Emily was smiling happily. She looked up as he neared, and her smile changed. Quite how he couldn’t have said, but it softened, became more personal, then she made space for him beside her.
He filled it, but only to smile generally at the others and remind her, “We must make a start.”
Or they would be there all day.
Emily heard the unvoiced phrase, and had to agree. But then his hand brushed the back of her waist and she had to work to suppress a delicious little shiver—something the women around her didn’t miss.
They beamed encouragingly.
She had to beam back, had to inwardly acknowledge how very good it felt to be the one Gareth—he of the broad shoulders and so-handsome brown-haired good looks—had come to fetch.
His hand touched again, a subtle prod. Squelching her reaction, she turned to the innwife and commenced her farewells.
Exclamations, good wishes, and effusive thanks were shared all around, then with his hand at the back of her waist, Gareth steered her inexorably to the carriages. Finally reaching the door of the first, she turned and waved one last time to the assembled throng, then she took the hand he offered, felt his fingers close strong and warm about hers, and felt that little thrill of delight—of feminine possessiveness—streak through her again. Drawing in a calming breath, she allowed him to help her into the sleek carriage.
Gareth turned to the crowd, and with a genuine but faintly strained smile, bowed and, in more formal words, thanked them. Then he turned to the carriage and climbed up, pulled up the steps and shut the door.
Bister and the coachman were already on the box waiting. Dorcas sat opposite Emily. Gareth claimed the seat beside her as a whip snapped showily, the horses leaned into the traces, and their carriage lurched, then rumbled through the mews and out onto the side street.
Cheers and farewells echoed, then faded as the houses closed around them. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, confirming that the second carriage, carrying Arnia and Mooktu, Watson and Mullins, with Jimmy currently up with the driver, was following close behind.
“I assume we’ll need to go slowly through the town.”
He glanced at Emily, and saw she was peering out of the other window. “Yes—and it might be better to stay back from the windows.”
“Oh.” She drew back immediately. “The cultists are out there somewhere, aren’t they?”
He nodded. They’d been able to forget that over the last day and a half. The Juneaux youngsters had taken positions at both ends of the street, keeping watch for cultists. Bister and Jimmy had supervised, but for the time they’d been under the Juneaux’ protection, they’d felt a great deal safer than they had in weeks.
In Gareth’s case, since leaving the Turkey Cock in Bombay, scroll holder in hand.
Emily and Dorcas played spot the monument as the two carriages preserved a decorous pace through the busy morning streets. Letting their disconcertingly normal exclamations and chatter wash over him, Gareth allowed himself to do something he hadn’t until that point—he thought of the other three, wondered where they were, how they were faring.
All four had been through thick and thin together, ridden side by side into battles uncounted. Even though the last years as commanders had seen them spend more of their time in the saddle apart, it hadn’t lessened their connection—that link that had been forged in the heat of battles in the Peninsula more than a decade before.
By choice, none of them knew what route any of the other three was taking home. He didn’t even know who was carrying the vital original of the document they had to deliver to the Duke of Wolverstone to ensure the end of the Black Cobra’s reign—he only knew it wasn’t him. His was a decoy’s mission, the parchment in his scroll holder, identical to the other three, no more than a copy.
But the Black Cobra and the cultists didn’t know that. Given what was at stake, he had fully expected the Cobra to chase him regardless. In that, he hadn’t been disappointed, which was all to the good.
Yet on this last leg before England, his orders from the man who had for years been known only as Dalziel were specific. He and his party were to do all they could to draw as many of the enemy as possible, and to reduce their numbers as much as fate permitted.
He’d interpreted those orders as indicating that whoever was carrying the vital original would also pass through the Continent on their way to England. Whichever of his three friends was running that most dangerous of gauntlets, their safety in part depended on him—on how effectively he carried out his mission.
He’d set out from India with Bister, Mooktu, and Arnia, all of whom—even Arnia—could take care of themselves in a fight. With just those three in his train, he’d been free to engage the enemy whenever and wherever he could.
But now he had Emily, Dorcas, Jimmy, Mullins, and Watson as well. Mullins could hold his own, but the other four, no matter their resourcefulness, weren’t safe in a fight. All four needed protection, Emily most of all.
Especially Emily, especially now…now she’d come to mean so much to him.
So much more than he’d imagined was possible, than he’d known could possibly be.
As the horses trudged on, he gazed, unseeing, out of the window at the passing streetscapes, and wondered how he was going to carry out his orders while keeping her, and the others who were important to her—all now in his care—safe.
They’d passed through the town center and were ambling through the northern suburbs, already on the highway that would take them to Lyon and beyond, when he became aware of Emily’s gaze on his face.
The feminine commentary had ceased. One glance revealed that Dorcas was already nodding, her eyes closed.
Turning his head, he met Emily’s bright gaze.
Tilting her head, she smiled. “I was wondering…you told me you’re an only child, but do you have cousins, other family?”
