his, softly, as gentle as his had been, returning that promise. That tenderness. That revelation of infinite, unending love. For long moments, that reality held them in its palm. Then a sound reached them.
They broke apart, instantly alert, both too much the warrior to resist the call for so much as a second.
They looked about, searched, scanned the shadows. Listened, intent.
Eventually, Logan breathed, “Any ideas?”
Linnet shook her head as, slowly, silently, they both got to their feet.
Again they listened, turning, heads tilting.
Scrapes—something moving against the outer walls. A thump, a soft, sibilant sound.
She frowned. “It’s after midnight and icy cold. What on earth would anyone be doing outside?”
On the words, they heard a sharp crack. Then another.
Seconds later, they both smelled smoke.
Eyes wide, Linnet stared at Logan. “The cult?”
Frowning, he grasped her hand and started toward their room. “Even for them, this is ridiculous—the building’s mostly stone, and what isn’t is thoroughly damp. It’s not going to burn down. What the hell do they think to achieve?”
As if in answer, someone outside yelled, “Fire!”
And pandemonium broke out.
Sixteen
From the mouth of an alley on the opposite side of Bedford High Street, Daniel Thurgood watched his assembled cultists carry out his orders with their customary zeal. Mounted atop his black horse, he watched the flurry of activity about the hotel with growing anticipation.
An hour ago, he’d ridden into the camp near Eynesbury to discover that his careful planning had borne fruit. While the men following Monteith and his guards had lost their trail, the man he’d stationed in Bedford had already ridden in to report that the major, some woman, and the major’s two guards were passing the night at the Swan Hotel.
He’d brought his own guard of twelve—eight assassins and four fighters, all more experienced than the general run of cultists—with him. Although they’d lost men in their pursuit of Delborough and Hamilton, and many were still scattered along the south and southeast coasts, and Alex retained a significant number to deploy in the east, plus a personal guard much like his, he had more than enough cultists in Bedford that night to
accomplish his mission—to seize Monteith and his scroll-holder.
His guard were restless, keen to join in any fun. All twelve were currently on foot behind him, concealed in the deep, shadows of the narrow alley. The rest of the cultists, working in groups of eight, had surrounded the hotel, situated at the end of the block, and on the three sides—the street front, the side facing the river, and the rear that gave onto the mews—had set smoking fires flanking every door, and below every window.
Even now the smoke was thickening, billowing up to engulf the building.
He held no illusions of burning the place down—solid stone and slate wouldn’t burn. But it was winter in England; there’d been plenty of split wood and coals neatly stacked in sheds at the hotel’s rear. And all he and his men needed was smoke.
Enough smoke to cause panic and have everyone in the hotel rushing out.
Scenting victory in the smell now permeating the air, thin lips curving in cruel anticipation, Daniel lifted the black silk scarf he’d wound about his neck, resettling it so it concealed his features, and watched the clouds of dirty gray and dense white swell and swallow the hotel.
A hundred yards further up Bedford High Street, further away from the river and the Swan Hotel, Alex, ahorse, hugged the shadows at the corner of a lane and studied the activity along the hotel’s front façade.
In jacket and elegant riding breeches, wrapped in a heavy coat, with a hat pulled low and a thick muffler obscuring all features, Alex managed the large chestnut M’wallah had commandeered without conscious thought, all attention locked on the front door of the hotel as it slammed opened and confused and panicked residents poured out.
Considering those in nightshirts and robes now flapping and coughing in the street, noting the way the smoke was rushing in through the opened front doors, Alex wondered if Daniel had stationed men at all the hotel’s exits. Looking up and, despite the darkness, seeing billowing plumes rising on the hotel’s other two accessible sides, Alex’s lips curved, approvingly. Daniel hadn’t overlooked the secondary doors.
Assessing Daniel’s plan, gauging the likely outcome, Alex increasingly approved. It appeared that this attack, in Daniel’s more capable hands, would succeed.
Regardless, Alex’s purpose tonight wasn’t to assist.
Once bitten, twice shy.
Cloaked in darkness, closely observing the action, Alex’s sole aim was to make certain that, this time, nothing went wrong.
It was the attack Logan had feared, yet he couldn’t see the point. Not even deluded cultists could imagine they could turn the Swan Hotel into a raging inferno.
He and Linnet had raced around the first-floor gallery, knocking on doors as they’d passed. Linnet had rushed on down the corridor, knocking and yelling, leaving him to rouse their friends.
Reaching Charles and Deverell’s room, he thumped on the door, yelled “Fire!” then went into the room he and Linnet had shared. Rummaging through his bag, he grabbed the scroll-holder, tucked it into his belt at the back so it rode along his spine, hidden by the fall of his coat. He already had his dirk in his boot. He buckled on his saber, loosened the blade, then grabbed Linnet’s cloak and her cutlass, and strode out.
The gallery was filling with smoke and disoriented people, jostling and coughing, some shrieking. Logan turned to the others’ door just as it opened and Deverell came out, followed by Charles, both fully dressed and armed.
They swiftly looked around, didn’t bother asking what was going on.
Hotel staff appeared from below, while others stumbled down from the attics above. All were panicked, but did their best to hurry patrons downstairs and out of the front door.
