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

by Stephanie Laurens

  The latter consideration stilled any protest Loretta might have made.

  Esme sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Different cities—fresh fields.”

  That was what Loretta feared. However. . . . “If we’re traveling to Buda, now that we’ve lost Phillipe we’ll need to hire outriders as well as a coach ourselves.” The courier-guide Esme had hired in Paris to see to their party’s needs through the journey had fallen victim to a local contessa. The contessa had captured him and whisked him off to her isolated castle; Esme had confirmed that Phillipe would not be traveling on with them. Loretta frowned. “Or should we try to find another courier-guide?”

  Esme considered, then shook her head. “If we’re to go by boat from Buda on, we’ll have no need of one.”

  “In that case”—Loretta straightened—“I’ll go into town now and make the arrangements.”

  And send off another Window on Europe vignette to her agent. The readers of the London Enquirer had, apparently, become quite addicted to her latest reports.

  November 20, 1822

  Hillside above Drobeta-turnu-Severin,

  at the southwestern tip of the Transylvanian Alps

  Rafe blew on his hands, stamped his feet, then crouched to hold his hands to the tiny blaze of their campfire. “I still can’t believe the Black Cobra stationed men in Constanta.”

  He didn’t expect a reply to his grumble; Hassan had heard it before. After seeing not so much as a hair of a cultist all the way through Persia and Turkey, they’d taken a ship from Samsun across the Black Sea to Constanta—and found cultists waiting for them in the first narrow street they’d tramped down.

  They’d fought their way out of that ambush, but only just. Both he and Hassan were sporting fresh scars. They’d immediately hired horses and raced out of town, but in this much different landscape, with its mud, slush, and snow, it was impossible to hide their trail, and the cultists were, by and large, excellent trackers.

  “They are still following,” Hassan eventually said.

  Rafe nodded. Huddling in the thick woollen coat he’d bought in Turkey, he stared into the fire. “Our mission is to avoid being taken at all costs, which sadly means we shouldn’t engage, not if we can avoid it.”

  The necessity bit at him. He’d much rather turn and savage their pursuers, but the scroll-holder he carried, the one containing the crucial evidence that had to get to the Duke of Wolverstone in England, put paid to that. He was having second thoughts over how pleased he was to have drawn the critical mission.

  But duty was duty, and he knew where his lay. If running and hiding was the price he had to pay to see the Black Cobra hang, he’d pay it.

  Anything to avenge James MacFarlane.

  Moving slowly, careful not to let the wind, knife-edged with ice, slice through his outer wrappings, he drew out the map he’d bought in Constanta and unfolded it. Hassan shifted to look over his shoulder.

  “We’re here.” Rafe pointed. “Just ahead is the pass they call the Iron Gate, where the Danube flows through a gap in the mountains. We’ll reach there tomorrow, and if the snow holds off we should be able to pass through and out into the plain beyond.” He shifted the map the better to examine the area beyond the pass. After long moments of silent considering, he exhaled. “It’s as I thought. Once we get onto the plain, we have to make a decision. Do we keep heading directly east, cutting through the Slavic lands to northern Italy, then into southern France, and from there turn north for Rotterdam, or do we take the other route and head north on the plain, then follow the rivers—the Danube and then the Rhine—east to Rotterdam, and so to Felixstowe?”

  “It is Rotterdam that we must reach to get a boat to Felixstowe?”

  “That’s the Channel crossing we’re supposed to take. There’ll be guards waiting for us at Felixstowe, to escort us on from there.”

  They studied the map, then fell to discussing the cities, the roads. There seemed little real difference between the two routes. “Either should see us to Felixstowe by the date Wolverstone stipulated. We’re earlier than expected thus far, so we’ll have to go slowly, or pause at some point, but other than that . . .” Rafe shrugged. The routes seemed much of a muchness.

  Until Hassan asked, “As we cannot risk standing and fighting, which way will be better for us to avoid notice?”

  Brows rising, Rafe stared at the map. “With that in mind, there’s only one choice.”

  One

  November 24, 1822

  Danube Embankment, Buda

  Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days hence, in his pocket.