They were to marry, so she needed to know. He shook his head. “No. There’s just me, now. My parents were only children, too. They married later in life, so were older when I was born. My father was a vicar, but he was one of those the archdiocese used to fill vacancies temporarily, so we constantly moved about the county.” He held her gaze. “So I have no family, and there really isn’t anywhere I call home.”
“Where were you born?”
“Thame, Oxfordshire. You?” Turnabout was fair, and he wanted to learn about her more than he wanted her to learn about him. There was so little to tell.
Happiness lit her face as she said, “I was born at Eldridge Hall, my parents’ house—it’s just outside Thornby, in Northamptonshire. That’s home—for me, and all my brothers and sisters. At least it was until they married—there’s only me and Rufus still left in the nest, as it were, but the others visit often.”
“You’re one of eight, as I recall. I take it you have lots of cousins, too?” That, he realized, explained her ease with the Juneaux, her facility in interacting with them—something he’d lacked. Not that he’d known he’d lacked, not until he’d seen her engage with the large family in a way he would never have thought to do…probably couldn’t have done even if he’d wished. He simply didn’t know how, didn’t know the ways.
“Yes, there’s quite a clan—a horde of uncles, aunts, and cousins on both sides.”
He didn’t need to ask how she got on with her family—the answer was there in her affectionate smile, in the light that glowed in her eyes.
He’d never shared that sort of connection with anyone, not when he was a child, not later…until he’d joined the Guards and, from the first, had fallen in with Del, Rafe, and Logan.
“I don’t have any siblings”—he met her eyes—“but you might say I have brothers-in-arms.”
She looked into his eyes, studied them. “Those three in the officers’ mess?”
He nodded. She didn’t ask, didn’t press, but as they rolled on up the highway and the northern outskirts of Marseilles fell behind, he told her how he’d met the other three�
��told her tales of their exploits and adventures. When she laughed, he asked about her brothers and sisters, and she reciprocated, opening his eyes to a love he’d never known. The closest thing to it was the camaraderie, the connection, he shared with the other three, yet even that fell short of the warmth, depth, and breadth of togetherness Emily described, that she’d experienced and embraced within her family.
The more she told him, the more he yearned for something he’d never known. When he married her…
The thought circled in his brain as he and she fell silent, and the carriage rumbled steadily on.
“He is like a cobra himself.” The eldest of the three cultists sent to watch the highway leading north out of Marseilles hawked and spat on the rocky ground. “I would not be angering Uncle for anything today. He was in such a mood after the others from the docks came yesterday to report that they hadn’t seen the major or his party.”
The three were perched among rocks and boulders on a shoulder overlooking the highway.
The youngest grinned slyly. “Those men were lucky. I heard Akbar say that Uncle has lost so many men already that he won’t discipline any—he needs every able-bodied man he has, at least for now.”
“Ah—that explains it.” The third man nodded. “I have never known Uncle to be so lenient before. Usually, one mistake, and—” He drew his finger across his throat. “The cult does not tolerate failure.”
“This is true.” The eldest nudged the youngest with the toe of his boot. “You will be wise to remember that if—as seems likely—the major manages to take this road north before the others can catch him in the town. If that happens, Uncle will gather most of us and head north in pursuit—and I know for a fact that the Black Cobra has placed many, many of us along this channel up there. If the major goes that way, Uncle will follow, and then he’ll have plenty of men—and then it will once again be death if you fail.”
The youngest shrugged. The elder two exchanged glances.
Then the youngest raised the spyglass he held and trained it on the first of two carriages bowling north along the road.
The elder two settled back and returned to staring at the sky. Countless carriages had already passed by.
“Hi!” The excited exclamation broke their absorption. The youngest bounced with excitement, then lowered the spyglass and held it out. “That is them—I am sure of it. Look at the men beside the drivers. The first is the major’s batman, yes?”
The eldest had taken the spyglass. After a moment, he nodded. He handed the glass on to the third man, then turned to the youngest. “You stay here until they pass, then follow, but not close. Stay off the road and do not let them see you. We”—he collected his comrade with a glance—“will go and take the good news to Uncle. When he and the rest of us catch up with you, Uncle will commend you as you rightly deserve.”
Meanwhile the elder two, who had been staring at the sky for hours, would reap the glory of Uncle’s approbation, but the youngest cultist knew that that was the way of the world, so he nodded. “I will follow them, and wait for Uncle and the others to join me.”
Without further ado, the elder two scrambled back over the rocks to where they’d left their stolen mounts.
Fourteen
30th November, 1822
Mid-morning
In our carriage on the road to Lyon
Dear Diary,
I am rushing to scribble this while Gareth is out of the carriage getting fresh horses put to. The last two days—and even more the last two nights—have been well worth my earlier efforts. My campaign has been assisted by the smallness of the village inns we’ve stopped at. As I invariably have the largest and most comfortable chamber to myself, and Arnia and Mooktu and Dorcas usually take the remaining rooms, it’s been undeniably more sensible for Gareth to join me in my bed than sleep in the stables with the rest of the men.
And then, of course…
With dogged perseverance, I will claim all my heart desires.
E.
