Contents

The Untamed Bride

Prelude to The Black Cobra Quartet

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Dear Reader

The Elusive Bride

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

The Brazen Bride

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

The Reckless Bride

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

One

About the Author

Other Books by Stephanie Laurens

Copyright - The Untamed Bride

Copyright - The Elusive Bride

Copyright - The Brazen Bride

About the Publisher

The Untamed Bride

STEPHANIE
LAURENS

The
Untamed
Bride
THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET

Prelude to The Black Cobra Quartet

India, 1822

March 24, 1822
East India Company Headquarters, Calcutta, India

I can’t stress how important it is that we behead this fiend.” Francis Rawdon-Hastings, Marquess of Hastings and Governor-General of India for the last nine years, stumped back and forth behind his desk.

The five officers at ease in the elegant rattan armchairs arranged before the massive mahogany expanse in the Governor-General’s study sat silent and still; Hastings’s passage was the only movement stirring the heavy, humid air.

The old man’s color was high, his fists clenched, the muscles in his shoulders and arms taut. Colonel Derek Delborough, Del to all who knew him, seated at one end of the row of chairs, eyed the signs of his commander-in-chief’s agitation with cynical detachment. It had taken Hastings long enough to summon him and his men, Hastings’s personally appointed special officers.

Behind Hastings, the white plaster wall was broken by two teak-framed windows shaded by the wide balcony beyond yet already shuttered against the burgeoning heat. Hanging between, a portrait of the king, painted when he’d still been Prince Florizel and the darling of Europe, stared out over this outpost of English wealth and influence. The room was amply endowed with rosewood tables and teak cabinets, many intricately carved and inlaid, glowing in the light that seeped through the shutters to glint off myriad ornate brass fittings.

Airy, spotlessly clean, richly and exotically appointed, the room possessed a timeless serenity underlying its utilitarian function, much like the subcontinent itself, a large portion over which Hastings now ruled.

Immune to any soothing ambience, Hastings continued to pace heavily. “These depredations on our convoys cannot go on—we’re losing face with every day that passes, with every attack that goes unanswered.”

“I understand”—Del’s own drawl was the epitome of unruffled calm, a sharp contrast to Hastings’s terse tones—“that the Black Cobra’s activities have been escalating for some time.”

“Yes, damn it! And the Bombay station didn’t think it worthwhile reporting, let alone acting, until a few months ago, and now they’re bleating that the situation’s beyond them.” Pausing by the center of his desk, Hastings exasperatedly rifled a stack of documents, fanning out a selection before pushing them across the polished surface. “These are some of the recent reports—just so you know what anarchy you’re heading into.”

The four men seated to Del’s right glanced his way. At his nod, they reached out and took one of the documents each; sitting back, they perused the reports.

“I’ve heard,” Del went on, reclaiming Hastings’s attention, “that the cult of the Black Cobra first reared its head in ’19. Does it have any previous history, or was that its inception?”

“That was the first inkling we had, and the locals in Bombay hadn’t heard of it before then. No saying it hadn’t been lurking in some backwater somewhere—God knows there’s enough of these secretive native cults—but there’s no reports, even from the older maharajahs, of its existence prior to mid-’19.”

“A de novo cult suggests the arrival of a particular leader.”

“Indeed, and it’s him you’ll need to eliminate. Either that, or do enough damage to his forces”—Hastings flung a hand at the documents the other four were reading—“the rabble he uses to murder, rape and pillage, to make him scurry back under whatever rock he slithered out from.”

“‘Murder, rape and pillage’ hardly does the Black Cobra justice.” Major Gareth Hamilton, one of the four officers who served under Del, glanced up, his brown gaze pinning Hastings. “This reads more like deliberate terrorization of villages, which suggests an attempt to subjugate. For a cult, that’s ambitious—an attempt to seize power beyond the usual bleeding of money and goods.”

“Establishing a yoke of fear.” Captain Rafe Carstairs, seated three seats along from Del, joined Gareth in tossing the report he’d read back on the desk. Rafe’s aristocratic features showed evidence of distaste, even disgust, which told Del that the contents of the report Rafe had read were truly dreadful.

All five of them seated before Hastings’s desk had seen human carnage unimaginable to most; as a group they’d served through the Peninsula campaign in the cavalry under Paget, then been in the thick of the action at Waterloo, and had subsequently taken commissions with the Honorable East India Company to serve under Hastings as an elite group of officers deployed specifically to deal with the worst uprisings and instabilities the subcontinent had thrown up over the past seven years.

Seated between Gareth and Rafe, Major Logan Monteith’s lip curled as, with a flick of his tanned wrist, he sent the report he’d read skating to join the others on the desk. “This Black Cobra makes Kali and her thugees look civilized.”

Beyond Rafe, the last and youngest of their five, Captain James MacFarlane, still faintly baby-faced even though he was twenty-nine, leaned forward and carefully laid the document he’d perused with the others. “Has Bombay no clue as to who’s behind this? No trail—no associates, no area in which the Cobra has its headquarters?”

“After more than five months of active searching, Bombay has precisely nothing beyond a suspicion that some of the Maratha princelings have been drawn into clandestinely supporting the cult.”

Rafe snorted. “Any fool could have predicted that. Ever since we slapped them down in ’18, they’ve been spoiling for a fight—any fight, they’re not particular.”

“Exactly.” Hastings’s tone was acid, biting. “As you know, Ensworth is now governor in Bombay. He’s performing well in all other respects, but he’s all diplomat, no military man, and he freely admits that when it comes to the Black Cobra he’s in over his head.” Hastings’s gaze raked them, coming to rest on Del. “Which is where you gentlemen come in.”

“I take it,” Del said, “that Ensworth isn’t going to get his nose out of joint when we ride into his patch.”

“On the contrary—he’ll welcome you with open arms. He’s at his wits’ end trying to reassure the merchants while simultaneously balancing the books for London—not easy when every fifth convoy is plundered.” Hastings paused, and for a moment the strain of managing the far-flung empire India had become showed in his face. Then his jaw firmed, and he met their gazes. “I can’t overstate the importance of this mission. The Black Cobra has to be stopped. Its depredations and the atrocities committed in its name have reached a level that threatens not just the Company, but England herself—not just in terms of trade, but in stature, and you’ve all been here long enough to know how vital the latter is to our nation’s continuing interests. And lastly”—with his head he indicated the reports on his desk—“it’s India, and the people in those villages, who need the Cobra removed.”

“No argument there.” Rafe came out of his characteristic lounge and rose to his feet as Del and the others did.

Hastings let his gaze travel over them as they ranged shoulder-to-shoulder before his desk, a solid wall of red in their uniforms. They were all over six feet tall, ex-Guardsmen all, hardened by long years of battle and command. Experience etched their features, even MacFarlane’s; worldly knowledge colored their eyes.

Satisfied with what he saw, Hastings nodded. “Your mission, gentlemen, is to identify and capture the Black Cobra, and bring him to justice. You have a free hand as to ways and means. I care not how you do it, as long as justice is seen—and known—to have been done. As usual, you may draw on the company’s account, and on its troops as seems fit.”

Typically it was Rafe who put their collective thoughts into words, albeit his words. “You mentioned beheading.” His tone was light, his habitual ineffable charm on show, as if he were at some tea party and speaking of croquet. “With cults that’s usually the most effective approach. Can we take it you would rather we went direct for the leader—or are we to play cautious and try to defend the convoys wherever possible?”

Hastings met Rafe’s guileless blue eyes. “You, Captain, wouldn’t know caution from your elbow.”

Del’s lips twitched; from the corner of his eye, he saw Gareth’s do the same. Rafe, nicknamed “Reckless” for good cause, merely looked innocent, continuing to meet Hastings’s cynical gaze.

Hastings humphed. “Your supposition is correct. I expect you to target the Black Cobra specifically, to identify and eliminate him. For the rest, do whatever you can, but the situation is urgent, and we can no longer afford caution.”

Again Hastings’s gaze raked them. “You may interpret my orders in whatever way you wish—just bring the Black Cobra to justice.”

August 15, five months later
The Officers’ Mess
The Honorable East India Company Bombay Station

“Hastings did say we could interpret his orders as we wished—that we had a free hand as to ways and means.” Rafe settled his shoulders against the wall behind him, then raised one of the glasses the barboy had just set on the table, and took a long draft of cloudy amber beer.

The five of them—Del, Gareth, Logan, Rafe and James—were seated around the corner table they’d claimed as theirs in the bar off the officers’ mess. They’d chosen that table because of its amenities, namely that it commanded an uninterrupted view of the entire bar—the enclosed front verandah of the officers’ mess—as well as the maidan beyond the verandah steps. In addition—the table’s principal recommendation—with thick stone walls at their back and along one side, there wasn’t anywhere anyone could stand unobserved by them, inside or out, and overhear their low-voiced discussions.

The bamboo screens fitted between the verandah’s front pillars were presently lowered against the late afternoon sun and the dust stirred up by a troop of sepoys engaged in parade drills, leaving the bar wreathed in cooler shadows. A distant hum of conversation rose from two groups of officers seated further down the long verandah; the clink of billiard balls wafted from an alcove off the verandah’s far end.

“True.” Gareth claimed a glass. “But I doubt the good marquess envisioned us going around him.”

“I can’t see that we have any choice.” Along with the other three, Logan looked at Del.

Staring into his beer, Del felt their gazes, looked up and met them. “If, as we believe, the Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar, then Hastings won’t thank us for bringing him the news.”

“But he’ll still act on it, surely?” James reached for the last glass left on the tray.

Del glanced at him. “Did you notice the portrait behind Hastings’s desk?”

“The one of Prinny?”

Del nodded. “That’s not company property, but Hastings’s own. He owes his appointment to Prinny—pardon me, His Majesty—and knows he can never forget it. If, presuming we can find it, we take him incontrovertible proof that Ferrar is our villain, we’ll place him in the invidious position of having to decide which master to appease—his conscience, or his king.”

Frowning, James turned his glass between his hands. “Is Ferrar really that untouchable?”

“Yes.” Del’s voice was reinforced by Gareth’s, Logan’s and Rafe’s.

“Hastings is beholden to the king,” Del explained, “and the king is beholden to Ferrar senior, the Earl of Shrewton. Furthermore, although he’s Shrewton’s second son, Ferrar is widely known to be his father’s favorite.”

“Rumor,” Rafe said, leaning on the table, “has it that the king is in Shrewton’s pocket—not a situation all that hard to believe—so unless there’s some animosity between Hastings and Shrewton that no one knows of, odds are that Hastings will feel obliged to ‘lose’ any evidence we find.”

Logan snorted. “Hell—I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the gold the Cobra is skimming off John Company’s profits isn’t, in a roundabout way, ending in His Majesty’s pocket.”

“Hastings,” Gareth reminded them, “was very insistent that we ‘bring the Black Cobra to justice.’ He didn’t instruct us to capture him and deliver him to Bombay.” He looked at Del, arched a brow. “Do you think Hastings might suspect, and this—using us—is his way of gaining justice without offending his royal master?”

Del’s lips twisted cynically. “The possibility has crossed my mind. Consider—it took us a bare two weeks to realize the Black Cobra either had someone in the governor’s office here, or else was himself a member of the governor’s staff. After that it took what?—six weeks?—of watching and noting which convoys were attacked to narrow it down to Ferrar. As the Governor of Bombay’s second adjutant, he and only he had knowledge of all the convoys attacked—others had the details for some, but only he had routes and times for all. Hastings has similar information stretching back for months. He has to have at least some suspicion of who’s behind the Black Cobra cult.”

“Hastings,” Rafe said, “also knows when Roderick Ferrar took up his appointment here—in early ’19, five or so months before the first known appearance of the Black Cobra and his minions.”

“Five months is long enough for a sharp lad like Ferrar to see the possibilities, make plans, and gather said minions,” Logan said. “More, as the governor’s adjutant, he’s had easy and officially sanctioned contact with the disaffected Maratha princelings—the same hotheads we now know have secretly ceded the Black Cobra their private robber gangs.”

“Ferrar,” Del said, “reported to Hastings in Calcutta before joining the govenor’s staff here—a position our contacts back in Calcutta confirm he specifically requested. Ferrar could have had a position with Hastings at headquarters—it was his for the taking, and what eager-to-advance-in-the-company youngster wouldn’t rather work for the great man himself? But no, Ferrar requested a posting to Bombay, and was apparently quite satisfied with the second adjutant’s desk.”

“Which makes one wonder,” Gareth said, “if the principal attraction of said desk was that it was the entire subcontinent away from Hastings’s potentially watchful eye.”

“So, James, m’lad”—Rafe clapped the younger captain on the back—“all that suggests that instructing us to ‘bring the Black Cobra to justice,’ and to use whatever means we deem necessary to do it, is very likely a shrewd politician’s way of taking care of the matter.” Rafe met the others’ eyes. “And Hastings knows us well enough to be sure we’ll do his dirty work for him.”

James glanced at the others’ faces, saw they all thought the same, and reluctantly nodded. “All right. So we bypass Hastings. But how do we do that?” He looked at Del. “Have you heard anything from England?”

Del glanced along the verandah, verifying that no one else could possibly overhear. “A frigate came in this morning, with a very thick packet for me.”

“From Devil?” Gareth asked.

Del nodded. “A letter from him, and rather more from one of his peers—the Duke of Wolverstone.”

“Wolverstone?” Rafe frowned. “I thought the old man was next thing to a recluse.”

“He was,” Del replied. “The son—the current duke—is another matter. We know him—or rather know of him—under another name. Dalziel.”

The other four’s eyes opened wide. “Dalziel was really Wolverstone?” James asked.

“The then-Wolverstone’s heir, apparently,” Del replied. “The old man died late in ’16, after we got here.”

Gareth was counting years. “Dalziel must have been retired by then.”

“Presumably. Regardless, as Duke of St. Ives, Devil knows the new duke well. After reading my letter explaining our predicament, Devil showed it to Wolverstone, reasoning there could be no one better placed to advise us. If you recall, Dalziel was in charge of all British agents on foreign soil for a decade and more, and knows every trick when it comes to couriering sensitive information across the continent and into England. More, as Devil went to literary lengths to point out, Wolverstone is the peer best-placed to oppose Shrewton. Wolverstone owes the king nothing—if anything, the shoe is on the other foot, and His Majesty is well aware of it. If Wolverstone presents evidence that Ferrar junior is the Black Cobra, there’ll be nothing the king or Shrewton will dare do to derail the wheels of justice.”

Rafe grinned. “I always knew there was a reason we agreed to form a troop with the Cynsters at Waterloo.”

Gareth smiled reminiscently. “They were damned fine soliders, even if they weren’t regulars.”

“In the blood.” Logan nodded sagely.

“And their horses were worth killing for,” Rafe added.

“We covered their backs often enough, so now they’re returning the favor.” Del held up his glass, waited until the others touched the rims of theirs to his. “To old comrades-in-arms.”

They all drank, then Logan looked at Del. “So has Wolverstone given us the required advice?”

Del nodded. “In detail. First, he confirmed that he’s willing to take any proof we turn up and present it through the proper channels—he has all the contacts and the standing to do that. However, he makes it plain that to take down Ferrar junior, said proof will have to be incontrovertible. It has to be clear, instantly obvious, unequivocal, not circumstantial, not something that requires interpretation, let alone knowledge of the situation, to make sense.”

Gareth mumured, “So it has to be something that incontestably implicates Ferrar directly.”

“Exactly.” Del set down his empty glass. “Once we have that proof—and Wolverstone was very clear there is no point in proceeding without the right proof—but once we have it, then he’s already put in place a…for want of a better word, campaign, a detailed plan of action for us to follow to bring the proof safely to England, and into his hands.” Del glanced at the others, lips curving wryly. “Looking over his plan, it’s not hard to see why he was such a success in his erstwhile occupation.”

“So what are the details?” Logan leaned his arms on the table, his interest plain. The others, too, were waiting.

“We’re to make copies of the proof, and then separate and independently make our way home—four carrying copies and one carrying the original. He’s sent five sealed letters—five sets of instructions—one for the original, the other four for the decoys. Each letter contains the routes each of us should take back to England and which ports we should use—once we land, there’ll be men of his waiting to escort us further. They—our escorts—will know where each of us is to go once in England.”

Logan’s lips had curved. “I take it Wolverstone’s a firm believer in sharing information only with those who need to know?”

Del smiled. “The way we’re to handle this, while each of us will know what we’re carrying—decoy or original—and what route we’ll be taking home, we won’t know what any of the rest of us have, or the others’ routes. Specifically, the only one who’ll know who is carrying the original, and what route they’ll be taking home, what port they’ll be heading for, is the one of us who draws the original.” Del eased back from the table. “Dalziel wants us to draw lots, then immediately part.”

Rafe nodded. “That’s safer all around.” He glanced around the table. “His way, if any of us are caught, we can’t give the others away.” Face and voice both uncharacteristically sober, he placed his empty glass carefully on the tray. “After the last months of chasing the Black Cobra’s gangs, seeing the results of their methods firsthand…it’s only wise to ensure that if they do take any of us, the others will be safe. We can’t tell what we don’t know.”

A moment passed in silence, each recalling the atrocities they’d seen while leading troops of sowars on raids into the hinterlands and hills, chasing the Black Cobra and the robber gangs that formed a large part of the cult’s forces, searching for the evidence—the incontrovertible, irrefutable proof they needed to bring the reign of the Black Cobra to an end.

Gareth drew a long breath, let it out with, “So, we find our proof, then we take it home.” He glanced at the others. “On leave, or are we finally resigning our commissions?”

Rafe passed a hand over his face, as if wiping away the stark memories of a moment before. “I’ll resign.” He, too, glanced at the others, reading faces. “We’ve all been thinking about it—chatting, joking, but considering nonetheless.”

“True.” Logan spun his empty glass between his fingers. “And after these last months—and the months to come until we get the proof we need—by the time we do, I’ll have had more than enough.” He looked up. “I’m ready to go home permanently, too.”

Del nodded. “And me.” He looked at Gareth.

Who nodded. “I’ve been campaigning all my adult life—as have all of you. I’ve enjoyed the campaigns, but this, what we’re doing here now, is no longer campaigning. What this country needs isn’t military, not cavalry and guns. It needs rulers who rule, and that’s not what we are.” He glanced at the others. “I suppose what I’m saying is our role here is done.”

“Or will be done,” Del amended, “once we take down the Black Cobra.”

Rafe looked at James. “What about you, stripling?”

Although he’d been one of them since before Waterloo, James was the baby of the group. There was only two years in age between him and Rafe, yet in experience and even more in temperament the difference was immeasurably greater. In knowledge, attitude, and sheer hardened command, Rafe was as old as Del. Rafe had remained a captain by choice, had turned down promotion the better to merge with his men, to inspire and lead. He was a remarkable commander in the field.

Del, Gareth, Logan and Rafe were equals, their strengths not exactly the same but equally respected, each by the others. James, no matter the actions he fought in, the atrocities he observed, the carnage he witnessed, still retained some vestige of the apple-cheeked innocence he’d had when he’d first joined them, a youthful subaltern in their old cavalry troop. Hence their paternalistic affection, their habit of seeing him as much younger, of ribbing him as a junior officer, someone whose welfare they still felt compelled to keep a watchful, if distant, eye on.

Now James shrugged. “If you’re all resigning, then I will, too—my parents will be happy to see me home. They’ve been hinting for the last year that it was time I came back, settled down—all that.”

Rafe chuckled. “They’ve probably got a young lady picked out for you.”

Entirely unruffled as he always was by their ribbing, James merely smiled. “Probably.”

James was the only one of them with parents still living. Del had two paternal aunts, while Rafe, the younger son of a viscount, had countless connections and siblings he hadn’t seen in years, but like Gareth and Logan, he didn’t have anyone waiting for him in England.

Returning home. Only James had any real home to return to. For the rest of them, “home” was a nebulous concept they would have to define once they were back on English soil. In returning to England, the older four would, in a sense, be venturing into the unknown, yet for himself Del knew it was time. He wasn’t surprised the others felt the same.

He signaled the barboy for another round. When it came, and the boy withdrew, he lifted his glass. “India has made us wealthy, given us more than we ever otherwise would have had. It seems only right to pay the country back by taking down”—glancing at Rafe, he grinned—“by beheading the Black Cobra, and if, as it seems, that will lead us back to England, then that, too, seems fitting.” He met the others’ eyes. “We’re all in this together.” He raised his glass, held it out for them to meet it with theirs. “Here’s to our eventual return to England.”

“Home,” Rafe echoed, as the glasses clinked.

They all drank, then Gareth, ever practical, asked, “So how are we faring getting our proof?”

They’d spent the last three months—ever since they’d convinced themselves that Roderick Ferrar, second adjutant to the Governor of Bombay, had to be the Black Cobra—trying to turn up evidence of Ferrar’s secret identity, all to no avail. Each now reported their latest forays into what was fast becoming known as “Black Cobra territory,” each thrust aimed at uncovering some trail, some clue, some solid connection back to Ferrar. All they’d uncovered were terrorized villages, some burnt to the ground, others with empty huts and no survivors, with evidence of rape and torture all around.

Wanton destruction and a liking for violence for violence’s sake were fast becoming the Black Cobra cult’s trademark, yet despite all the carnage they’d waded through, not a single piece of evidence had emerged.

“He’s clever, I’ll give the bastard that,” Rafe said. “Every time we find one of his cultists, they’ve got their instructions from someone else, who they either don’t know, or, if they can point a finger, the trail only leads to some other local—”

“Until eventually you hit one who again doesn’t know.” Logan looked disgusted. “It’s like that game of whispers, only in this case, no one has any clue who whispered first.”

“The way the Indians relate to one another—the caste system—plays into the Black Cobra’s hands,” James said. “The cultists unquestioningly obey, and never think it unreasonable that they know nothing about their masters—just that they are their masters, and so must be obeyed.”

“It’s a veil,” Gareth said. “The Black Cobra operates from behind a deliberately maintained veil.”

“And being a cult wreathed in all the usual mystery,” Rafe added, “the cultists think it only right that the Cobra is never seen, never directly heard—for all we know he sends out his orders on bits of paper passed through that damned veil.”

“According to Wolverstone and Devil,” Del said, “the entire Ferrar family is widely known to be viciously exploitative—that’s why the Earl of Shrewton is in the position he’s in. In that respect, Roderick Ferrar seems very much a twig off the same trunk.”

“So what’s next?” Rafe asked.

They spent the next half hour, and another beer, discussing the villages and outposts they thought worth a visit. “Just riding up, flag waving, will be seen as a challenge,” Logan said. “If we can provoke a response, perhaps we’ll capture someone with some useful knowledge.”

“Getting them to talk will be another matter.” Rafe glanced at the others. “It’s that yoke of fear—the Black Cobra’s got their tongues well-leashed with fear of his retribution.”

“Which,” James added, “is admittedly ghastly. I can still see the man I cut down last week.” He grimaced.

“Nothing we can do other than press harder,” Del said. “We need that proof—the incontrovertible evidence implicating Ferrar. Gareth and I will concentrate on trying to shake something loose through Ferrar’s contacts with the princelings—we’ll start interviewing those he’s had dealings with via the governor’s office. Given his temperament, he has to have made enemies—with luck one might talk, and resentful princelings are more likely to than villagers.”

“True.” Logan exchanged a look with Rafe and James. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep on stirring up dust in the villages and towns.”

“If nothing else,” Gareth said, “that should keep the fiend’s focus in the field, not closer to home, and give Del and me a bit of cover.”

James pulled a face. “You’ll have to count me out for the next few weeks—apparently I’ve drawn a duty-mission. The governor has requested that I take a troop up to Poona and escort his niece back to Bombay.”

The others all made commiserating noises as they pushed back from the table and rose.

Rafe clapped James on the shoulder. “Never mind—at least you’ll get a chance to put your feet up for a few days. And most of the memsahibs and their darling daughters are spending the monsoon season up there. Who knows? You might even find some engaging distraction.”

James snorted. “What you mean is that I’ll have to attend formal dinners and make small talk, then dance with giggling girls who bat their lashes, while you and Logan have all the fun chasing the Black Cobra and routing cultists. Thank you, but I’d rather be doing something useful.”

Rafe laughed and slung an arm around James’s shoulders. “If Logan or I get any cultists to talk, you’ll be back in time to help follow up.”

“Yes, but just think how boring my next weeks are going to be.” Together with Rafe, James headed for the archway leading outside. “I’ll deserve something extra-promising when I get back.”

Smiling at James’s angling for his pick of the missions when he returned from Poona, Del ambled beside Gareth and Logan as they followed the other two outside.

September 2, eighteen days later
East India Company Barracks, Bombay

A hot, dry wind blew relentlessly across the maidan, swirling the dust kicked up by the sepoys practicing formation, marching as the sun slowly bled in the west.

On the verandah of the barracks, Del sat in a low-slung wooden chair, feet up on the extendable arms, glass in hand as, with Gareth similarly at ease beside him, he waited for the others to join them. Logan and Rafe had been due to return from their most recent sorties today, and James was expected back from Poona. It was time to take stock again, to decide what next to try.

Logan had ridden in with his troop half an hour ago. Covered in dust, he’d reported to the fort commander, then crossed to the barracks. Climbing the shallow steps to the verandah, he’d shaken his head grimly before Del or Gareth could ask how he’d fared, then gone into the barracks to wash and change.

Del watched the sepoys drilling tirelessly on the parade ground, and felt the weight of failure drag. The others, he knew, felt the same. They’d been pressing relentlessly—in Rafe’s case, increasingly recklessly—trying to pry loose the vital evidence they needed, but nothing they’d learned had been sufficient to meet Wolverstone’s criteria.

What they had learned had confirmed that Ferrar and no other was the Black Cobra. Both Rafe and Logan had found ex-cultists who once had been high in the organization, but had grown jaded with the Cobra’s vicious rule and had successfully fled the Cobra’s territory; they’d verified that the Black Cobra was an “anglo”—an Englishman—moreover one who spoke with the refined and distinctive accents of the upper class.

Combined with their previous grounds for suspicion, as well as the documents and guarded comments Del and Gareth had managed to tease from various Maratha princelings, there was absolutely no doubt that they had the right man.

Yet they still had to prove it.

A heavy bootstep heralded Logan. He slumped in a chair alongside them, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

“No luck?” Gareth asked, although the answer was obvious.

“Worse.” Logan didn’t open his eyes. “Every village we rode into, the people were cowering. They didn’t even want to be seen talking to us. The Black Cobra has them in its coils and they’re frightened—and from all we saw, with good reason.” Logan paused, then continued, voice lower, eyes still closed, “There were examples of the Black Cobra’s vengeance impaled outside most villages—women and children, as well as men.”

He drew a shaky breath, then sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face. “It was…beyond ghastly.” After a moment, he glanced at the other two. “We have to stop this madman.”

Del grimaced. “Did you see Rafe?”

“Only early on. He headed further east, up into the hills. He was hoping to find the edges of the Cobra’s territory, to see if any village was resisting in the hope they’d trade information for assistance.”

