The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Gareth glanced at Delborough, and Christian beside him, and saw they, too, were suppressing satisfied smiles. There was steel beneath Royce’s smooth tones, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind what would happen if the family did not assist. Yet no threat had actually been uttered.

  Well versed in such subtleties, the earl heard the warning. His face mottled as he glared. “This is nonsense! My son has been killed, that’s all there is to it.” Swinging on his heel, he pushed past Christian and stalked out.

  Leaving Kilworth, who even physically was very unlike his sire, a tallish, slender gentleman with dark eyes—not the pale cold blue of his father and brother—to try to smooth over the moment.

  “He’s in shock,” Kilworth said, as if in exculpation, then added, “Well, so am I.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But Roderick was his favorite, you see.” His tone made it clear that if it had been he lying dead on the bench, he doubted his father would be half as exercised. He gestured to the door. “Come. I’ll see you to your horses.”

  As he walked beside Royce down the long corridors, Kilworth kept talking—he was the sort of man who did. The rest of them were happy to listen.

  “We knew nothing, you see—last we heard he was off to India to make his fortune. He wasn’t one for writing letters. Well, we had no idea he’d even come home.” He glanced at Royce. “Did he just arrive?”

  “He landed in Southampton on the sixth of this month,” Delborough said.

  “Oh.” Kilworth’s expressive face fell, then he grimaced. “As you can see, we aren’t close—weren’t. Roderick and me. But still…I’m surprised he didn’t contact the old man.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t?” Christian asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Kilworth saw their doubts, and smiled. “The servants never liked Roderick, but they like me, so they always tell me…things like that. None of us here knew Roderick was in England, of that I am completely sure.”

  They’d reached their horses, held by grooms in a side courtyard.

  Kilworth halted, waited while they mounted, then he looked up at Royce. “I doubt you’ll get anything from the old man, and the harder you push, the more he’ll dig in his heels and bluster. But…I’ll contact those of Roderick’s friends I know of here, in England, and ask if any of them have heard what he was up to in India, and if he mentioned who were his closest friends there.”

  “Thank you.” Royce inclined his head. “You’ll find me at Elveden Grange until this is over.”

  Kilworth frowned. “It isn’t over?”

  Royce shook his head as he turned his horse. “Not by a very long chalk.”

  They returned to Elveden Grange to discover that the ladies had held dinner back for them. The instant they walked into the drawing room, Minerva rose and directed the whole company to the dining room. Over a relaxing meal they reported on the earl’s recalcitrance, and the possibility that Kilworth might manage to learn more.

  “The countess is long dead, and his sisters are older and have been married and living in their own households for years,” Minerva said. “I doubt they would know anything.”

  “Roderick was his father’s favorite for a very good reason—father and son were cut from the same cloth.” Letitia sat back in her chair. “Whatever viciousness you detected in Ferrar, he learned at his father’s knee. Kilworth, on the other hand, is a much more gentle, rather scholarly soul. He took after the countess, much to Shrewton’s unveiled disgust. Shrewton tolerates him only because he is his heir.”

  “And now his only surviving son.” Minerva rose. All the ladies followed suit.

  Royce glanced at the men, saw his inclination mirrored in their faces. He pushed back his chair. “We’ll join you in the drawing room. There’s much still to be discussed.”

  While the men followed the ladies down the hall, Royce’s butler approached him with a missive on a salver. Royce took it, opened it, and read the message within, then slid it into his pocket, and went on, following the other men into the drawing room.

  Once they were settled in the comfortable chairs and chaises, Royce began, “When we first commenced this mission”—he nodded to Del and Gareth—“when you contacted me, and then left Bombay with the four scroll holders, we would have said that Ferrar’s death would mark mission’s end. Instead, we have Ferrar dead, and the Black Cobra still out there. This feels more like the end of Act One in a drama that still has some way to run.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Gareth said, “that with Ferrar’s death, the threat of the seal on the original letter exposing his involvement has evaporated. He can no longer reveal who the real Black Cobra is. Yet you say Ferrar was thrilled to have retrieved a copy, suggesting there’s more in the letter than we’ve yet discerned. Regardless, if after this evening the Black Cobra doesn’t call off the cultists harrying Monteith, then we can be certain there’s something else about the letter that threatens the real Black Cobra.”

  “Indeed.” Royce nodded decisively, and looked at Emily. “Do you have your copy?”

  She’d been carrying it in her pocket in anticipation of that request. Pulling it out, she unfolded the sheet, and handed it across.

  Royce took it, read it aloud, then passed the sheet around.

  Del regarded him. “You’re more used to evaluating covert communications than anyone else here. So what do you think?”

  Royce considered the sheet, by then doing the rounds of the ladies. “I can comprehend the purpose behind the second half of the letter, where the Black Cobra is making overt advances. But why bother with the first half—the social chitchat?”

  The copy had reached Minerva’s hands. She studied it as she said, “Some might say it’s simply camouflage for the rest, but…” Head rising, she looked at Royce. “Not you.”

  He smiled. “No, not me.” Transferring his gaze to the others, he went on, “It’s almost certainly the case that the first half has a purpose, but it’s hidden.”

