The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Shortly after, armed with detailed directions, Gareth set out with Mooktu, Bister, and Jimmy to consult with the local weatherman, an old sailor whom the locals relied on to read the skies, the winds, and the waves.

  When they reached the main quay, Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fishing boats, not all at once. Not even at Marseilles.”

  “I’ve heard this is the biggest fishing port in France,” Gareth said.

  Mooktu nodded toward the neatly sculpted basin in which the fleet bobbed, as protected as they might be from the raging wind. “That is well thought out—a safe harbor.”

  “Indeed.” Gareth hoped that would prove true for their party, too.

  They found the old sailor.

  What he told them left them grim.

  “Four days!” Bister trudged alongside Gareth as they returned to the auberge.

  There was nothing to say. The old man, his hearing all but gone yet his sight as sharp as ever, had stated categorically that the weather would worsen before it got better, that although the worst of the sleet would be gone by tomorrow, the wind would blow from the wrong quarter for the next three days.

  On the fourth day, the weather would turn fair. They would, the old sailor had assured them, be able to set sail then—but not before.

  As they neared the auberge, Mooktu studied it, stated, “It is as well that we have such solidly built walls behind which to wait.”

  There was nothing to say to that either. Every one of them understood that for the next three days they would essentially be trapped. Fixed in one place. The cultists would soon know where they were. And then…they could expect the might of the Black Cobra to be unleashed against them.

  That evening, before they sat down to their dinner—served early so the Perrots and their sons and daughters would be free to deal with the evening trade—Gareth and Emily spoke again with their hosts, restressing the likelihood of an attack.

  “There’s no chance,” Gareth warned, “that they’ll leave us alone. It might not be tonight, it might not be tomorrow, but it’s an absolute certainty that a major attack will come.”

  He was starting to understand why the French and English had over the centuries so often warred; the French, it seemed, were as enamored of a “good fight”—meaning one where they could indulge in the name of justice—as any Englishman.

  The Perrots were unquestionably eager to meet the challenge.

  “I will speak with our friends this very evening,” Perrot declared. “They are trapped by this weather, too, and will be glad of the chance for action.”

  Unsure just what help might be coming his way, Gareth nevertheless gratefully inclined his head. “We will be happy to have whatever assistance your patrons might offer.”

  The news spread. Gradually at first, then with increasing momentum. Every hale and hearty soul who crossed the Perrots’ threshold that night was regaled with the story. The version Gareth overheard when he fronted the bar to replenish their ale mugs was richly embroidered, dramatically, even passionately delivered, yet was essentially nothing more than the truth communicated in fine, histrionic French.

  When he returned to their corner table, he found Emily shifted to the side, chatting animatedly to two older women.

  Watson had drifted further down the room, and had been captured by a group of swarthy sailors who, Gareth suspected, were interrogating him as to the enemy’s colors.

  Gareth set down the refilled mugs before Mooktu and Mullins, and was about to resume his seat when Jimmy appeared by his elbow.

  “If you please, Major Hamilton, there’s some men over there who’d like a word.”

  Raising his head, Gareth looked in the direction Jimmy indicated, and saw a group of four, all clearly mariners, seated about a table at the back of the room. One, a captain by his cap, saw him looking, and raised his mug in a salute.

  Gareth looked at Jimmy. “Where’s Bister?”

  Jimmy nodded down the room. “He’s over by the door. His lot speak English well enough to get by.”

  Gareth nodded. “Why don’t you go and help him?”

  Jimmy eagerly headed off. Picking up his mug, with a murmured word to Mooktu and Mullins, Gareth headed deeper into the room.

  Later, he was glad he had. The group of four were all captains, and all volunteeered those of their crews they could spare to help defend the inn against the “heathens.” More important, however, one—the captain who’d saluted him—commanded one of the larger trawlers.

  “Once the weather clears, if you wish it, I will take you to Dover. My brother-in-law has wine barrels to deliver there, so I will be going there in any case. My ship is large enough to take your group—there are nine of you, yes?”

