Regaining the top of the crates, Logan dispensed with the assassin responsible. It was touch-and-go, no time for science, just quick, hard, bloody work, going for the kill in any way that offered, but with luck and skill.…
He and Deverell finally put paid to the last pair of cultists.
They swayed on the top of their makeshift platforms, staring down at the bodies tumbled and jumbled, blocking the alley.
Then Charles tapped them both on the shoulder, waited until they stepped back and down, then he went over the barricade and walked the alley with his saber in his hand, making sure none of the assassins they’d downed got up again.
His heart thundering, his breath sawing in and out, Logan slumped on an upturned crate. Deverell slowly let himself down against the yard wall.
Charles returned, clambering up and over, then he sat on the edge of their makeshift platform. “That was …” He paused to draw breath. “More action than I think I’ve ever seen—not in such a short space of time.”
Deverell lifted his head, smiled the ghost of a smile. “It’s the closeness—the tightness. You can’t move, can’t find any rhythm, get any real swing. Much harder, fighting so constrained.”
Logan leaned his head back against the crates, looked at Linnet, the only one of them standing, albeit propped against the side of the small porch. The action had been so fast, so intense, he hadn’t had a chance to be frightened for her. Now … relief had never felt so blessed, so utterly swamping. He caught her gaze, after a moment wearily smiled. “Yet we’re all still alive.” Almost giddy with the emotions coursing his veins, he tipped his head toward the alley. “And they’re all dead.”
“True.” Charles heaved a sigh. “However, our night—or rather, morning, this being the next day—is not yet over.” He looked at Logan. “Any idea who he was?”
There was no need to specify whom he meant. Logan shook his head. “I’ve never set eyes on him before.” Pushing away from the crates at his back, he stretched. “That said, he may well have been what he said, or at least implied—someone who wielded the authority of the Black Cobra.”
“So a very trusted lieutenant at least,” Deverell said. “He was well dressed, well spoken, well educated, from his tan had been in India recently, and commanded a large body of the cult elite.” He looked at Charles, then Logan. “Which means we should follow him.”
Logan nodded. “He was so trusted he knew about the letter, about the seal being the important part, although why, he was so pleased to retrieve a mere copy I have no idea.” He got to his feet as the other two men got to theirs. “Aside from all else, although he may not be the Black Cobra, there’s an excellent chance he’s taking our copy—”
“To the real Black Cobra. Indeed.” Charles tossed aside two crates. “Let’s go.”
The stables behind the hotel appeared to be deserted. From what they could hear, the fighting was continuing in the street, and less actively on the riverbank. The cultists they’d seen by the stables must have gone out to aid their fellows.
However, as they approached, they saw one lone cultist, a thin, shivering figure crouched beside a cart, clearly left to watch the back of the hotel. He was staring at the back door so intently that they were nearly upon him before he realized.
“Aiiee!” He leapt to his feet, brought up his sword.
He was more boy than man. His sword wavered; he was scared out of his wits.
Charles, in the lead, heaved a huge sigh, abruptly stepped and lunged, and with one quick flick sent the boy’s sword flying off into the stable. Charles looked at the boy. “Boo!” The boy jerked; trembling, he just stared. Charles took another step, waved his arms, his bloodied sword. “Go! Run away! Off!”
With a strangled shriek, the boy turned and fled.
He bumped into, caromed off, another larger figure as he rounded the corner to the riverbank path. The figure halted, glanced back at the fleeing boy, then came on.
The four of them had melted into the shadows of the stable before the man—friend or foe they couldn’t tell in the darkness—came trudging up. He paused just outside the stable door to peer up and down the lane, then turned inside—and found Charles’s sword point at his throat.
David yelped and staggered back, but then he saw who they were and his face split in a huge grin. “You’re all right! Praise the Lord.” He looked at Deverell. “I’m right glad to, see you hale and whole, m’lord. M’lady said she’d skin me alive if’n I brought you back any other way.”