That evening they arrived in Lyon. They’d made excellent time, and Gareth thanked the twist of fate that had sent them the Juneau cousins, Gustav and Pierre, as coachmen. Experienced, with just the right touch of belligerence, they’d already proved themselves up to the task of pressing ahead regardless of obstacles like traffic and overturned drays.
They’d barreled through, and they’d reached their first major town without seeing hide nor hair of any cultist.
That, Gareth felt certain, would change all too soon.
With Emily, smiling sweetly, beside him, he walked into the town’s largest hotel. It was a predominantly timber structure. He would have preferred stone, but the further they’d come north, the weather had turned damp and cold, and smaller establishments came with other hazards, namely easy access to the upper floors.
One glance confirmed that this hotel provided reasonable security. He continued to the counter at the rear of the foyer, Emily on his arm.
There were plenty of rooms to be had. He could easily request adjoining chambers for him and Emily, but didn’t. Their party was already cognizant of the fact that they were sharing a bed, and every Frenchman or -woman who laid eyes on them instantly assumed they were already wed.
Neither Emily nor he made any attempt to correct that mistaken assumption, so there hardly seemed any point in hiring separate rooms.
Even if he did, he’d spend the night in her bed.
Quite aside from the fraught questions of whether he could gather strength enough to resist her lure, and even if he did, whether she would acquiesce and allow him to keep his distance, there was the undeniable fact that he wouldn’t sleep, certainly not well, not unless she was within arm’s reach.
With the rooms organized, he glanced at Emily. She caught his eye, smiled the smile of encouraging approval she often bent on him, then she turned to the clerk and set about ordering their dinner.
He and Emily dined in comfort in the inn’s gilded dining room. In such an establishment, they were forced to observe the division between classes, so the other members of their party were dining in the bar. He and she joined them there afterward.
They chatted only briefly. He conferred with the other men, setting the watches for the night, a habit they’d reinstated after leaving the relative safety of the Juneaux’ inn.
Shortly after, they all retired. After one last glance around the foyer and reception rooms, noting the shutters that had been closed against the night and the heavy locks on the main doors, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs.
Instinct was pricking, battlefield premonition coming to the fore.
He glanced at Mooktu, on first watch, sitting in the bay window at the end of their corridor. “Stay alert.”
The big Pashtun nodded gravely. He, too, scented danger in the wind.
Hoping they would both be proved wrong, Gareth followed Emily into their room and quietly shut the door.
The attack—a typical cultist attack—came in the darkest watch of the night. Gareth himself, standing at the window of their room, Emily asleep in the big bed behind him, caught a glimpse of movement in the street below, hard up against the hotel’s side, then saw the first flicker of flame.
He was downstairs, banging on the manager’s door, Mooktu beside him, before the fire could take hold.
Within minutes the manager had collected his staff. Flinging open the front doors, they rushed out, pails in hands, to douse the flames.
Gareth and Mooktu, with Mullins and Bister, hung back in the shadows of the unlighted foyer—and dealt with the six cultists who slipped in through the untended doors, unsheathed blades glinting in the moonlight.
The four of them met the threat with quiet, deadly, ruthless efficiency—all under the terrified stare of the night clerk who had been left behind the desk.
Later, however, when, this being Lyon and not some outpost of an uncivilized land, the authorities arrived in the form of a disgruntled upholder of the local law, the clerk readily confi
rmed that the cultists had come in with daggers drawn—that they’d been intent on doing murder and the members of Gareth’s party deserved a medal for protecting him and the many inn guests now gathered about exclaiming.
As said guests, taking in the dead cultists’ outlandish apparel, vociferously agreed with the clerk, the chief gendarme huffed, and ordered the bodies to be carted away.
Gareth paused beside the innkeeper. His eyes on the activity in the crowded foyer, he murmured, “Don’t worry. We’re leaving at first light.”
The innkeeper glanced sideways.
Gareth met his eyes.
The innkeeper nodded. “Bon. I will give orders for the kitchen to have breakfast ready early.”
Hiding a cynical smile, Gareth inclined his head. “Merci.”
He passed through the crowd, receiving thanks from some, informing those of their party of the early start. That done, he found Emily. Her cloak thrown over a nightgown, she was talking and exclaiming with a French madame in a stylish wrap and with papers twisted in her bright red hair. Taking Emily’s arm, he excused them, and turned her inexorably to the stairs.
When she glanced his way, brows rising, he said, “We’re leaving at dawn.”
Her lips formed an “oh,” and she continued on.
On reaching her room, they went in. Closing the door, he watched as, slinging her cloak over a stool, she paused by the bed and looked at him.
A pregnant instant passed, then he released the doorknob and walked slowly toward her. “It might be an idea to take off that gown.”
From the dark shadows beneath the trees in the park opposite the hotel, Uncle watched the bodies of the six best assassins he’d brought with him carted away.
He watched without reaction. There was no point gnashing his teeth. In this country, houses were sturdier; they didn’t burn easily, especially not with such dampness in the air.
The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material Page 60