  Gareth nodded. “I must warn you that, although the cult has little experience of fighting at sea, it’s possible they may attempt to attack any ship with us on board.”

  “Pfft!” The captain made a gesture signifying what he thought of the cult’s chances.

  “They might,” Gareth persisted, “hire mercenaries—other Frenchmen who are more competent on the waves—to attack your vessel.”

  The captain grinned. “No Frenchman—not for miles around—would attempt to come against Jean-Claude Lavalle.”

  Gareth glanced at the others. They, too, were grinning. One slung an arm around Lavalle’s shoulders. “Sadly, he is right,” the other captain said. “You are not of your navy, but they would know his name. Lavalle is an old seadog”—he looked at Lavalle with affection—“one none of us dares challenge, even now he is grown gray.”

  Lavalle humphed, but smiled.

  Gareth couldn’t help but do the same.

  By the time he climbed the stairs, very much later than in recent times, Gareth was prey to conflicting feelings. A certain mellowness induced by the readily offered cameraderie and the Perrots’ fine ale butted against the heightened tension, the tightly strung sense of being on full alert that, despite the conviviality of the evening, hadn’t waned in the least.

  Although the Perrots’ strapping sons had offered to stand guard overnight, Gareth had gently declined, pointing out that the men of his party would more readily recognize any cultist, and had been drilled in how to react. So, as usual, Mooktu was presently on guard in the upstairs corridor, seated by the head of the stairs, from where he could see the entire common room, all the way to the front door. Gareth exchanged a smile and nod with him as he went past. Mooktu would be relieved by Bister, who would in turn be relieved by Gareth, and Mullins would stand the early-morning watch. Watson, meanwhile, had a small room by the rear stairs, and was by all accounts a very light sleeper.

  The sight of Mooktu refocused Gareth on the challenge he would face the next day. Entering the inn’s main bedchamber, he absentmindedly closed the door, mentally juggling his options for managing the ragtag army he had, courtesy of that evening, apparently acquired.

  “What is it?”

  The query snapped him back to the here and now. To Emily, propped on one arm, one sweetly turned shoulder showing bare above the covers, her expression a medley of interest and demand.

  Even as he strolled to the bed, his gaze caught by the way the candlelight flowed over the perfect silk of her exposed shoulder, he realized she expected to be told, that she expected him to share. To include her and, if she volunteered one, to listen to her opinion.

  For a man like him—one who’d commanded troops for a decade—to discuss such matters with a female, let alone seek her opinion…

  Halting by the bed, he smiled, leaned down, and kissed her.

  Long, deep, lingeringly.

  Eventually he pulled back, sat on the edge of the bed to take off his boots.

  And told her all.

  Propped against the pillows, she listened with her customary concentration. It was a heady realization that, when he spoke with her, even of mundane matters, he could be assured of having her complete attention—that he commanded it.

&
nbsp; He’d never wanted any other woman’s attention, but he savored hers.

  He left her chewing on his problem for tomorrow—what to do with the various seamen, young and old, who’d formed the notion of haunting the inn in the hopes of engaging with any cultists—heathens—who happened to drop by.

  Standing, he shrugged out of his coat. “They’re going to get under the Perrots’ feet, and although I’m happy to supply them with ale, they won’t be any use to us drunk.”

  She frowned. After a moment, she said, “They’re all sailors, aren’t they?” When, free of his shirt, he nodded, she drew in a breath, hauled her gaze up to his face, stared for a moment, then blinked, and said, “They won’t be used to drilling. Or shooting muskets. Or…any of the things your troop sergeants would normally school your men in.”

  Hands at his waistband, he raised his brows, considering.

  “You have Mooktu and Bister, and Mullins, too—they could help you…” Her words faded as he tossed his breeches on a chair, then reached for the covers.

  Emily shifted, swallowed, whispered as she reached for him, “But that’s tomorrow.”