The thought—of what poor David could possibly have done to avert Deverell’s death at the hands of the assassins they’d just faced—made Linnet laugh. And then the four of them were laughing. David just stood there, simply pleased to have made them smile.
When they recovered, they made plans.
They decided that delaying to explain to the local authorities just what had taken place, and their part in it, especially the carnage in the alley, would see them stuck in Bedford for days.
Logan and Linnet sneaked back upstairs to retrieve all their bags for David to take in the carriage. Deverell had already told David the route they’d been intending to follow. “Stick to that.” Deverell handed over a purse. “You can pay our shot here, then go on to Elveden. Tell the manager that the horses we’re appropriating will be returned safe and sound within four days, and if you run into any problems, just say you’re operating under orders from the Duke of Wolverstone.”
“That name,” Charles put in, “is guaranteed to get you out of any tight spot.”
They found four decent horses. Charles and Deverell saddled them up. “Astride all right for you?” Charles asked Linnet.
She nodded. “Please.”
Charles didn’t argue, just obliged. There was a lot to be said, Linnet thought, for well-conditioned gentlemen.
And then they were away. They’d got no sleep, but their blood was still up from the fight. It would be a while before any of them calmed enough for slumber; they might as well do what they could to track the one responsible.
If he led them to the Black Cobra so much the better.
They headed out of town and, under the light of the waning moon, took the most direct route to Cambridge, a secondary road that cut through the fields and fens. While they couldn’t, be certain of their quarry’s route, they assumed the Black Cobra was lurking somewhere beyond Cambridge, in the general direction of Elveden.
A few hundred yards past the last cottage of Bedford, Logan, who had been studying the surface of the road, pointed to tracks ahead, visible where they broke through a hardening crust of frost. “Two riders, not long ago.” He slowed to look more closely. “One first, then the other. Separate, not together. Both large, powerful horses going at a steady gallop.”
“What are the chances one of them’s our man?” Charles said.
“Excellent, I’d say,” Deverell replied. “Who else would be out riding in the wee small hours in this icy weather?”
“But who’s the second rider?” Linnet asked.
“No idea.” Lifting his head, Logan looked across the flat, open fields. In the faint moonlight, it was a chill and somewhat eerie sight. The skies were inky black, cloudless; the cold was steadily intensifying. The morning would be crisp and clear. “A guard, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. With this frost thickening, if we keep a steady pace, with luck we might come up with our man. Or even better, follow him to his lair.”
They resettled their coats and cloaks, then shook their reins and rode on, buoyed by the knowledge that, regardless of all else, they were nearing journey’s end.
Daniel had ridden from Bedford in wild triumph. Once out of the town, he’d let the black have its head and the first mile had flashed by. But then caution reasserted its hold. Even though it was the small hours, no one needed to remember a madman thundering past.
So he eased the horse back to a steady gallop.
He crossed the Great North Road and continued on between the flat, empty fields toward Cam
bridge. His most direct route to Bury, and Alex, lay via the university town, then through Newmarket beyond.
As the euphoria of relief combined with success slowly, faded to an inner glow, he reassessed, yet the relief and the jubilation of success still lingered. He wondered how many of his men had been killed or captured—taken up by the people of Bedford and handed over to the authorities. Alex wouldn’t care how many cultists—assassins or foot soldiers—he’d lost, just as long as he had the letter to show for it. And none of those who’d been with him, not even his guard, knew his name, let alone Alex’s.
Most had known Roderick’s name, but with Roderick dead, that no longer mattered.
He glanced back once, wondering when his guard would rejoin him, but they’d doubtless be a while yet. He’d noticed the woman—had heard confused reports that Monteith was traveling with one in his train, along with a ship’s captain who had caused untold problems for the cultists patrolling the Channel—but other than his two guards, Monteith had had only the woman with him … but she’d been carrying a cutlass, and had been wearing breeches under her cloak.
