The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

She’d stopped breathing, had to drag in a tight breath. “Manor house, then, with the sort of rambling, rolling gardens children love to run in.”

  “Children?”

  She nodded. “Lots.”

  That stopped him. For a long moment he stared at her through the dark, then he nodded. “All right.”

  He didn’t say more, ask more, just gathered her close, and rested his chin on her head.

  They sat quietly for a while, listening to the inn slumbering around them. Then he murmured, “That’s a start. You’ve started painting in my blank slate. When we get to the end of this…”

  “When we get to the end of this”—shifting in his arms, she looked into his face—“we’ll finish the painting together.”

  She touched her lips to his, then settled back into his embrace.

  And saw out his watch by his side.

  14th December, 1822

  Morning

  Our chamber at the Waterman’s Inn, Dover

  Dear Diary,

  If Gareth had asked me to marry him last night, I would have said yes, regardless. Quite clearly, his vision of the future is mine—literally. What more could any woman ask?

  I know that he loves me—he’s shown me he does more times than I can count, and continues to do so—and while I still would like to hear the words, a declaration of his heart, I am no longer so certain that matters. At least, not as much as it did.

  When I consider what, to me, is most vitally important in marriage, then knowing I am his, and he is mine, must top any list.

  And that, dear Diary, I already know, to the bottom of my soul.

  Whatever happens in the days to come, Gareth Hamilton, my “one,” will not be slipping through my fingers.

  E.

  “Royce wants us to draw and eliminate as many cultists as possible, but primarily in a specific area.” Tristan Wemyss, Earl of Trentham, met Gareth’s gaze over the breakfast dishes. “Specifically the swath between Chelmsford and his residence at Elveden, north of Bury St. Edmonds.”

  Gareth nodded. “So we’re to act as hares to our fox—in this case, the cult.”

  “And”—Jack held up a finger—“possibly the Black Cobra himself. Ferrar knows the area—his father has a house in Norfolk.”

  Jack had returned that morning as promised, Tristan in tow. After the introductions, they’d sat down to a large and varied breakfast. The men were doing the inn’s cook proud.

  Emily glanced from Jack, to Tristan, to Gareth, and inwardly shook her head. Aside from the obvious physical similarities consequent on all being ex-Guardsmen, all three shared a distinctly robust attitude toward the cult, as if they couldn’t wait to engage.

  “Sadly,” Tristan continued, “Royce doesn’t want us to come north just yet. In the interim, he wants us to make you disappear, make you invisible to the cult.”

  Gareth raised his brows. “How?”

  “We’re to transfer you and your entire party to Mallingham Manor.” Jack smiled predatorially. “Without the cult tracking you there.”

  Gareth grimaced. “While they’re not always well trained as fighters, they are distressingly good at tracking and locating.”

  Tristan smiled, a gesture very like Jack’s. He tipped his head at his friend. “So are we. And once we locate, we eliminate.”

  Gareth’s brows rose. “I see.” He popped the last of his gravy-soaked bread into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then nodded. “All right. So how are we going to do that?”

  14th December, 1822

  Early evening

  Our chamber at the inn in Dover

  Dear Diary,

  I need to dress for dinner—for the first time in forever—but am seizing these moments to note the salient personal points arising from our plan to remove to Mallingham Manor.

  First and foremost, we are clearly no longer alone in our battle against the fiend and his forces. Both Trentham and Warnefleet are undeniably able men, very much like Gareth. The addition of two such warriors to our party makes us, I judge, well-nigh invincible. Which is an enormous relief.

  Even more heartening, I have learned from Trentham that there are ladies at his manor—not just his wife and Jack’s wife, but many others, too—his great-aunts and various cousins and dependents. From all I could glean, for the first time since leaving Aunt Selma in Poona, I will have ladies of my ilk with whom to converse—and from whom I might gain further insight into living with, and being married to, males of Gareth’s ilk. That will be a boon I will be glad to seize. One should never close one’s ears to advice from the experienced.