Gareth humphed. “Searching for a fight, as always.” It was said without rancor.

Logan looked out across the maidan. “Aren’t we all?”

Del followed his gaze to where, far beyond the open fort gates, a dust cloud drew steadily nearer.

By the time the cloud had passed through the distant gates, it had resolved into Rafe at the head of the troop of sowars he’d commandeered for his mission.

Just one look at Rafe’s face as he drew rein some yards away to spare them the inevitable dust was enough to answer their most urgent question. He hadn’t fared any better than Logan in gaining evidence of the Black Cobra’s identity.

Handing his reins to the sergeant, Rafe walked to the verandah, weariness—nay, exhaustion—in every line of his long frame. Eschewing the steps, he came to the railing beyond which they sat, crossed his forearms upon it and laid his tousled and dusty blond head on his arms. His voice reached them, muffled, strangely hoarse. “Please tell me that one of you found something—anything—we can use to stop this fiend.”

None of them replied.

Rafe’s shoulders slumped as he sighed, then he lifted his head and they saw his face clearly. Something more than dejection haunted his eyes.

Logan shifted forward. “You found something.”

Rafe dragged in a breath, glanced back to where his troop were dispersing, nodded. “At one village where the elders had already bowed to the Black Cobra’s demands—did you know he’s taking half—half!—of what they scratch and eke out of their fields? He’s literally taking food from the mouths of babes!”

After a moment, he went on, “There was nothing for us there, but one of the younger men lay in wait for us as we were riding on—he told us of a village further east that was resisting the fiend’s demands. We rode there as fast as we could.”

His gaze on the maidan, Rafe paused. His voice was lower, gruffer, when he went on, “We were too late. The village had been razed. And there were bodies…men, women, and children, raped and mutilated, tortured and burned.” After a moment he continued, voice still lower, “It was hell on earth. There was nothing we could do. We burned the bodies, and turned back.”

None of the others said anything; there was nothing they could say to take the haunting vision, the knowledge, away.

Eventually Rafe drew a massive breath and turned to face them. “So what’s happened here?”

“I returned empty-handed,” Logan volunteered.

Del glanced at Gareth, then offered, “We’ve learned more—been told much more—but it’s all hearsay. Nothing we can put before a court—nothing good enough to take home.”

“That’s the positive side,” Gareth said. “On the negative, Ferrar now knows beyond doubt that we’re watching him. Investigating him.”

Logan shrugged. “That was inevitable. He couldn’t be oh-so-clever and yet miss the fact we’re here, on Hastings’s direct orders, and with no mission we’ve seen fit to divulge.”

Rafe nodded. “At this point, it can hardly hurt. Perhaps knowing we’re after him will make him careless.”

Del humphed. “So far he’s been unbelievably shrewd in keeping everything unincriminating. We’ve turned up even more of those documents, more or less contracts he’s enacted with various princelings, but the cheeky sod always uses his special Black Cobra seal on the correspondence, and he signs with a mark, not a signature.”

“And his writing is English-grammar-school-standard,” Gareth added. “It could be any of ours.”

Another moment of glum resignation passed, then Rafe asked, “Where’s James?”

“Not in yet, apparently,” Del replied. “He’s expected today—I thought he’d be in earlier, but he must have been held up.”

“Probably the lady didn’t approve of riding above a sedate canter.” Rafe managed a weak smile, then turned back to the maidan.

“There’s a troop coming in,” Logan said.

The comment focused all eyes on the group approaching the gates. It wasn’t a full troop, more a mounted escort riding alongside a wagon. It was the slow, steady pace the small cavalcade held to, as much as the somber deliberateness of the sowars, that told them this wasn’t good news.

A minute ticked past as the cavalcade drew nearer, cleared the gates.

“Oh, no.” Rafe pushed away from the railing and started across the maidan.

Narrowed eyes locked on the cavalcade, Del, Gareth and Logan slowly came to their feet, then Del swore and the three vaulted over the railing and headed after Rafe.

He waved the cavalcade to a halt. As he strode down the wagon’s side, he demanded to be told what had happened.

The head sowar, a sergeant, dismounted and quickly followed. “We are very sorry, Captain-sahib—there was nothing we could do.”

Rafe reached the tail of the wagon first and halted. Face paling under his tan, he stared at what lay in the bed.

Del came up beside him, saw the three bodies—carefully laid out, but nothing could disguise the mutilation, the torture, the agony that had preceded death.

Distantly conscious of Logan, then Gareth, ranging behind him, Del looked down on James MacFarlane’s body.

It took a moment to register that beside him lay his lieutenant and the troop’s corporal.

It was Rafe—who of them all had seen more of the Black Cobra’s lethal handiwork than any one man should ever have to bear—who turned away with a vicious oath.

Del seized his arm. Simply said, “Let me.”

He had to drag in a breath, physically drag his gaze from the bodies before he could raise his head and look at the waiting sowar. “What happened?”

Even to him, his voice sounded deadly.

The sowar wasn’t a coward. With creditable composure, he lifted his chin and came to attention. “We were more than halfway back on the road from Poona, when the Captain-sahib realized there were horsemen chasing us. We rode on quickly, but then the Captain-sahib stopped at a place where the road narrows, and sent us all on. The lieutenant stayed with him, along with three others. The Captain-sahib sent the rest of us all pell-mell on with the memsahib.”

Del glanced at the wagon bed. “When was this?”

“Earlier today, Colonel-sahib.”

“Who sent you back?”

The sowar shifted. “When we came within sight of Bombay, the memsahib insisted we go back. The Captain-sahib had ordered us to stay with her all the way to the fort, but she was very agitated. She allowed only two of us to go with her to the governor’s house. The rest of us went back to see if we could help the Captain-sahib and the lieutenant.” The sowar paused, then went on more quietly, “But there were only these bodies left when we reached the place.”

“They took two of your troop?”

“We could see where they had dragged them away behind their horses, Colonel-sahib. We didn’t think following would do any good.”

Despite the calmness of the words, the outward stoicism of the native troops, Del knew every one of them would be railing inside.

As was he, Gareth, Logan, Rafe.

But there was nothing they could do.

He nodded, stepped back, drawing Rafe with him.

“We will be taking them to the infirmary, Colonel-sahib.”

“Yes.” He met the man’s eyes, nodded. “Thank you.”

Numbly, he turned. Releasing Rafe, Del led the way back to the barracks.

As they climbed the shallow steps, Rafe, as usual, put their tortured thoughts into words.

“For the love of God, why?”

Why?

The question rebounded again and again between them, refashioned and rephrased in countless ways. James might have been younger than the rest of them, but he’d been neither inexperienced nor a glory-hunter—and he wasn’t the one they called “Reckless.”

“So why in all hell did he make a stand, rather than at least try to escape? While they were moving, they had a chance—he had to have known that.” Rafe slumped in his usual chair at their table in the officers’ bar.

After a moment, Del answered, “He had a reason—that’s why.”

Logan sipped the arrack Del had ordered instead of their usual beer. The bottle stood in the center of the table, already half empty. Eyes narrowed, he said, “It had to have been something about the governor’s niece.”

“Thought of that.” Gareth set down his empty glass and reached for the bottle. “I asked the sowars—they said she rode well, like the devil. She didn’t hold them up. And she tried to veto James’s plan to stay behind, but he pulled rank and ordered her on.”

“Humph.” Rafe drained his glass, then held out his hand for the bottle. “So what was it? James might be lying in the infirmary very dead, but damned if I’m going to accept that he stayed back on a whim—not him.”

“No,” Del said. “You’re right—not him.”

“Heads up,” Rafe said, his gaze going down the verandah. “Skirts on parade.”

The others turned their heads to look. The skirts in question were on a slender young lady—a very English lady with a pale, porcelain face and sleek brown hair secured in a knot at the back of her head. She stood just inside the bar and peered through the shadows, noting the groups of officers dotted here and there. Her gaze reached them in the corner, paused, but then the barboy came forward and she turned to him.

But at her query, the barboy pointed to them. The young lady looked their way, then straightened, thanked the boy and, head high, glided down the verandah toward them.

An Indian girl swathed in a sari hovered like a shadow behind her.

They all rose, slowly, as the young lady approached. She was of slightly less than average height; given their size, and that they were all looking as grim as they felt, they must have seemed intimidating, but she didn’t falter.

Before she reached them, she halted and spoke to her maid, instructing her in soft tones to wait a little way away.

Then she came on. As she neared, they could see her face was pale, set, features tightly, rigidly controlled. Her eyes were faintly red-rimmed, the tip of her small nose pink.

But her rounded chin was set in determined lines.

Her gaze scanned them as she came to the table, circling, not on their faces, but at shoulder-and-collar-level—reading their rank. When her gaze reached Del, it stopped. Halting, she lifted her eyes to his face. “Colonel Delborough?”

Del inclined his head. “Ma’am?”

“I’m Emily Ensworth, the governor’s niece. I…” She glanced briefly at the others. “If I could trouble you for a word in private, Colonel?”

Del hesitated, then said, “Every man about this table is an old friend and colleague of James MacFarlane. We were all working together. If your business with me has anything to do with James, I would ask that you speak before us all.”

She studied him for a moment, weighing his words, then she nodded. “Very well.”

Between Logan and Gareth sat James’s empty chair. None of them had had the heart to push it away. Gareth now held it for Miss Ensworth.

“Thank you.” She sat. Which left her looking directly at the three-quarters empty bottle of arrack.

With the others, Del resumed his seat.

Miss Ensworth glanced at him. “I realize it might be irregular, but if I could have a small glass of that…?”

Del met her hazel eyes. “It’s arrack.”

“I know.”

He signalled to the barboy to bring another glass. While he did, Miss Ensworth fiddled below the table’s edge with the reticule she’d been carrying. They hadn’t truly noticed it before; Miss Ensworth was neatly rounded, softly lush, and none of them had noticed much else.

Then the boy delivered the glass, and Del poured a half measure for her.

She accepted it with a strained almost-smile and took a small sip. She wrinkled her nose, but then gamely took a larger dose. Lowering the glass, she looked at Del. “I asked at the gate and they told me. I’m very sorry that Captain MacFarlane didn’t make it back.”

His face like stone, Del inclined his head in acknowledgment. Hands clasped on the table, he said, “If you could tell us what happened from the beginning, it would help us understand.” Why James gave up his life. He left the last unsaid, but the others clearly heard it. He suspected Miss Ensworth did, too.

She nodded. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “We started very early from Poona—Captain MacFarlane was very insistent, and I wasn’t averse, so we left at sunrise. He seemed keen to get on, so I was surprised when we ambled at a quite ordinary pace at first, but then—and I realize now it was as soon as we were out of sight of the town—he dug in his heels and from then we went at a cracking pace. Once he realized I could ride…well, we just rode as fast as we could. I didn’t understand why—not then—but he was riding alongside, so I knew when he saw the riders chasing us—I saw them, too.”

“Could you tell if they were private militiamen, or were they robbers?” Del asked.

She met his gaze directly. “I think they were Black Cobra cultists—they wore black silk scarves tied about their heads and wound around their faces. I’ve heard that’s their…insignia.”

Del nodded. “That’s correct. So what happened once James spotted them?”

“We rode even faster. I assumed we would simply outrun them—we’d seen them on a curve so they were some way back along the road—and at first that’s what we did. But then I think they must have cut across somewhere, because suddenly they were much closer. I still thought we could outrun them, but then we came to a spot where the road passes between two large rocks, and Captain MacFarlane stopped. He gave orders for most of the sowars to go on with me and make sure I got to the fort safely. He and a handful were going to make a stand and hold the cultists back.”

She paused, dragged in a breath, then remembered the glass in her hand and drained it. “I tried to argue, but he would have none of it. He drew me aside—ahead—and gave me this.” From beneath the table, she drew out a packet—a blank sheet of parchment folded and sealed about other documents. She set it on the table, pushed it toward Del.

“Captain MacFarlane asked me to bring this to you. He said he had to make certain it reached you, no matter the cost. He made me promise to get it to you…and then there wasn’t time to argue.” Her gaze fixed on the packet, she drew a shaky breath. “We could hear the cultists coming—ululating, you know how they do. They weren’t far, and…I had to go. If I was going to bring that to you, I had to leave then…so I did. He turned back with a few men, and the rest came with me.”

“And you sent them back when you came within sight of safety.” Gareth spoke gently. “You did the best you could.”

Del put a hand on the packet and drew it to him. “And you did the right thing.”

She blinked several times, then lifted her chin. Her gaze remained fixed on the packet. “I don’t know what’s in that—I didn’t look. But whatever it is…I hope it’s worth it, worth the sacrifice he made.” At last she lifted her gaze to Del’s face. “I’ll leave it in your hands, Colonel, as I promised Captain MacFarlane I would.”

She pushed back from the table.

They all rose. Gareth drew back her chair. “Allow me to organize an escort for you back to the governor’s house.”

Gareth’s gaze touched Del’s, and he nodded. No sense taking any unnecessary chances with Miss Ensworth.

Their interaction had passed over Emily Ensworth’s head. She nodded graciously to Gareth. “Thank you, Major.”

Then she inclined her head to Del and the other two. “Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”

“Miss Ensworth.” They all bowed, waited as Gareth led her away, then resumed their seats.

They stared at the packet lying on the table before Del. Without a word, they waited for Gareth to return.

The instant he did, Del picked up the packet. Removing the outer sheet, he laid it flat, revealing it was blank. It had been wrapped around a single document, a letter, the seal already broken.

Del unfolded the letter, briefly scanned. After a quick glance around, he leaned on the table and, voice low, read the contents aloud.

The letter was addressed to one of the more influential Maratha princelings, one Govind Holkar. It began innocently enough, with nothing more sinister than social news revolving about what was loosely termed the younger Government House set. But after those first paragraphs, the tone of the letter changed to one of offer, a blatant inducement to persuade Holkar to commit more men and resources to the Black Cobra cult.

The further he read, the more Del frowned. Reaching the end, he concluded with, “And, as usual, it’s signed with the mark of the Black Cobra.”

Letting the letter fall through his fingers to rest on the table, Del shook his head. “This isn’t anything more than we’ve already got—than James knew we already had.”

Gareth reached for the letter. “There has to be something more in it—something concealed.”

Del sat back, feeling oddly dead inside, and watched while Gareth silently went through the letter. Then Gareth raised his head, grimly shook it. “If there is, I can’t see it.”

Logan took the letter, read it, then, with a swift shake of his head, passed it to Rafe in his corner.

It didn’t take Rafe long to scan the single sheet. He slumped back in his chair, the letter held in one hand at arm’s length. “Why?” He shook the letter. “Damn it, James, why did you give your life for this? There’s nothing here!”

Rafe flung the letter toward the table. It flipped and landed upside down. He scowled at it. “That’s not worth—”

When he said nothing more, Del glanced at him and saw him staring, as if mesmerized, at the letter. As if it had transformed into their nemesis.

“Oh, Lord,” Rafe breathed. “It can’t be.” He reached for the letter.

For the first time in all the years he’d known him, Del saw Rafe Carstairs’s hand shake.

Rafe lifted the letter, held it closer to his face, staring….

“It’s the seal.” Voice firming, Rafe leaned forward and turned the letter, held it so the seal, largely intact, was on a level with the others’ eyes. “He’s used his own seal. Bloody Ferrar finally made a mistake, and James—youthful-sharp-eyes-and-even-sharper-wits James—caught it.”

Gareth reached out and took the letter. He was the most familiar with Ferrar’s seal; he’d been the one to go through the man’s desk. He studied the imprint closely, then looked up and met Rafe’s eyes. Nodded. “It’s his.” The suppressed excitement coming off both of them was palpable.

Del asked, “Could he say someone had stolen the seal and used it to implicate him? One of us, for instance?”

A slow smile spread across Gareth’s face. He looked at Del. “That won’t wash. It’s a seal ring, and it never leaves Ferrar’s pinky. In fact, short of him losing the finger, it can’t. All the clerks and secretaries at Government House know that—he makes quite a show of his lineage and its accoutrements. The whole office knows about his seal ring—and there’s not another like it in all of India.”

“Could it have been duplicated?” Logan asked.

Gareth handed him the letter. “See what you think. And anyway, why would anyone bother?”

Examining the imprint, Logan grunted. “I suppose that’s why people use seals, but you’re right—this has curlicues, swirls, and they look like they’re cut to different depths. It wouldn’t be easy to duplicate.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rafe said. “What matters is that we know that’s real—and so does the Black Cobra.” He met the others’ eyes, excitement plain in his. “And I’ve just realized the true beauty of Wolverstone’s plan.”

Del frowned. “What? Beyond being the most effective way for us to get this back to England.”

Rafe checked their surroundings, then leaned in, forearms on the table. He spoke soft, low, quickly. “He told us to make copies, and then separate and head home. What do you think Ferrar’s going to think—and do—once he learns we’ve done that, as of course he will? You said it yourself—he knows we’re investigating him. Suddenly, without warning—worse, immediately after James’s death at the hands of the Black Cobra—we up stakes and resign, something we’ve been thinking of, but no one else knows that. And, to cap it off, we all head home by different routes. What will he think? What will he do?”

Logan had caught his enthusiam. “He’ll think we’ve found something that incriminates him.”

“And he’ll come after us, and by that very action prove the validity of our evidence.” Del nodded. “You’re right.” He looked at the others, met each gaze. “Gentlemen, thanks to James, we have our proof. Thanks to Devil Cynster and Wolverstone, we have a plan and know what we have to do. Thanks to Hastings, we have the freedom to do as we wish. I vote we follow the plan, carry out our last orders, and bring the Black Cobra to justice.”

While Del had been speaking, Rafe had recharged their glasses. They each claimed theirs.

“To success,” Del said, raising his glass.

“To justice,” Gareth offered, putting his glass alongside.

“To James MacFarlane’s memory.” Logan raised his glass to the other two.

They all looked at Rafe.

Who raised his glass to theirs. “To beheading the Black Cobra.”

They clinked, then drained their glasses.

Setting them down with a snap, they rose and left the bar.

September 14, twelve days later
Bombay

They met in the back room of the Red Turkey Cock, a smoke-filled tavern down a minor side street in one of the seedier native quarters of Bombay.

The tavern’s back room was a small square chamber with no window, the only entrance the doorway behind the scarred bar through which they’d entered. Logan, the last to arrive, let a bamboo screen rattle down to the floor behind him, a sufficient impediment to interested eyes. With Gulah, a massive ex-sepoy, manning the bar, and the otherwise flimsy walls reinforced by countless boxes and crates stacked against them, they weren’t too worried about interested ears.

“I don’t think I was followed.” Logan sounded disappointed as he slipped onto the last of the four rickety chairs set about a square wooden table.

“I don’t think I was either,” Gareth said. “But in this district, four anglos like us will be noticed and remembered—the Black Cobra will hear about our meeting without a doubt.”

“Ferrar knows something’s up.” A grim smile curved Del’s lips. “He knows we’ve resigned, and isn’t swallowing the gossip that we’re all devastated because of what happened to James. He’s been asking questions about our plans for the future.”

“Perhaps he’d like to recruit us?” Rafe said. “Come to think of it, that’s a tack we never tried.”

“Because he’d never believe it. The man isn’t just a cold-blooded killer—”

“Torturer, maimer, fiend,” Rafe supplied.

“—he’s clever, and cunning, and a great deal too powerful. So”—Del looked at Gareth—“are we ready to move against him?”

Gareth reached down, lifted a woven basket from the floor beside his chair, and set it on the table. His chair squeaked as he reached into the basket and lifted out four wood-and-brass cylindrical scroll-holders. “As ordered. The subcontinent’s version of a diplomatic pouch.”

The scroll-holders were identical, each about ten inches long and a bit more than two inches in diameter. Formed from strips of rosewood clamped together by brass bands, their lids were secured by a complicated set of brass levers of varying length and thickness.

They each took a holder, fiddled. “How do you open them?” Logan asked.

“Watch.” Setting the basket back on the floor, Gareth picked up one holder and deftly moved the six levers, one after the other. “It has to be done in that order, or the metal teeth inside don’t disengage. Try it.”

They all practiced. Gareth insisted they worked at it until they could open and close the holders by touch alone. “You might need to at some point—who knows?”

Rafe reached across and took the holder Gareth held, compared it with the one he’d picked up. “They truly are identical.”

“I don’t think anyone could tell them apart.” Logan looked at Del, then Rafe. “So we have the holders. Now for what goes in them.”

From his pocket, Del drew the sets of instructions Wolverstone had sent. “Five packets.” He separated out one with Original scrawled across a corner. “That one goes with the real letter. These”—he fanned out four identical packets—“are the decoys’ instructions. But we only need three.”

Now that James was gone.

They all looked at the four letters. Rafe sighed. “Shuffle the four, I’ll select one, and we can open it and see what form of instructions we’re going to find when we open our own sets later.”

“Good idea.” Del shuffled the four packets, held them out. Rafe drew one and handed it to Logan.

Logan took it, opened it, scanned the sheets inside, then handed them on to Gareth. “Comprehensive, but not specific, of course. The route we should follow, but no dates, no specified modes of travel. He does specify which English port we’re supposed to head for—Brighton, in this instance. Apparently we’ll be met by two men, Dalziel’s ex-operatives, who will have our route through England and our ultimate destination, neither of which are included here.”

Del nodded as he received the sheets from Gareth. He scanned them, then handed them to Rafe, who exchanged them for four slim packets he’d pulled from his inside coat pocket. “The three copies and the original.” Rafe cast a cursory glance over the now-to-be-discarded set of instructions while Del and the other three carefully unfolded and compared the copies and the original.

Reaching the end of the instructions, Rafe looked up. “We should destroy this.”

Logan held out his hand. “I’ll burn it.” Rafe handed the folded sheets over.

Del and Gareth had lined up the four scroll-holders across the table. They laid one instructions packet and one letter before each holder, making sure the original letter with its incriminating seal was paired with the appropriately marked instructions.

“As per Wolverstone’s directions,” Del said, “I sent him word we were putting his plan into action. It went ten days ago by fast frigate, so he’ll know we’re heading home in good time to have his men waiting at the ports.”

Rafe reached out, drew the nearest scroll-holder, letter and instructions to him, and set about opening the holder. “Now we do as he suggested and draw lots—in this case, scroll-holders.” He proceeded to carefully roll the letter and instructions and insert them into the holder.

The others followed suit, smiling faintly, all knowing that Del had been about to try to pull rank and argue that he should take the original.

He wouldn’t have succeeded—they’d resigned their commissions effective from this morning. They were all in this together, and equals in all ways now.

Reclosing his holder, Rafe asked, “Where’s that basket?”

Gareth hauled it back up. Rafe took it, dropped the scroll-holder he’d packed inside, then collected the holders from the others as they reclosed them, sealing in the letters and instructions.

“Right.” Rafe stood, closed the top of the large basket with his hands, then shook and rattled the holders, mixing them. With one last flourishing swirl, he set the basket down in the middle of the table and sat again.

“All together,” Del said. “We reach in, each takes a holder at the same time, whichever is closest.” He met the others’ eyes. “We don’t open them here. We leave this room together, but from the moment we pass through the door of the Red Turkey Cock, we go our separate ways.”

That morning, they’d moved out of the barracks. Over the years, each had gathered small households who traveled with them; those households were now packed and waiting, ready to leave, but all in separate locations.

They exchanged one last glance, then sat forward, reached into the basket. They waited until each of them had grasped one of the cylindrical holders, then, as one, drew them forth.

“Right,” Rafe said, his gaze locked on his holder.

“Wait.” Gareth swept the empty basket from the table, and replaced it with a bottle of arrack and four glasses. He splashed pale amber liquor into each glass, then set the bottle down.

They each took a glass and rose.

Del held his out. “Gentlemen.” He looked at each of them in turn. “To our continued health. Godspeed, and may luck be with us.”

They knew the Black Cobra would come after them; they knew they’d need all the luck they could get.

Gareth raised his glass. “Until we meet again.”

“On the green shores of England,” Logan added.

Rafe hesitated, then raised his glass. “To the death of the Black Cobra.”

They all nodded, then drank, drained their glasses and set them down.

They turned to the doorway. Lifting the bamboo screen, they ducked beneath it, walking out into the smoky bar.

Picking their way past rickety tables, they reached the open tavern doorway and moved out onto the dusty steps.

Del halted and held out his hand. “Good luck.”

They all shook hands, each with the other.

For one last instant, they stood and simply looked at each other.

Then Rafe stepped down into the dusty street. “May God and St. George be with us all.” With a last salute, he walked away.

They parted, each disappearing by a different route into the bustling city.

September 15, two nights later
Bombay

“We have a problem.”

The voice fitted the setting, the clipped, aristocratic accents appropriate to the beauty, the elegance, the wanton luxury pervading the enclosed courtyard of the discreet bungalow tucked away on the fringe of the fashionable district of Bombay.

No one seeing the house from outside would look twice. The street frontage was unremarkable, like many others nearby. But on entering the front foyer, one was struck by a sense of subdued elegance, yet the front reception rooms—the rooms those who called socially might see—were nothing more than quietly refined, restrained and rather spare.

Not quite soulless, yet the chosen few who were invited further quickly sensed a different ambiance, one that filled the senses with ever-increasing richness.

It wasn’t merely a show of wealth, but a deliberately sensual display. The further one penetrated into the private rooms, the richer, more wantonly yet tastefully luxurious the furnishings, the more artful, and graceful, the settings.

The courtyard, surrounded by the private rooms of the owner, was the apogee of restful, sensual delight. A long tiled pool glimmered in the moonlight. Trees and shrubs lined the whitewashed walls, while the open windows and doors gave access to mysteriously dark and inviting comforts. The exotic perfume of a temple flower tree wafted in the night breeze, the shed blossoms lying like snippets of the costliest silk scattered on the stone paving.

“Oh?” A second voice answered the first through the cool dark.

The speakers were on the extended open terrace that jutted from the owner’s private sitting room into the courtyard. The second speaker reclined on a sofa piled with silk cushions, while the first paced the edge of the terrace, his bootheels creating a quiet tattoo—one that held a certain tension.

A third man watched silently from an armchair beside the sofa.

The night’s shadows cloaked them all.

“Damn Govind Holkar!” The first speaker paused to rake a hand through thick hair. “I can’t believe he left it this long to send word!”

“Word of what?” the second asked.

“He lost my last letter—the one I sent over a month ago trying to persuade him to give us more men. That letter.”

“By lost, you mean…?”

“I mean that it went missing from the desk in Holkar’s room at the governor’s palace in Poona while that damned hound of Hastings’s, MacFarlane, just happened to be there, waiting to escort the governor’s niece back to Bombay.”

“When did this happen?” The second voice was no longer so languid.

“On the second of the month. At least that’s the day Holkar realized the letter was gone. That was also the day MacFarlane left Poona with his troop and the governor’s niece at dawn. Holkar sent his cultists after them—”

“Don’t tell me.” The until-then-silent man’s baritone rumbled, a contrast to the others’ lighter voices. “They killed MacFarlane but didn’t find the letter.”

