The Brazen Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “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.

  D aniel 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 Cambridge. 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.

  A lex 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.

  D aniel 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 hacks 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.

  C arruthers swore beneath his breath—he couldn’t catch enough breath to curse aloud. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed. He managed to get his feet under him, then caught hold of the slats of a stall door and hauled himself up.

  Hunched over, he shuffled as fast as he could, clutching the stall doors to keep from falling. Reaching the open space at the end of the aisle, he drew in a slow, pained breath, let go of the last stall, and propelled himself forward. Forced his legs to move.

  Eyes locked on his goal, he made it to the side of the open door, gasped as he lunged and grabbed the rope dangling from the stable bell. It clanged as he slumped against the door frame. Clanged again as, his grip weakening, the rope tugged free and he slid slowly down to collapse on the floor.

  With his ear to the ground, he heard the sound he’d hoped for—the heavy thud of flying hooves. Smiling was beyond him, but he smiled inside.

  It seemed like only seconds, then Demon was there, crouching down beside him, hard hands gentle as his employer helped him up to sit against the door frame.

  Demon peered into Carruthers’s eyes, saw he was in pain, but conscious. “What the devil happened?”

  Other horses thundered up; the string had followed Demon back to the stable.

  Carruthers wet his lips. “Was in the tack room. Heard a sound. Came out and found some blighter saddling up The Gentleman. Asked him what he was about—told him he had to leave. I tried to stop him when he led The Gentleman out. He lashed out, struck me. Couple of times.”

  Demon took in the contusions forming under Carruthers’s mottled skin.

  “Then when I fell, he kicked me.”

  “What?” Demon stared, then swore. “Never mind—I heard. Stay here and get better. Leave the bastard to me.”

  Swinging around and rising, Demon pointed to Jarvis, Carruthers’s lieutenant. “Take care of him.” Demon was already moving, grabbing up the spyglass kept in a holder by the door; it was usually used to watch horses training.

  Striding outside, he put the glass to his eye, scanned the heath in the direction the horse thief had to have gone; he hadn’t passed Demon or the string coming in, so he had to have gone toward Bury.

  The heath appeared flat, but in reality was full of gentle dips and rises, an ocean of green with low, widely spaced waves. A rider might be quite close but momentarily hidden, then reappear as they rode up the next rise.

  Even as he picked out the smoky hide of The Gentleman, happily galloping east over the heath, Demon was inwardly connecting possibilities. What chance his horse thief had something to do with the mission he and his cousins were assisting with? Ferrar, thought to be the Black Cobra, had been found murdered in Bury just yesterday.

  Demon shifted the glass, adjusting to bring the rider into sharper focus. Wolverstone and Devil would flay him—verbally at least—if he didn’t at least try to get a good look at the man’s face. . . .

  There . Rider and horse had to turn slightly, the rider coming into full profile. For one instant, through the glass, Demon got a good view. And managed at the last to get a glimpse of the man’s hands. They were deeply tanned.

  Demon lowered the glass, then whirled back to the stable. “Go!” He pointed and waved the string on. “Get after him—follow him. Grab him if you can. I’ll catch up.”

  The jockeys, shocked and furious at the treatment meted out to their old trainer, needed no further urging. In a thunderous clatter of hooves, they set off.

  Back in the stable, Demon grabbed the reins of his mount. He’d left the gathering at Somersham Place and had come over for the training session; because his wife, Flick, hadn’t been able to get over for the last few days, he’d taken out her usual mount, The Mighty Flynn. The Flynn loved Flick, but would tolerate—make do with—Demon. Although retired now, the big horse was a stayer. Demon couldn’t have picked a better mount for riding down a horse thief.

  Yet looking at Carruthers, now in the hands of Jarvis and two stableboys, he paused.

  Carruthers saw him looking and glared as well as he could. “What’re you waiting for? Go get the bastard, and bring The Gentleman back!”

  Demon grinned, saluted, vaulted to the saddle, and went.

  D aniel was pleased with his new mount. A very good horse, with very nice paces. Despite the impulse to flee in a flat-out gallop, he was too wise to attract attention like that, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by locals on very fast horses.

  Locals who, for all he knew, might recognize his stolen horse.

  But keeping to a nice steady pace would soon put miles between him and the stable, and few around there paid any attention to a mounted man riding easily by. It would probably be an hour, maybe more, before the old man was found. Daniel hadn’t looked back, but he’d listene
d intently and had heard no hue and cry.

  He’d already passed two strings out exercising, and hadn’t even been glanced at.

  Entirely pleased—first the letter, now this excellent horse—everything seemed to be falling into his lap—he smiled and rode on.

  F rom a vantage point on one of the higher rises some way ahead—a significant distance east, and a little to the south from where Daniel now rode—concealed by a twiggy copse, Alex watched the scene unfolding on the heath through a spyglass.

  Horrified. Barely able to believe it.

  All had been going so well, then Daniel’s horse had gone lame. But he’d done the sensible thing and slipped into a stable to exchange it.

  Alex had used the opportunity to get well ahead, then had patiently waited, and sure enough, not too many minutes later, Daniel had ridden out on a different horse.

  All well and good, but . . . something had happened to alert the stable’s people off exercising the horses, and had brought the trainer and his jockeys flying back to the place.

  Alex had no idea what had summoned them, but the man who’d led the charge back, a gentleman by his dress, had all but immediately come out again, with a spyglass.

  The man had located Daniel.

  Daniel was no longer wearing his black silk scarf. His face was bare, naked, there for anyone to see.

  The man with the spyglass had stood outside the stable, and looked, looked—looked for far too long to have only been interested in identifying his horse.

  Alex knew without a shadow of a doubt that Daniel’s face had been studied and noted.

  And now a thundering herd of men and horses was charging after Daniel—and he still hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t glanced around, hadn’t heard . . . Alex realized why. The wind, a nice stiff breeze, was blowing directly in Daniel’s face, pushing his dark locks back.

  Alex wanted to shout and point, but Daniel was still too far away to hear. And he’d been seen. He would be recognized.

  The mob of horses was coming up fast, amazingly fast, but was still some way away; the man who had wielded the spyglass was now following, too, on a massive horse whose long strides seemed to eat the distance.