  More, I am conscious of a buoying of my spirits, a greater certainty that Gareth’s mission, complicated by being that of a decoy, will indeed end successfully enough to satisfy him, which will allow him to, once it is over, turn his back on the recent past and focus with all his heart on shaping our joint future. I know his feelings over MacFarlane’s death run deep, and a successful outcome to this mission is essential to permit him to lay those feelings to rest—to leave that last part of his past behind him.

  I have just heaved another relieved and happy sigh. After being trepidatious and tense for more days than I can count, in looking forward to tomorrow, it is amazing to feel only eager and intrigued interest.

  My only quibble in all this is a nebulous niggle that somehow, in some way, Gareth is yet uncertain. Not of me, or our future, but of something between us. I cannot put my finger on what it is, but I will.

  But now I must hurry and dress!

  E.

  Their move to Mallingham Manor was accomplished in three stages through a morning that was gloomy and gray, cold, but not raining. At ten o’clock, Mullins, Dorcas, and Watson set off in the inn’s gig as if to visit some house in the countryside to the west. Twenty minutes later, Mooktu, Arnia, and Jimmy set out in a cart laden with all the bags and trunks, and headed north. Half an hour later, Gareth, Emily, and Bister departed in another gig, and took to the London Road.

  The cultists in Dover, already scrambling to reorganize in light of their unexpected arrival, had to scramble again, but two cultists succeeded in trailing the first gig, another followed the cart, and one settled to shadow the gig Gareth was driving.

  Tristan and Jack watched, noted, then acted. Those handling the reins—Mullins, Mooktu, and Gareth—had instructions not to drive too fast, but to eventually head north and west into Surrey. Ultimately, after halting for lunch along the way, all would climb a certain hill not far from the Manor.

  Mounted on good horses, Tristan and Jack removed the cultists, then raced across country to that hill. In mid-afternoon, when Mullins tooled his gig up the long, open rise, Jack and Tristan were in position, watching from the hilltop, from where they could see spread before them all the surrounding land.

  When an hour later Gareth finally drew rein on the crest of the hill, Tristan and Jack walked their horses out of the trees, satisfaction writ large on their faces.

  “Ahead and take the first turn right.” Tristan pointed to where a collection of old and massive trees blotted out the horizon. “The Manor’s in there—it can’t be seen from anywhere, so once among the trees, you won’t be spotted. The others are ahead of you. Jack and I will wait here, just to make sure, then follow.”

  Gareth nodded, met Jack’s eyes. “How many?”

  “I got two.” Jack glanced at Tristan. “He got two more. Enough to whet our appetites, but I don’t think there are more, so we’ll be on your heels.”

  Gareth nodded, flicked the reins, and sent the gig rolling on.

  True to Jack’s word, they’d only just reached the stable yard behind the manor—only just stepped down into a circus of grooms, footmen, and a bevy of ladies, most old, two not so old, all talking and exclaiming—when Tristan and Jack rode up.

  While they dismounted and handed their horses to the grooms, one of the younger ladies, a confident matron with dark hair, swept up to Gareth and Emily. “Welcome—I’m Leonora, Tristan’s wife.” Smiling deli
ghtedly, she shook hands with Gareth, then squeezed Emily’s fingers. “We’re very glad to see you, not least because those two”—she tipped her head to Jack and Tristan—“have been on tenterhooks for the last week, awaiting your arrival.”

  “Indeed.” The second matron, taller and rather stately with dark mahogany hair and an openly commanding manner, joined them and offered her hand. “I’m Clarice, Jack’s wife. I gather you’ve had adventures untold—you must come in and tell us all about them.”

  Those words proved prophetic. Before Emily could do more than give her name and touch fingers, she and Gareth were swept up by a wave of older ladies, led by Tristan’s great-aunts, Lady Hermione Wemyss and Lady Hortense Wemyss, carried into the big house and deposited in a large, long family parlor that was clearly the older ladies’ domain.