  Tonight, he was hers.

  He came to her, sliding into her arms, and something within her rejoiced.

  His lips found hers and she kissed him, and let all the concerns of the day flow away. Just let them go.

  Let the here and now have her, gave herself over to the reassurance and comfort, the warmth and strength of him as he surrounded her, as he stroked, caressed, and she returned the pleasure.

  Hands traced, fingers wandered, palms shaped.

  Excitement sparked. Need bloomed, burgeoned, and grew.

  The fire that ignited, the flames that leapt, then roared, were familiar and welcome.

  She opened her arms and embraced them, and him, took him into her body, let him fill her, and her heart, let the beat escalate and passion pour through him and her, and sweep them on.

  Until desire gripped, and she clung, and he held her and thrust over and over until they both shuddered and she cried his name.

  Ecstasy rushed in like a wave, and washed them to that distant shore where bliss spread, golden and molten, through them, over them, enfolded them.

  No matter the challenges, no matter what was to come, this they had—this was already theirs.

  Satiation dragged her down and she sank into slumber, at peace in the here and now.

  No matter the danger, no matter the risk, he would yet be hers, and she forever would be his.

  Fifteen

  10th December, 1822

  Morning

  Our room in the Perrot auberge in Boulogne

  Dear Diary,

  I have reached two conclusions. One is that I have indeed fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with Gareth Hamilton, and despite my sisters’ recommendations, I am finding the experience distinctly discomfiting. All this talk of the cultists staging a serious and sustained—and by implication potentially lethal—attack is exceedingly wearing on the nerves. I can barely cope with the thought of Gareth being wounded, much less what happened to MacFarlane befalling him.

  I would rather they killed me than him.

  I would rather they capture me than him—and given what I know of cult practices, death is preferable to capture.

  I have never felt such consuming concern, such worry for another, as I now do for him. I have endeavored to hide it, and will continue to do so—no gentleman likes a fearful female who clings—but the struggle becomes greater with every day.

  I had no idea love would be like this. I have always prided myself on being practical and pragmatic, and while outwardly I hope I remain so, inwardly…how far I have fallen.

  Which brings me to my second conclusion. Gareth must love me.

  Why am I so certain? Because I recognize the angst in his eyes whenever I am in any way exposed to potential danger—the same angst I feel when he is in like circumstances. It is the same thing, driven by the same emotion. Nothing could be clearer.

  He must love me, but is unwilling to state it, even to me, even in private. Given the sort of man he is, a warrior to the core, I can perhaps understand his stance, but it simply will not do.

  Given my conclusions, before I go forward to the altar, I am determined to hear him say the word “love.”

  E.

  The next morning, in the mizzling drizzle that had replaced the night’s sleeting rain, they gathered in the stable yard to farewell Gustav and Pierre Juneau.

  Despite their relatively short association, the hugs and farewells were affectionate and heartfelt, the admonitions to take care deeply sincere.

  Gareth handed over a pouch with the rest of their fee, together with a sizeable tip. He clapped Pierre on the shoulder. “We wouldn’t have fared half so well without you.”

  “Indeed.” Emily beamed at Gustav. “We’d still be on our way here if we’d been in the hands of anyone else. We are deeply in your debt.”

  Both Juneaux made dismissive sounds, shook hands, then climbed up to their carriages.

  Beside the first carriage, suddenly sober, Gareth looked up at Gustav. “Be on guard—at least until you’re well south. I doubt there’ll be many cultists left along the road, but until you’re out of this area, have a care. That we’re not with you won’t matter—the cult is renowned for its vindictiveness.”

  Gustav tapped his coachman’s hat. He glanced back at Pierre, who nodded that he’d heard, then Gustav looked down at Gareth. “We’ll remember—meanwhile, take care of yourselves.” His gaze rose to touch the others who had come to stand behind Gareth. “All of you—fare thee well, and when you get to England, make sure you rid us all of these vipères.”