“Exactly.” The first speaker’s voice dripped frustrated ire.

“So that’s why we killed MacFarlane—I did wonder.” The second speaker’s cool tones showed little emotion. “I take it they didn’t learn anything pertinent from him before he died?”

“No. But one of the sowars who made a stand with him eventually revealed that MacFarlane gave the governor’s niece a packet before sending her on.” The first speaker held up a hand to keep the others from interrupting. “I got word from Holkar only this morning—when he realized the letter had reached Bombay, he decamped to Satara, then he sent me word.”

“We can deal with Holkar appropriately later,” the second speaker put in.

“Indeed.” Anticipation colored the first speaker’s voice. “We will. However, once I knew about the letter, I had Larkins see what he could ferret out from the governor’s staff. Apparently, Miss Ensworth, the niece, was greatly distressed when she rode in, but later that afternoon, she took a maid and went to the fort. The maid was overheard saying that, on learning at the gates of MacFarlane’s death, the lady searched out Colonel Delborough, found him in the officers’ bar, and gave him a packet.”

“So there’s no reason to pursue this Miss Ensworth. Even if she read the letter, she knows nothing of any worth.”

“True.” The first speaker added, “And that’s just as well, because she’s leaving any day to return to England.”

The second speaker waved. “Ignore her. So Delborough has the letter, and Holkar is therefore compromised. All his own fault. We’ll just have to find another source of men, and the way our recruitment efforts have been progressing lately, I can’t see Holkar as any great loss.”

Silence fell, but it was strained, pregnant with unresolved tension.

The first speaker broke it. “That’s not why we have to get the letter back.”

The man with the deeper voice spoke again. “Why bother? It’s not as if Delborough can make anything more of it than of the other missives of ours his little group has gathered. They don’t contain anything to link you, personally, with the Black Cobra. Any suspicion he bears is simply that—suspicion. Suspicion he won’t dare air.”

“It’s not what’s in the damned letter that’s the problem.” Again the first speaker raked a hand through his hair. He turned from the other two, pacing again. “It’s what’s on the damned letter. I sealed it with my personal seal.”

“What?” The second speaker’s voice was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but what chance was there this letter of all letters—going to Poona—would end back in Bombay, in Delborough’s hands?” The first speaker spread his arms. “It’s bizarre.”

“But what possessed you to write a letter from the Black Cobra and use your own damned seal?” The baritone’s accents were sharply condemnatory.

“It was necessary,” the first speaker snapped. “I had to get the letter off that day, or we would have lost another week—you’ll remember we discussed it. At the time we were desperate for more men, Delborough and his cohorts were making life difficult, and Holkar seemed our best bet. We agreed I should write, and it was urgent. But the Poona courier decided to leave early—the officious beggar actually had the gall to stand in my doorway and watch me finish the letter. He was itching to leave—if I’d ordered him out, told him to close the door and wait outside, he would have left. He was looking for any excuse to go without my letter.”

Still pacing, the first speaker twisted the signet ring on the little finger of his right hand. “Everyone in the office—the damn courier included—knows about my seal ring. With him standing there, I could hardly reach into my pocket, draw out the Black Cobra seal and use it—with him watching my every move. In the circumstances, I decided using my own seal was the lesser of all evils—it’s not as if Holkar doesn’t know who I am.”

“Hmm.” The second speaker sounded resigned. “Well, we can hardly allow you to be exposed.” The second speaker exchanged a glance with the baritone. “That would definitely put a dent in our enterprise. So”—gaze reverting to the pacing man, the second speaker briskly stated, “we’ll just have to locate Delborough and get this incriminating letter back.”

September 16, the following night
Bombay

“Delborough and his three remaining colleagues, together with their households, left Bombay two days ago.”

Silence greeted the first speaker’s terse announcement. Once again the three conspirators had gathered in the night-shrouded courtyard—one on the sofa, one in the armchair, the other pacing the terrace above the glimmering pool.

“Indeed?” the second speaker eventually said. “That’s disturbing. Still, I can’t see Hastings acting—”

“They haven’t gone back to Calcutta.” Reaching the end of the terrace, the first speaker swung back. “I told you a week ago—they’ve resigned! They are, by all accounts, heading back to England.”

Another lengthy silence ensued, then the baritone inquired, “Are you sure they’re even bothering with this letter? Easy enough to miss a seal, especially if concentrating on the information inside. They’ve laid hands on similar letters before, and known well enough such documents would get them nowhere.”

“I’d like to believe that—that they’ve given up and are on their way home—believe me, I would.” The first speaker’s agitated pace didn’t ease. “But our spies have reported they met in a back room in some seedy bar in town two days ago. When they came out, each was carrying one of those wooden scroll-holders the locals use to ferry important documents—and then they parted. Went their separate ways. Those four have been together since long before they reached these shores—why would they each go home by completely different routes?”

On the sofa, the second speaker sat straighter. “Do you know which way each has gone?”

“Delborough’s done the obvious—he’s taken a ship of the line to Southampton. Exactly as if he were simply heading home. Hamilton took a sloop to Aden, as if he were ferrying some diplomatic communication along the way—but I’ve checked, and he isn’t. Monteith and Carstairs have vanished. Monteith’s household is due to leave shortly on a company ship for Bournemouth, but he’s not with them and they don’t know where he is. Their orders are to go to an inn outside Bournemouth and to wait there until he comes. Carstairs has only one man, a Pathan who’s as loyal as they come, and they’ve both disappeared. I’ve had all the passenger and crew lists combed, but there’s no sign of anyone who might conceivably be either Monteith or Carstairs leaving Bombay by sea. Larkins believes they’ve gone overland, or at least by land to some other port. He’s put men on their trail, but it’ll be days, perhaps weeks, before we hear if they’ve located them.”

“What orders did you give those you sent after them?” the second speaker asked.

“To kill them, and anyone with them, and above all, to retrieve those bloody scroll-holders.”

“Indeed.” A momentary pause ensued, then the second speaker said, “So we have four men heading to England—one with the original document and three presumably as decoys. If the letter with your seal gets into the wrong hands in England, then we’ll face a very serious problem indeed.”

The second speaker exchanged a glance with the man in the armchair, then looked at the first speaker. “You’re right. We have to get that letter back. You did precisely right in loosing our hounds and sending them on the hunt. However…” After another glance at the other man, the second speaker continued, “I believe, in the circumstances, that we should head home, too. Should our hounds fail us, and Delborough and the other three reach England’s shores, then given the bounty the Black Cobra brings us, it would be wise for us to be there, close to the action, to ensure the original letter never gets into the hands of anyone likely or able to interfere with our enterprise.”

The first speaker nodded. “There’s a fast frigate just in from Calcutta. She’ll be sailing the day after tommorrow for Southampton.”

“Excellent!” The second speaker rose. “Secure passage on it for us and our staffs. Who knows? We might reach Southampton in time to welcome the importunate colonel.”

“Indeed.” The first speaker smiled thinly. “I’ll take great delight in seeing him receive his just reward.”

Dear Reader,

I am delighted to introduce you to the first book in my thrilling new project, The Black Cobra Quartet. The concept evolved from wondering what happened to the soldiers who fought alongside the Cynster cousins in their cavalry troop at Waterloo. The answer is:

Five of them went to India to serve with the army of the East India Company under the direct command of the Governor-General of India, who in 1822, gives all five a mission: do whatever it takes to bring a fiendish villain, the Black Cobra, to justice.

One of the five gives his life to secure the vital evidence. The other four swear to avenge him by getting that evidence back to England and into the hands of Royce Varisey, now Duke of Wolverstone, the one man powerful enough to bring down the Black Cobra.

You didn’t think you’d heard the last of Royce and the members of the Bastion Club—or their wives—did you? And, of course, our four latest heroes appeal to their old comrades-in-arms, the Cynster cousins, for assistance, too. The result is four action-packed adventures ranging from Bombay to Norfolk, filled with danger, passion, and intrigue, with an exciting cast of fresh new characters walking onto a stage peopled by many you already know.

The Prelude begins in India, after which our four heroes part, three carrying decoys and one the vital original evidence back to Royce in England by four very different routes. Each book in the quartet tells the tale of one journey—and of the lady and the love each hero discovers along the way.

Each of our heroes is due to reach England in the days leading up to Christmas, 1822. Join me in following them through the perils and pleasures of their journeys, which culminate in a wonderful joint Christmas you won’t want to miss.

So read on and let the Prelude take you to India in 1822, and then sit back and enjoy the journey of Colonel Derek Delborough in The Untamed Bride.

Happy reading!
Stephanie Laurens

One

December 11, 1822
Southampton Water, England

Del stood on the deck of the Princess Louise, the twelve-hundred-ton East Indiaman on which he and his small household had left Bombay, and watched the Southampton docks draw steadily nearer.

The wind whipped his hair, sent chill fingers sliding beneath his greatcoat collar. From horizon to horizon, the sky was an unrelieved steel-gray, but at least it wasn’t raining; he was thankful for small mercies. After the warmth of India, and the balmy days rounding Africa, the change in temperature as they’d headed north over the last week had been an uncomfortable reminder of the reality of an English winter.

Artfully angled, the ship surged on the tide, aligning with the dock, the distance between lessening with every moment, the raucous cries of wheeling gulls a strident counterpoint to the bellows of the bosun as he directed the crew in the dicey business of bringing the heavy ship alongside the timber dock.

Del scanned the dockside crowd waiting to greet those on board. He was under no illusions; the instant he stepped off the gangplank, the Black Cobra’s game would be afoot again. He felt restless, impatient for action—the same compulsion he was accustomed to feeling in those moments on the battlefield when, with his horse skittish beneath him, held on a tight rein, he would wait with his men for the order to charge. The same anticipation rode him now, yet with sharpened spurs.

Contrary to his expectations, the trip had been anything but uneventful. They’d sailed from Bombay only to fall foul of a storm, which had left them limping down the African coast with one of their three masts crippled. Once they’d reached Cape Town, repairs had taken three full weeks. While there, his batman, Cobby, had ferreted out the information that Roderick Ferrar had passed through a week ahead of them, on the Elizabeth, a fast frigate, also bound for Southampton.

He’d taken note, and so hadn’t fallen victim to the knives of the two cult assasins left in Cape Town who had subsequently joined the Princess Louise as crew, and lain in wait for him on two separate moonless nights as they’d sailed up the west coast of Africa.

Luckily, the cultists had a superstitious aversion to firearms. Both assassins were now feeding the fishes, but Del suspected they’d merely been scouts, sent to do what they could if they could.

The Black Cobra itself lay ahead of him, coiled between him and his goal.

Wherever that proved to be.

Gripping the railing of the bridge deck, which, as a senior company officer—albeit resigned—he’d been given the freedom, he looked down at the main deck, to where his household staff—Mustaf, his general factotum, tall and thin, Amaya, Mustaf’s short, rotund wife who served as Del’s housekeeper, and Alia, their niece and maid-of-all-work—sat on their piled bags, ready to disembark the instant Cobby gave the signal.

Cobby himself, the only Englishman in Del’s employ, short of stature, wiry, quick and canny, and cocky as only a cockney lad could be, stood by the main railing at the point where the gangplank would be rolled out, chatting amiably with some sailors. Cobby would be first among the passengers to disembark. He would scout the immediate area, then, if all was clear, signal Mustaf to bring the women down.

Del would bring up the rear, then, once they’d assembled on the dock, lead the way directly up the High Street to the Dolphin Inn.

As luck would have it, Wolverstone had nominated the inn Del habitually used when passing through Southampton. He hadn’t, however, been there for years, not since he’d set sail for India in late ’15, just over seven years ago.

It felt like more.

He was quite certain he’d aged more than seven years, and the last nine months, while they’d been hunting the Black Cobra, had been the most draining. He almost felt old.

Every time he thought of James MacFarlane, he felt helpless.

Seeing more scurrying below, hearing the change in the bosun’s orders, feeling the slight bump as the padding slung along the ship’s side met the dock, Del shook off all thoughts of the past and determinedly fixed his mind on the immediate future.

Sailors leapt down to the dock, hauling thick ropes to the capstans to secure the ship. Hearing the heavy rattle and splash as the anchor went down, then the squealing scrape as the railing was opened and the gangplank angled out, Del headed for the companionway to the main deck.

He swung off it in time to see Cobby scamper down the gangplank.

Reconnaissance, in this instance, wasn’t simply a matter of scanning for those with dark skins. Southampton was one of the busiest ports in the world, and there were countless Indians and men of other dark-skinned races among the crews. But Cobby knew what to look for—the furtiveness, the attention locked on Del while attempting to remain inconspicuous. If there were cultists waiting to strike, Del was confident Cobby would spot them.

Yet it was more likely the cultists would watch and wait—they preferred to strike in less populated surrounds where escape after the event was more assured.

Del strolled to stand with Mustaf, Amaya and Alia. Mustaf nodded, then went back to scanning the crowd; he’d been a sowar—a cavalryman—until a knee injury had seen him pensioned off. The knee didn’t discompose him in other ways; he was still a good man in a fight.

Alia bobbed her head, then resumed casting shy glances at the young sailors who rushed back and forth along the deck.

Amaya looked up at Del with liquid brown eyes. “It is very very cold here, Colonel-sahib. Colder than my cousin’s house in Simla in the winter. I am being very very glad I was buying these shawls from Kashmir. They are just the thing.”

Del smiled. Both Amaya and Alia were well wrapped in the thick woolen shawls. “When we stop at a big town, we’ll have to get you some English coats. And gloves, too. They’ll help keep out the wind.”

“Ai, yes—the wind, it is like a knife. I am understanding that saying now.” Amaya nodded, plump hands folded in her lap, thin gold bangles on her wrists peeking from beneath the edge of one shawl.

Despite her sweet face and matronly disposition, Amaya was quick-witted and observant. As for Alia, she would instantly obey any order from her uncle, aunt, Del or Cobby. When necessary, the small group operated as a unit; Del wasn’t overly worried over having Amaya and Alia with them, even on the upcoming, more dangerous leg of their journey.

Regardless, knowing the Black Cobra cultists’ vindictiveness, he wouldn’t take the chance of leaving the women anywhere, even with Mustaf to guard them. To strike at him, the Black Cobra was perfectly capable of wiping out his household, simply to inspire fear, and to demonstrate his power.

Human life had long ago lost all meaning for the Black Cobra.

A shrill whistle pulled Del’s attention back to the dock. Cobby caught his eye, snapped a jaunty salute. All clear.

“Come.” Del took Amaya’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go down and head for our inn.”

Cobby had commandeered a man with a wooden cart. Del waited with the women while their luggage was ferried down the gangplank and loaded in the cart, then he set off, leading the way off the dock and straight up High Street. The Dolphin wasn’t far; Mustaf followed with the women close behind, with Cobby bringing up the rear, ambling alongside the carter, eyes constantly shifting this way and that as he chatted.

As Del walked up the street, he found his gaze drawn downward—to the cobbles that covered the ground, to the first steps he was taking on English soil after so many years away.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. An odd sense of peace, perhaps because he knew this time his travels were over, a sense of anticipation over what his new and as yet unstructured future might hold, all tinged with a healthy dose of apprehension over what lay between this moment and being able to get started on shaping his new life.

Their mission to bring the Black Cobra to justice.

He was in it now. There was no going back, only forward. Ahead, through whatever fire the opposition might send his way.

Raising his head, he filled his lungs, looked about. It felt exactly like the moment after the charge began.

The Dolphin was a town landmark. It had stood for centuries and been refurbished several times; it currently sported two wide bow windows fronting the street, the solid front door in between.

Del glanced back along the street. He couldn’t see any likely cultists, but there were plenty of people, carts, and the odd carriage thronging the cobbled thoroughfare—plenty of cover for anyone watching.

They would be watching.

Reaching the inn, he opened the door and went inside.

Securing suitable rooms was no difficulty; his years in India had left him very wealthy and he wasn’t of a mind to stint either himself or his small household. The innkeeper, Bowden, a solidly built ex-sailor, responded appropriately, cheerily welcoming him to the town and summoning lads to help with the luggage as the others joined Del in the foyer.

With the rooms organized and their bags dispatched, and the women, Mustaf and Cobby following the luggage up the stairs, Bowden turned to Del. “Just remembered. I’ve two letters waiting for you.”

Del turned back to the counter, brows rising.

Reaching beneath it, Bowden produced two missives. “The first—this one—came on the mail coach nearly four weeks ago. The other was left last evening by a gentleman. He and another gentleman have looked in every day for the last week or so, asking after you.”

Wolverstone’s escorts. “Thank you.” Del accepted the letters. It was midafternoon, and the inn’s public rooms were quiet. He sent an easy smile Bowden’s way. “If anyone should ask for me, I’ll be in the tap.”

“Of course, sir. Nice and quiet it is in there at present. Just ring the bell on the bar if you need anything.”

With a nod, Del sauntered into the dining room and through an archway into the tap, a cozy room toward the back of the inn. There were a few patrons, all older men, gathered about small tables. He went to a table in the corner where the light from the rear window would allow him to read.

Sitting, he examined the two missives, then opened the one from the mystery gentleman.

The lines within were few and to the point, informing him that Tony Blake, Viscount Torrington, and Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, were holding themselves ready to escort him further on his mission. They were quartered nearby and would continue to call at the inn every evening to check for his arrival.

Reassured that he would be moving forward, in action again soon, he refolded the letter, tucked it inside his coat, then, mildly intrigued, opened the second missive. He’d recognized the handwriting, and assumed his aunts had written to welcome him home, and to ask and be reassured that he was, indeed, heading up to Humberside, to the house at Middleton on the Wolds that he’d inherited from his father, and that remained their home.

As he unfolded the two pages, crossed and recrossed in his elder aunt’s spidery script, he was already composing his reply—a brief note to let them know that he had landed and was on his way north, but that business dealings on the way might delay him for a week or so.

Reading his aunt’s salutation, followed by an enthusiastic, even effusive, welcome, he smiled and read on.

He wasn’t smiling by the time he reached the end of the first page. Laying it aside, he deciphered the rest, then tossed the second sheet on the first and quietly, but comprehensively, swore.

After staring at the sheets for several minutes, he gathered them up, rose and, stuffing the sheets in his pocket, made his way back to the inn’s foyer.

Bowden heard his footsteps and came out from his office behind the counter. “Yes, Colonel?”

“I understand a young lady, a Miss Duncannon, was due to arrive here some weeks ago?”

Bowden smiled brightly. “Yes, indeed, sir. I’d forgotten—she asked after you, too.”

“Indeed. I take it she’s left and headed north?”

“Oh, no, sir. Her ship was delayed, too. She didn’t get in until last week. Quite relieved, she was, to learn you’d been delayed, too. She’s still here, waiting on your arrival.”

“Ah. I see.” Del suppressed a grimace and started making plans. “Perhaps if you could send word to her room that I’ve arrived, and would appreciate a moment of her time?”

Bowden shook his head. “No use at present—she’s out, and she’s taken her maid with her. But I can tell her as soon as she comes in.”

Del nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is there a private parlor I might hire?” Somewhere where he and his unexpected burden could discuss her onward journey.

“I’m sorry, sir, but all our parlors are presently taken.” Bowden paused, then said, “But it’s Miss Duncannon herself as has the front parlor—perhaps, seeing she’s waiting to see you, you might wait for her in there?”

“An excellent notion,” Del responded dryly. “And I’ll need to hire a carriage.”

But again Bowden shook his head. “I’d like to oblige, Colonel, but this close to Christmas all our carriages are spoken for. Miss Duncannon herself took the last of our post chaises.”

“Fortuitous,” Del murmured. “I was wanting the carriage for her.”

“Well, then.” Bowden grinned. “All’s well.”

“Indeed.” Del pointed to the room to the right of the foyer. “The front parlor?”

“Aye, sir. Go right in.”

Del did, shutting the door behind him.

With white plaster walls and heavy timber beams crossing the ceiling, the parlor was neither overlarge nor cramped, and boasted one of the wide bow windows looking out on the street. The furniture was heavy, but comfortable, the pair of chintz-covered armchairs well-supplied with plump cushions. A highly polished round table with four chairs stood in the middle of the room, a large lamp at its center, while a crackling fire sparked and flared in the grate, throwing welcome heat into the room.

Gravitating toward the hearth, Del noticed the three watercolors above the mantelpiece. They were landscapes depicting green pastures and meadows, lush fields and richly canopied trees beneath pastel blue skies with fluffy white clouds. The one in the middle, of rolling heathland, a vibrant patchwork of greens, caught his eye. He hadn’t laid eyes on such landscapes for seven long years; it seemed odd to gain his first sense of home via pictures on a wall.

Glancing down, he drew out the letter from his aunts; standing before the fire, he scanned it anew, searching for some insight into why the devil they’d thought to saddle him with the duty of escorting a young gentlewoman, daughter of a neighboring landowner, home to Humberside.

His best guess was that his doting aunts had some idea of playing matchmaker.

They were going to be disappointed. There was no place for a young lady in his train, not while he was a decoy for the Black Cobra.

He’d been disappointed when he’d opened the scroll he’d selected and discovered he hadn’t picked the original letter. Nevertheless, as Wolverstone had made clear, the missions of the three decoys would be vital in drawing out the Black Cobra’s men, and ultimately the Black Cobra himself.

They needed to lure him into striking, and for that they needed to reduce his cultists sufficiently to force him to act in person.

Not an easy task, yet by any reasonable estimation it should be within their collective ability. As a decoy, his role would be to deliberately make himself a target, and he didn’t want any extraneous young lady hanging on his arm while he was so engaged.

A tap on the door had him hesitating, then he called, “Come.”

It was Cobby.

“Thought you’d want to know.” Hand on the knob, his batman hovered by the door he’d closed. “I ducked back down the docks and asked around. Ferrar arrived over a week ago. Interesting thing is he had no bevy of natives with him—seems there was no room left on the frigate for more than him and his man.”

Del raised his brows. “Definitely interesting, but no doubt he’ll have had cultists coming in on other ships.”

Cobby nodded. “So you’d think. But it does mean he won’t necessarily have all that many just at present. Might have to resort to doing his own dirty work.” Cobby grinned malevolently. “Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

Del smiled. “We can but hope.”

He nodded a dismissal and Cobby left, closing the door behind him.

Del glanced at the clock ticking on a sideboard. It was already after three, and what daylight there was would soon fade. He fell to pacing slowly before the fire, rehearsing suitable words with which to break the news to Miss Duncannon that, contrary to his aunts’ arrangements, she would be heading north alone.

It was well after four o’clock, and he’d grown increasingly impatient, before a feminine voice in the foyer, well modulated yet with an unmistakably haughty tone, heralded the return of Miss Duncannon.

Even as Del focused on the parlor door, the knob turned and the door swung inward. Bowden held it open to permit a lady—not so young—in a garnet red pelisse, her dark auburn hair swept up and tucked under a jaunty hat, who was juggling a plethora of bandboxes and packages to enter.

She swept in, her face alight, a smile curving lush red lips, as Bowden hurriedly said, “I believe this is the gentleman you’ve been waiting for, miss.”

Miss Duncannon abruptly halted. Animation leaching from her face, she looked across the room and saw him. After a moment, her gaze slowly meandered upward, until it reached his face.

Then she simply stared.

Clearing his throat, Bowden retreated, closing the door behind her. She blinked, stared again, then baldly asked, “You’re Colonel Delborough?”

Del bit his tongue against an impulse to respond, “You’re Miss Duncannon?” Just one look, and his vision of a biddable young miss had evaporated; the lady was in her late twenties if she was a day.

And given the vision filling his eyes, why she was still a miss was beyond his comprehension.

She was…lush was the word that sprang to his mind. Taller than the average, she was built on stately, even queenly, lines, ripely curvaceous in all the right places. Even from across the room, he could tell her eyes were green; large, faintly slanting up at the outer corners, they were vibrantly alive, awake and aware, alert to all that went on around her.

Her features were elegant, refined, her lips full and ripe, elementally tempting, but the firmness of her chin suggested determination, backbone and a forthrightness beyond the norm.

Duly noting that last, he bowed. “Indeed—Colonel Derek Delborough.” Sadly, not at your service. Quashing the wayward thought, he smoothly continued, “I believe your parents made some arrangement with my aunts for me to act as escort on your journey north. Sadly, that’s not possible—I have business to attend to before I can return to Humberside.”

Deliah Duncannon blinked, with an effort dragged her senses from their preoccupation with shoulders and a wide chest which should by all rights have been encased in a uniform, replayed his words, then abruptly shook her head. “No.”

Moving further into the room, she set her boxes and bags on the table, distractedly wondering whether a uniform would have increased his impact, or lessened it. There was something anomalous in his appearance, as if the elegant civilian garb was a disguise. If the intention had been to screen his innately vigorous, even dangerous physique, the ploy had failed miserably.

Freeing her hands, she reached up to extract the long pin securing her hat. “I’m afraid, Colonel Delborough, that I must insist. I’ve been waiting for the better part of a week for you to arrive, and I really cannot journey on without a suitable escort.” Setting her hat on the table, she swung to face the recalcitrant ex-colonel—significantly younger and immeasurably more virile than she’d envisioned him. Than she’d been led to expect. “It’s quite unthinkable.”

Regardless of his age, his virility, or his propensity to argue, for her, it was, but the last thing she intended to do was explain.

His lips—mobile and distractingly masculine—firmed. “Miss Duncannon—”

“I expect you’re imagining that it will simply be a matter of bundling me into a carriage with my maid and household, and pointing north.” Pausing in the act of removing her leather gloves, she glanced at him and caught a telltale twist of those disturbing lips; that had, indeed, been precisely what he’d planned. “I have to inform you that that’s very definitely not the case.”

Dropping her gloves on the table behind her, she lifted her chin and faced him squarely—staring down her nose as well as she could given he was more than half a head taller than she. “I must insist, sir, that you honor the obligation.”

His lips were now a thin line—one she wanted to see relax and curve into a smile…what was the matter with her? Her pulse thrummed in her throat, her skin prickled with unexpected awareness, and he was still a good six feet away.

“Miss Duncannon, while regrettably my aunts overstepped their authority in seeking to oblige a neighbor, I would, in normal circumstances, do all in my power to, as you phrase it, honor the commitment they made. However, in this instance, it is entirely—”

“Colonel Delborough.” She hauled her gaze from his lips, for the first time met his gaze directly, deliberately locking her eyes on his. “Permit me to inform you that there is no reason you could advance, none whatever, that will induce me to excuse you from escorting me north.”

His eyes were dark brown, richly hued, unexpectedly intriguing, fringed with the longest, thickest lashes she’d ever seen. Those lashes were the same color as his burnished, lightly waving hair—a sable more black than brown.

“I regret, Miss Duncannon, that that is utterly impossible.”

When she set her chin, retreated not an inch, but kept her gaze meshed unwaveringly with his, Del hesitated, then, far more aware than he wished to be of her sinfully sensual mouth, stiffly added, “I’m presently on a mission, one vital to the country, and must see it to its conclusion before I’ll be free to indulge my aunts’ wishes.”