  Gareth frowned. “It’s common for princelings—and Govind Holkar, to whom the letter is addressed, is an epitome of the type—to crave acceptance into the upper echelons of local English society. I”—he glanced at Del—“all of us interpreted the first half of the letter in that light. As a social inducement, if you like.”

  “That may be so,” Christian said, retaking the letter, “but that suggests that this Govind Holkar would be specifically interested in knowing that at least one of these ten people named would be visiting Poona. Given he was negotiating with the Black Cobra, who we now know to be more than one person, what are the odds that at least one of these people is part of our multiheaded beast?”

  “If the attacks on Monteith continue, then those odds increase.” Royce looked at Del. “I take it Poona is a hill-station?”

  “In effect,” Del replied, “it’s the monsoon capital for Bombay. All those English who can, including the governor and his staff, relocate there for the season. All the wives and families usually remain there throughout the monsoon period, although their menfolk often go back and forth. But Poona was once the Maratha capital, and many of their princelings, like Govind Holkar, live there much of the time. That’s why, when we thought the Black Cobra was Ferrar alone, we took the first half of the letter to be…well, merely information the writer, Ferrar, knew Holkar would be pleased to know.”

  Gareth grimaced. “If we’d known those names might have greater significance, we could easily have learned more before we left.”

  “Spilt milk,” Royce said. “Now we know, how can we learn more?”

  Gareth looked at Emily. “Do you know any of those named?”

  Christian handed her the letter. She took it, scanned the names she’d transcribed the day before. “I was only in India for six months, but then again, I was in the governor’s household.” She paused, her eyes on the page, then she grimaced. “It’s as I remembered. All these people are members of what is popularly known as the Government House set—which I assure you has nothing to do with the
governor. They’re a group of younger people who are rather wild, and Ferrar was a major figure within the group.”

  “So he would know all ten personally?” Royce asked.

  Emily pulled a face. “I really can’t say. He would certainly have known all socially, but how well he knew any one of them…I had little to nothing to do with that group. In my aunt’s words, they’re ‘rather fast,’ and she is a master of understatement.”

  “Which,” Clarice said, brows high, “makes that section of the letter even more believable as a social bribe.”

  Royce took back the copy, folded it. “Regardless, we’ll know the truth very soon—by tomorrow at the latest.” He looked at the others. “I’ve received confirmation that Monteith reached Oxford yesterday. He should be at Bedford tonight. With luck, he and his escort will be joining us tomorrow.”

  “His escort?” Gareth inquired.

  “Two more of my ex-operatives,” Royce said. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, and Deverell, Viscount Paignton.”

  “Ah.” Minerva rose and crossed to tug the bellpull. “That means Penny and her brood, and Phoebe and hers, will arrive tomorrow—I must organize their rooms.”

  Royce looked at her, but made no comment while she quickly spoke to the butler who’d appeared.

  However, as the butler retreated and Minerva returned to sit alongside him, Royce continued, “Apparently, Monteith has a lady with him, too.”

  “A lady?” Del frowned. “Where did she come from?”

  “Guernsey, apparently. For some reason, the major ended up there, and then…” Royce frowned. “I’m not clear about the details—St. Austell was his usual oblique self—but I gather she was instrumental in facilitating Monteith’s journey to Plymouth, and consequently, he felt it necessary to keep her with him, safe from the cultists.”

  Gareth and Del exchanged glances. They knew all about keeping those who helped them out of the cultists’ hands. Especially women.

  “So,” Royce continued, “if Monteith strikes no further opposition, we’ll know that the exposure of Ferrar as part of the Black Cobra was the only thing about the letter that the Black Cobra feared. Conversely, if the cultists keep attacking, trying to seize the copy Monteith’s carrying, then clearly there is indeed something in the words—and it would have to be the names—that the remaining parts of the Black Cobra have reason to fear us learning.”

  Emily blinked at him. “But we already have a copy of the letter—we already know the names.”

  Royce met her gaze and smiled. “True, but the Black Cobra doesn’t know that. Indeed, why would we bother making an extra copy if it’s the seal that to us is the key?” He held her gaze, his own growing distant, then he looked at the others. “But that raises a valid point. We already have the text of the letter, yet those names mean nothing to anyone here. From what Emily says, those names are unlikely to be recognized by many in England, not in terms of what those people have been getting up to in India.”

  He paused, then went on, “There has to be someone the Black Cobra fears us showing the letter to. Someone for whom those names, some of them at least, will mean something—enough to identify one or more as Ferrar’s closest associates.”

  “Family would be the obvious candidates,” Christian said, “but I don’t think Shrewton was lying, much less Kilworth. They have no idea who Ferrar was consorting with in India.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t in India,” Emily said. “Perhaps it was here, in England, before Ferrar left. If he was close to people here, and the same people turned up there—surely they would be his closest friends.”

  “Closest, and most likely to have worked with him to set up the Black Cobra cult.” Gareth glanced at Del. “Because the cult’s genesis occurred a little after Ferrar’s arrival in Bombay, we were certain that he was involved in its birth, but that doesn’t mean friends who joined him soon after couldn’t have lent a hand.”