  “I’m afraid”—Leonora angled her head close to Emily’s as they settled side by side on one of the many chaises—“that it’s best—easiest, certainly—to humor them. They mean well. If any of their questions disturb you, just look to me or Clarice, and we’ll rescue you.” She glanced at Gareth and smiled. “You, too, Major—feel free to call on us for aid.”

  Gareth met her eye, inclined his head. “Please call me Gareth.”

  Once all the ladies had subsided, he sat in the armchair next to the chaise. Emily looked around. “Jack and Tristan?”

  “Have escaped.” Clarice smiled from an armchair opposite.

  “We don’t need them.” Lady Hortense dismissed her great-nephew and his friend with an arrogant wave. Her eyes, old but bright, fixed on Emily and Gareth. “It’s you two we want to know about—and we’re a great deal too old to waste time being delicate. So, how did you come to be in India in the first place?”

  The old ladies were dogged, determined, and quite shockingly direct, but there was no doubt of their sincere interest, or of their shrewdness. There were fourteen in all, an Ethelreda, a Millie, and a Flora among them. All had questions, and with so many minds focused on the task, each and every little detail was winkled from them, and examined and commented upon.

  Which should have put them out, put their backs up, but instead the kindness and understanding the old ladies exuded made their interrogation feel more like a confession and absolution.

  Almost an exorcism.

  Emily found herself responding to their inquisition with increasing freedom. She suspected Gareth, too, revealed more than he’d expected to—possibly more than he was comfortable with in response to their encouraging probing. Certainly, when after half an hour Jack and Tristan looked in, using the diversion of the tea trolley for cover, Gareth seized the chance to escape.

  Clarice caught Emily’s eye, and arched a brow.

  Emily smiled, all but imperceptibly shook her head. Accepting a cup of real English tea and a plate with real scones, plum jam, and fresh cream, she relaxed on the chaise, and turned to answer Ethelreda’s next question.

  The day closed in outside the parlor windows. The curtains were drawn, the fire built up, and eventually the questions died.

  “Well,” Hermione declared, “you and your major have certainly lived through thick and thin, up hill and dale. So when will we be hearing wedding bells?”

  “Aunt!” Leonora attempted to frown down her outrageous relative-by-marriage.

  Who pooh-poohed and waved her objection aside. “Plain as a pikestaff which way they’re headed—and see?” She waved at Emily. “She’s not denying it, is she?” Hermione leaned closer and peered. “Indeed, she’s not even blushing.”

  Emily realized she wasn’t. In fact, she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced at Leonora. “It’s quite all right.” She looked back at Hermione and the other old ladies, all eagerly waiting. “We haven’t yet set a date. We’re still discussing all the little things I expect people do.”

  “Good gel!” Hortense nodded approvingly. “Get the basics agreed to before you set your hand in his.”

  A loud bo-oo-oo-ong rolled through the house.

  “Time to dress for dinner,” Leonora announced.

  The old ladies sat up, gathering their trailing shawls and handkerchiefs, grasping the heads of their numerous canes and pulling themselves out of their chairs.

  Leonora rose beside Emily. “Just in time,” she murmured, “or they would be giving you advice on how to manage your wedding night.”

  Clarice chuckled as she joined them. “I’m rather curious as to what they might say.”

  So was Emily.

  The three of them followed the older ladies up the stairs, lending a hand when needed. When they reached the first floor, and their elders had stumped off to their rooms, Clarice following, distantly supervising, Leonora conducted Emily to a lovely room overlooking the park to one side of the manor. Dorcas was already there, laying out one of Emily’s few evening gowns, and—bliss—a bath stood by the fireplace, steam wreathing above its sides.

  Leonora glanced at Emily’s rapt expression and laughed. “Take your time—we won’t be starting dinner without you.” She met Emily’s eyes. “And if there’s anything you need, anything at all, please ask.”