She frowned. “But you’ve resigned your commission.” Her gaze slid to his shoulders, as if confirming the absence of epaulettes.

“My mission is civilian rather than military.”

Her finely arched brows rose. Her gaze returning to his face, she considered him for an instant, then, in a deceptively mild—sarcastically challenging—tone, said, “So what do you suggest, sir? That I wait here, at your convenience, until you are free to escort me north?”

“No.” He struggled not to clench his teeth; his jaw was already tight. “I would respectfully suggest that, in the circumstances, and at this present season with much less traffic on the highways, it would be perfectly acceptable for you to head north with your maid—and I believe you mentioned a household? As you’ve already ordered a carriage—”

Her green eyes flashed. “With all due respect, Colonel, you are talking through your hat!” Belligerent, determined, she stepped forward, face tipping up as if she intended to go nose-to-nose with him. “The notion of me traveling north, in this season or any other, with no suitable gentleman arranged and accepted by my parents as escort, is quite simply ineligible. Unacceptable. Absolutely ‘not done.’”

She’d come so close that a wave of tempting warmth slid over the front of him, cascading down to heat his groin. So long had it been since he’d experienced such an explicit reaction he was, for just an instant, distracted enough to simply stand and enjoy it, drink it in….

Her gaze abruptly shifted to his left. She was tall enough to see over his shoulder. He saw her focus, saw her gorgeous jade-green eyes widen—then flare.

“Good God!”

She seized his lapels and dragged him, hauled him, tumbled him down to the floor.

For one crazed instant, his brain interpreted her actions as lust gone wild—then the reverberating explosion and the tinkle of shattered glass raining down upon them jerked his wits back to reality.

She had never left it. Trapped half beneath him, she wriggled and squirmed to get free, her horrified gaze locked on the shattered pane.

Slamming a mental door on the effect of her curvaceous form bucking beneath him, he gritted his teeth and pushed back to his knees. After a quick glance out of the window at the stunned crowd milling in the darkened street, he got to his feet, and was assisting her to hers when the door slammed open.

Mustaf stood in the doorway, saber in his hand. Cobby stood beside him, a cocked pistol in his. Beyond them towered another Indian, swarthy and tall—Del stiffened instinctively. He started to step in front of Miss Duncannon, only to have her hand on his arm hold him back.

“I’m quite all right, Kumulay.” Her small, warm hand still resting on Del’s bicep, she looked up at him. “It wasn’t me the man was trying to kill.”

Del met her eyes. They were still wide, her pupils dilated, but she was utterly in control.

A hundred thoughts churned through his head. Every instinct screamed “Chase!” but this time that wasn’t his role. He looked back at Cobby, who had lowered his gun. “Get ready to leave immediately.”

Cobby nodded. “I’ll get the others.” He and Mustaf drew back.

The other man—Kumulay—remained in the open doorway, his impassive gaze locked on his mistress.

Del glanced at her. Met the green shards trained on his face.

“You are not leaving without me.” Each word was carefully enunciated.

He hesitated, giving his mind one more chance to come up with an alternative, then, jaw set, nodded. “Very well. Be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Finally!” More than two hours later, Del shut the door of the post chaise Miss Duncannon had been farsighted enough to hire, and dropped onto the seat beside his unlooked-for charge.

Her maid, Bess, an Englishwoman, sat in the corner on her other side. Along the seat opposite, in a colorful array of saris and woollen shawls, sat Amaya, Alia and another older Indian woman and two young girls, the latter three all members of Miss Duncannon’s household.

Why she had a largely Indian household he had yet to learn.

The carriage rocked into motion, rolling ponderously up the High Street. As the vehicle tacked around Bargate, then headed on toward the London road, Del wondered, not for the first time over the last two and more hours, what had possessed him to agree to Miss Duncannon traveling on with him.

Unfortunately, he knew the answer, and it was one that left him with no other possible course. She’d seen the man who’d shot at him—which meant the man had almost certainly seen her.

Given cultists rarely, if ever, used firearms, that man was most likely Larkins, Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman and his master’s most trusted aide, or Ferrar himself. Del’s money was on Larkins.

Although Cobby had questioned all those who’d been standing in the street, still stunned and exclaiming over the shooting, no one had seen the man with the gun well enough to describe, let alone identify. All they’d learned was that, as expected, he’d been fair-skinned.

That the Black Cobra had struck so immediately and decisively had been a surprise, but on reflection, were he in Ferrar’s shoes, Del might have mounted a similar preemptive gambit. If he’d been killed, the ensuing chaos might have proved sufficient for Ferrar to gain access to his room and baggage, and the scroll-holder. It wouldn’t have played out that way, but Ferrar didn’t know that. Regardless, Del was perfectly sure that if it hadn’t been for Miss Duncannon’s quick thinking—and actions—he would very likely be dead.

It was nearing seven o’clock. The night was dark, the moon cocooned in thick clouds. The carriage lamps beamed through the chill darkness as the four horses reached the macadam of the highway and lengthened their stride.

Del thought of the rest of their combined households, traveling with the bulk of their luggage in two open wagons, all Cobby had been able to hire at such short notice.

At least they were away, on the move.

And they knew that Larkins, and presumably therefore Ferrar, were close, and chasing him. The enemy had broken cover and engaged.

“I can’t understand,” Deliah said, “why you insisted nothing be said to the authorities.” She spoke quietly, her voice sliding beneath the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves; she had no wish to communicate her dissatisfaction to anyone other than the man beside her. “Bowden said you paid for the windowpane but insisted nothing more be made of the incident.” She waited an instant, then demanded, “Why?”

She didn’t turn to look at him. The interior of the carriage was a sea of shifting shadows; she couldn’t see well enough to read anything from his face—and she’d already realized that only showed what he wanted it to.

Silence stretched, but she waited.

Eventually, he murmured, “The attack was linked to my mission. Can you describe the man with the pistol? It would help.”

The vision she’d seen through the window was etched in her mind. “He was somewhat above average height, wearing a dark coat—nothing all that fashionable, but decent quality. He had on a dark hat, but I could see his hair was close-cropped. Beyond that…I really didn’t have time to note every detail.” She let a moment tick past, then asked, “Do you know who he was?”

“He sounds like one of the men linked with my mission.”

“Your ‘mission,’ whatever it might be, doesn’t explain why you refused to alert the authorities to the action of a felon—any more than it explains why we’re racing away in the dead of night, as if we’d taken fright.” She didn’t know much about Colonel Derek Delborough, but he didn’t seem the sort to cut and run.

He answered in a bored, superior tone. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Humph.” She frowned, disinclined to let him stop talking. His voice was deep, assured, his accents—those of a man accustomed to command—strangely soothing, and after the excitement of the shooting, she was still on edge. Her nerves were still jangling. She grimaced. “Even if you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, you might at least—”

Del transferred his gaze to the unrelieved darkness outside. He’d glanced at her, seen her grimace, seen her lips pout…and felt a nearly overwhelming urge to shut her up.

By sealing those pouting lips with his.

And finding out how soft they were, and what she tasted like.

Tart, or sweet? Or both?

Quite aside from the audience lined up on the opposite seat, he felt reasonably certain any such action would result in him receiving at least one boxed ear. Probably two. Yet having her sitting beside him, her hip less than an inch from his, her shoulder lightly brushing his arm with every rocking motion of the carriage, the warmth of her bathing his side, was a temptation to which his body was shamelessly responding.

The search for the Black Cobra had consumed him for months; he hadn’t spared the time to dally with any woman—and it had been far longer since he’d been with an Englishwoman, and never with a termagant of Miss Duncannon’s ilk.

None of which explained why he was suddenly so attracted to a harridan with lips for which the most experienced courtesans would trade their souls.

He blotted out her voice, her insistent, persistent prodding, focused instead on the heavy rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Leaving Southampton with all speed had been what he’d had to do, no matter how much it had gone against his grain. If he’d been carrying the original letter, then the necessity of keeping it out of Ferrar’s clutches would have trumped any inclination to give chase.

If he’d stood and fought—tried to hunt down Larkins, even dallied to set the Watch on Ferrar’s trail—Ferrar would have guessed that he wasn’t all that concerned with the contents of the scroll-holder he carried. And then Ferrar would have shifted his attention, and that of his cultists, from Del to one of the others.

Were the others ahead of him, or were they yet to land in England?

With luck Torrington and Crowhurst would know. He’d left a short note for them with Bowden.

Given the hour, and the falling temperatures, and that more than half their number were traveling exposed, they couldn’t go far. For tonight, Winchester was his goal.

He prayed he’d be able to resist the impulses provoked by the feminine muttering from beside him long enough for them to reach it.

The Swan Inn in Southgate Street proved sufficient for their needs.

Miss Duncannon predictably grumbled when he refused to stop at the larger Pelican Hotel. “There’s so many of us to accommodate—they’re more likely to have room.”

“The Pelican is largely timber and lathe.”

“So?”

“I have an unreasoning fear of waking to a house in flames.” The Black Cobra’s men had been known to use fire to flush out those they were chasing, without the slightest thought for any others who might get caught in the ensuing blaze. Climbing out of the carriage in the yard of the Swan, Del considered the inn, then turned to hand his burden down. “The Swan, however, is built of stone.”

Taking his hand, she stepped down, paused to look at the inn, then, expressionless, looked at him. “Stone walls in winter.”

He glanced up at the roof, to where multiple chimneys chuffed smoke. “Fires.”

She sniffed, lifted her skirts, climbed the steps to the porch and led the way through the door the innkeeper was holding wide, bobbing and bowing as they passed.

Before Del could take charge, she did, sweeping to the inn’s counter and stripping off her gloves. “Good evening.” The innkeeper scurried around the counter to attend her. “We need rooms for us all—one large chamber for me, another for the colonel, four smaller rooms for my staff and two more for his staff, and the colonel’s parlor maid can room with my lady’s maid—that’s wiser, I think. Now, we’ll all want dinner—I know it’s late, but—”

Del halted just behind her—she knew he was there—and listened to her rattle off orders, directions and instructions, more or less without pause. He could have stepped in and taken over—he’d intended to—but as she was making such an excellent fist of organizing their combined party, there seemed little point.

By the time the luggage had been unloaded and ferried inside, the innkeeper had sorted out their rooms, arranged for a private parlor to be prepared for them, and sent orders to the kitchen for their meals. Del stood back and watched a round-eyed maid lead his charge upstairs to her chamber, then he turned to the innkeeper. “I need to hire two more carriages.”

“Of course, sir. Dreadfully cold already, and they say there’s worse to come. I don’t have any carriages free myself, but I know the stableman at the Pelican—he’ll oblige me, and I’m sure he’ll have two he can let you have.”

Del raised his eyes to the top of the stairs—and met Miss Duncannon’s direct green gaze. She said nothing, however, but with a faint lift of her brows, continued on into the gallery. “Thank you.” Returning his gaze to the innkeeper, he arranged for the members of his household and hers to be given whatever they wished from the tap, then left the now deserted foyer to climb the stairs to his room.

Half an hour later, washed and brushed, he was in the private parlor when Miss Duncannon entered. Two maids had just finished setting a small table for two before the fire; they retreated with bobbed curtsies. Del strolled to hold a chair for his charge.

She’d removed her pelisse, revealing a garnet-red gown trimmed with silk ribbon of the same hue, over which she’d draped a finely patterned silk shawl.

Sitting, she inclined her head. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Strolling to his chair on the other side of the table, Del murmured, “Del.” When she raised her brows, he explained, “Most people I know call me Del.”

“I see.” She considered him as he sat and shook out his napkin. “As we’re apparently to be in each other’s company for some time, it would be appropriate, I suppose, to make you free of my name. It’s Deliah—not Delilah. Deliah.”

He smiled, inclined his head. “Deliah.”

Deliah struggled not to stare, struggled to keep her suddenly witless mind functioning. That was the first time he’d smiled at her—and she definitely didn’t need the additional distraction. He was ridiculously handsome when serious and sober; when his lips softened and curved, he was seduction personified.

She, better than anyone, knew how dangerous such men were—especially to her.

The door opened and the maids reappeared, ferrying a soup tureen and a basket of bread.

She nodded her approval and the maids served. Deliah eyed the soup with something akin to gratitude, inwardly congratulating herself for having ordered it. One didn’t need to converse while consuming soup. That would give her just a little more time to whip her unruly senses into line.

“Thank you.” With a nod for the retreating maids, she picked up her spoon and supped.

He reached for the bread basket, offered it.

“No, thank you.”

He smiled again—damn him!—and helped himself; she looked down at her soup and kept her gaze on her plate.

It had taken her all of the short journey, and most of the half hour she’d spent out of his sight, to untangle the skein of emotions besetting her. She’d initially attributed her skittering nerves and breathless state to the shock of finding herself looking down the barrel of a pistol, even if the gun hadn’t been pointed at her.

The shot, the subsequent flurry, the rush to leave, the unexpected journey during which he’d remained stubbornly uncommunicative over his mysterious mission—the mission that had led to him being shot at—were all circumstances that might naturally be considered to have contributed to her overwrought state.

Except she’d never been the sort to allow circumstances—no matter how dire or unexpected—to overset her.

In the quiet of her chamber, she’d finally unravelled her feelings sufficiently to lay the truth bare—it had been that moment when she’d found herself on the wooden floor with his hard body covering hers that was the root of her problem. The source of her skittishness.

If she thought of it, she could still feel the sensations—of his weight pinning her, hard muscles and heavy bones trapping her beneath him, his long legs tangling with hers, his heat—then the searing instant of…whatever it had been that had afflicted her. Hot, intense, enough to make her squirm.

Enough to make her treacherous body yearn.

But she didn’t think he knew. She glanced at him as he laid down his spoon.

He caught her eye. “I should thank you for taking charge of the domestic organization.”

She shrugged. “I’m accustomed to managing my uncle’s household. It’s what I’ve been doing in my years away.”

“Jamaica, I believe my aunt wrote. What took you there?”

Setting down her spoon, she leaned her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers and viewing him over them. “Originally I went out to visit my uncle, Sir Harold Duncannon. He’s the Chief Magistrate of Jamaica. I found the climate and the colony to my liking, so I stayed. As time passed, I took charge of his household.”

“Your servants are Indian—are there many Indians in Jamaica?”

“These days, yes. After the slave ships stopped, many Indian and Chinese workers were brought in. All my staff were originally with my uncle’s household, but over the years became more mine than his, so I gave them the choice of staying in Jamaica or coming to England with me.”

“And they chose England.” Del broke off as the maids reappeared. While they cleared the first course and laid out platters of succulent roast beef, roast potatoes and pumpkin, ham, and a jug of rich gravy, he had time to consider what her staff’s loyalty said of Miss Deliah—not Delilah—Duncannon.

“Thank you.” She nodded graciously to the maids, and they departed. Before he could frame his next question, she fixed her gaze on him. “You, I gather, have been with the East India Company for some time.”

He nodded, picking up the serving fork. “I’ve been in India for the past seven years. Before that, it was Waterloo, and before that, the Peninsula.”

“Quite a lengthy service—am I to take it you’re retiring permanently?”

“Yes.” They served themselves, and settled to eat.

Five minutes passed, then she said, “Tell me about India. Was the campaigning there the same as in Europe? Massed battles, army against army?”

“At first.” When he glanced up and saw her plainly waiting for more, he elaborated, “Over the first years I was there, we were extending territory—annexing areas for trade, as the company describes it. More or less routine campaigning. Later, however, it became more a case of…I suppose you could say keeping the peace. Keeping the unruly elements in check to protect the trade routes—that sort of thing. Not really campaigning, no battles as such.”

“And this mission of yours?”

“Is something that grew out of the peacekeeping, as it were.”

“Being something more civilian than military?”

He held her gaze. “Indeed.”

“I see. And will pursuing your mission necessitate you leaving me behind at some point well south of Humberside?”

He sat back. “No.”

She arched her brows. “You seem to have experienced a quite dramatic change of heart regarding my presence consequent on you being shot at. I’m not sure I see the connection.”

“Regardless, you see me resigned to your company—I’m waiting on confirmation of our exact route, but I believe we’ll need to spend a few days, perhaps a week, in London.”

“London?”

He’d hoped she’d be distracted with thoughts of shopping—she had been out of the country for years, after all—but from the calculation in her eyes, he could tell she was trying to see what going to London told her of his mission.

“Incidentally,” he said, “why Jamaica?”

After a moment, she shrugged. “I was in need of new horizons and the connection was there.”

“How long ago did you leave England?”

“In ’15. As a colonel, were you in charge of a…what? Squadron of men?”

“No.” Again she waited, open curiosity coloring her eyes and her expression, until he added, “In India, I commanded a group of elite officers, each of whom could take command of company troops and deal with the constant small insurrections and disturbances that are always blowing up in the subcontinent. But tell me, was there much of a social circle in…Kingston, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes, Kingston. And yes, there was the usual social circle of expatriates, much like any colony, I expect. How was India in that regard?”

“I was stationed mostly in Calcutta—the company headquarters are there. There were always balls and parties in the so-called season, but not so much of the matchmaking one finds at Almack’s and the like.”

“Indeed? I would have thought—”

They continued to trade question and answer as they progressed through the courses. Del tried to ascertain why she’d felt the need for “new horizons” while avoiding falling into the conversational pits she dug and revealing more than she needed to know about his mission.

He might have to take her with him to ensure her safety, but he intended to do all in his power to keep her ignorant of and entirely separate from his mission, and as far as possible out of the Black Cobra’s sight.

It was only after they’d risen from the table and together walked out of the parlor and up the stairs that he realized he’d spent an entire evening alone with an unmarried lady, doing nothing more than talking, and he hadn’t even thought of being bored.

Which he usually was. Thus far in his life, women, even ladies, had fulfilled one and only one role; he’d had very little interest in them outside that sphere. Yet although he’d focused on Deliah’s luscious lips far too often for his comfort, he’d been too engaged in their mutual interrogation—her quick wits had ensured he’d had to keep his own about him—to dwell on her sexual potential, much less act on an attraction that, he was surprised to discover, had not just survived the last hours but had, if anything, grown.

She paused outside the door of the chamber next to his and glanced up at him. Her lips curved lightly—a genuine smile tinged with a hint of appreciation and a soupçon of challenge. “Good night…Del.”

He forced his lips into an easy smile. Inclined his head. “Deliah.”

Her smile fractionally deepened, but her tone was entirely innocent when she added, “Sleep well.”

Del stood in the shadowed corridor and watched the chamber door close behind her, then he slowly walked the few paces to his own, reasonably certain that her last wish was very unlikely to be granted.

Two

December 12
The Swan Inn, Winchester

Del was woken from a slumber every bit as restless as he’d predicted by Cobby rattling the bed curtains.

“It’s morning, believe it or not. Gray as the grave, and equally cold. Whatever passes for sun these days it’s not up yet, but there’s two gentlemen downstairs waiting to see you—Torrington and Crowhurst.”

Del grunted. He pushed back the covers and rose, stretched, suppressing a shiver at the chill in the air. “Tell them I’ll be down directly.”

“Aye, sir.”

Del washed, quickly shaved, then dressed in the clothes Cobby had left warming by the fire. A quick glance out of the window showed a drear landscape bathed in pearl-gray light. No snow had yet fallen, and it wasn’t raining. Good enough weather for traveling.

Downstairs, he passed Cobby in the foyer.

“In the parlor, they are. Thought I’d get breakfast served, seeing you were on your way.”

With a nod, Del strolled on, opened the parlor door, and walked in to find two large gentlemen enthusiastically addressing plates piled with ham and sausages. Both looked up, smiled, and rose as he approached.

Both must have been in the Guards at some point—there was a certain set to their shoulders, a similarity in their long, tall frames.

The dark-haired, black-eyed one held out his hand with a smiling nod. “Delborough, I take it. I’m Torrington.”

Del shook hands.

“Gervase Tregarth.” The second man, with amber eyes and curly brown hair, likewise offered his hand. “Also known as Crowhurst.”

Del smiled. “Call me Del.” He took a seat facing them, his gaze lowering to the platters. “I haven’t had a real English breakfast in over seven years. Is it any good?”

“Excellent.” Torrington picked up his fork. “Very good ham. I’m Tony, by the way—Tony Blake.”

“Blake.” Del helped himself to the ham and three sausages. “There was a Blake behind enemy lines after Corunna.”

“That was me. Old days long gone. Not much call for those sort of larks these days, not for any of us.”

“Which,” Gervase said, reaching for the coffeepot, “is why you’ll find us all very grateful for this chance to get back into some action, no matter how briefly. Civilian life has its challenges, but they aren’t quite the same.”

Just those few exchanges put Del entirely at ease; men like these he understood, because they thought like him.

“We heard,” Tony said around a mouthful of ham, “that you had a spot of bother at the Dolphin.”

“Indeed—it seems the Black Cobra is aware I’m here, and ready, even eager, to engage.”

“Excellent.” Gervase grinned. “Reassuring to know the action’s already underway.”

“So,” Del said, “what word do you have from Wolverstone?”

“Who,” Tony informed him, “is likewise grateful, but, as usual, is keeping his cards exceedingly close to his chest. We’re to head into London, and spend a few days making noise and seeing what cult forces we can draw out. Royce has left the timing to us, but once we feel we’ve done all we can in the capital, we’re to head to Cambridgeshire, to a house called Somersham Place.”

“I know it,” Del said. “Devil Cynster’s home.”

“Where,” Gervase said, “Cynster will be waiting with a crew of other Cynsters. The idea is to lure the Black Cobra to strike at you while there—no reason the cult would know how many ex-Guardsmen are in the house.”

Del chewed, nodded. “So it’ll be an ambush of sorts.”

“Exactly.” Tony refilled his coffee cup, and sat back.

Del arched a brow at them both. “Do you know if any of the others have reached England?”

Tony shook his head.

“I sent word last night to Royce that you’d landed,” Gervase said, “and that we’ll proceed as planned. As far as we’ve heard, you’re the first home.”

Del hesitated, then said, “About proceeding as planned, we have a slight complication—an unexpected addition to our group.” He told them of Miss Deliah Duncannon, and briefly explained why he hadn’t been able to leave her behind.

Tony winced. “Last thing we need, to have to act as nursemaid to a sweet young thing all the way through London and into Cambridgeshire.”

“At least we’ll be able to hand her over to the Cynster ladies once there,” Gervase said.

Del tried to imagine Deliah Duncannon being “handed over.” Or nursemaided. Couldn’t.

He was searching for words with which to correct their misapprehension that Deliah was “a sweet young thing” when Tony continued, “Still, I suppose it’ll just be a matter of leaving her with her maid and your people, well out of the action.” Setting down his empty cup, Tony reached for the coffeepot. “As we should get on the road in the next hour or so, I daresay the first step is to send a message up to this Miss Duncannon’s maid to get her mistress awake.”

“Miss Duncannon is already awake.”

The frosty words brought them to their feet as the door—which Del now realized hadn’t shut properly behind him—swung fully open to admit Deliah, ready for the day in a gray carriage dress, and transparently unimpressed.

Just how long she’d been standing outside the door was impossible to guess.

Del quickly made the introductions, which she acknowledged with a haughty air. Both Tony and Gervase bowed over her hand, endeavoring to appear cheery and charming. Del held a chair for her, while the others recommended the ham and sausages, which she waved away as a maid bustled in with fresh toast and a teapot.

“Thank you.” Deliah smiled at the maid, claimed a slice of toast, then fixed her eyes on Del’s guilty friends. “So how far do you plan to travel today?”

She’d addressed the question to Tony. He looked to Del, but she refused to follow his gaze and continued to look at him inquiringly…as she’d hoped, he felt compelled to answer.

“We should reach London late this afternoon.”

She nodded. “And then into Cambridgeshire.” When they exchanged quick glances, she added, “In time. A few days, maybe more?”

They didn’t correct her, so she nodded again, supposition confirmed. She nibbled her toast, then poured her tea and took a sip, all the while noting the telltale signs of their uncertainty over what to say to her, letting it grow. She set down her cup. “About this mission—what are the relevant details?”

All three shifted. The other two looked at Del, and didn’t look back at her. Eventually, Del said, “Our…commander, for want of a better term, isn’t one to encourage the unnecessary sharing of information.”

She raised her brows. “Indeed? And does this commander know of my existence—that I’ve unwittingly been drawn into his scheme?”

“No.”

“Then he can’t have made any decision against informing me of its details.”

Del met her limpid green gaze, held it. The others were leaving the question of her continued ignorance up to him. If she’d been a man, he would have told her and enlisted her aid. But she wasn’t a man—very definitely wasn’t—and every instinct he possessed came down firmly on the side of leaving her ignorance uninformed, unrelieved. “Be that as it may, there’s no reason for you to…”

Her tight smile was a warning. “Bother my pretty little head about it?”

Brazen, he nodded. “Something like that.” He wasn’t going to be intimidated into surrendering his position.

She held his gaze—again he had the impression they were standing toe-to-toe, certainly will-to-will, and once again found it inexplicably arousing—then she transferred her gaze to Tony. “As it appears we’ll be spending a number of days in London, where are you intending to stay?”

The sudden shift in attack caught Tony unprepared. “Ah…” He glanced at Gervase, then briefly at Del before saying, “We had thought to put up at our private club, but now…”

“I take it it’s a gentlemen’s club?” she asked.

“Of a sort, but our wives also stay there when visiting town.”

Her brows rose. “Indeed?” She appeared to consider, then shook her head. “I don’t think any private establishment will do.”

Del fully expected her to circle back to what she really wanted to know about—his mission. He cut in. “We can discuss the possibilities in the carriage.” He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We should get underway as soon as possible.”

She looked at him, then smiled. “Of course.” She set down her empty cup, laid aside her napkin. With regal grace, she rose, bringing them to their feet. She inclined her head as she turned to the door. “Gentlemen. I’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”

They stood and watched her glide to the door; she opened it, then shut it quietly behind her.

“I assume,” Gervase said, “that we’re supposed to understand that she’s not a cypher to be ignored.”

Del snorted. “More that she’s not a cypher—and will not be ignored.”

“Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”

Head back against the squabs, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest, Del supposed he should have expected the question. “Not.”

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. They’d left Winchester half an hour before, and were now bowling along the highway toward London. There was, however, a pertinent difference between their present journey and that of the evening before—today he and she were alone in the carriage. Her staff and his were following in the two carriages immediately behind, the three conveyances traveling in convoy. Gervase and Tony, the lucky sods, were on horseback, riding parallel to the road, close enough to keep watch, yet not so close that they would scare away any of the Black Cobra’s men who might be tempted to stage an attack.

Del didn’t think an attack at all likely. Even in this season, this highway was too busy, with mail coaches and all manner of private vehicles constantly bowling along in both directions. The Black Cobra cultists preferred less populated surrounds for their villainy.

“Where are the other two?”

He slitted open his eyes and saw her peering out of the carriage window.

“They said they’d ride with us, but I can’t see them.”

He closed his eyes again. “Don’t worry. They’re there.”

He felt her sharp glance.

“I’m not worried. I’m curious.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Her gaze heated to a glare; even with his eyes closed he felt it.