  He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.

  Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly European-style winter coat he now wore. “The last two tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger, and the boat’s too small for them to stow away or join the crew at the last minute.”

  Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of his friend without his headdress.

  They’d reached Buda two nights before. The first thing they’d done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for European garb. Throughout their journey they’d constantly changed clothes to better blend with the natives. Now, in the well-cut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck, with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and Prussian merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan’s hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots, fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads had turned as they’d passed; no one paid them any heed.

  The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair, he, especially, would have had difficulty passing unnoticed through Italy and France.

  The second place they’d visited yesterday had been a gunsmith’s. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and shot. The cultists’ one true weakness was a superstitious fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.

  They still wore their swords and carried the knives they’d feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over, pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their knives.

  Rafe had also found a cartographer’s studio; he’d bought the best maps available of the areas through which they planned to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon studying their prospective route, then had sought advice from their innkeeper and the patrons of the inn’s bar on which shipping company to approach.

  Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the street. “Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will likely not think of it.”

  Rafe nodded. “At least not immediately.” In India, rivers were not much used for long-distance travel, not like the Danube and Rhine. And as the majority of cultists couldn’t swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels and inns on land. “According to the shipping clerk, our journey via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a day to spare—no need to schedule any other halts to align us with Wolverstone’s timetable.”

  “We have seen no cultists here yet,” Hassan said. “None around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east.”

  Following Hassan’s gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft large and small, then lifting his gaze to th
e stone bridge linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the opposite bank, Rafe murmured, “If they had cultists in Constanta, there’ll be cultists here. We need to remain on guard.”

  He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in beside him. They headed toward the small inn in which they’d taken rooms.

  “The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major town along the highways,” Rafe said. “Here, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the rivers, we’ll avoid most of those. On our first leg along the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can’t avoid, but for the rest it’s as we thought—the river towns are smaller, and most lie away from the major highways.” That had been the reason they’d decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”

  They’d reached an intersection where a narrow cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.

  “No!”

  The shrill female protest jerked them to a halt. They looked up the street.

  In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.

  There was no one else in the street.

  Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the woman’s next cry.

  Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly protesting, she fought to beat them off, knew nothing until Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.

  A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.

  Rafe turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”

  He’d spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her ageing, yet delicately boned, face. She was old enough to be his grandmother.

  Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.

  The lady—Rafe might have been away from society for more than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine, the head rising high, the haughty features—considered him, then said in perfect upper-class English, “Thank you, dear boy. I’m a trifle rattled, but if you’ll help me to that bench there, I daresay I’ll be right as rain in two minutes.”

  Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to understanding her.

  Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his arm. “Your accent’s straight from Eton, dear boy. And you look vaguely familiar, too—no doubt I’ll place you in a few minutes. Now give me your arm.”

  Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops, equally incensed.

  “They’re recovering,” Hassan said.

  Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to their feet.

  The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.

  The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.

  “Do you want us to catch them?” one of the locals asked.

  The lady waved. “No, no—they were doubtless some layabouts who thought to seize some coins from a defenseless old woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I really do not have time to become entangled with the authorities here.”

  Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he needed, too.

  He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred, but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously accepted—in German that was significantly more fluent and colloquial than Rafe’s.

  When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their businesses, Rafe met the lady’s gray eyes—eyes decidedly too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Rafe Carstairs, ma’am.” He would have preferred to decamp—to run away from any lady who called him “dear boy”—but ingrained manners forced him to ask, “Are you staying nearby?”

  The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. “Lady Congreve. I believe I knew your parents, and I know your brother, Viscount Henley. I’m putting up at the Imperial Hotel, just along from the top of this street.”

  Suppressing a grimace—of course she would know his family—Rafe bowed over her hand, with the other gestured to Hassan. “We’ll escort you back once you’re ready.”

  Lady Congreve’s smile widened. “Thank you, dear boy. I’m feeling quite recovered already, but”—she gripped his hand and Rafe helped her to her feet—“before I return to the hotel, I must complete the errand that brought me this way. I have to collect tickets from an office on the embankment.”