Someone had flung the front double doors wide, allowing more smoke to rush in and up the funnel of the stairwell. Stepping to the gallery’s rail, Logan squinted down through, the gushing clouds, saw more smoke pouring through the doors of the dining room and the hotel’s front parlor, adding to the thickening miasma now filling the foyer, and rising.
Coiling and billowing, and with every new gust of air gushing up to fill every available space.
Linnet returned, coughing, nearly choking. Glancing at the thick cloud below, she dragged her kerchief from her neck, quickly folded it, and retied it over her nose and mouth.
The others did the same, not that it helped much.
Linnet accepted her saber and cloak from Logan, buckled the first on, threw her cloak over her shoulder. “Come on.” She started around the gallery.
Logan and the others followed. He was still thinking, assessing, trying to see.…
Reaching the stairs, Linnet went to step down, and he suddenly knew—suddenly saw the danger. “No!”
Grasping her arm, he drew her back.
Surprised, Linnet let him. “What?”
Behind his kerchief, his expression was grim. “That’s what this is for—to flush us out. There’s no real threat of fire—there can’t be.”
Deverell joined them. “They’re using smoke to panic people into rushing ouside. They’ll be waiting for us to appear.”
“Exactly.”
They looked around, listened. Most people had already gone down. A few stragglers stumbled past them and hurried down the stairs. They could hear rushing footsteps on the ground floor, and shouts and wails from outside.
“Let’s take a look outside.” Going to the door of a room overlooking the front of the hotel, Charles threw it open and strode straight to the window.
The smoke was roiling and boiling upward, casting an increasingly dense pall over the street.
“They must have men feeding the fires beneath that,” Deverell said.
“Presumably close against the building.” Logan squinted down. “We can’t see them from this angle.”
“No—but we can see the archers on the roofs across the street.” Charles pointed. It took a moment to distinguish the shapes against the night sky, but the fluttering ends of the scarves about the figures’ heads left little doubt as to who and what they were looking at.
“Ambush of a different sort,” Deverell said. “We need to reconnoiter before we move. Charles?”
Charles nodded, and the pair left the room.
Linnet stayed beside Logan, peering down at the scene below. Beneath the shifting clouds, the hotel’s patrons and staff were milling about in confusion. Townsfolk, roused, were bringing flares, creating an eerie golden glow beneath the thickening pall. “When they try to put the fires out, they’re only going to create more smoke—at least in the short term.”
Logan nodded. “That’s assuming the cultists will give up their fires without a fight.”
“They’re actually down there, aren’t they—in full view.” She’d spied darker figures through gaps in the smoke.
“Yes, and that means this is an all-out assault. They’re going to do anything and everything necessary to catch us and take the scroll-holder.” Logan considered the scene, then tugged her arm. “Come on.”
They stepped into the smokier gallery.
Charles appeared from their left. “There’s no way out on this side—the hotel abutts the next building. No alley, no windows.”
Deverell emerged from a room along the right-hand side of the gallery. He shook his head as he came jogging up. “They’ve men along the riverbank, too. Under the trees, watching like hawks, plus others feeding fires against the walls on that side.”
Around them, the smoke was steadily thickening, rising and filling the upper levels of the hotel. They all coughed; Linnet’s eyes were stinging.
Deverell shook his head. “Regardless of the absence of flames, we can’t stay here.”
“Smoke can kill just as easily as fire.” Charles tightened his kerchief.
Grimly, Logan nodded. “Let’s see if we can get out the rear entrance.”
Coughing, doubled over, they ran around the gallery, trying to avoid the worst of the smoke. Logan found the back stairs and started down, Linnet at his back, Charles and Deverell behind h
er.
They descended half a flight into rising smoke, then Logan abruptly halted. He nodded at the window set into the wall beside him. “Look.”
From his tone, Linnet knew what she would see when she did. He stepped down; she did, too, letting Charles and Deverell look out as well.
Cultists were ranged behind barrels and carts in the inn’s rear yard. She counted ten.
Grimly shaking his head, Charles straightened and met Logan’s eyes. “I don’t fancy those odds. We might be able to best those we can see, but if there are more within hailing range, which seems likely, we’ll be in big trouble.”
And they had Linnet with them.
Logan heard the unsaid words loud and clear; they were already ringing in his head. He looked past Charles to Deverell. “Charles said the building against the fourth side abutts the hotel, so it’ll have to be the roof.”
No one argued.
Deverell turned around. “I think the hotel is the highest building in the area. With luck, the archers across the road won’t be able to see us.”
As quickly as they could, they went back to the first-floor gallery. “This way.” Linnet took the lead, heading for the door through which the hotel staff had come down from the attics. Beyond the door they found the attic stairs, blessedly less smoky. They climbed quickly up and Deverell shut the door behind them.
Once in the attics, they spread out, searching. The air was clearer, but the smoke seeped steadily in. From the street, below, they heard shouts, then yells, a building ruckus. Linnet tried to look out of the attic windows, but the balconies below blocked her view.
“Sounds like a melee,” Deverell said. “As if the townsfolk have taken exception to foreigners setting their hotel alight.”
“More power to their right arms,” Charles replied. “Unfortunately, we can’t risk going out and joining in.”
Logan finally found the right door. “This way.”
The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt Page 110