“Let’s see if I have this right.” Her tone was the epitome of reason and sense. “You arrive in Southampton and take rooms at an inn, then discover you’ve been elected to be my escort and promptly try to divest yourself of the responsibility. Then someone tries to shoot you, and you immediately up stakes and quit said inn—even though your people have only just settled in and it’s already evening—to rattle all of what?—ten miles?—further along the road. And by the next morning, you’ve acquired two…should I call them guards?”

His lips quirked before he stilled them.

She saw, humphed. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“No.”

“Why? I cannot see how it would hurt for me to know what it is you’re carrying—information or something more tangible—and what you want to do with it, who wants to stop you, and why.”

At that he opened his eyes, turned his head and looked at her. Met her irritated green gaze. She’d guessed so much…he set his jaw. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

Her eyes slitted, her lips thinned. “Better for whom?”

He wasn’t, when it came to it, all that sure. Facing forward, resettling his head, he murmured, “I’ll think about it.”

And closed his eyes again.

He felt the heat of her temper focus on him, but then she shifted on the seat, and blessed silence descended.

It lasted. And lasted.

Eventually he opened his eyes enough to send a careful look her way.

She was sitting in the corner of the carriage, leaning against the side, watching the fields flash past. There was a faint frown on her face, and her lips were…just slightly pouting.

Minutes ticked by, then he forced his gaze forward and closed his eyes again.

They stopped for lunch at a small country inn in the village of Windlesham. Deliah had been unimpressed when he’d refused to halt at any of the major posting inns at Camberley, but instead had directed the coachman to the much smaller—and therefore much safer—country village.

Tony and Gervase would hang back, keeping watch to see if they could spot anyone following. But as the Black Cobra had to suspect Del would make for London, he, Tony and Gervase were all of the opinion that it was more likely there would be watchers planted at vantage points along the road to report his passage to their master.

If Tony or Gervase could spot such a watcher, they might be able to follow the man back to the Black Cobra’s lair. As the game stood, any information on the Black Cobra’s forces would be welcome, while information on the Black Cobra himself would be gold.

Del climbed down from the carriage before the Windlesham Arms, and after a swift look around, handed Deliah down. She continued to grumble, which in her case was more like acerbic verbal sniping, which Del found amusing, although he was careful not to let his appreciation show.

But after the innkeeper bowed them into a pretty parlor with lace curtains and comfortable chairs, and then proceeded to serve an excellent meal, her griping ceased. By the time he escorted her back into the main tap and paused by the bar to settle the account, she was entirely appeased, and in a relatively mellow mood—not that she would admit it.

Lips curving, Del chatted to the barman while he waited for the innkeeper to tot up the damage.

The tap was half full. Rather than stand beside Del and be covertly studied by the occupants, Deliah wandered to an archway where a pair of glassed doors gave onto a small courtyard. Gently rolling lawns lay beyond; in summer, the area would, she suspected, be dotted with the trestles and benches she could see stacked to one side under a row of leafless trees.

Nearer at hand, a narrow bed ran along the wall of the inn, full of hellebores in bloom. It had been so long since she’d seen the so-called Christmas roses on impulse she opened the door and went out to admire them.

The plants were old, large, and carried many spikes of large, nodding white blooms. Some were even spotty. She bent down the better to see.

And heard a soft rush of footsteps coming up the lawn.

Straightening, she started to turn—just as a large man seized her from behind.

She screamed, struggled.

A second man tried to help the first, tried to hold her still as the first attempted to clap a hand over her mouth.

She ducked her head, jabbed an elbow back hard—into a flabby stomach. The first man gasped, then wheezed.

The second man swore and tried to haul her away from the inn as the first man’s grip faltered.

She dug in her heels, dragged in a breath, and screamed again. Wrenching one arm free, she struck wildly at the second man.

Del erupted from the inn. Kumulay and Mustaf were on his heels.

The second man swore, and fled for his life.

The first man wasn’t as fast; he was still clutching her, still wheezing. Del grabbed her free arm with one hand. His other fist flashed past her shoulder.

She heard a sickening crunch, then the large man’s grip on her eased and fell away.

Del pulled her to him, to his other side. Peering back, around him, she saw the man who’d seized her laid out unconscious on the flagstone path.

Then every man and woman who’d been in the tap came pouring out—to see, exclaim, ask questions, demand answers.

Del suddenly found himself and Deliah surrounded by a well-meaning throng. Many seemed to think Deliah would be in imminent danger of collapse, presumably from overwrought sensibilities, an assumption she seemed to find as mystifying as, and rather more irritating than, he did.

Questions, solicitude and sympathetic outrage came from all sides; it took vital minutes to calm everyone down.

Finally Del looked up and saw Mustaf and Kumulay striding back up the lawn. Mustaf shook his head, gestured with his fingers—the man had had a horse waiting.

They’d intended to grab Deliah and take her somewhere. Del’s mind supplied the where—wherever the Black Cobra or his lieutenant was waiting.

He swallowed a curse, looked for the man he’d laid out—then clamped his lips shut on an even more virulent oath.

The man had vanished.

Teeth gritted behind an entirely false smile, he tightened his hold on Deliah’s arm and started steering her through the crowd, toward the front of the inn.

Having noted the disappearance of the man, and Del’s direction, Mustaf and Kumulay went to summon the others and ready the carriages.

It was another twenty minutes before they were once again underway, and rolling out of the no-longer-so-sleepy village.

Del slumped back against the seat, finally registered the throbbing in his left hand. Lifting it, he saw he’d split the skin over one knuckle. He put the injured joint to his mouth.

Deliah noticed, frowned, then she looked ahead. Lifted her chin. After a moment, she said, “I believe your commander, whoever he is, would agree, now, that I have a right to know.”

Del grimaced. He glanced at her profile; her lips weren’t pouting—they were set in a grim line. “I don’t suppose you’d accept that those men were merely footpads—itinerants looking for an easy mark?”

“No.”

He sighed.

“If I’d known I stood in any danger of attack, I wouldn’t have gone out of that door.” She turned her head, met his eyes. “You can’t not tell me—it’s too dangerous for me not to know.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then looked ahead, filled his lungs. And told her.

Initially he gave her a carefully edited description of the Black Cobra and his mission. She seemed to sense his prevarications and refused to let them lie, verbally pulling and prodding until she’d extracted an account a great deal closer to the full picture from him.

He inwardly winced as he heard himself tell her about the manner of James MacFarlane’s death, and of the evidence he’d given his life to get to them.

“Poor boy—how utterly dreadful. Yet at least he died a true hero—I imagine that would have been important to him. And this is the evidence you and your friends are endeavoring to ensure gets into Wolverstone’s hands?”

“Yes.”

“And part of the plan is to make the Black Cobra attack, so he can be caught and thus implicated entirely independently of the evidence itself?”

“Yes.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “That’s a very good plan.”

He’d expected her to be appalled, and then horrified, frightened, even terrified by the very real threat of very real and nasty danger—something she certainly wouldn’t have missed. Yet while she’d been as appalled as he’d imagined, horror, fright and terror didn’t seem to be in her repertoire; if he’d had any real doubts that she was made of sterner stuff, her immediate focus on the salient points of his mission had slain them.

After another, longer silence, she looked at him, met his eyes. “I will, of course, help in whatever way I can—you have only to ask. As the Black Cobra clearly views me as part of your entourage, there’s no sense in attempting to keep me distanced from your mission.”

He managed to hide his reaction. He could think of any number of reasons to keep her separate from his mission, all of which made excellent sense to him, but he hadn’t attained the rank of colonel without having some idea of how to manage others—although he’d never tried his hand at managing a termagant before. “Thank you.” With an inclination of his head, he accepted her pledge of help; if he’d tried to refuse it, to quash the enthusiam burning in her green eyes, her resolve to assist would only have hardened. Instead, he could use her commitment as a subtle lever to keep her under control—to channel her contribution into safe arenas.

Speaking of which…“We still haven’t decided where to stay in London.” Brows rising, he relaxed against the seat. “Do you know of any place that might suit?”

December 12
Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street, London

“See?” Deliah stood just inside the foyer of fashionable Grillon’s Hotel, and watched Del survey the critical amenities—the single handsome staircase leading to the upper floors, the dining room to one side, the parlor to the other, and directly opposite the main entrance, the only entrance from the street, the wide counter behind which two young men stood, ready to deal with any request from guests, all under the eagle eye of an older gentleman in a uniform sporting gilt-embroidered epaulettes. In addition, there were not one but two uniformed doormen manning the portal. “It’s the perfect place for us to stay,” she murmured. “Not only is it in the heart of London, but Grillon’s reputation is based on security and propriety—they would never permit anything so gauche as an attack of any sort to occur on the premises.”

Del had come to the same conclusion—the ex-solider behind the counter was watching him steadily, and the doorman who had shown them in had yet to return outside. He nodded. “All in all, an excellent choice.”

He walked forward. Deliah glided beside him, her long legs allowing her to keep pace easily. The head clerk behind the counter straightened, all but coming to attention; after decades in the army, Del’s bearing inevitably gave him away.

“Can we help you, s—”

“I’m Miss Duncannon.” Deliah laid her gloves on the counter, waited until the clerk looked her way. “I require a room for myself, and accommodation for my staff. Colonel Delborough”—with one hand she waved at him—“will also require a room—”

“And also has various stipulations to make.” Del caught her eye when she glanced at him, captured her gaze and pointedly held it. “As I am escorting you north at your parents’ request, it might perhaps be appropriate for you to consider me in loco parentis.”

She blinked at him.

His smile took on an edge. “Perhaps you should allow me to organize our rooms.”

She frowned.

Before she could argue, he looked at the clerk. “Miss Duncannon will require a suite overlooking the street, preferably with no balcony.”

The head clerk consulted his list. “We have a suite that might suit, Colonel—it’s on the first floor, but is some way from the stairs.”

“That will do admirably. I’ll want a bedchamber myself, on the same floor, between the suite and the stairs.”

“Indeed, sir.” The head clerk conferred with one of his underlings, then nodded. “We have a room four doors closer to the stairs, if that would suit?”

“Perfectly. We also require two more bedchambers for two gentlemen who will arrive in the next hour or so. Viscount Torrington and the Earl of Crowhurst. They would prefer to have rooms as close as possible to the stairs.”

Gervase and Tony were watching the carriages from further along the street; once they saw they were indeed staying at Grillon’s, they would head to the Bastion Club to check for any messages, then return to join them.

After more conferring, the head clerk said, “There are two single bedchambers that face the head of the stairs, but they overlook the lane. They’re rarely requested…” The clerk looked his question.

Del smiled. “They will suit us perfectly. In addition, as I’m returning from service in India, and Miss Duncannon is returning from an extended sojourn in Jamaica, we’re both traveling with household staff.”

“That will pose no difficulty, sir. Not at this time of year. If I might suggest, I can consult with your staff directly as to what arrangements might be best?”

Del nodded. “My batman is Cobby, and…” He looked at Deliah.

With a slight frown, she supplied, “My majordomo is Janay.”

“Excellent—I’ll speak with Mr. Cobby and Mr. Janay. I take it your carriages are outside?” When Del assented, the clerk dispatched his underlings to direct the carriages into the mews, then came around the counter. “If you’ll come this way, Colonel, Miss Duncannon, I’ll show you to your rooms. Your bags will be brought up momentarily.”

The next hours went in the inevitable bustle of settling into their rooms. The suite—something Deliah wouldn’t have thought of to request—was commodious. Both the large sitting room and her adjoining bedchamber had wide windows overlooking the street. Contrary to her expectations, Del had managed the arrangements perfectly well. While she dressed for dinner, she thought again of the stipulations he’d made, a clear indication of how seriously he took the threat of the Black Cobra.

She sat at the dressing table and let Bess have at her hair.

Deftly rewinding the long tresses into a neat knot, then anchoring it atop Deliah’s head with a tortoiseshell comb, Bess nodded at her in the mirror. “Just as well I didn’t put all your evening gowns in the big trunks.”

Deliah grimaced; most of her clothes, along with all her other baggage, were traveling north by carter. “How many do we have?”

“This, and the emerald silk.” Bess set in the final pin. “There.” She stood back. “Perhaps if there’s time while we’re in town, you might get another. If we’re going to some duke’s house, even for a few days, you’ll need it.”

“We’ll see.” Deliah rose; she paused by the cheval glass and checked the fall of her plum silk gown, with its raised waist and scalloped neckline. Satisfied, she headed for the door to the sitting room.

They’d arranged to have dinner in the suite. Approving the menu was something Del had left to her. Janay and Cobby would serve the meal, leaving them free to discuss their plans.

Walking into the sitting room, she found Del standing by the window looking out over Albemarle Street. He turned as she entered; for an instant he seemed surprised to see her, then a knock on the door had them both turning that way.

“Come,” she called.

The door opened to admit Tony and Gervase. Both nodded rather vaguely, absorbed with scanning the room, taking note of the window and the door to her bedchamber, before surveying the table laid ready for dinner, the comfortable armchairs set before the hearth, and the excellent fire.

Brows rising, Tony strolled forward. “Not a place I’d have picked, but it seems very well suited to our needs. Our rooms are right by the stairs, and we saw where yours is—couldn’t have been better.”

Del glanced at Deliah. “The accolades are due to Miss Duncannon—Grillon’s was her suggestion.”

Both Tony and Gervase smiled and half bowed to her.

The door opened again. Seeing Janay bearing a tureen, Deliah waved to the table. “Pray be seated, gentlemen. Dinner is here.”

Del held a chair for her. She sat, with Gervase on her right, and Tony opposite.

Janay served the soup, while Cobby offered bread. When they setttled to sup, the two men left to fetch the next course.

“I have to say,” Gervase murmured, “that I never thought I’d ever stay here, bastion of the prim and proper that it is.” He glanced at Deliah. “We formed the Bastion Club late in ’15, more or less immediately we returned from the Continent, and for those of us without houses in town—like Tony here, and me—it’s become our London base over the last years.”

“We originally set it up as a gentlemen’s club,” Tony explained, “but we all married in ’16, over a period of about eight months, and our wives elected to use the club, too.”

“Gasthorpe, our majordomo, and his staff adjusted very readily.” Gervase grinned. “They’ve even coped with children on occasion.”

They were just making conversation, but Deliah wanted to know more. “How many club members are there?”

They explained, and when she probed further, elaborated. The more she heard of their families, their pasts, their presents, the more she understood of their connection to the people on their country estates—an evolution from the protectiveness that must have driven them into the services years before—the more she relaxed with them. The more she trusted them.

The fruit platter had been decimated. As Cobby and Janay cleared the table, she glanced curiously at Del. She’d trusted him from the moment they’d met.

She knew better than to trust her instincts where men were concerned—especially handsome men who made her pulse race—yet there was no denying there was something very steadying, very steadfast, about Colonel Derek Delborough.

In lieu of port, Del told Cobby to fetch a bottle of arrack from his bags, Gervase and Tony having voiced a wish to sample the Indian version of brandy.

Tony glanced at Gervase, then looked at Del. “Perhaps we should repair to your room.” He turned his charming smile on Deliah. “We should discuss strategy, which will no doubt bore Miss Duncannon to tears.”

Deliah smiled, equally charming. “On the contrary, Miss Duncannon is all ears.” Her smile took on an edge. “I know all about the Black Cobra—or at least all I need to. You and Gervase may speak freely.”

Tony and Gervase exchanged a swift, surprised, not entirely approving look, then glanced at Del.

“Two men tried to abduct Miss Duncannon during our halt at Windlesham.”

Tony and Gervase straightened. “That,” Gervase said, glancing at Deliah, “is not good news.”

“You didn’t manage to capture them?” Tony asked.

Briefly, Del described what had happened. “After that, as Miss Duncannon—”

“Please call me Deliah—it’s simpler, and we’re clearly all in this together.”

Del inclined his head. “As Deliah subsequently observed, given that the Cobra has demonstrated he definitely has her in his sights, it was too dangerous for her not to know what, precisely, was going on.” He met her gaze. “Incidentally, did you get any hint that there were others nearby—the man who shot at me, for instance?”

“No—it was just the two you saw. I don’t think there were any others close.”

“Can you describe both men? The rest of us barely saw the one who fled.”

She complied, painting a picture sufficiently detailed to have all three men frowning.

“It sounds very much as if the Black Cobra is hiring locals to assist him—specifically to act against us so that there’s no chance he or his lieutenants will be implicated.” Del’s gaze rested on Deliah. “You described the man who shot at me in Southampton—thinking of that now, I can’t be sure if he was Ferrar’s man Larkins, or a local hired to do the deed. If you saw him again, would you recognize him?”

“Definitely,” Deliah averred. “I looked directly at him, and there were only ten yards or so between us.”

And that, Del thought, very possibly explained the attack on her. Ferrar would also know that kidnapping her was a surefire way of pulling him into pursuit—pulling him away from his defined route, deflecting him from his mission.

“Given the current state of play”—he chose his words carefully—“you shouldn’t venture outside—anywhere in public—without at least one of us in close attendance.”

When he glanced at her, he was surprised by her ready nod. As if sensing his latent suspicion, she arched a brow. “After all you’ve told me, I have no wish to become a…guest of the Black Cobra.”

“No, indeed.” His expression stripped of all levity, Tony looked at Del. “I should mention that while Gasthorpe and his minions are desolate to have missed the pleasure of putting you up, they’re always delighted to play supporting roles in our little adventures. Consequently, they’re presently throwing themselves into watching the hotel and scouting out the surrounding streets for any hint of our pursuers.”

“I take it you saw no potential lookouts during the journey?” Del asked.

Gervase grimaced. “We saw no Indians, or even tanned Englishmen. We did, however, see numerous shifty characters watching the carriages roll by, but there was no way of telling those reporting to the Black Cobra from the others. No one worth following.”

The three men fell silent.

Deliah eyed each face, then prompted, “So what are our plans?” When no one rushed to speak, she suggested, “Perhaps you might reiterate what you wish to achieve over our sojourn in town?”

“We want,” Del said, “to leave the Black Cobra guessing whether or not I’m carrying the original or a copy of the evidence. If he learns I’ve got a copy, he’ll lose interest in me and swing his focus onto the other three. We don’t want to give him that option. The way I interpreted Wolverstone’s plan, part of the intent was to force the Black Cobra to fight on four different fronts, either simultaneously or at the very least in rapid succession.”

Gervase nodded. “That’s correct—weaken him by forcing him to spread his troops thin.”

“So,” Del continued, his gaze on the table, “we keep the scroll-holder safe—that’s taken care of, and given Grillon’s security, it’s as protected as we can make it. We don’t need to do anything more on that front, so that’s our defensive aspect covered. As for the rest, we should do what we can to assess the strength of the Black Cobra’s forces—has he imported many cultists into the country, as we assumed he would, or has he got just a handful, and that’s why he’s hiring locals? Is he using locals because it’s easier, or because he has no choice?”

He glanced at Tony and Gervase. “The Black Cobra’s modus operandi is to smother opposition—he usually relies on numerical advantage and expendable troops to win any encounter. The cult preaches that death in the service of the Black Cobra brings glory. Strategically, he’s accustomed to attacking with an excess of men. It would help—a lot—to know if he has a large number here, held in reserve to date, or if lack of numbers will force him to play the game more craftily.”

Tony nodded. “So we need to draw him, or at least his forces, out. We need to metaphorically wave the standard and dare him to come and take it—we need to taunt and tempt, just as we would on a battlefield.”

“Which,” Gervase said, “fits with Royce’s orders to spend some time making noise in town, attracting, then fixing, the enemy’s attention, drawing as much down on our heads as we can handle before we go haring north to Somersham Place, with any luck drawing a goodly number of cultists with us, into an ambush there.” He shrugged. “Standard procedure, all in all.”

They spent some time discussing options as to what might serve as “waving the standard.”

“I should at some point call at East India House,” Del said, “if nothing else to give Ferrar a sleepless night—he’ll at least feel forced to check that I haven’t shown anyone there the letter.”

“You could add in visits to Whitehall and to Guards’ Headquarters.” Tony reached for the now half empty bottle of arrack. “The latter is somewhere he might find difficult to penetrate.”

Deliah shifted in her chair. She could envision what they were suggesting and could see a potential problem, but she didn’t want to point it out. Better they saw it themselves.

Gervase frowned. “We can do all that, but I fear it’s all going to look too guarded. Too obvious. He’ll watch, but he won’t come into the open.”

Precisely. Deliah cleared her throat. “If I might suggest…the one element in your plan that the Black Cobra couldn’t have anticipated is me.” She glanced at Del. “Not even you knew I would be traveling with you. But he now knows I’m with you, and that you are, for some reason unknown to him, acting as my escort. If we—you and I—start going about town on the sorts of excursions a provincial lady—a flighty, demanding provincial lady—would be expected to go on, he’ll assume those excursions are driven by me, not you, that they’re about what I want to do, not about you trying to draw him out.

“And just think.” Seeing the sudden interest in their eyes, she let her own mounting enthusiasm show. “We can go for walks in the parks, shopping in Bond Street and Bruton Street, visiting the museum—and at this time of year fashionable London is almost deserted. He’s unlikely to mount an attack in Whitehall, or outside the Guards, but outside a dressmaker’s shop in Bruton Street? In the park as the shadows are lengthening? There’s no reason for him to think such excursions are traps, not if you’re escorting me.”

Gervase slowly nodded. “That could work.”

Del thought it might, too, but felt distinctly reluctant. It hadn’t escaped him that, no matter her innocent I’m-merely-being-helpful attitude, Deliah had inserted herself into the heart of the action.

More, she’d made the worthiness of the excursions dependent on her.

Tony, too, waxed enthusiastic. “You could break up the fashionable excursions with those places Del mentioned—all places the Black Cobra would expect him to go.” He paused, then nodded. “That should work—we have to make the enemy believe he has a chance of success if we want him to risk his men.”

Del listened while the others discussed fashionable excursions with the potential to tempt an attack. He had to agree with their strategic assessment; Deliah’s presence would lure the cultists into discounting any chance of a trap. And although he inwardly disapproved of her exposure to potential harm, he would be beside her, and Tony and Gervase would be close, ready to come to their aid.

Still….

It was late, and they’d been traveling. With a decent list of excursions to mull over, they agreed to make their final arrangements in the morning, and rose to go to their rooms.

Tony and Gervase made their goodnights and strolled out. Del followed them to the suite’s door, Deliah beside him.

He stepped into the corridor, then paused and glanced back at her.

She raised her brows. “What?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just because I’ve agreed to your involvement doesn’t mean I’m in any way thrilled at the notion of you being exposed to danger, much less to the machinations of the Black Cobra.”

She returned his regard levelly. “You’ll be every bit as exposed to the same danger. And when all is said and done, you’re not that much harder to kill than I am.”

He frowned. Before he could correct her, she started to shut the door.

“Good night, Del.”

Her soft words reached him, then he was left staring at the closed door.

December 12
Shrewton House, London

The drawing room of Shrewton House in Grosvenor Square was exactly as Alex had imagined it. Of course, the family was presently not in residence, and all the furniture was shrouded in holland covers, yet even in the shadowed gloom with the chandeliers unlit, the proportions of the room, the elegant appointments, were evident.

Alex sank onto the chaise Roderick had uncovered, and watched him pacing before his ancestral hearth. More correctly, their ancestral hearth—they could all lay claim to it. Their servants had set a fire blazing, driving the frigid chill from the air.

Roderick grimaced. “Grillon’s might be unsuitable for a direct attack, but at least we can keep watch on them there easily enough.”

“And”—Daniel subsided, languidly elegant, into a still shrouded armchair—“I seriously doubt Delborough is naïve enough to imagine he can advance his cause by showing the letter around East India House, or even Whitehall.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “He knows your connections.”

“Regardless,” Roderick returned, “we’ll watch.”

“Indeed.” Unshakably calm, Alex asked, “Meanwhile, what is Larkins doing about retrieving Delborough’s letter?”

“His man inside Delborough’s party is still there—a lucky break. Larkins is confident his man will find the letter and bring it out.”

“But Larkins isn’t simply relying on this thief of his, is he?” Daniel asked.

“No. If he sees a chance to take a hostage—the lady, for example—he’ll act. And if for any reason he judges the letter has passed beyond our reach, unattainable by any means, he’ll kill Delborough.” Roderick continued to pace. “We’ll watch and attack if an opportunity presents—aside from all else, it’s what Delborough will expect, and the attacks will keep him focused outward, not on his own household.”

“M’wallah tells me that Larkins isn’t using our men.” Alex made the statement and waited for an explanation.

Roderick nodded. “I thought it best, at least while we’re shorthanded and the rest of our men are still arriving, that wherever possible Larkins should use local hirelings, rather than risk our own forces.”

Alex smiled. “An excellent call.” It always paid to compliment Roderick when he got things right. “So where are the others—our far-flung cultists?”

“We’ve got groups waiting in every south coast port, and those on the east as far north as Whitby. There are assassins with each group, and of course we have men on the trail of the other three. Given their varied routes and the impossibility of correctly predicting which English port they’ll eventually use, I’ve given orders that, should they make it alive and still carrying their scroll-holder to any of the embarkation ports on the Continent, the first thing the men following them should do is inform us immediately.” Roderick glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “That way, we’ll have warning and time enough to get a suitable welcome in place.”

“A welcome that has yet to be successful in Delborough’s case,” Alex coolly pointed out.

“We didn’t have our usual complement of men available when Delborough arrived, but with a man inside his household, and the good colonel dallying in London with his mystery lady, we’ll succeed.” Roderick paused and once again glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “Regardless of retrieving all four letters, we should ensure that the couriers—all four of them—do not escape unscathed.”

Alex smiled coldly, a chilling sight. “I agree entirely. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’d lost our fangs.”

Three

December 13
Grillon’s Hotel

They gathered over breakfast in the sitting room. The suite, Deliah admitted, was a strategic advantage for which Del had foreseen the need. They had to meet with Tony and Gervase to discuss their plans, but wanted to avoid being seen in public with their secret guards.

They quickly decided on their program for that day.

“Some of Gasthorpe’s lads will be assisting,” Gervase said, “so don’t be surprised if they join in any fight.”

“How will we know who they are?” she asked.

Tony smiled. “They’ll be fighting on our side.”

She would have made some retort, but Gervase quickly went on, “Gasthorpe sent word—a message from Royce.” He nodded at Del. “You are the first one home, but Hamilton’s reached Boulogne—he’s expected to cross the Channel in the next few days.”

“That’s good news.” Del felt a quiet relief knowing Gareth had made it that far unscathed.

“All is, we’re told, in place for him to be met when he sets foot on English soil, but as usual Royce has omitted to mention where that will be.” Gervase smiled resignedly. Del and Tony did, too.

Deliah asked, “Did this commander of yours say anything further?”

Gervase pushed his empty plate away. “Only that we should proceed as planned and draw out the cultists in London.” He glanced at Del. “The letter’s safe?”

Del nodded. “It’s never left unattended.”