After a moment, he shook his head, shaking aside the questions, along with imagined visions of what his guard were very likely, at that very moment, doing in the little yard. He would have liked to have spent an hour or two learning more about the woman, from the woman, all in front of Monteith, but duty called. His guard would doubtless enjoy doing the job in his stead; they would report to him later.
Roderick had been vicious, but in a plebian way. He—Daniel—was much more inventive, much more imaginative.
Alex, however, could trump them both.
Their relationship, although close, was, beneath all, a battle for supremacy—they were their father’s get. With the letter resting comfortably in his coat pocket, Daniel rode on through the night, lips curving lasciviously as he plotted what he would claim as his due for the night’s success—what he would make Alex do to suitably reward him.
Alex hung back at a safe distance and followed in Daniel’s wake. Knowing where he was ultimately headed meant Alex, had little fear of losing him. Meanwhile, by keeping in his wake, Alex could watch for any signs of pursuit.
As of that moment, with the spires of Cambridge rising out of the fens ahead, dense shadows against the night sky, there’d been no hint of any followers. And the further they got from Bedford, and the more hours passed, the prospect of active pursuit became progressively less likely.
Regardless, Alex continued to play safe, to ride a watchful distance behind. No matter their relationship—and not even Alex could specify exactly what that was—no matter that Alex could rely on Daniel, appreciated him, valued him, and didn’t want to lose him, nevertheless Alex would not permit even Daniel to risk Alex’s neck.
When Daniel slowed, Alex slowed. From the shadows of a copse, Alex watched as Daniel unwound the black silk scarf from about his neck and stuffed it into a pocket before lifting his reins and riding on.
Alex approved. Even though there would be few awake and aware at that hour, there might be some—and no one needed to see a gentleman like Daniel sporting the cult’s principal insignia.
After a moment of silent debate, Alex opted to skirt the town and pick up Daniel as he emerged again, on the road to Newmarket. Riding around via the darkened country lanes, Alex calculated that it would be some way further—Newmarket itself or better yet beyond—before an unexpected appearance on horseback could be passed off as a welcome party, as if Alex had ridden out in eager anticipation of meeting a returning, victorious Daniel.
Until then, there was little to do but hang back and watch.
Daniel halted at a tiny tavern in a village east of Cambridge, on the road to Newmarket. The tavern had just opened and he needed a hot drink to dispel the chill that had started gnawing at his bones—and he might as well watch for pursuers while he drank. Huddled in the front corner of the taproom, low-ceilinged, and smoky, with the innkeeper poking at the fire in the hearth, Daniel kept one eye on the road through the window and sipped a mug of steaming cider. The scalding liquid warmed as it went down. As the glow spread, he turned his mind to what came next.
He wondered if Alex was still at the Bury house, or whether a new headquarters had been found. That had been Alex’s intention when he’d left for Bedford; it was possible they’d already moved. Regardless, Alex would either leave word, or wait and meet him. He would wager on the latter; the letter he’d retrieved had been as much a threat to Alex as to him.
Alex would definitely want to see it as soon as possible, then would want to watch it burn.
Despite the early hour, there was traffic on the road—the occasional wagon heading to market, the occasional rider off to Newmarket, or going the other way to Cambridge. A few coaches lumbered past, one a night mail coach. There was, however, no sign of pursuit.
Somewhat to Daniel’s surprise, there was also no sign of his guard. Then again, even though they would ride faster than he had and so by now should be close—even allowing for the time they would have spent torturing the four in the yard—they also knew to stay off the main roads in this area, to keep to the fields and, if necessary, rest in some barn during the day.
His guard were among the best of their fighters, surpassed only by Alex’s guard; they would be along soon enough.
Draining the mug, he set it down, rose, threw a handful of coins on the table, and walked out. He looked back down the road toward Cambridge. There was no pursuit; he felt increasingly certain of that. Remounting, he rode on.