  “No, indeed. They might even have been the instigators.” Del nodded. “Emily’s right. We need to learn who Ferrar’s closest friends were in England, and then check if any of them feature in the letter.”

  “And that,” Royce says, “makes Kilworth our best bet.” He considered, then grimaced. “Let’s see what happens with Monteith tomorrow, but if the Cobra keeps striking, then we should certainly put more effort into learning who were Roderick Ferrar’s erstwhile friends.”

  An hour later, Emily preceded Gareth into the bedchamber she’d been given. He had his own room down the hall, much smaller, more a place to leave his bags than anything else.

  No one in this household bothered with pretense.

  All but dancing, she whirled, fetching up before the fireplace in which a lovely fire crackled and burned. Outside it was freezing, but inside…she’d never felt so relaxed, so triumphant, in her life.

  Arms spread, she swung to smile at Gareth. He’d closed the door and had followed close behind her. “We’re here!” Bringing her hands in, she locked them about his lapels and drew him close; smiling, he came. She beamed up at him. “I can barely believe it. After all those miles, all those attacks, all those horribly dangerous times—here we are, hale and whole.” She met his eyes, let herself fall into the tawny hazel. “And we’re together.”

  Hands closing about her waist, then sliding further to hold her in a loose embrace, he nodded. “We are. But I have a confession to make.”

  Taken aback, she searched his eyes but saw nothing beyond the warmth she’d grown so accustomed to shining back at her. Reassured, she made her tone encouraging. “What?”

  “Yes, well, that’s the thing.” His lips curved, rueful yet still relaxed. “I was determined never to let the words cross my lips, had sworn I would never utter them, but after today, after sitting in that carriage, blind, out of sight of you, not knowing if you were in danger, if some terrible fate was threatening you…” His expression changed, all warmth falling away, leaving an emotion far more stark and powerful etched over the chiseled lines of his face.

  Her heart thudded as, amazed, she recognized what that emotion was.

  “I nearly broke. Nearly overthrew all caution, all sense, nearly flung open the carriage door and came after you.”

  Locked in his dark gaze, she released one lapel, placed that hand on his chest, over his heart. “But you didn’t.”

  “No. I didn’t. It was a close run thing—but I didn’t.” He nodded, lips firming, his eyes on hers. “So yes, Emily Ensworth, we’re going to have a life partnership—we’re going to have the trust, the sharing of all life’s challenges. Before, when we spoke of this, I wasn’t sure how far I could go—how much of what you wanted I could give you—but now I know. Today showed me. Not that you were up to the task—that I never doubted, not from the instant I met you in Bombay after you’d ridden in with the letter from James. I was so proud of you—I admired you, your strength and character, from then. I knew long before today that you could handle anything, including the challenge of sharing your life with me. But today I discovered that I was up to the task, too—that I could, if pushed, trust your strength and put my faith in your abilities as you, so often on our travels, put your faith in mine.”

  He drew a huge breath, his chest swelling beneath her hand. She didn’t say a word, too enthralled, too eager to hear what next he would say.

  Gareth looked into her shining eyes, the moss-green bright, shimmering with encouragement and a love he’d never thought to find. “Having you go into danger without me at your side is never going to be something I will willingly countenance, but today I learned that I could live through the vulnerabilty, so there’s no longer any point in not saying the words I’d sworn I never would.”

  “What words?” She all but quivered in his arms, so alive, so vibrant, and all his.

  He smiled, and let the words fall freely, let them come of their own accord and simply be, testament to his reality. “I love you. You are the sun, the moon, and the stars to me—I can’t imagine a life witho
ut you at its center. Yes, I want to marry you—quite desperately want to marry you—but that want owes nothing to anything but my need.

  “I need you—I need your love. I need you to be my future. We started, before, to paint in my blank slate, but I can’t finish the picture of my future without you at its center.”

  She pressed closer, pushed her hands up over his shoulders, winding her arms about his neck. Sheer happiness bubbled in her voice as she said, “I was so proud of you today—when you let me do what I could do. I was never so much as vaguely attracted to MacFarlane, but women can have honor, too, and I wanted to—needed to—do something, something real, to help catch the Black Cobra. And now I have, I can leave it to you and all the other men here to catch the fiend, whoever he is, and bring him to justice.

  “Now”—she stretched up on her toes, bringing her lips to within a whisker of his—“I can turn my attention—all my attention and energy—to us. To our partnership, our future—our marriage.”

  Her eyes all but glowed, shimmering with emotion as she stared into his. “You are my one—the one I’ve been waiting to find for so long, the one I went to India to seek, the one I love with all my heart. Now I’ve found you, I will never let you go.”

  He felt his lips curve. “Good.”

  He kissed her—or she kissed him. Between true partners, it didn’t matter which it was. All that mattered was the heat that instantly sprang to life, that flared and curled comfortingly all around them.

  That drew them in and seduced them.

  Then flamed.

  Clothes scattered, discarded with abandon.

  They barely made it to the bed.

  And then there was nothing beyond the flames and the passion, the desire and the need to be one.

  Together.

  Linked, twining, merging.