“Right, then.” Tony rose, gave his hand to Deliah and gallantly assisted her to her feet. “Let’s get cracking. First stop, Bond Street.”

“It’s been years since I was here,” Deliah said.

As she was standing with her nose all but pressed to the window of Asprey, Jewellers to the Crown, and had spoken without lifting her gaze from the sparkling display, Del had guessed as much. Her arm in his, she’d all but towed him down Albemarle Street, into Piccadilly and around the corner into Bond Street. Pretending to be dragging his heels hadn’t been difficult.

Yet it was amusing—and revealing—to realize that the part she was playing, that of a provincial lady fascinated by and determined to enjoy all the typical London delights, wasn’t all pretense.

She finally dragged her bright gaze from the scintillating array and looked further up the street. “There are more jewelers, aren’t there?”

He pointed out Rundell & Bridge, further along on the other side of the street; all bustling determination, she towed him over. Given the entertainment, he had to make an effort to look suitably bored. They halted before the well-known jeweler’s windows; while she examined an arrangement of necklaces, he glanced at her face.

No pretense; she coveted the sparkling gems as much as any other lady. He started to wonder what else might be revealed when, as per their plan, they continued on to the Bruton Street modistes.

His attraction to her hadn’t waned, which he found rather strange. She was domineering—or would be if he let her be—opinionated, wasp-tongued and a great deal more willfully independent than he was comfortable with, yet she’d become a part of his mission—unwittingly and through no fault of her own—and was now assisting, a contributing player in the game, and somewhere beneath his reluctant resignation, he was grateful. Grateful it was her, with all her innate confidence, and not some wilting, shrinking, typical genteel young miss, who would cling and require constant reassurance, effective lead in his, Tony’s and Gervase’s saddlebags.

Holding to his ennui, he cast an idle—in reality acute—glance back along the street. Without hurry, he returned his gaze to the window. “We’re being followed, by locals.”

“The two men in brown coats back down the street?”

He hadn’t seen her look, much less notice.

She shifted and pointed, apparently through the window. “I think he—the man in a shabby bowler behind us—is watching us, too.”

Del focused on the reflection in the big window. Decided she was right. “They won’t close in along here—there are too many people to make any attempt on us.”

“Bruton Street should be much less frequented at this hour.”

Del made a show of sighing, then tugging on her sleeve. When she turned, he pointed further up the street. She shook her head, and instead pointed to Bruton Street, off to their left. Pantomiming resigned frustration, he reluctantly escorted her that way.

They turned into Bruton Street. The man in the bowler crossed the mouth of the street, then also turned down it on the opposite side.

Deliah walked along, studying the plaques announcing various modistes and the gowns displayed in narrow windows alongside—watching the bowler-hatted man trail them.

Beside her, Del murmured, “The other two have just turned the corner, so once again we have three.”

“I wonder how they think they’re going to blend in in this neighborhood.”

“I suspect they think we’re oblivious.”

She humphed, then stopped before the next modiste’s window. “I’ve been away for so long, I have no idea which modiste is in favor. I don’t even know what the latest styles are.”

“There’s no point looking to me for assistance.” After a moment, he added, “Didn’t you see any of the latest fashions in Southampton?”

“I wasn’t paying attention—I was just filling the time.”

“By shopping?”

“What else was I to do? Inspect ships?” Recollecting, she added, “Perhaps I should have—ships would undoubtedly have been more interesting.”

“I thought all ladies shopped whenever the opportunity presented.”

“I shop when I need something—I generally have better things to do.”

It wasn’t so much the comment as her tone that jarred Del’s memory. He’d never met her before Southampton, but he had heard of her. Heard tales of her when she, and he, had been much younger. She’d been the local tomboy, the bane of her mother’s existence, as he recalled.

She’d noticed his abstraction. “What?”

He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Did you really tie a bell to Farmer Hanson’s bull’s tail?”

Her eyes narrowed, then she looked ahead. “I wondered if you would remember.”

They walked on to the next modiste’s window.

“So did you?”

“Martin Rigby dared me to, so yes, I did.” She frowned at him, waved at the window. “You really have no recommendation—no preferences?”

He glanced along the street. The salons lining it were all similar. “None.”

“In that case, I’ll just pick one.” She walked on, then halted before a window showcasing a simply cut but stylish gown of blue silk. “No ruffles, no frills, no furbelows. And a French name. This one will do.”

Reaching for the door beside the window, Del read the brass plaque fixed to the wall beside it. “Madame Latour.” He opened the door, held it.

As she passed through, Deliah murmured, “I haven’t caught sight of our guards or their helpers.”

“I suspect they’re a trifle more expert in the art of unobtrusively trailing people. Don’t worry—they’ll be there.”

A bell had jangled overhead when the door opened. Finding herself facing a narrow set of stairs, Deliah started to climb. A young assistant appeared at the top, smiling and bobbing in welcome.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sir. Please.” The girl waved them through an open door. “Go through. Madame will be with you shortly.”

It was barely ten o’clock, unfashionably early, so it was no great surprise to find no other patrons gracing the salon.

What was a surprise was Madame herself. She emerged from behind a curtain, a slim young woman, pale-skinned, with brown hair sleeked back in a tight bun and large hazel eyes. Madame was young—younger than Deliah. And after her first words, a heavily accented greeting, it was obvious Madame was no more French than Deliah was, either.

She pretended not to notice. “Bonjour, madame. I have this week returned from a prolonged sojourn overseas and am in dire need of new gowns.” Gently reared young woman impoverished by harsh circumstance was Deliah’s assessment of Madame. “I liked what I saw in your window. Perhaps you could show me what else you have?”

“Absolutement. If madame would sit here?” Madame gestured to a satin-covered sofa, then glanced at Del. “And monsieur your husband, also?”

Deliah glanced at her escort. “The Colonel is an old family friend who has kindly consented to accompany me north.”

She sat, and watched Del amble across the salon.

He smiled, charmingly, at Madame. “I’ve agreed to assist and lend my opinion.” So saying, he sat beside Deliah, elegantly at ease, and looked inquiringly at Madame.

Who stared back as if unsure just what she’d invited into her salon.

Deliah couldn’t blame her. He was large, and although he was wearing civilian clothes, nothing could cloak his military bearing, that dangerous, suggestively rakish aura that hung about him.

Thus far she’d managed to keep her skittering nerves within bounds and her reactions to him hidden. She’d even managed largely to ignore them, or at least not allow them to dominate her mind. Now…whether it was the heightened contrast of having him beside her, large and so brashly masculine in such an intensely feminine setting, she didn’t know, but she was suddenly highly conscious of the tension that rode her, compressing her lungs, distracting her senses and setting her nerves flickering.

Still, as long as he didn’t realize….

She gestured to Madame. “Pray proceed.”

Madame blinked, then bowed. “Ma’am. I have a number of styles available, suitable to be worn from morning to evening. Does madame wish to start with the morning gowns?”

“Indeed. I need gowns of all types.”

With a nod, Madame whisked behind the curtain. From where they sat, they could hear a whispered conference beyond.

Still too aware of the hard heat beside her, Deliah glanced at the windows. “Those look over the street.”

“True, but it’s too soon to check. If they see me looking out all but immediately, they’ll get suspicious.”

Madame chose that moment to reappear, two gowns on her arm. Her little assistant staggered in her wake, bearing an armload of garments.

“First,” Madame said, “I would suggest this.” She held up her first offering, a plum-colored morning gown in soft cambric.

What followed was an education. Del relaxed on the sofa and watched. Watched Deliah respond to Madame’s designs, and Madame grow steadily more confident. The youthful modiste presented each gown, holding it aloft to recite and display its features. Deliah would then either accept or decline to allow it to be added to the pile for her to try on. She asked questions, most of which were a mystery to Del, but apparently made excellent sense to Madame. Within minutes, Deliah and the modiste had established a rapport.

Regardless, it wasn’t until they reached the evening gowns that Del realized Deliah was sincere in her intention to buy a number of Madame’s creations. She’d already added to her pile for further consideration a sleekly simple gown in pale green silk that even he could tell would look stunning on her, and was debating between a gown of soft gold satin and another of a delicate shade of sky blue.

“Try them both.”

Madame shot him a grateful smile.

Deliah looked at him, faintly shocked.

“If you’ll come into the dressing room, ma’am, we can see if these selections will suit.”

“An excellent idea.” Del couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll be waiting to give you my views on each.”

Deliah’s eyes narrowed. She flicked a glance toward the windows. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye out for our friends?”

“It’s too soon yet to look for them.”

She wanted to argue, but with Madame hovering, she rose and allowed herself to be shepherded beyond the curtain.

Del sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. Tony and Gervase, supported by the legendary Gasthorpe’s men, would be in place outside by now, but waiting a trifle longer would give the Black Cobra’s minions time to grow bored and careless.

The curtain rattled back, and Deliah came out arrayed in a morning gown of some pale gold material with small emerald green leaves liberally sprinkled over all. She looked like Spring personified. With nary a glance for him, she walked to the corner of the salon where four mirrored panels were arranged to allow ladies to view the gowns they wore from several different angles.

Deliah turned this way and that, her gaze following the lines of the gown, from the tightly fitting bodice to the trim raised waist, to where the skirts caressed her hips before falling to sway about her very long legs.

Del’s gaze followed hers. Lingered. Appreciatively. “Very nice.”

She stiffened, glanced at him in the mirror.

Then she turned to the hovering modiste, nodded curtly. “Yes—I’ll take this one.”

Without again glancing his way, she stalked past him and back behind the curtain.

The parade that followed left Del questioning his sanity in remaining to view it and simultaneously pleased he had. While the more rational, logical side of his brain continued to insist she was nothing more than a female his aunts had thrown in his path, someone to be smiled at courteously and deposited safely back with her parents in Humberside, another, more primal side was far more viscerally interested in her on a personal, not to say primitive, level.

Of course, he couldn’t resist giving her his opinion on her appearance in the various gowns. Couldn’t resist giving himself the excuse to run his eyes down her evocatively feminine length, from her nicely rounded shoulders, bared by the evening gowns, over the womanly swells of her breasts, the subtle curve of her neat waist, her sweetly rounded hips, and the fascinating length of her long legs.

The sum of her made his mouth water.

He would have suffered in relative silence had she not reacted. Had she not, after the first faint blush rose in her cheeks, decided to torment him. After modeling a carriage gown, to which, admittedly with his gaze fixed on the tightly fitting frogged bodice, he’d given his verbal stamp of approval, she’d shot him a look, whisked back behind the curtain, a definite tinge in her cheeks, then minutes later swanned back out in a gown of flame-colored silk and a temper equally fiery.

The fabric clung to every curve like paint. Man of the world that he was, that wouldn’t, normally, have affected him all that much.

She, in that gown, in a mood part anger, part reaction, and all challenge, did. She swished, she swanned, she glided and pirouetted. Played to the mirror, to her gaze, and his. Then, over her shoulder, she glanced at him and brazenly asked his opinion.

He met her gaze and equally brazenly gave it. “Revealing. You should definitely indulge in that one.” As he had no wish to shock Madame, he didn’t specify exactly what he was recommending she indulge in, yet Deliah comprehended his meaning.

Her eyes glittered, then she looked back at the mirror, shamelessly twirled some more. Then she nodded decisively. “Yes, I believe I will.”

With that, she swayed back behind the curtain.

Deliah let the silk gown slide down her body, felt its caress like a lover’s hands, and knew responding to his blatant interest was madness.

A madness she hadn’t felt for years. No—a madness beyond anything she’d felt before.

There was…something in the way he looked at her. Something that made her feel heated. Wicked. Wanton.

She’d known from her first sight of him that he was dangerous. That he could connect, draw forth, lure her—the real her—from the cavern she’d hidden in for seven long years. She hadn’t told him why she’d gone—been sent—to Jamaica, that an old scandal had been to blame. That she’d been seduced, then betrayed, by a viscount’s son on a repairing lease. That, innocent and wantonly passionate, she’d given her heart as well as her body, only later to learn that for him it had all been merely a challenge, a way to fill the time.

Her parents had railed, her father especially, church elder that he was. She’d had it drummed into her, in so many ways, that her inner self was bad. That she had to hide it, subdue it, suppress it at all costs.

She’d been packed off to Jamaica, and she’d never felt that inner self stir again. She’d thought it had died—of shame, of rejection.

Of imprisonment without succor.

Thanks to Colonel Derek Delborough, she now knew otherwise.

But while part of her rejoiced, the wiser, more cautious side of her foretold disaster.

Yet she was sick, so sick, of being only half alive.

So she let Miss Jennings—Madame Latour as she’d styled herself—slip the next gown, the gold satin evening gown, over her head. It fell with a soft swoosh over her limbs. She surveyed the effect in the mirror, as Miss Jennings, with pins between her lips, nipped and tucked.

The particular shade of gold made her skin glow like the costliest pearl, made her hair appear more intensely garnet-red.

She looked…like a king’s ransom.

Lips curving, she turned and glided out to show Del, who sat like a pasha relaxed on the sofa, his eyes—richly dark and intent—locking on her, tracing her curves as, with flagrant disregard of his regard, she swept to the mirror. And performed.

Like a houri. A very English houri, yet a houri nonetheless. Del was finding it increasingly hard to catch his breath, to breathe freely. With effort he maintained his pose, his façade of relaxed ease, even though every muscle in his body had long ago tightened with sheer lust.

He was almost certain she knew.

Then she swirled, hips circling beneath the shimmering satin, and let her gaze meet his in the mirror, sending a shot of heat straight to his groin…oh, yes, she knew. She definitely knew.

Teeth gritted behind his easy smile, he waited until she slipped behind the curtain to stand, to force himself to walk to the window—to ease his mounting discomfort and try to get his mind back on the game he was supposed to be playing.

Away from the game he’d rather be playing with her.

Standing to one side of the window, he looked down on the street. The two men in brown coats and the man in the shabby bowler had given up waiting separately. They were standing, pretending to be chatting, on the pavement opposite Madame Latour’s door. The occasional, surreptitious glances they cast toward the door foretold their plan.

Perfect.

Looking up the street, he saw a lounging figure chatting—with much greater success at projecting nonchalance—with two street sweepers. Tony.

And on the other side, the man leaning against the wall just this side of Bond Street and talking to two lads was Gervase.

Everyone was in place. It was time for action.

He turned from the window as Deliah swept back in.

In a pale green gown that nearly stopped his heart.

Deliah saw him by the window—instantly her need to tweak his nose fell away. “What is it?”

He held her gaze, then, as Miss Jennings followed her through the curtain, reached into his pocket. Pulling out his fob watch, he glanced at it, then tucked it back. “Time’s getting on.”

For one long instant, he let his eyes—his hot gaze—slide, long and lingeringly, over her body, over the pale green silk that clung lovingly to her form…then he raised his eyes, captured hers. Nodded. “That’s my favorite. I’m going to go down and hail a hackney while you change.”

With that, he strode for the door.

She started after him. “Wait—” But he was already gone.

Beneath her breath, she swore, then turned to Miss Jennings. “Quickly. I have to get out of this and into my clothes.”

Miss Jennings fluttered after her as she strode back behind the curtain. “If you’re late, I can pack them and send them on—”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to make my selection. Here, hurry—help me out of this!”

Miss Jennings jumped, then responded to the voice of one used to giving orders. With her help, Deliah climbed out of the green silk, flung it aside and scrabbled through the welter of gowns for her own. “Damn him! I should have guessed he’d do this.”

Miss Jennings was entirely at sea. “Has he left you?”

“No, of course not. He thinks…oh, never mind. Here—do up my laces.” As Miss Jennings’s shaking fingers complied, Deliah added, “And don’t worry—I’ll be taking the gowns.”

She heard the young modiste haul in a huge breath, then her fingers steadied.

The instant the laces were cinched and tied, Deliah reached for her pelisse. As she shrugged it on, she heard a distant shout.

Grabbing her reticule, she dashed out of the dressing room and hurried to the window. She looked out. The street seemed empty, but she couldn’t see the pavement directly before the shop; an awning obstructed her view. All she caught were glimpses of a shifting mass of arms and shoulders.

Turning, she flew out of the open doorway and onto the stairs. Clattering down as fast as she could, she tugged her pelisse properly on, fumbled with the buttons.

Heart racing—what was going on outside the door?—she was almost at the bottom of the stairs when the door opened.

Breath catching in her throat, she looked up.

Del filled the doorway.

She tried to halt her precipitous rush. Her heel snagged in her pelisse’s hem, jerking one shoulder—she twisted, lost her balance.

Pitched forward.

Straight into his arms.

Del stepped forward to catch her. Heard the door he’d sent swinging shut snick behind him just as she landed flush against him, and every sense he possessed focused, intent and hungry—suddenly ravenously hungry—on her.

On her long, tall, undeniably feminine form plastered to his.

On the warmth of her curves, on their lush promise.

On her face, jade eyes wide with shock.

Lips, rosy red and luscious, parted….

Because she’d been above him, they were face-to-face, those luscious lips level with his.

He saw them shift, form words.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

He felt her hands grip his arms. When he lifted his gaze to her eyes, hers searched, urgently, almost frantically. The emotion lighting the jade was simple, undisguised concern.

She cared.

No woman had for decades.

Her lips firmed, then parted again. Her fingers gripped, and she tried to shake him. “Are. You. Hurt?”

He’d been struck—that he knew—but not by any fist.

She drew breath, her luscious lips parted again—and he knew he had to answer. So he did. In the most appropriate way.

He bent his head, covered her ruby lips with his.

Kissed her, not as he might any gently bred young lady but as he’d longed to kiss the houri who’d taunted him for the last hour.

Her lips had been parted. He took her mouth with no by-your-leave. Simply waltzed in and laid claim…

And ended reeling. Sinking. Drowning.

Captive to an exchange too potent for excuses, too primitively powerful to ever be denied.

Too urgent to be brought to any quick and neat end.

His arms cinched tight, hauling her against him, locking her there—where she belonged. He felt her hands on his shoulders, then in his hair.

Felt—knew—when she succumbed to the compulsion, to the desire that suborned all reason, to the unrelenting thud of passion in his veins.

Their veins.

The sensation was so heady Deliah was helpless to resist. To pull away, retreat to safety, to step back. Instead, she plunged in.

Into the temptation of his hot demanding mouth, into the whirling vortex of desire that had seized the unlooked-for moment to manifest between them—the cumulative promise of the last hour’s teasing; the nascent passion they’d both been deliberately prodding flared to urgent life between them.

She kissed him back, flagrantly demanding, joyously inciting, her inner self racing ahead, free of all restraint.

Wantonly enticing. Abandoned and eager.

Del sensed it, tasted her unleashed passion, and urgently wanted more.

But…wrong time, wrong place.

Some distant spark of sanity assured him that was so. With regret, he forced himself to draw back; only by reminding himself of all he would eventually gain did he manage to rein in his hunger, soothing it with promises of ultimate gluttony. That she would, at some time—the right place and the right time—appease his hunger, feed it until he—it—was utterly sated was, to his mind, an engagement already inscribed in stone.

Easing back from the kiss, he lifted his head and looked down into dazed jade eyes, took in her oddly blank, faraway expression—and knew a moment of intense satisfaction.

At last he’d found a surefire way to manage the willful woman.

A way to tame her, to bring her to him, to his bed….

The sound of a throat clearing hauled his mind from that attractive track, from dwelling on the satisfaction having her beneath him would bring. Looking up, he saw Madame Latour and her assistant peering rather warily down.

“Pack up the gowns—all that were tried on—and send them to Miss Duncannon at Grillon’s. You may send your account to me there.”

Madame’s face lit. She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Colonel. Miss Duncannon. You won’t be disappointed.”

He was sure he wouldn’t be. He had plans for that pale green dress.

Looking down at Deliah, he set her on her feet.

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he asked, “Are you ready to go on?”

She blinked, hearing, correctly, the latent triumph in his tone.

Remembering what had brought her rushing down the stairs, Deliah swallowed, nodded. She wasn’t yet sure she had command of her voice.

By the time he’d led her outside—where all appeared normal and utterly mundane—and she’d finished buttoning her pelisse against the increasingly biting wind, settling her reticule and gloves, then had taken his arm and begun strolling beside him, her wits had started to function again—enough to have her wondering if perhaps he’d kissed her, at least in part, because the modiste had been watching.

That didn’t seem convincing, not even to her, but if furthering their roles wasn’t his motive, she’d rather not think of what was.

Shouldn’t think of what was, or might be.

She was shocked enough by her own motives—by the reemergence of the wanton inner self she’d thought she’d buried, or at least bludgeoned into weakness, long ago.

With him, that side of her wasn’t weak at all. She was going to have to be on guard henceforth; she couldn’t return to England after all these years, supposedly reformed, only to fall victim to her own desires with the first handsome man who crossed her path.

Admittedly, he was exceedingly handsome. But still….

He’d been the first man to kiss her, at least like that, in more years than she cared to count…actually, in all her life.

After a moment, she blinked, inwardly shook her head. She was looking ahead down the street—and seeing his lips.

She needed to concentrate on the here and now. Replaying his last words…she frowned. “I can’t accept gowns from you. It wouldn’t be proper.”

He glanced her way, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

“What do you imagine I’m going to do with them? The least you can do is take them off my hands. Better yet, consider them a perquisite of helping me pursue the Black Cobra. Believe me”—his tone hardened—“it’s a small price to pay.”

“In that case, you can let me pay for them—I’m more than flush enough to buy my own gowns.”

“That’s not the issue. I can’t countenance you paying for the necessaries to continue our ruse. This is my mission, not yours. My responsibility, not yours.”

Those last two points were ones Del felt sure he needed to stress—and often. In every possible way.

She grumbled, “I can’t see how those evening gowns could be deemed necessary.”

“Oh, they are. Believe me, they are.” They—and the visions of her in them—were going to keep him going through the coming days. His reward, as it were, for weathering the difficulties keeping her with him had already caused, and those yet to come.

“They’ll come to a pretty penny—you do realize that?”

“After all my years in India, I’m wealthy enough to rival Croesus, so your concern on that point, while appreciated, is unnecessary.”

She humphed. Eventually she said, by way of conceding, “Just be warned that that last evening gown alone will cost a small fortune. Madame may be young, but she values her work highly.”

“Rightly so.” He felt doubly triumphant that he’d won that round—won the right to pay for her gowns. He should, he knew, be exceedingly wary about such a reaction, but he was too busy wallowing in the victory to let such considerations dim his mood. “A workman is worthy of his hire, and all that. But your point is duly noted—I promise not to expire of shock.”

She gave an unladylike snort, then fell silent.

He strolled on, with her on his arm, and imagined seeing her in that pale green gown. Wondered how he might arrange it.

Some paces on, the fact that she’d been perfectly willing to part with “a small fortune” of her own registered. But her family wasn’t wealthy, and he was fairly certain she couldn’t have inherited more than a competence from any relative, not without his aunts mentioning it.

Now he thought of it, she was traveling with an entire household, staying at major inns, hiring carriages and private parlors—and she hadn’t even paused to consider the cost of putting up at Grillon’s. He’d be picking up the bill there, but she hadn’t known that, and still didn’t.

She was wealthy. But how?

“Did you and the others catch any of those men?”

Her question shook him out of his abstraction. “Yes.” They’d reached Berkeley Square. Halting, he glanced around, one comprehensive survey, then turned to her. “And as there appear to be no more following us, we’re going to take a detour.”

“Oh? To where?”

“The Bastion Club.”

Four

December 13
The Bastion Club, Montrose Street, London

The club wasn’t far. The hackney Del had hired halted outside a house in a street south of Hyde Park.

Standing on the pavement beside Del while he paid off the jarvey, Deliah owned to considerable curiosity over the strange “private gentlemen’s-cum-family” club she’d heard so much about. Number 12 Montrose Street was a solid house, not dissimilar to those flanking it. As they walked up the neatly paved path to the front porch, she could see nothing to distinguish it from any other gentleman’s residence.

The front door opened as they ascended the porch steps. A neat, rotund individual in the garb of a majordomo—somewhere between a butler’s regulation black tails and a gentleman’s gentleman’s less formal attire—stood waiting to greet them, a delighted smile on his kindly face.

“Colonel Delborough?”

“Indeed. And this is Miss Duncannon. I believe Torrington and Crowhurst are already here?”

“Indeed, sir. I am Gasthorpe.” He bowed them in, then took Del’s greatcoat. “If we may be of assistance at any time, sir, please do not hesitate to call upon me and the staff here.”

Deliah elected to keep her pelisse on. “Torrington and Crowhurst told us of this place.” While the underlying ambiance of the house was sparse and rather plainly severe, a vase of hothouse blooms rioted on the hall table, their color and freshness drawing the eye, softening the décor. There was a lace doily beneath the vase, and numerous other little touches that spoke of female, rather than only male. “I understand it was originally just for the gentlemen, but clearly that has changed.”

“Oh, yes, miss—we often have the ladies to stay these days. Once the gentlemen wed—indeed, even before, during their various adventures—we were called upon to accommodate their ladies.”

She was curious. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“I will admit I was initially trepidatious, but now we look forward to the families descending—quite keeps us on our toes.”

Deliah smiled. “I can imagine.”

“Torrington and Crowhurst?” Del inquired.

“Yes, sir. They’re awaiting you downstairs with the captured miscreants.” Beaming at Deliah, Gasthorpe gestured to the room to the right of the front door. “If you would care to wait in comfort in the parlor, miss, I will bring up a tea tray directly.”

Deliah glanced, once, at the room beyond the open door, then, brows rising, looked at Del. “I’m not in the mood for tea, but I do want to see these men. I’ll come with you.”

Del had hoped that Gasthorpe might manage to deflect her, but wasn’t truly surprised that he’d failed. Stifling a resigned sigh, he nodded. “Very well.” He’d long ago learned not to fight unnecessary skirmishes but to save his powder for the important battles. He looked at Gasthorpe. “Lead on.”

Gasthorpe looked uncertain, but he took his lead from Del and, without argument, turned and led them to a set of stairs at the back of the front hall.

Waving Deliah ahead of him, Del followed her down. The stairs led to spacious kitchens. Gasthorpe led them through and into a narrow corridor, off which several storerooms lay. He paused outside one. With his hand on the latch, he turned to them. “This is one of our holding rooms.”

As Gasthorpe opened the door, Del drew Deliah back and entered first. He halted just inside, then moved further in, allowing her to follow.

Deliah took in the occupants of the small room in one glance. Tony and Gervase sat with their backs to the door, on straight-backed chairs before a plain wooden table. On the other side of the table, three ruffians slouched on a bench. Hands tied before them, they propped against each other, shoulder to shoulder.

All three looked rather the worse for wear. Two sported blackening eyes. The other had a nasty bruise on his chin. All three looked uneasy, restless and uncertain.

Tony and Gervase glanced at Del and her as they entered; both started to rise, but she waved them back to their seats. She and Del remained standing behind them.

Subsiding and turning back to the table, Tony gestured to their captives. “We’ve been chatting with these gentlemen.” Despite the easy tenor of his words, there was a definite suggestion of steel beneath. “They don’t seem to know very much about anything, but we thought we’d wait for you before getting to specifics.”

