The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

The truth, nothing but the truth.

  Eyes narrowed, arms crossed even tighter, a barrier between him and her, she tartly—entirely predictably—replied, “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself and mine. All of mine.”

  He heaved an exaggerated sigh and shifted closer. Lowered his voice so no one else could hear. Held her gaze as he said, “And who’s going to take care of me while I’m distracted, worrying about you?”

  Another very real truth.

  “What?” She looked genuinely surprised.

  Which had him narrowing his eyes. “You heard. If you’re with me, I’ll know you’re safe. If you’re not … I’ll most likely fail in my mission because I’ll be distracted, concerned over you.”

  Her eyes slitted to green shards. “No.” They were trading forceful whispers. “I am not falling for that. I don’t mean that much to you—not that much. Nothing you can say will convince me otherwise. I am not coming with you.”

  He held her gaze. “That’s your last word?”

  Linnet searched his eyes, trying to find some clue as to what he was up to. She saw nothing in the midnight blue beyond his usual relentless determination. She raised her chin. “Yes.”

  “Very well.” Stepping back, he nodded to Edgar and Griffiths, standing to one side behind her. “I’ll send word.”

  She was wondering what he meant by that—what word he would be sending to them—when, turning back to her, Logan ducked.

  He angled his shoulder into her midriff and, before she could react, cleanly hoisted her over his shoulder, anchoring her legs against his chest with his right arm, in the same sweeping movement swiping up both of their bags in his other hand, then he turned and strode down the gangplank. Fast.

  “What…?”

  For one definable instant, she was speechless—utterly dumbfounded.

  How dare he?

  He swung off the gangplank and turned along the wharf, and she found her tongue. Cursed and swore using every invective, every colorful expletive she’d ever learned in all her years on board—an extensive litany that had no discernible effect whatever.

  He actually chuckled.

  She threatened him with castration, and he only lengthened his stride, rapidly crossing the wharf toward the old town and its narrow streets.

  Fisting her right hand, she thumped on his back, hard. “Put me down this instant, you moron—I am not going with you.”

  He jiggled her on his shoulder. “Watch out for my wound—you don’t want to burst your stitches, not after all your hard work.”

  She swore, switched to her left hand, and thumped his other side. All but screeched, “Logan! Enough! Put me down—or I’ll make it my duty to make the rest of your misbegotten life a misery!”

  He halted, heaved a gigantic sigh, then, dropping their bags, finally grasped her waist and eased her down, sliding her down the front of his body until her toes neared the ground.

  Before they did, he kissed her.

  Kissed her in a way he never had before, with passion, yes, but it was passion leashed, held back so he could …

  Woo her. Plead, persuade.

  Beg.

  Her hands came to rest on either side of his face, gently cupping. She couldn’t pull away, couldn’t stop herself from sensing, savoring, knowing.

  When he finally lifted his head, hers was swimming, previous certainties fading, new questions rising.

  He stared down into her eyes. “My life is already yours to do with as you please—to make it a misery, or even a living hell. Just as long as you’re alive to do that, I don’t care.”

  His gaze lifted, scanning the wharf behind her, then he set, her fully on her feet, seized her hand, and their bags. “Now behave, and come along.”

  He towed her on, into a street she recognized as Looe Street. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “Yes. I think.” He glanced back at her. “I haven’t been in Plymouth for years. The Seafarer’s Arms—it’s this way, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She grimaced as he pulled her along. As she let him. Resisting, knowing he’d only hoist her up again, didn’t seem worthwhile. But she did want to escape him … didn’t she?

  Frowning, she glanced around. “This is nonsensical.” Night was closing in; there were few people around. “You can’t keep me with you against my will.”

  The glance he shot her was dark—too dark to read. “Possibly not.” Jaw tightening, he looked ahead. “But I can change your mind. There’s no reason for you not to come with me, and every reason that you should.”

  She knew better than to encourage a madman, but … “Why?”

