The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 confirmed 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.

  And the major, clearly, had been prepared, on guard.

  The conclusion was obvious. Uncle needed a new plan, a better approach.

  His old bones ached with the cold, but that was the least of his pain. Although he was following the Black Cobra’s orders, his pursuit of the major was now driven by emotions that ran much deeper than his quest for honors.

  He wanted to, was determined to, cause the upstart major the same pain, the same anguish, the major had dealt him. An eye for an eye, and a life for a life—but whose life?

  The woman’s?

  Through the open inn doors, he’d glimpsed Miss Ensworth, who the Black Cobra wanted punished for her role in giving rise to the major’s mission. He’d watched, and seen her turn and smile at the major as he’d joined her. An instant later, the major had taken her arm and led her out of sight.

  Was she the major’s woman now?

  Thinking of how much his leader would like the female’s hide, literally, Uncle smiled. That would make a fitting present—for his leader, and himself.

  Akbar loomed at his shoulder. “We should leave.”

  Eyes still on the hotel, Uncle nodded. “Indeed. I have much to think upon.”

  1st December, 1822

  Early evening

  A room in a small village inn

  Dear Diary,

  After the excitement of the night—and its unexpected but quite delightful consequences—we dragged ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn, and were soon on the road. Under Gareth’s exhortations, the Juneaux went at a cracking pace, putting distance between us and Lyon, also making us a difficult target to attack along the way.

  As planned, we are making no prolonged or predictable halts, but using our stored victuals for lunches and snacks. All in all, we are bearing up well, but…why can’t these blessed cultists simply go away?

  The men’s battle-ready tension, which had eased somewhat, has returned in full measure. In Gareth’s case, I would say in greater strength. Who would have imagined the fiend, centered in India, would have such long arms? Regardless, as it should by now be obvious that his troops are not going to succeed, one would think he might desist and slink away.

  Sadly, I doubt any of us expect that—which is only adding to the escalating tension. At least, thus far, conditions have not deteriorated to the point where Gareth feels compelled to forgo my bed.

  Indeed, if anything, I sense the opposite, which is all to my good.

  On reflection, as long as they keep their distance and do nothing to harm anyone, I believe I can tolerate the cult’s continuing presence.

  E.

  They rolled into Dijon the next day. The sun was waning, sliding down the sky to disappear behind the fancy tiled roofs as they tacked through the cobbled streets, pressing deeper into the town.

  Once again, they sought refuge at the best hotel. All senses constantly alert, they dined, then, pickets organized, retired.

  Nothing had happened over the two days since they’d departed Lyon. All of them felt as if they were incessantly looking over their shoulders.

  As he closed the door of the large chamber he and Emily would share, Gareth suspected there was not one of their party who, somewhere in their psyche, couldn’t feel the Black Cobra coiling, preparing to strike again.

  Outside a barn in the woods around Dijon, Uncle stood before a fire and surreptitiously warmed his hands. It didn’t do to show weakness, but the chill of these northern nights struck to his bones.

  Gathered around the fire, the remaining members of the group he’d led from Marseilles—more than fifteen, more than enough—shifted and cast uncertain glances his way.

  Finally, Akbar looked up and asked the question in all their minds. “When do we strike? If we go in force, and take them on the road—”

  “No.” Uncle did not raise his voice. He spoke quietl
y, so they had to listen hard to hear his wisdom. “Fate has shown us that that is not the way. Have we not tried and tried, only to come away with our noses bloodied? No—we need a new plan, a better tactic.” He paused to make sure they would bow to his dictate. When no one protested, not even Akbar, he went on, “They are forever on guard, so we will use that to our advantage. We will wear them down with their own anticipation. We will make them wait, and wait, and wait…and then, when they are worn out with waiting and shut their eyes in weariness, that is when we will strike!”

  One fist striking the palm of his other hand, he started to pace, eyes scanning the faces. “We must watch—they must feel us there, watching their every move. We will watch, but we will leave them untouched, so they will wear themselves out imagining how and when we will strike. We will let their fears rise and eat them.”

  Satisfied with all he saw, he halted, nodded sagely, and stated his decision. “We will keep following them—and we will choose our time.”

  6th December, 1822

  Evening

  Yet another room in a small village inn

  Dear Diary,

  Tomorrow we will reach Amiens. With every mile further north, the weather has grown increasingly wintry, with gloomy gray skies and an icy wind. We have had to dig deeper into our bags. I am now wearing gowns I have not worn since leaving England.

  My campaign continues, and while Gareth has yet to declare his undying and enduring love, I am pleased to report a greater degree of closeness between us, driven no doubt by our shared nights, but also by the emotions stirred by the fiend’s latest tactics.

  We have been watchful, of course, but other than sighting the odd cultist from a distance, we had no contact—not until we were leaving Saint Dizier. That skirmish—so openly halfhearted on their part—has solidified our suspicions that the relative quietness we are experiencing is due to the fiend being distracted with planning something far worse.

  Something that lies ahead of us, between us and England.