Standing inside the now closed door, Deliah viewed the three ruffians and was glad of the three gentlemen between her and them. For all they were tied and clearly off-balance, they were hulking brutes with rough menace in their beady eyes—all of which had fixed on her.

Regardless, she felt perfectly safe. The three gentlemen were more than a counter to the louts; the menace that rolled off their elegant selves was of an infinitely more lethal variety.

And the louts knew it.

That the pecking order was established and recognized was immediately made clear. When Del asked who had hired them, the louts answered readily.

“Geezer came to our tavern—it’s in the East End. Said he were looking for men to grab a woman as was giving him trouble. He’d make it worth our while. All we had to do was grab her, and bring her to him tonight, and we’d get ten sovereigns.”

“Ten sovereigns?” Deliah was incensed. “That’s insulting!”

Del sent her a quelling look.

“How did you know which lady to grab?” Gervase asked.

The lout in the middle looked at Deliah. “He said she were tall, with dark red hair, a real looker—and she was staying at Grillon’s.”

Deliah crossed her arms. “What, exactly, were you supposed to do with me after you seized me?”

“He made it sound easy.” The lout on the left sniffed. “Didn’t say nuffin ’bout you havin’ guards. All we had to do was snatch you off the street, and being careful not to damage the goods, bring you to the tavern tonight. He said to sit in a corner, an’ keep you quiet ’til he arrived.”

Deliah was tempted to ask how they’d thought to keep her quiet.

“Describe this man,” Del said.

The louts grimaced, looked at each other. Then the one in the middle shrugged. “Nothing special about him. Could be anyone.”

“Not helpful,” Tony murmured, and the louts paled.

“How tall was he?” Deliah asked.

The louts looked at her. “Maybe an inch or so taller’n you, miss. Ma’am.” The middle lout glanced at Del. “Not so tall as the gentl’man.”

Deliah nodded. “What about his clothes?”

The lout grimaced. “Middling. Not one thing nor another.”

“He wasn’t a toff, that’s certain,” one of the others put in.

“Nay—he weren’ even a gentl’man, though he spoke well enough.”

“Describe the man’s hair,” Deliah said. “What color, and how was it cut?”

The louts looked at her, then one answered, “Brown hair, longish.”

Deliah glanced at Del. “Not the man in Southampton.”

“Nor the two at Windlesham.” Del looked at the ruffians. “Where’s this tavern?”

The three shifted on the bench, exchanging glances. Then the one in the middle—the leader—looked up. “What’s in it fer us if we tell you?”

It was Tony who answered. “It’s simple enough. Tell us where the tavern is, and after we keep your appointment for you, we’ll hand you over to the authorities for attempted thieving, rather than attempted kidnapping. In other words, your choice is between transportation, or hanging.”

The three exchanged another, longer glance, then the leader sighed. “All right. It’s the Blue Barrel in Cobalt Lane.”

Leaving the three louts in Gasthorpe’s custody, the four of them repaired to the library upstairs. A comfortable room on the first floor with large leather armchairs and numerous side tables, it was the perfect venue for discussing developments, and planning their next move.

“Tony and I will keep their appointment this evening,” Gervase said. “We’ll see who turns up, and if we’re lucky, follow them back to the Black Cobra’s lair.”

“I doubt it’ll be that simple,” Del said. He glanced at Deliah. “Ferrar clearly wants to use you as hostage for the letter.”

“Presumably,” Tony said, “he sees that as an easier option than making a direct try for it.”

“Which,” Gervase added, “tells us he’s engaged—that we have his attention—which, after all, is the crux of our mission.”

“That, and reducing his forces.” Del frowned. “So far, we’ve only seen locals—hirelings.”

“Perhaps,” Deliah said, “I should play the part of captive hostage this evening?” She looked at the three men. “I’ll be perfectly safe, because you’ll be my captors.”

For one instant, she glimpsed horror in all three pairs of eyes, then their expressions blanked.

“No.” Del’s tone was unequivocal, unassailable.

Deliah met his eyes, read his absolute opposition. Shrugged. “All right.” She didn’t harbor any ambition to visit an East End tavern, much less run the risk of meeting the Black Cobra; she’d only made the offer because she’d felt she should.

All three men looked at her, searched her face for a moment more, as if not quite certain of the sincerity of her agreement, then Del looked at Gervase. “So what should we do to fill the rest of the day?”

What could he do to ensure she was distracted? Just the thought of her sitting in some seedy tavern, a hostage waiting to be collected by the Black Cobra, had shaken him—in a way he wasn’t accustomed to being shaken. He’d never felt possessive about any other woman, let alone a lady, let alone a lady like her. If given the choice, he would have elected to go with Gervase and Tony to the tavern that night, but now…he didn’t dare leave her to her own devices. Who knew what she might take it into her head to do? All in the name of being helpful, of course.

Despite his mission being to flush out the Black Cobra, he knew beyond question that his place was with her. Guarding against any possible threat to her.

Tony and Gervase seemed to be thinking along similar lines. In short order, between them they decided on an afternoon of excursions that might, or might not, draw out the cult’s forces, but would definitely occupy Deliah’s time.

December 13
City of London

“Is that it?” Deliah peered out of the hackney at a long stone building with an impressive façade of Doric pillars fronting Leadenhall Street. The pillars were crowned by a pediment with numerous carved figures.

“East India House,” Del confirmed. “The London headquarters of the Honorable East India Company.”

“They take themselves very seriously, don’t they?”

“Indeed. Wait until you see inside. I’ve heard the new skylight is quite something.”

After letting Gasthorpe feed them luncheon in the dining room of the club, they’d hailed two hackneys and set out for the city. Del and Deliah were in the first carriage, while Tony and Gervase followed in the second. While Del and Deliah went inside, Tony and Gervase would watch from the street to see if any likely-looking characters took an interest.

Their hackney halted before the steps leading up between the pillars. Del descended, after one glance around handed Deliah down, then paid off the jarvey. He turned to find Deliah, head back, staring up at the frieze above the pillars.

“Is that Britannia? And Tritons on sea horses?”

“As you remarked, the company considers itself an august institution.” Taking her arm, he led her up the steps and through the massive doors, which attentive doormen in the uniforms of sepoy regiments leapt to hold wide.

Inside, massive braziers glowed, taking the chill from the marble walls and floors. Deliah halted, staring around. “The word that springs to mind is opulent.”

“And this is merely the foyer.” He steered her on through a massive archway into a huge chamber that rose fully three stories high. It was lit by a large, domed skylight. Niches on the wall held marble statues; glass-fronted cabinets displayed jeweled Indian artifacts, and gold and silver plate.

Halting, Deliah looked around. “Simple words fail me. I take it they wanted everyone to realize how profitable trade with India is?”

“I suspect that was a large part of the motivation.” Del glanced around, looking for familiar faces. “This is the Grand Court Room. We’re going to visit the main rooms, see who’s here, chat with some.” He looked at her. “It would help if you would smile and hang on my arm. And, if possible, remain silent.”

Deliah arched her brows, but twined her arm in his and endeavored to keep a light, airy smile on her face.

They started promenading. There were many others about, and while some hurried past with papers in their hands, or were deep in serious discussions, most seemed to be socializing—discussing business, perhaps, but without any specific intent.

Some among the gathering—mostly officers in the uniforms of various regiments, but others in civilian attire—recognized Del. All evinced surprise as they shook his hand. “What brings you home?” was the common first question.

One, Deliah noted, he didn’t actually answer. Instead, he spoke of when he’d arrived, and asked after others who might be there that day. When a few in uniform asked after his colleagues, he admitted some others were also expected home any day.

It didn’t take long for Deliah to realize that, with her hanging as directed, sweetly smiling on his arm, those who spoke with them leapt to the obvious conclusion.

When they moved on through an archway into the next room, she leaned close and murmured, “You’re deliberately letting people imagine that you came home to marry me.”

He glanced at her, met her eyes. “It’s easier than telling the truth.”

She mulled over that for a moment, then asked, “Why? Why not say you’re here to lay evidence against the Black Cobra? There’s no reason to keep it secret, is there? The Black Cobra already knows.”

“True. But my mission is to draw the cultists out, not to encourage a horde of well-meaning others to become involved. Many of those here know of the Black Cobra’s villainy and would be happy to assist in bringing him down. Yet playing this sort of game is the same as cooking—having too many cooks doesn’t help.”

Another gentleman approached to speak with Del. Deliah continued to smile while she pondered his words.

The room they were now in, the New Sale Room, was decorated with pilasters and paintings of scenes of Indian commerce. Curious, she let her eyes feast, while her mind turned over their situation.

They continued to stroll, and the New Sale Room gave way to the Old Sale Room, with statues of various dignitaries. She made out Lord Clive and Sir Eyre Coote among them. Although she listened to Del’s exchanges, they added little to what she already knew of him, other than establishing that he was held in high esteem, by the miltary men especially, but by the civilians, too.

They eventually strolled on into what Del told her was the room of the Committee of Correspondence. The large chamber held portraits of past governors-general, the Marquis of Cornwallis and Warren Hastings among them. Of more interest to her was the large number of paintings depicting views of Indian scenery that lined the walls.

At last, after more than an hour, they returned to the grand foyer.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Deliah turned to him and said, “I realize now that my insisting you escort me home to Humberside has made your mission that much more difficult—more complicated.”

She knew he hadn’t intended to include her among the “well-meaning others,” that he’d accepted her help and her place in their little group of conspirators, but he would have preferred to be rid of her from the start…and if that kiss this morning had demonstrated anything, it was that she couldn’t trust herself—her inner self—when it came to him, when he was anywhere near.

Dragging in a quick breath, she lifted her chin. “So I’ll apologize for that, and if it will make your mission easier, you can leave me here, in London. I can go and stay with my old governess for a few days, until you go on to Cambridgeshire and lead the Black Cobra away. Then I can make my way home. I’ll have Kumulay and the rest of my household with me. It’ll be perfectly safe.”

“No.” Del didn’t even think before the answer was on his lips. He paused, frowning. Reminded of her earlier insistence on propriety—something he now knew was uncharacteristic—he had to wonder why she’d acted as she had and clung so tenaciously to his promised escort, but he set that conundrum aside for later. He had to quash her latest suggestion; his instinctive response was to reject it out of hand. Which he’d done. Now he needed to assemble his rationalization. His explanation.

His excuse.

He’d managed to keep his expression impassive. His eyes locked with hers, he stated, “You had your chance to bow out of my mission at the beginning, but now you’re a part of it—an integral part as far as the Black Cobra is concerned—so you have to stay with me and see it through to the end.”

Only then would she be safe. Regardless of what might develop between them—and after this morning he was increasingly certain something would—there was no way this side of Heaven he would let her out of his orbit to be exposed to the malicious vindictiveness of the Black Cobra.

She held his gaze, studied his eyes, considered his words, then inclined her head. “If that’s what you truly wish, then I’ll stay.”

He was unprepared for the relief that swept through him.

Entirely satisfied—she hadn’t wanted to step back but had felt honor-bound to make the offer—Deliah looked around again, thinking of the large number who’d come to talk to him. “Isn’t there anyone in the company you can warn about the evidence, about the Black Cobra himself?”

“If there was, I would, but as the culprit’s Ferrar, there’s no one in the company I feel confident would—or could—see justice done. Ferrar’s father, the earl, is a director, and he almost certainly has too many of the other directors in his pocket. That’s his way of doing business.”

Del swept the foyer one last time, then took her arm. “Come. We’ve spent enough time here—talked to enough people to have Ferrar wondering.”

Deliah looked at him. “Is he here?”

“No, but various associates are. News of my visit will do the rounds. The Black Cobra will hear.”

He escorted her outside, onto the pavement in front of the building.

When he halted and pulled out his fob-watch, she glanced across the street and saw Tony lounging, with Gervase further along. “Where to now?”

Replacing his watch, he said, “It’s just after three, and the afternoon is fine. So how would a lady of your ilk pass the time?”

Deliah wasn’t averse to an amble in Hyde Park. Not only was she happy to stretch her legs over the lush lawns but as the female half of the ton—or at least as much of it as remained in the capital in that season—was arrayed in its customary splendor in the carriages drawn up along the Avenue, there was plenty to catch her eye.

Strolling beside her, Del noticed her absorption. “I thought you weren’t all that interested in the latest fashions.”

“I’m not.” Her eye caught by a particularly fine crepe gown—very bravely worn considering the icy breeze that rattled the bare branches—she answered absentmindedly. “I’m more interested in the materials themselves.”

A moment passed. “Why?”

She blinked, realized what she’d said. Glanced at him, and saw from the intentness in his eyes that he wasn’t likely to accept an evasive answer. And truly, why should she conceal her success? Especially from an ex-East India Company man. “I…have an interest—a commercial interest—in cotton.”

His brows rose.

She hurried on, “My primary investments are in sugarcane, but I recently had an opportunity to buy into cotton farming and importation, and I did. Consequently, I’m interested in the degree to which cotton is used compared to wool or silk.”

He was now regarding her with fascinated interest. “You invest?”

Ladies weren’t supposed to, of course, but she was tired of hiding her light under a bushel. Tired of pretending to be a woman she was not. She nodded. “My uncle encouraged me to learn the ropes. While he’s terribly conservative in some ways, in others, he’s quite progressive. And, of course, in Jamaica it’s not so unheard of for ladies to be involved.”

She glanced at Del, wondering if he’d prove to be one of those gentlemen for whom the very notion of ladies being involved in making money was simply scandalous.

“What sort of company is it? Has it been operational for long? And are the returns as good as with sugarcane?”

His questions came thick and fast. Absorbed with answering, she strolled on beside him. The shrewdness behind his questions suggested he had more than a passing understanding of investing. Even more reassuring, he demonstrably viewed her involvement with respect, not derision.

She couldn’t recall ever discussing business in such depth with anyone other than her longtime brokers, now far away in Jamaica.

They came to the end of the Avenue, and he paused, then steered her across the carriage drive into a secluded walk leading deeper into Kensington Gardens. The gravel path was lined with thick borders backed by a row of even thicker bushes. “Keep talking,” he murmured.

“Are they following us?” When he nodded, she asked, “How many?”

He listened. “Three, I think. At least.”

“Are Tony and Gervase near?”

“Back behind the trees to our north. They’ll be keeping pace on that side.”

They walked on, chatting of this and that, no longer paying attention to their words. Along one side, other paths joined theirs, but the bushes along the north side continued in an unbroken line.

“They’re being rather furtive,” he eventually said. “Which suggests they might, at last, be cultists, rather than hired locals.”

By mutual unspoken accord, they slowed. Deliah, too, heard stealthy rustling following them along the line of bushes.

“They’re still there,” she murmured, “but we’re nearly at the end of the path.”

Del looked ahead. The path ended, opening onto a wide lawn, thirty yards ahead. Taking Deliah’s elbow, he slowed further. “We need to lure them out.”

Even as the words left his lips, the sound of giggles and light voices eagerly chatting came from behind them. Glancing back, they saw a party of very young young ladies and their attending beaux step onto the path a good way back.

The rustling ceased abruptly.

Deliah exchanged a look with Del. “Perhaps they’ll take one of the other paths and leave this one.”

Del’s jaw firmed. “Let’s keep walking.”

They did, slowly ambling, but the giggling, lighthearted party continued on the same path, drawing ever nearer.

Defeated, deflated, Del and Deliah reached the end of the path and stepped out onto the open lawn. They walked a few paces to one side and halted. The giggling party came out of the walk and, with exclamations of delight at the vista, continued on.

Once the chattering had died, Del glanced at Deliah. “We could head back the same way. Give them another chance at us.”

She nodded. “Let’s.”

They did, but there were no more rustlings in the thick bushes.

Whoever had been stalking them was gone.

Reaching the end of the walk, they stepped out onto the carriage drive. Looking north along it, they saw Tony standing chatting to Gervase under a large tree. Gervase looked their way, gave a very slight shake of his head.

“Come on.” Grim-faced, Del took Deliah’s arm. “We may as well go back to the hotel.”

December 13
Grillon’s Hotel

An hour and a half later, Del headed for his room. He and Deliah had repaired to the suite. She’d ordered tea, then Tony and Gervase had joined them.

There had been elusive shadows lurking in the bushes along the path. Tony and Gervase had hung back, watching, waiting for the shadows to make a move before they closed in, but suddenly the shadows had frozen, then drifted away.

They’d been locals, however, not Indians, not cultists. And their wariness suggested that the Black Cobra was now hiring better-quality help.

Not a good sign.

Reaching his room, Del opened the door and went in. Cobby was there, preparing his bath. Closing the door, Del shrugged out of his coat. He frowned abstractedly as he laid it aside. “I have an errand for you.”

“Aye?”

“I need tickets to some event or other—the opera, theater—whatever’s on. For Miss Duncannon and myself.”

“For this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Does the lady like music?”

“I have no idea.” Del drew off his cravat. “Any entertainment will do. Just find me something that might distract her.”

And him.

“If you’ve all you need here, I’ll go see the lads at the desk.”

Del nodded. Cobby left.

Stripping off the rest of his clothes, Del sank into the hip bath. The water was steaming. Leaning back, he closed his eyes.

Gervase and Tony were on their way to the tavern to keep watch for the Black Cobra’s man.

His duty tonight was to keep Deliah safe, yet after the events of their long day, spending the entire evening with her alone, in private, was the very definition of unwise.

Quite aside from that startling kiss and the sense of unfinished business in the way it had ended—on which he’d dwelled more than once during the day—there was the associated problem of the debilitating effect having her with him, literally beside him, while being stalked by the Black Cobra’s minions was having on his control.

It was a constant abrasion, a relentless weakening.

He didn’t like even the thought of her going into danger; having her beside him, knowingly taking her along with him, was a form of subtle torment. Something inside him, some part he’d rarely had to deal with and had rarely crossed, let alone provoked, invariably reacted, as if her being in danger was a grave and gross oversight on his part.

And it—that other side of him—prodded him, hard, to correct that oversight. To do something to ensure she wasn’t exposed. At all. Not just to ensure she was safe but to unequivocally take her out of the action so there was no chance she’d ever be in any danger at all.

He could imagine how she’d react if he let that part of himself loose, let it guide him.

The response she evoked in him was extreme, ridiculous in one sense, and by and large not something he understood. But he had too much on his plate with his mission, with the Black Cobra, to spend time thinking of it, thinking through it, now.

He just had to find ways to deal with it—to manage it for now. Later, once the mission was over, once the Black Cobra was caught, he’d have time to work through it and assuage it, but not yet. Not now.

When it came down to it, his mission was not proceeding well. They were drawing out the Black Cobra’s minions, but those minions were local hirelings, not cultists, yet it was the cultists he needed to remove.

They were the deadly ones, the ones with no rules, no lines they, in the Black Cobra’s name, would not cross. His decoy’s mission was to reduce their number so that the others following would have fewer to face.

That was the crux of his mission, and in that, he was failing.

Sangay stuck his nose out of the alley door of the fancy hotel. The icy wind whipped in, made him shiver uncontrollably, but the alley was empty. He had to go now.

Slipping outside, he shut the heavy door, then, sucking in a breath, holding it against the chill, he crept down the alley, away from the street at the other end, toward what he’d heard the other servants call the mews—the area for carriages and horses at the rear of the building.

The hotel stable was further along, tucked behind the bulk of the hotel itself. Reaching the mews, he peeked around the corner and saw the usual huddle of grooms and stableboys gathered outside the open door of the stable, warming their hands at a glowing brazier.

He wished he could spend a few minutes getting warm, but he dared not. He needed to get back to the docks. He prayed to Ganesh every hour that his ship would still be there, somewhere in the huge waterways around what they called the Pool of London.

It wasn’t really a pool, not to Sangay’s way of thinking. But he had to make it back, or he’d never see India, or his mother, again.

Sliding unobtrusively around the corner, hugging the deepening shadows along the wall, he crept soundlessly away from the stable, away from the hotel. He’d been safe enough there, warm enough there—he’d been fed enough there for the first time in his short life. But he didn’t dare stay.

The man would come for him, he knew. He had to go before he found him.

His slippered feet made no sound on the cobbles. As the distance from the hotel grew, he risked going a little faster. Memory of the man drove him on. He might have been just a cabin boy, but he’d been an honest boy, a good boy. He didn’t want to become a thief, but if the man caught him again….

He started running.

Reaching the end of the mews, he swung around the corner—and ran into a wall of muscle and bone.

He staggered back. Before he could regain his balance, a hand closed on his collar. He sucked in a breath, ready to protest his innocence, when from a long way above him a dark voice growled, “And just where do you think you’re going?”

Fear shot through him. He squeaked, tried to squirm loose, but the grip on his collar tightened. The man shook him like a rat.

Shook him until he was gasping, choking.

Then the man’s other hand caught his chin, forced his face up until he found himself staring into a dark-featured scowl. It wasn’t the frown that terrified Sangay—it was the man’s pale eyes.

“Let me remind you, boy, what will happen if you don’t do as I say.” The words were low, a rumble. “I’ll have your mother strung up and slow-roasted over a fire. She’ll scream and beg for mercy—mercy no one will grant her. Before she dies—and I assure you that won’t be soon—she’ll curse your name, curse the day she brought such an ungrateful whelp into this world.” The deep rumble paused.

The cold fist of fear tightened, choking Sangay.

“On the other hand,” the dark voice continued, “if you do as I say, your mother will never know anything about any fire, any excruciating pain, any horrible, terrible, godforsaken death.”

On the last word, the man shook him again. “So, whelp—your choice.” The man all but snarled, “Which will it be? Will you get back into that hotel and fetch the wooden scroll-holder I sent you for, or do I kill you now and send a message back to India on the first tide?”

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it, sahib!” Sangay could barely get the words out through his chattering teeth. When the man abruptly let him go, he staggered, then stood, and hung his head. “I will do as you say.”

No choice. He could barely breathe for sheer terror.

“So, have you looked? Done anything at all since Southampton?”

“Oh, yes, sahib, yes. I have been searching through all the general baggage, sahib, but there’s no scroll-holder there. It must be kept with the baggage the colonel-sahib keeps in his room, or perhaps with the bags his man Cobby keeps with him. Or the colonel-sahib might be carrying it with him, only I don’t think he is because I have looked closely and I cannot see how such a thing would fit beneath his coat.”

“I doubt he’ll carry it with him.”

“Perhaps”—Sangay brightened—“it is in the memsahib’s bags?”

The man eyed him, then nodded. “Perhaps. You search everywhere until you find it, understand? But try to do it without being caught. We’ve a few days yet. Better you look until you find it, then bring it to me, rather than you get caught before you get your hands on it—understand?”

Sangay bobbed his head repeatedly. “Yes, sahib. I’m to stay hidden until I find it—no one must know I am looking for this thing.”

“That’s right. You do that, and no one will touch your mother—remember that. Now, what do you know about the other two gentlemen who go out when the colonel does? They seem to be guarding him.”

“Yes, sahib-sir—they are friends of his.” Sangay screwed up his face. “I have not heard their names well enough to say them, but they are at the hotel, too, in other rooms on the same floor.”

“Are they, indeed?” The man fell silent.

Sangay shivered, unobtrusively shifting from one foot to the other. Carefully he tucked his hands under his arms and hugged himself, bowing his thin shoulders away from the wind.

“Keep an eye on those two, but you’d best keep out of their way. But how have you been hiding yourself?”

Sangay shrugged. “The colonel-sahib’s people think I’m one of the memsahib’s servants, and her people think I’m a one of the colonel-sahib’s servants.”

The man looked at him through narrowing eyes. “Very clever. You’re quick, I’ll give you that. Just don’t be forgetting your maataa won’t be able to escape the Black Cobra.”

Sangay shivered. “No, sahib. I won’t be forgetting that.”

“Good. Now get back in there and find the scroll-holder. Once you do, all you need do is come out and slip away—I’ll be watching. I’ll come and meet you.”

“Yes, sahib. I will be getting back now.” Receiving a nod of assent, Sangay turned and, head down against the biting wind, slipped back around the corner, then walked slowly, despondently, back along the alley.

He hadn’t thought it possible, but he felt even more miserable, even more filled with black despair. All he could do was do as the man told him, and pray to the gods that something would happen—to the man, perhaps?—to save him from the nightmare his life had become. And to save his maataa, too.

Five

December 13
Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street

Del was still in the bath when Cobby returned.

“Found just the thing.” Cobby shut the door.

“A recital at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. It’s only a short hackney ride away.”

Del considered, nodded. “Perfect.” He closed his eyes, laid his head back again. “Get tickets.”

“Don’t have to. It’s free, apparently. You can just walk in.”

December 13
St. Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar Square

He should, Del realized, have registered what Cobby’s words meant. As he escorted an eager Deliah through the crowd thronging the old church’s wide porch, he berated himself for not having seen the danger.

Yes, they could simply walk in—and so could anyone else.

He glanced at Deliah, wondered—again—if he should suggest they leave. Once again, he held his tongue. The light in her face, in her jade eyes, stated louder than words that she was looking forward to the performance.

Reaching the main doors, she led the way in, going straight through the foyer and into the nave. She started down it, looking right and left, evaluating the available seats. Taller than she, Del could see over the crowd clogging the aisle. Taking her elbow, he steered her to two seats in a pew two-thirds of the way down the nave.

Excusing herself to the well-dressed lady in the corner of the pew, Deliah slid past and on, then, leaving space for Del, sat and arranged her skirts.

After taking note of the unquestionably innocent couples filling the pew behind theirs, Del sat, then surveyed those in the pew ahead.

All safe enough.

Despite the season, the majority of the crowd were tonnish, the rest mainly gentry or well-to-do merchants. But he’d spotted a few less savory sorts hanging about the fringes of the crowd, and the rear pews were jammed with shabby coats and unkempt figures.

Deliah had picked up a printed program in the foyer. Consulting it, she commented excitedly and knowledgably about the various airs and sonatas to be performed by the small chamber orchestra. Clearly she enjoyed music and had been starved of this type of entertainment over the years she’d been away.

So had he, but this particular entertainment he could have done without. Far from feeling relaxed, every sense he possessed was on high alert. His eyes incessantly scanned, his ears constantly sorted through the babel around them, listening for accents that weren’t English, or tones that boded ill.

If he’d been the Black Cobra, this would have been an opportunity too good to pass up. Whether the fiend had realized Tony and Gervase were their guards, he had no idea. Cobby had confirmed that the reputation of Grillon’s for absolute discretion with respect to their guests was well deserved; it was unlikely the staff had spoken of the connection between his party and the two gentlemen. But if the Cobra did know, then this excursion—just Del and Deliah alone at night, without even Cobby, Mustaf, or her bodyguard Kumulay—was tailor-made for the Cobra’s purpose. He didn’t even need to seize both of them; either would do.

The orchestra started to file in. There was a rush to fill the last seats as the musicians settled on the chairs arranged before the steps to the altar.

An expectant hush fell, then the conductor appeared, walked to his lectern, bowed to the audience, then turned to his players and raised his baton.