  “I told you why.” Forging on, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Because I can’t function properly without knowing you’re safe. And while you’re safe, all the others are, too. I know you don’t believe that—any more than you believe that I’ll return to you when this mission is over—but whether you believe or not doesn’t change reality. That is my reality—my truth.” Reaching an intersection, he halted, met her eyes as she halted beside him. “The least you can do is give me a chance to prove it.”

  She held his gaze, in the light from a nearby street flare searched his eyes, saw that he truly was asking for that, a chance to prove he meant what he said. And no matter how hard she looked, the midnight blue of his eyes showed nothing but an unshakable veracity, and beneath that an unshakable belief.

  It wasn’t a belief she had any confidence in, any faith in, but he did.

  She heard herself sigh. “All right.” She looked around, pointed. “The Seafarer’s Arms is that way, if that’s where we’re truly headed.”

  He nodded; scanning the shadows, he grasped her hand more tightly. “Come on—we need to get there. We’ll definitely have been spotted by now.”

  Eleven

  Linnet didn’t ask, Spotted by whom? She kept her eyes peeled as she took over the lead and steered them to the ancient inn, one of the oldest in the old part of town.

  She wasn’t certain just what she should do, but leaving Logan at this point wasn’t an option. She was still wearing her cutlass, and he his saber; she felt certain he would have his dirk on him somewhere, and she had two knives, one in each boot.

  They reached the Seafarer’s Arms without challenge, but her instincts were pricking, and by the way Logan looked around before ducking in the door behind her, his were, too.

  She paused inside the door. The tap room opened out to her left, a low-ceilinged room with massive oak beams hanging low to strike unwary heads. Lamps bathed the long oak bar with golden light. Five old tars sat enveloped in smoky haze at a pair of tables before the fire. An old woman nodded in the inglenook.

  A man in a heavy coat and well-polished boots was sitting at the bar, large hands cradling a pint pot; as the door clicked shut, he turned his head and glanced their way.

  And slowly smiled. Leaving his mug on the bar, he stood and walked unhurriedly to them.

  He had thick, curling dark hair, and much the same build—much the same dangerous presence—as Logan. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes passed over her, noting and taking in, but as he neared, the man fixed his smiling gaze on Logan and held out his hand. “St. Austell. Monteith, I presume?”

  “Indeed.” Logan gripped the offered hand with very real relief. He was inexpressibly grateful that St. Austell had been kicking his heels, waiting. That he and Linnet would have to spend the night at the Seafarer’s Arms, waiting for his contact to show in the morning, when the cultists had almost certainly already followed them there, had been looming as his worst nightmare. “Thank you for waiting.”

  “Well, of course.” St. Austell’s gaze shifted to Linnet. “Paignton and I are keen and eager to start our part in this adventure.” Then he arched a black brow at Logan. “But what happened to you?”

  “The cult spotted me the instant I disembarked in Lisbon, so I had to take ship immediately, earlier than planned. Unfortunately, I was shipwrecked off Guernsey. More fortunately, I survived and m
ade it to shore. This is Captain Trevission, captain of the Esperance. Her household found and tended me until I recovered enough to come on.” Logan glanced around. “If you don’t mind, I’ll explain the rest later. Captain Trevission’s ship was attacked en route here, and we were almost certainly followed from the docks.”

  “And the cult now has even greater reason to want you”—St. Austell’s shrewd gaze flicked to Linnet—”both of you, dead?”

  “Precisely.” It was a relief to work with quick-witted people, but from all he’d heard of the legendary Dalziel, Logan had expected his operatives to be top-notch.

  “In that case, I suggest we repair to the carriage I have waiting to whisk us to Paignton Hall and safety.” St. Austell waved them toward the rear of the inn. “We can go out the back way. Here”—he took Linnet’s bag from Logan—”let me carry that.”

  They went down a narrow corridor and out of the inn’s rear, door. St. Austell led the way across a tiny yard and into the lane beyond. “This is the oldest part of town—it’s a maze of lanes too narrow for a carriage. Best if we keep silent until we’re through it. It’s not that far, and then we’ll be—”

  The lane they’d been following opened into another yard; when St. Austell broke off and halted, Linnet peeked around him—and saw men in an odd mixture of Eastern and English clothes materializing out of the gloom. All wore black scarves wrapped around their heads.