  Rafe gave her his arm and they turned down the street. “Which company?”

  “The Excelsior Shipping Company.” Lady Congreve gestured with her cane. “I believe they’re just around the corner.”

  Half an hour later, Rafe and Hassan found themselves taking tea in the premier suite of the Imperial Hotel in the fashionable castle quarter of Buda. Lady Congreve had insisted. Rafe had discovered that his grande-dame-avoiding skills were rusty. There hadn’t seemed any way to refuse the invitation without giving offense, and as he’d learned, to his horror, that Lady Congreve and her party were among the passengers due to depart on the Uray Princep the following morning, trying to avoid closer acquaintance seemed pointless.

  He had to admit the array of cakes that arrived on the tea tray were the best he’d tasted in a decade.

  “So you and Mr. Hassan were with the army in India.” Lady Congreve settled back on the chaise and regarded him. “Did you ever meet Enslow?”

  “Hastings’s aide?” Rafe nodded. “Poor chap’s usually run ragged. Hastings has a finger in so many pies.”

  “So I’ve heard. So you were based in Calcutta?”

  “For the most part. In the months before I resigned and departed, a group of us were operating out of Bombay.” Rafe understood she was checking his bona fides, but he wasn’t sure why.

  “So you’ve been soldiering for all these years, and have been a captain for how long?”

  “Since before Toulouse.”

  “And you fought at Waterloo?”

  He nodded. “I was part of a compound troop—part experienced regulars, part ton volunteers. Heavy cavalry.”

  “Who of the ton fought alongside you?”

  “Mostly Cynsters—the six cousins—plus a smattering of other houses. Two Nevilles, a Percy, and one Farquar.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember hearing about the exploits of that troop. And now you’ve resigned and are heading back to England?”

  Rafe shrugged. “It was time.”

  “Excellent!” Lady Congreve beamed.

  Every instinct Rafe possessed went on high alert.

  “It seems, sir, almost as if fate has sent you to me.” Lady Congreve glanced at Hassan, including him in the comment. “I wonder if I might impose upon you—you and Mr. Hassan—to act as my party’s courier-guide and guard? We left Paris with an experienced guide, but sadly had to part with him in Trieste. Knowing we would be traveling on by riverboat once we reached here, I didn’t see any point in securing a replacement, but today’s events have demonstrated my error. It simply isn’t safe for ladies to walk these foreign streets unprotected.” Lady Congreve held Rafe’s gaze. “And as you are going the same way and, indeed, have already secured passage on the same boat, I do hope you can see your way to joining my party.”

  By s
heer force of will, Rafe managed to keep all reaction from his face.

  When he didn’t immediately reply, Lady Congreve continued, “Our meeting does seem fortuitous, especially as you’ve taken the last tickets on the boat, so even if I could find any men as suitable, I wouldn’t be able to secure passage for them.”

  Rafe inwardly cursed the clerk at the shipping office, who, of course, had recognized him and commented. Racking his brains for the right form of words with which to decline, aware of Hassan looking at him, waiting for him to get them out of this trap, Rafe opened his mouth . . . then shut it.

  He and Hassan needed some reason that would explain their traveling on the river, some purpose that would make people accept their presence and not look too closely.

  “And of course,” Lady Congreve went on, “I’m sure your brother will be pleased to know you’ve been able to extend me this small service. I will, of course, take care of all the expenses involved and reimburse you for the tickets you’ve already purchased.”

  Rafe recognized that she’d rolled out her heavy guns—his brother, no less. His gaze abstracted, distracted by a prospect he was still trying to define, he waved her last words aside. “No need for recompense. If we do as you ask . . .”

  Refocusing on Lady Congreve, he wondered at the wisdom—and the morality—of involving her, however much at arm’s length, in his mission. The cultists throughout Europe would be watching for him and Hassan. As a pair of men traveling together, they were easy to spot—both over six feet tall, one distinctly fair, the other distinctly dark, both with military bearing.

  But the cultists most likely would not look closely at two men traveling as part of a larger party.