  Emily heard the subtle message, saw confirmation in Leonora’s very blue eyes of the sincerity and universality of her words, and felt a connection she’d never felt with any but her sisters stir. “Thank you.” She smiled, and stated equally sincerely, “I will.”

  Leonora’s smile blazed. She squeezed her hand. “Good. Now I’ll leave you to it.”

  Dinner with the fourteen old ladies and the other two couples proved a warm and relaxing affair. Emily could feel her tension—so consistent and persistent over the last weeks that she’d forgotten it was there—evaporating.

  Despite being less used to such rousing—not to say ribald—female-dominated discussions, or the warmth and clear support that flowed so freely through the room, Gareth, too, found himself lowering his guard—he had to remind himself the cultists were still in the country, that they had to assume their pursuers might still find them.

  When he realized that the ladies didn’t intend to leave the three gentlemen to the port and brandy, instead joining them in partaking of those liquers, he grasped a moment to quietly mention to Tristan the need to set watches through the night.

  Lady Hermione, seated between them, overheard. “Oh, you don’t need to trouble yourself—or your people—with that. We would be happy to stand the watch.”

  Before Gareth could blink, the other ladies had taken up the cause. Seconds later they were dividing up the hours of the night.

  Stunned, he looked at Tristan, who grinned. “Don’t worry—they’ll do it, and woe betide any cultist who tries to sneak in.”

  Lady Hortense, seated opposite, saw his reluctance. “Trentham’s right—we don’t sleep much anyway, not at our age, and we’ll have Henrietta and Clitheroe to back us up, and raise the alarm if need be.”

  Gareth’s gaze slid to Clitheroe, the aging butler.

  Clitheroe bowed to Lady Hortense. “As you say, my lady.”

  “Henrietta,” Jack called down the table, “is Leonora’s wolfhound. She’s already been introduced to your people, but you haven’t yet met her.”

  “She has the run of the house at night,” Leonora put in. “She’s very protective.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it,” Tristan said, “she’ll savage anyone who tries to break in.”

  Later, after the company had adjourned to the drawing room, Henrietta was called in and introduced to Gareth and Emily. At that point, Gareth dropped all objection to the older ladies’ arrangements. When he sat, Henrietta’s shaggy head, and her highly impressive jaws, were level with his head.

  Later, when he climbed the stairs with Tristan and Jack, having ensured the ground floor was secure and that Ethelreda, Edith, and Flora, taking first watch, were happily ensconced by the fire in the central hall—with Henrietta a shaggy rug at their feet—Gareth admitted, “It’s been so long since I’ve felt our party is not under threat…it takes
a little getting used to.”

  Jack humphed. “It took over a year before I stopped checking everyone in every room I entered—such is the legacy of having been a spy.”

  Tristan nodded. “At least a year. Some part of you thinks you have to still be watching. It takes time for that to fade.”

  “Especially with ladies about.” Jack grinned. With a jaunty salute, he headed down one corridor.

  Parting from Tristan with a smile, Gareth went through the gallery and on to his room. Emily’s room was the next one along and, very helpfully, there was a connecting door.

  Ten minutes later, wearing only his robe, he tried the door, discovered it unlocked, and padded through to find her already abed, but not asleep. She’d left the windows uncurtained; shadows dappled the room and moonbeams danced as the wind stirred bare branches outside.

  Laying aside his robe, he slipped between the covers, heard the giggle she stifled as, as usual, the bed dipped and she rolled toward him. He caught her, drew her close, settled her within his arms. “What were you thinking about?” Lying here in the dark.

  She nestled her head on his shoulder. “This house—the household, all the old ladies. It’s so very English, and so comfortable. Now I’m home again, it’s as if I have to relearn—remind myself—what it is I most like, what I most value about things here, in this land.”

  “Oh?”

  There was enough wariness in the syllable to make Emily struggle up on one elbow to look into his face. “I was thinking about houses and households, and combinations of people. About families and atmosphere and comfort.”