There was no reason he needed to ride through Newmarket itself. Operating as it did to the schedule of racehorse training, even though it was early, the town, the heath, and the numerous stables surrounding it would already be alive and busy. Indeed, as he approached the outskirts of the, heath, he saw strings of racehorses being ridden out in the predawn light. The narrow streets of the town would already be awash with riders and gigs; it would be faster to avoid it.
He gave the scattered stables a wide berth, too.
As he rode on through the crisp, gray morning, he imagined owning a racehorse or three. The sport of kings; the prospect should appeal to Alex, and they were more than wealthy enough to indulge. Indeed, now he thought of it, once they’d destroyed all four copies of Roderick’s unfortunate letter, what better camouflage than to remain here in England for a while? They could send the cultists home, dispatch their most senior men to keep things ticking along in India—arrangements could be put into place to allow him and Alex to enjoy their spoils here in England, at least for a while.
The prospect of lording it over so many, of using their wealth to satisfy all the fancies they’d had before they’d left for India but, back then, had never had the capital or the associated power to indulge, definitely appealed.
And then his horse went lame.
He cursed, tested the black’s paces, but there was no going on. Dismounting, he looked around. A large stable lay ahead, in a wide, shallow dip in the heath. He was viewing it side on, toward the rear; he couldn’t see the front doors, but as he watched, a long string of horses streamed out and rode away.
Out across the heath for their morning’s exercise.
There would still be horses left in the stable—those of the jockeys, for a start, but almost certainly others, older racehorses, or ones being rested. The notion of trying out such a beast had him striding, as swiftly as the lame black would allow, down to the stable.
He took the black with him; the sight of a man striding about Newmarket Heath without a horse was too strange to avoid notice.
There was a set of back doors; he quietly tried them, but, they were latched and bolted. Circling the stable, he found the big front doors propped wide open and not a soul in sight.
Smiling, he walked boldly in, through a large clear space and down a long central aisle with stalls to either side. It was a very large stable, and there were, as he’d hoped, occupants in quite a few stalls, and a selection of ha
cks tied up at the rear—presumably the horses the jockeys had ridden in.
He tied the lame black with the jockeys’ hacks, then spent some time evaluating the horses in the stalls. He’d been out of England for years, but still recognized prime horseflesh when he saw it. And some of these horses were beauties. He settled on a big roan, then fetched his saddle and bridle from the black, opened the roan’s stall, and went in.
Crooning to the horse, he took a few minutes to admire the gelding’s lines, then slipped on the bridle and saddled up.
He was tightening the saddle girth when a sound at the stall door had him glancing that way.
An old man, slightly stooped, with big, gnarled hands, stood in the aisle beyond the doorway, regarding him through bulging eyes. “Here! What do you think you’re doing? These are private stables.”
“Indeed?” Smoothly turning the roan, Daniel led the horse out. “In that case, I’ll be on my way.”
“Here—no! You can’t just take one of our horses.” The old man seized Daniel’s sleeve.
Daniel lashed out and back with that arm, his forearm colliding with the old man’s face. Releasing the roan’s reins, he pivoted, plowed his right fist into the old man’s gut, then followed up with a sharp blow to the head.
The old man went down; gasping, groaning, he fell to the straw-strewn earthen floor, curling in on himself. Daniel looked down at him, then coldly drew back his boot and kicked the old man viciously once, then again, and again in the ribs.
After gasping sharp and hard at the first kick, the old man had fallen silent.
Daniel straightened, settled his coat, grasped the roan’s reins. He’d missed the fun at Bedford; he’d been owed a little violence.
Reassembling his mask of gentlemanly boredom, he walked up the aisle, paused to mount in the cleared space just inside the doors, then, with the roan shifting and prancing beneath him, clearly anticipating a long ride, Daniel lifted the reins and trotted out of the stable.
Seconds later, he was cantering out onto the open heath.
The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material Page 112