  All held naked blades in their hands.

  She, Logan, and St. Austell had no real option but to stand and fight. Their only retreat was the narrow runnel at their back, and they’d never make it. But there were … she counted nine cultists. She hoped they weren’t the assassins Logan had mentioned.

  St. Austell shifted to her right. A sliding hiss had her glancing his way. The edge of a saber like Logan’s glinted in the weak light; he held it in his right hand, hefted her bag in the other.

  She felt Logan brush past, glanced the other way and saw him take up position on her left, likewise with saber drawn, his bag in his other hand.

  Dragging in a breath, she took a step back and drew her cutlass from its sheath.

  The unexpected movement, the appearance of a third defending blade, made every man—the two flanking her as well as their attackers—hesitate. She didn’t need to look to sense the swift exchange of glances that passed over her head between St. Austell, his black brows raised high, and Logan, who grimly nodded and refocused his attention on their attackers.

  Slightly crouched, Linnet kept her gaze on their opponents as they spread across the small yard, cutting off any way forward. Suddenly realizing their vulnerability—the runnel at their back—she could only applaud when St. Austell stepped further to his right. She shifted smoothly, too, as did Logan, circling as one, enough to get their backs to solid wall.

  Their attackers suddenly realized they’d lost a possible advantage. Savage whispers passed back and forth, then one raised his sword, yelled something incomprehensible, and rushed at St. Austell.

  He held his ground until the last minute, then jerked Linnet’s bag into his attacker’s chest, neatly followed with his saber, and that was one attacker less.

  Even before the first man fell, Logan had accounted for another with the same move, the same efficiency, but the other seven followed in a concerted wave.

  Sabers flashing to Linnet’s right and left, Logan and St. Austell held them back—but just. From her position between the men, Linnet had hoped to have a chance to slip her blade in, but they each had three blades to counter, and that left one cultist to smile a ghastly smile and come directly for her.

  She met his first strike, beat it back with one of her own, sensed his surprise that a woman could actually wield a blade. But that wouldn’t last; surprise wouldn’t save her.

  She didn’t like to kill, but she’d been taught, schooled, and had learned her lessons in time of war, in the heat of battle. She’d learned to suppress everything but the instinct to survive, to forget about fighting fair and fight to live.

  Fit and active though she was, most men were stronger than she. Plucking one of the knives from its sheath in the high top of one of her boots, she countered the cultist’s next strike with her sword, then tempted him to strike high. He did, and she met his sword with her own, held it high, stepped forward, and slid her knife between his ribs.

  Stepping back, she let him fall, her attention immediately going to the cultist to her right, who, seeing his comrade fall, uttered a shriek and came at her.

  She already had her other knife in her hand; all she needed to do was deflect his crazed thrust, step inside, and place her blade. The second cultist slumped on top of the first, creating, a barrier. One glance to her right and she saw St. Austell drop one of his remaining opponents, leaving him fighting one on one. From what she’d already seen of his handiwork, he’d be finished shortly.

  Unsurprisingly, the strongest and most able cultists had gone for Logan. She watched, picked her time, then pushed in and forced the one nearest her to shift his attack to her.

  Logan quickly palmed his dirk and dropped the cultist on his left, then with two swift, powerful cuts, brought down the other who had stayed to parry with him.

  Without hesitation, he swung his saber and ruthlessly cut across Linnet’s engagement—a dangerous undertaking, but not for her. The cultist who’d been jabbing at her, trying to find a way through her dogged defense, tried desperately to readjust to a stronger and taller opponent, but too late. He joined his fellows on the cold cobbles—just as St. Austell felled the last.

  St. Austell held up his hand, enjoining silence. Breaths sawing, bloody blades in their hands, both Logan and Linnet crouched and retrieved their knives.

  Then they heard the running footsteps coming from deep in the maze behind them. Without a word, Logan grabbed his bag, St. Austell grabbed Linnet’s, and the three of them ran.