  Assurances rang out, then Gustav clicked his reins, and the two coaches lumbered out of the yard.

  Emily sighed. She slid her arm in Gareth’s and let him turn her toward the auberge’s door. “I’ll miss them, but letting them go is a sign. We’ve come to the end of our travels through lands not our own—once we cross the Channel, we’ll be home.”

  Gareth wished he could let her continue to imagine they were close to being safe and free, but…“There’ll be cultists waiting for us in Dover.”

  She frowned. “But surely not as many as here?”

  “I don’t know how many, but they will be there. The Black Cobra is Ferrar. While England is home for us, it’s home for him, too.”

  “So we’ll need to be on guard even after we reach Dover?”

  He nodded.

  Beneath her breath, she swore.

  In a deserted barn to the east of Boulogne, Uncle surveyed his assembled troops. As soon as it had become clear the major was halting in Boulogne, he’d sent riders to summon all the cultists stretched along the coast this side of the town of Calais.

  There were four couriers heading to England, this much Uncle knew, but only the major had come this way. What news had reached him placed one of the other three far to the east, and the other two had traveled by sea around the Cape and had yet to make landfall.

  His orders were to capture the major and, above all, retrieve the scroll holder he carried. There had been no opportunity to search the party’s bags, but regardless, Uncle wanted the major. Nothing else would do—nothing else would avenge his son.

  “It is as I foretold.” Uncle smiled benevolently on his tools, his weapons. “Our pigeons are trapped, their wings clipped by the storm. They have taken refuge in the town and are huddling there, waiting to be plucked.” Slowly he paced before his men, meeting their eyes, letting them recognize the brilliance of his planning. “While the winds blow hard, the sea is impassable. There is nothing they can do—no way they can escape us. Now we must devote ourselves to dealing with these upstarts as our leader would decree—as the glory of the Black Cobra demands!”

  A rousing cheer went up. He waved, and it faded.

  Before he could continue, Akbar, until then standing in the shadows to one side, stepped forward. “What about the coachmen? They h
elped our pigeons flee us—their families gave our enemies succor.” A rumbling rose from the assembled men. Akbar kept his gaze on Uncle’s face. “We should show the coachmen the vengeance of the Cobra, and make them pay his price.”

  There were nods and murmurings as the men turned eager faces to Uncle, clearly anticipating being unleashed.

  Uncle smiled benignly. Magnanimously, he waved the coachmen aside. “We have better—more important—things to do than concern ourselves with lowly coachmen who have no further part to play. The Black Cobra demands service of the highest caliber, and it is critical not to be led astray by any quest for personal glory.”

  Uncle turned his smile directly on Akbar. Let his ambitious second dwell on that.

  Unsurprisingly, his words had refocused the men’s attention back on him. Raising a hand in benediction, he gave them their orders. “You must spread out and scour the land around the town. We must find the perfect place in which to hold and discipline the major and his woman.”

  Somewhat to Gareth’s surprise, the rest of that day passed swiftly. With every hour, their news spread further, and more and more townsfolk, especially the men, found reason to drop by the Perrots’ auberge. Some came to report seeing cultists lurking in the town and down by the docks over the past week, but by all accounts the “heathens” had since slipped away.

  Two gendarmes dropped by to listen to their tale, retold with gusto by one of the Perrots’ sons. The gendarmes nodded, wished them luck, and left. Heathen cultists and English, Gareth surmised, fell outside their remit.

  Throughout the morning, brawny young men came to the inn to offer their services in repelling the heathen hordes. As Gareth had plenty of coin to supply ale, and he, Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins had plenty of tales to tell, it was easy enough to keep their new recruits amused.

  A few brought rusty muskets. After a quick examination, knowing the cult would never resort to firearms and that by recruiting the locals themselves, there was little to no chance the cult could, this time, hire locals against them, Gareth decided that firearms in general weren’t worth the risk.