  Of necessity, St. Austell led the way. Linnet followed, Logan at her heels. She didn’t have breath to spare to even think as she pushed herself to keep up with the longer-legged men.

  But St. Austell knew his way, and he’d spoken literally. They burst into a wider yet still minor street, and the carriage was there. St. Austell yanked open the door, held it while Linnet, then Logan, piled in, then he threw Linnet’s bag in and followed, sprawling on the opposite seat.

  Even before the door swung smartly shut, the driver had flicked his reins. The carriage rumbled off—quickly, yet smoothly.

  Panting, struggling to catch their breath, they all listened. When the carriage rumbled into one of the main squares, then on down a main street, they all drew in long breaths, righted themselves, Logan and Linnet on the seat facing forward, St. Austell and their bags on the other, and finally relaxed.

  St. Austell bent and rummaged beneath the bench seat. Pulling out a rag, he reached for Linnet’s bloodied cutlass. “Allow me, captain ma’am.”

  Linnet’s lips quirked wryly. She handed over her blade. “In the circumstances, after what we’ve just shared, I believe first names are in order. Perhaps we should redo the introductions. I’m Linnet Trevission of Mon Coeur, Guernsey, owner of Trevission Ships, also captain of the Esperance.”

  “Also holder of an extant Letter of Marque,” Logan put in.

  St. Austell looked suitably and sincerely impressed. “Yet another aspect of your quite astonishing talents. You’re also no mean wielder of a blade. I’m one of your two appointed guards.” He flourished a half bow. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, at your service, but please call me Charles.” He handed Linnet’s cleaned blade back, beckoned for Logan’s.

  Logan handed it over. “Logan Monteith, as I assume you’re aware ex-major with the Honorable East India Company. And you’re no mean wielder of a blade yourself. The Guards?”

  “Originally.” Handing back Logan’s wiped saber, Charles picked up his own. “But Royce—Dalziel as he then was—recruited me within months. After that, I spent most of the war years behind e
nemy lines. Most at Toulouse.”

  “You must have seen some difficult times there,” Logan said. “Were you in place when we came through?”

  Linnet let her attention wander as Logan and Charles compared experiences of the taking of Toulouse while Charles cleaned their knives.

  They’d rumbled out of Plymouth and were heading—she consulted her inner compass—east. She didn’t know England well, not beyond the major southern ports, but she assumed they were on the road to Exeter.

  She was shivering, fine tremors coursing through her.

  Without breaking off his conversation, Logan reached for her bag, set it on his knee, opened it, reached in, and drew out her traveling cloak. Returning the bag to the opposite seat, still chatting with Charles, he shook out the cloak, then held it for her, helping her drape it about her shoulders.

  She accepted the additional warmth glady enough, allowing the fiction that she was shivering due to the increasing chill stand. But it wasn’t cold that had her muscles so tense that they were trembling. Nor was it exhaustion or simple shock; she’d been in far worse and longer battles, seen death at closer quarters, had had to fight for her life, had had to kill before.

  But she’d never before fought alongside someone she cared about as she cared for Logan. Never stood beside someone with whom she’d shared that degree of intimacy and known their opponents were fixated on killing him.

  A deeper, more icy shiver shuddered through her.

  Raising her head, she shook it—as if by doing so she could shake off the lingering emotional panic. She glanced at Logan, sure he’d noticed. Beneath the folds of her cloak, his hand closed warmly about hers, squeezed gently, but otherwise he gave no sign, for which she was grateful.

  His gaze remained on Charles. “What news do you have of the others?”

  Charles handed back her knives and Logan’s dirk. While they tucked them back into their boots, he said, “Delborough’s in England. He landed at Southampton on the tenth of the month. There was a spot of bother there, apparently, but he got away cleanly and has been in London for several days, although I suspect he’ll have moved on by now. It sounds as if he’ll be the first to reach Royce. Hamilton’s in Boulogne, or was a few days ago. We’re expecting Royce to send word that Hamilton’s landed and is on his way to him, but any message will take a while to reach us down here.”