A lone violin began to sing, then the other instruments joined in. Even in his state of battle-ready alert, Del felt the music swell and take hold. He glanced at Deliah.

And didn’t look away. She was caught in the music, swept away on the tide. Her eyes glowed with pleasure; her luscious lips had curved, parted.

She was oblivious, enchanted by the music. He was enthralled, ensorcelled by her.

As the music continued, the pieces flowing one to the other with only the barest pause to allow the musicians to readjust their sheets, he tried to remain attuned to their surroundings, watchful, alert to any potential danger, yet she—her face, her radiant expression, those lips that had from the first enticed—held a far stronger fascination.

A fascination that was rapidly approaching obsession.

The battle within wasn’t one he was destined to win. In the end, he surrendered, let his eyes feast, and left whatever might come later for later.

The entire concert passed without incident. If Deliah was at all aware of his tension she gave no sign.

It was raining when, one couple amid a sea of others, they reached the edge of the porch. The hackneys were doing a roaring trade. Taking Deliah’s hand, Del stepped onto the wet steps just as a hackney pulled into the curb below. He immediately hailed it. The driver saluted with his whip.

“Come on.” Del hurried Deliah down the steps, opened the hackney’s door and helped her in, then followed and sat beside her. Raising his arm, he pushed up the hatch. “Grillon’s, Albemarle Street.”

“Aye, sir. Quite a lot of traffic, so don’t worry if we’re a bit slow.”

Letting the hatch fall, Del sat back. Nothing had occurred. Perhaps the Black Cobra wasn’t watching as closely as he’d feared.

“That was lucky.” Deliah looked out of the window. “It looks like it’s been pouring, although it’s easing up now.”

She then launched into an enthusiastic analysis of the performance, waxing lyrical over the first violin’s solo and the artistry displayed by the principal cellist. Del inwardly smiled, closed his eyes, and let her words roll over him. She was safe and happy, ergo so was he. The evening had gone without a hitch, providing distraction for them both, filling the hours safely.

They would return to the suite, perhaps share a drink—tea for her—then they would retire, in amity with the world, to their respective beds.

All safe.

Deliah’s fingers closed about his wrist. He realized she’d stopped speaking, had been silent for a few minutes. He opened his eyes.

She was staring out into the night, then, her fingers tightening warningly, she leaned close, murmured, “This is not the way to Albemarle Street.”

He looked out of the hackney window. It took a moment to see enough through the drizzle to get his bearings, then he softly swore. They were on the Strand heading deeper into the City, the opposite of the direction in which they should have gone. No matter the traffic—and the carriage was stopping and starting, barely crawling—there was no sense at all in the jarvey taking this route.

Del took Deliah’s hand in a firm grip. Through the shadows he whispered, “Be ready to jump out behind me.”

She squeezed his fingers in reply, shifted to the edge of the seat.

He waited until the next snarl of traffic forced the hackney to a rocking halt. Silently opening the door, he slipped out onto the pavement, turned and smoothly lifted her down, then quietly shut the door just as the carriage jerked forward again. His concentration fixed ahead, the jarvey hadn’t noticed his lighter load.

Taking Deliah’s hand, Del strode quickly back the way they had come. Courtesy of the rain, there were few people on the streets, no cover as they hurried back along the Strand. If the jarvey looked around….

Passing the third hackney lined up behind theirs, Del glanced at the carriage—and saw two pale faces staring out at them.

Surprised. Shocked.

“Damn!” He clutched Deliah’s hand tighter. “Run!”

He dragged her on with him, hauled her alongside, glanced back as a “Hoi!” rang out.

Two—no, three—burly men jumped out of the hackney and started pounding along the pavement after them.

Deliah had taken a quick glance, too. Catching up her skirts, she started to run in earnest. “Come on.”

The slick, wet pavements made running dangerous, but they had no choice. With her gown, two petticoats and the skirts of her heavy pelisse swinging about her legs, her reticule banging against one knee, she raced as best she could along the thankfully level flagstone pavement of the Strand.

Del’s hold on her hand helped steady her, yet even without looking she knew their pursuers were closing the distance.

“Now I remember why I always preferred breeches in situations such as this.”

“Sadly, there’s no time to change.”

“No breeches, either.”

“That, too.”

A silly exchange, but it confirmed how desperate their straits truly were. From the sublime to the horrendous had taken mere minutes; her mind had yet to catch up. But it was long after ten o’clock on a wet winter’s night. Although there was plenty of carriage traffic still about, there was almost no one on foot. No support, no succor, and nowhere to make a stand.

Del suddenly changed direction, urging her up a side street heading away from the river. She agreed with the sentiment—the river wasn’t a wise destination—but for a moment she worried the lane they’d taken would prove to be a dead end.

But no. The murk ahead was cut by a beam of light, then they heard the rattle as a carriage rumbled along the street at the upper end of the lane.

“Thank God.” Deliah looked down and put her mind to keeping up, and not slipping on the wet paving stones as Del raced them up the lane.

Neither she nor he could resist a glance back.

The three men were too close, and gaining rapidly. They were all hulking brutes. One was carrying a club.

They were more than two-thirds up the lane, but with the men closing ever more rapidly, ever more determinedly, they weren’t going to reach the street beyond.

A pace ahead of her, Del abruptly stopped, hauled her up to him, then pushed her on. “Go! As fast as you can, then to the left. I’ll catch up.”

Releasing Deliah, Del swung to face the men.

They grinned, and fanned out as they came on.

Behind him, he heard Deliah’s retreating footsteps. At least she was away; if either of them were going to fall into the clutches of the Black Cobra, he’d much rather it was he.

The bruiser in the middle was the one with the club. He slowed, smiled evilly, then stepped in and swung the club at Del’s head.

Wondering who had taught the man to fight, Del stepped inside the swing, grabbed the man’s arm with one hand, his throat with the other, and used the man’s own momentum to heave him into the man on his right.

They both went down heavily in a tangle of limbs, heads cracking against the stone gutter.

Del swiveled to face the third man—and found himself instinctively leaping back from a knife.

Cursing his own stupidity in coming out unarmed, he shifted, backing, assessing his opponent and the long-handled blade he held. A distraction was what he needed.

He’d reached that conclusion when he saw a shadow shift behind the man.

His blood turned to ice as he saw Deliah creeping up behind the man—he’d told the damn woman to run!

Quickly he looked back at the man—leapt back from another swipe.

Deliah rose behind the lout and clouted him over the head with her reticule.

Caught totally by surprise, the man yelped and instinctively ducked.

Del stepped in, seized the hand with the knife, then smashed his boot into the side of the man’s knee.

There was a vicious crack and the man went down, howling and clutching his leg.

Del glanced at the other two. They were groggily trying to get to their feet. They didn’t appear to be able to focus yet.

He didn’t dare take them on with Deliah there.

Turning, he grabbed her hand and tore up the lane. She struggled to keep up, but did, without complaint.

In the mood he was in, that was just as well.

They weren’t out of the woods yet.

They reached the end of the lane and stepped into a wider street. Looking left, he saw the spires of St. Martin-in-the-Fields rising through the low-hanging fog, and thanked heaven for a military man’s sense of direction.

He glanced back down the lane, then pulled Deliah on toward the church.

Assessing the possibilities.

The two bruisers he’d left mobile were up and heading their way, in a very much grimmer mood. And he and Deliah were still too far away from the church precincts to trust in reaching them safely.

They needed a place to hide, and they needed it now—before the two chasing them reached the street and saw them. The place didn’t need to be perfect, just somewhere the two brutes wouldn’t think to look….

Ahead, a row of hackney carriages materialized through the murk. If they took one…they risked their pursuers catching up with them in the traffic crawling around Trafalgar Square and all the way to Grillon’s.

With renewed urgency, he hurried Deliah along, scanning the buildings they raced past. Praying they would reach the carriages in time.

Reaching the nearest hackney, he halted, tossed the jarvey a sovereign. “Don’t ask why—just drive, as fast as you can, down Piccadilly. Go!”

The jarvey blinked, but was already lifting his reins to set his coach rolling.

At least the voice of command worked on some.

One glance back showed their pursuers had yet to reach the street. Tightening his grip on Deliah’s hand, he swung her toward the buildings, hurried and harried her into a small alcove before a locked door. He pushed her into the shadows, then crowded in, too, just as the two men came out of the lane.

He looked at Deliah—just as she opened her mouth.

Felt her breasts press against his chest with the breath she’d drawn in.

Seizing her other hand, too, he ducked his head and shut her up.

By kissing her.

Hard.

He shifted into her, trapping her against the brick wall of the alcove. His greatcoat was dark, his trousers were, too, and so was his hair, which currently reached his collar. With his head bent, with her trapped before him, completely shielded by his body, they should be all but invisible in the shadows. Not even her pale face could catch a stray gleam from the smoky street flares.

He hoped, he prayed….

He had to fight the distraction of her lips beneath his, ignore the temptation to taste her, try to blot out the sensation of her exceedingly feminine body pressed along the length of his, and concentrate, focus all his senses, on what was happening in the street behind his back.

Through the sensual storm hazing his brain, he heard the bruisers’ pounding footsteps near, heard them halt, swear at the retreating carriage, then he heard them—yes!—hail the next hackney in line and clamber up, calling orders to follow the other carriage.

He didn’t lift his head when the carriage door slammed, not even when the horses’ hooves rang in the street. He didn’t pull back from the kiss and risk a look until the retreating hoofbeats were fading.

The hackney with their pursuers was disappearing into the murk at the end of the street.

They were safe.

Registering Deliah’s silence, he looked back at her. Despite the shadows, he fell into the dark pools of her wide, stunned eyes. He felt the quick rise and fall of her breasts, mashed against his chest. Saw her lips, lush and ripe, full and parted in the poor light. Beckoning.

He saw the tip of her tongue glide over her lower lip, making the lusciousness glisten.

He didn’t need to kiss her again, yet he did.

It wasn’t a simple kiss but one fueled by anger, and relief. And by something he didn’t understand—that something she and only she evoked, and set pounding in his blood.

Her lips had been parted; he filled her mouth, stole her breath, then gave it back. Deliberately lingered, tasted, explored.

He tightened his fingers on hers, kept their hands safely locked, arms down, even though every instinct pushed him to free his hands and seize her, hold her, bring her close—much closer.

He wanted her, and that want was open, undisguised, there in every bold stroke of his tongue, in the demanding pressure of his lips on hers. In the hard ridge that pressed against her belly. Deliah had no difficulty reading his desire, recognizing it—along with the response that raced through her, hot, instinctive, and strong.

She wanted him, and that was dangerous.

Dangerous with a capital D.

Yet she couldn’t back away, pull back—end this unwise kiss. Because she didn’t want to. Because there was, it seemed, no force within her powerful enough to counter the pull of it, and him.

Once again, Del found himself in the unaccustomed position of having to force himself to end a kiss—a kiss that promised so much more, that left him aching and hungry for much more. A “more” he now was certain he could have, but while this, it seemed, was the right time, it absolutely wasn’t the right place.

Drawing back from the exchange, limited though it had been, was hard enough. Lifting his head, he looked down into her face, at the lashes that fluttered, then lifted, revealing eyes clouded with rising passion. Her lips were lightly swollen, sheening from his kiss.

Stepping back was much harder, losing the elementally feminine cushion of her curves, an evocative softness that had cradled his hard frame. Easing back, subduing his rising clawing need, took more effort than he’d imagined, but he finally moved back, then, releasing one of her hands, he turned and stepped out of the alcove.

After checking they were indeed safe, he drew her out, too, without a word led her to the nearest hackney, opened the door, and helped her in. He looked up at the jarvey. “Grillon’s.”

Climbing in, he shut the carriage door and dropped onto the seat beside her.

He didn’t say a single word on their journey back to Grillon’s—and neither did she.

By the time the hackney pulled up outside the hotel, Deliah had recovered her composure, but her pulse was still pounding.

With suppressed anger, and unslaked passion.

She recognized both, and knew which was the safer to address. While she could understand, even without his explanation, why he’d kissed her the first time, she couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to think about, why he’d kissed her again. The second time.

That second, much more thorough time.

Sweeping into the hotel’s foyer, she regally nodded to the clerk behind the desk, then continued without pause up the stairs and down the corridor to the suite.

Del, of course, followed; she heard his heavy footsteps closing in from behind. Reaching the suite, she threw open the door and swept in.

He strode in on her heels and shut the door with force.

Halting, she whirled on him, temper sparking. “Don’t you dare upbraid me for coming to your aid. I’ll do it again in such circumstances.”

“No. You won’t.” Eyes already narrowed, he walked toward her—only halted when he stood directly in front of her with a bare inch between her breasts and his chest, so she had to tip her head back to meet his eyes.

Eyes that snapped with a temper to match hers. “You will never, ever, disobey my orders again. If I tell you to go on, you will—without hesitation.”

She narrowed her eyes back. “No. I won’t. I’m not one of your subordinates you can order around. Whatever the situation, I’ll do as I think best.”

Del felt his jaw lock. He fisted his hands against a nearly overpowering urge to seize her and shake some sense into her. It was a moment before he could trust himself to speak. “If you wish to continue to be a member of this group—to assist in my mission—you will henceforth do exactly as I say.”

One finely drawn dark brow arched. Maddeningly. “Or what?”

He had to stop and think.

When he didn’t immediately answer—not because he couldn’t answer but because, belatedly, wisdom had caught his tongue, and he couldn’t immediately think of a response it would be safe to utter—her eyes, her expression, hardened, and she went on, “I’m not some flunky, or some private who has to jump to do your bidding. What’s more, if you recall, I offered—only this morning—to step away from this enterprise, but you insisted that, having commenced it, I had to see it through to the end. So I am—I will. However, I didn’t agree to transform into the sort of weak-kneed twit with more hair than wit who runs away and leaves you to deal with not one, not two, but three assailants—one armed with a club, another with a knife!”

She flung up her hands. “Why are you even lecturing me about this? We’re here, we’re safe—isn’t that the important thing? Aside from all else, I’m my own person. I’m twenty-nine, for heaven’s sake! I’ve sailed to Jamaica and back, more or less on my own. I’ve been an adult, my responsibility and no one else’s, for a very long time!”

“Which is undoubtedly my problem.” Del tried to shut up, but something—that something—was riding him hard. He met her glare for glare, leveled a finger at her nose. “This habit of yours of putting yourself in danger has got to stop!”

“Me putting myself in danger? Pray tell, who insisted we go to the recital tonight? And yes, I enjoyed it, thank you very much, but taking me there doesn’t give you the right to dictate to me!”

“You’re a female—one in my care. Your parents’ request for me to act as your escort makes you my responsibility.” Lowering his finger, he jabbed it at her sternum. “It’s my job to protect you.”

Her eyes narrowed to flinty shards. “Indeed? Is that what that kiss was about then? The second kiss. Protecting me?”

Deliah heard her voice rise—abruptly remembered the kiss in Madame Latour’s narrow hall, the more recent exchange, and her helpless reactions. She searched his eyes, all dark, hot and heated. Heaven help her, he was infinitely more dangerous to her than any thug.

Luckily, he didn’t know it.

So she could look down her nose and scornfully state, “I am not yours, not in any way—you don’t need to feel responsible for me!”

Fueled by a senseless, witless fury that he’d only kissed her to keep her safe—to continue their roles before the modiste, to stop her making a sound tonight, and even tonight’s second kiss she felt sure he’d have a sensible reason for—she whirled and stalked into her bedroom.

The door had been left ajar. Passing through it, she shoved it closed behind her.

Waited to hear it slam.

It didn’t.

On a stifled gasp she swung around—to see Del, his face like a thundercloud, storming after her.

Fury boiled through her veins. She straightened to her full height, raised one arm and dramatically pointed to the door, opened her mouth to order him out—

He grabbed her pointing hand, jerked her hard against him.

His head swooped.

And he covered her lips with his.

Six

Crushed them. Hauled her into his arms and held her as if he were trying to absorb her into his body.

He kissed her in the same way.

As if he wanted to devour her. To own her, claim her.

Have her.

In every imaginable way.

Deliah sank her hands into his hair and kissed him back. With equal fervor, equal need.

Their wills met and merged in a clash of fire and passion.

Of instant conflagration and fiery need.

The anger that had driven her converted in a heartbeat to something more potent, to a compulsion that thrummed in her blood, that filled her head with dizzying desire, that burgeoned, erupted and swept her on.

Her inner self seized control, and it wanted, needed, yearned.

For more. For this. For what it had been starved of for so long.

He angled his head, ruthlessly, relentlessly deepened the kiss, and she pressed against him, into him, and met him caress for caress.

She remembered this, the heat, the urgency.

Yet this time there were flames and fire, and heady desperation.

Del sensed the same, knew beyond doubt that he ought to stop, that if he’d been wise he’d never have kissed her.

Yet he’d had to.

He had to show her because she refused to see, had to demonstrate unequivocally in the most indisputable way that she was his—his in more ways, deeper ways, than could ever be needed to justify his right to protect her.

He wrenched his mouth from hers. “This is why I need to keep you safe.”

Safe from the Black Cobra. Safe from all danger.

Safe. And his.

She blinked up at him, jade eyes drowning in a glory of passion. Then her grip on his head tightened and she hauled his head down, hauled his lips to hers. Catapulted them both into a blazing inferno.

An eruption of molten desire shook him—snared him, lured him.

If he’d been able to think…yet he couldn’t, not with her hands gripping his skull, not with her lips ravenous beneath his.

Not with her tall, curvaceous figure provocatively plastered along the length of his.

She wanted, incited, and he broke, seized, took. Claimed her mouth, then, holding her tight within one arm, raised a hand to her breast and claimed that, too.

Her response was instantaneous, undeniable, encouraging—a murmuring moan trapped in her throat. Her fingers tightened in his hair as his fingers played, learned. Seduced.

Deliah felt the wanton within her rise, felt her blossom and bloom with every evocative touch, with every heavy thrust of his tongue against hers, every increasingly flagrant caress.

No matter her memories, it had never been like this. Never so fiery, never so fraught. She’d never been so desperately needy.

Even through her pelisse, his knowing hands made her breasts swell and ache, a sweeter, sharper ache than she recalled. Griffiths, the bastard, had never made her feel like this. There was no comparison.

This was new, and she had to have. Better, more; she had to know. She reached for the buttons of his coat as he reached for hers.

The next minutes went in a blind flurry of hands and grasping, greedy fingers, of passion escalating degree by inexorable degree as this garment, then that, slid away.

Tugged, pulled, ripped away.

And blind need took over—infected them both, drove them, fired them.

His hands found her skin, hard, hot and urgent. Hers found his, greedy and grasping. The muscled expanse of his chest, his heavy shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back.

Then his lips left hers, slid lower. His mouth fastened over one nipple and she arched, cried out.

Discovery and demand, yielding, then seizing, insisting and commanding, they traded caresses, shared and challenged, uninhibitedly answered the other’s call.

Until they rolled on the bed, skin to naked skin, long limbs tangling, hands sculpting, urging, fingers searching.

Finding.

She arched beneath him as he stroked between her thighs. Lips locked with his, she burned, her hands gripping his sides, urging him over her.

Into her.

He complied. Lifting over her, he parted her thighs with his, spread them wide, set his hips between, and with one powerful thrust joined them.

She lost her breath. Every nerve in her body sparked, then whipped taut. She gasped, might have cried out, the sound muffled by their still rapacious kiss.

He withdrew and plunged in again, deeper still, steel encased in velvet shafting into her body.

And the wild ride began.

Pagan in its power, it held her, compelled her. She danced beneath him, rode with him, through the flames, straight into the heart of the fire.

And they burned. Hotter, more intense than anything she’d dreamed, a fiery need blossomed at her core. Relentlessly, ruthlessly, he fed and stoked the blaze….

Until that need became her all, until it throbbed beneath her fingertips, pounded in her blood, burned beneath her skin.

Silk and passion. She was that and so much more. Del had never known such urgency, such all-consuming, unwavering compulsion to have a woman—to take her and be damned. Regardless—despite—any and all restrictions.

Despite every last one of his rational reservations.

It was madness—this driving desperation, this compulsive conviction. Its claws were sunk deep, not just in his flesh but into his psyche, his soul.

He couldn’t live without having her—some part of him had accepted that as indisputable fact. That primitive side rejoiced as he pinned her beneath him, as her curves—those bounteous curves he’d coveted from first sight—cushioned him, cradled him. As, her long legs spread, she took him in, arched and took him yet deeper, all scalding slickness and wet, clinging heat.

She was tight, tighter than he’d expected, the walls of her sheath clutching, clamping, fisting him.

Taking him.

Lids heavy, breath coming in panting gasps, barely able to see, he was beyond all control, but so was she. This might have been unwise, but he didn’t care—and, thank God, neither did she. If he’d had any doubts, the half-moons her nails were scoring in his skin had banished them.

She was with him, urging him on even as he reached for her knees, and drew first one, then the other, to his hips, opening her to even deeper penetration. She only gasped, clung, rocked beneath him ever more evocatively, wordlessly pleading for release.

The roar in his blood grew, drowning out all but the need to have her climax. To see her surrender, to take her to the very peak of desperate sexual need, then tip her over into sexual bliss.

To feel her beneath him as he did, to sense that moment of absolute surrender.

To see her face, her expression, in the instant ecstasy took her.

He thrust deeper, faster, harder, more powerfully as he felt her rise.

Her fingers bit into his arms as she arched. She gasped into his mouth as her nerves drew that very last fraction tauter.

Then she shattered.

She came apart beneath him on a strangled cry, a sound that satisfied one of his needs. He’d expected to hold back, to take more of her, yet her convulsing sheath clamped tight, and she took him with her, pulled him over the precipice’s edge and on.

Release swept him; he couldn’t deny it. His roar muffled in the curve of her throat, he thrust deep and let go.

And joined her.

Felt her arms close around him and tug him down, wrap about him and hold him close as oblivion rolled in, over, and enveloped them.

For long moments, the heat held them, blessed and golden, a gentle sea.

Slowly, inexorably, satiation swept in, infusing them as they spiraled down, and drifted back to earth.

To the unexpected, unanticipated intimacy of each other’s naked arms.

December 14
Grillon’s Hotel

Deliah woke to a gray morning and the rattling of coals in the grate. Heart leaping, she glanced at the bed beside her—only to discover it empty.

The bed was a four-poster, and at some point in the night Del must have drawn the curtains along one side and across the end; she could see the window and the leaden sky, but the hotel maid at the hearth couldn’t see her.

Or the rumpled, crumpled disaster of the bed.

Bess would be up shortly and undoubtedly would notice, but Deliah had no intention of explaining. Indeed, thinking back, she wasn’t sure she could.

How did one rationalize something so far beyond reason?

She spent two minutes trying, then gave up.

Aside from all else, she could not bring herself to regret a single moment of the night, something Bess would detect, and that would only lead to more questions. Difficult, prickly questions given Bess knew her history with gentlemen and was every bit as protective as Del wished to be.

Would he regret—was he already regretting—the interlude, their unanticipated explosion of mutual madness? Of shared insanity.

She knew he hadn’t intended it any more than she had, but they’d clashed, kissed fierily, and that had been that.

The firestorm of passion sparked by that kiss had swept over them and cindered all caution, and reduced all inhibitions to insubstantial ash.

The result…had been glorious.

Lying in the enfolding warmth, she replayed each scintillating moment, at least those she could recall.

Quite enough to heat her cheeks, to have her shifting beneath the sheet.

Then she remembered what had happened later, when he’d woken her in the depths of the night.

He certainly hadn’t behaved like a man burdened with regrets.

If he had been, he wouldn’t have…done it all again.

Only more slowly, and with much greater attention to detail.

Her body thrummed just from the memory.

The maid had left; the fire was crackling. She heard the door open, and Bess’s quick, light steps. Tossing back the covers, she froze, then set her chin, wrapped the loose sheet about her naked self, and swung her legs out of the bed.

“Good morning, Bess.” Sheet trailing after her, she walked out from around the bed. “Have you seen my robe?”

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.

Bess stared at her, mouth open, for one long moment, then simply said, “Oh, my God.”

Washed, brushed and wearing one of the walking gowns that had been delivered from Madamae Latour’s salon, Deliah strolled into the sitting room of the suite in an entirely amiable mood.

Over the matter of the gowns she’d decided not to cut off her nose to spite her face. She’d accept them for now, but later she would insist on paying Del in full. In money.

But she needed gowns to wear now. Not anticipating a prolonged halt on their journey north, she had a few carriage gowns, and not much else. She’d charged Bess with shopping for chemises, stockings and similar necessities while she was out tempting the Black Cobra with Del.

He was in the sitting room, seated at the table breaking his fast with Tony and Gervase. At sight of her, all three started to get to their feet. She waved them back. “No—stay where you are.”

While the others subsided, with a careful look, Del pulled out the empty chair between his and Tony’s. With an airy nod and a light smile, she thanked him and sat.

She looked at Tony as Del resumed his seat. “So,” she asked, reaching for the teapot, “did anything come of your watch at the tavern?”

If Del could be a man of the world and evince no telltale sign of the hours they’d spent rolling naked in her bed, then she could do the same.

From the corner of his eye, Del watched her sip tea and nibble a slice of toast and marmalade as Tony and Gervase recounted their disappointingly uneventful evening.

“The Cobra or his minions must have been watching from outside the inn, waiting to see if their hirelings brought a woman.” Gervase shook his head. “We thought of hunting to see if we could spot them, but in that neighborhood there are simply too many seedy characters.”

“And they all look suspicious,” Tony said.

Grimacing in commiseration, Deliah set down her empty cup. “So what are our plans for today?”

They discussed their options for drawing the cultists out.

Del had already told Gervase and Tony of the excitement following his and Deliah’s attendance at the recital. They’d been troubled, and not a little disgusted to have missed the action. They’d resolved they wouldn’t again leave Deliah and him unwatched while out of the hotel. However…

“We need to make it easier, more attractive for them to approach—to come out of hiding and make some move.” Gervase looked at Del and Deliah. “The museum’s a warren—it might appeal to them.”

They all agreed that the museum and its many rooms was worth a try.

Del stirred and shot a glance at Deliah. Tried to keep all expression from his face. “It’s too early yet to go to the museum.” He switched his gaze to Tony and Gervase. “I think I’ll take a stroll to Guards’ Headquarters. Laying more false trails can’t hurt.”

“That,” Deliah said, laying aside her napkin, her gaze on Tony and Gervase, “sounds eminently sensible. You two can follow and keep watch. I’ll wait here until you get back, then we can go to Montague House.”

Tony and Gervase agreed readily.

Del inclined his head.

And told himself he had no grounds on which to feel sensitive, let alone irritated, by his recent bedmate’s unaffected manner, by the lack of any hint of susceptibility, or consciousness in her attitude to him.

She was behaving exactly as he should want her to behave. Neither Tony nor Gervase had detected any change in the air between him and her.

Because there wasn’t any. At least, none to be detected. Even by him.

Despite all, he’d expected something—a tremble in her fingers, an almost imperceptible change in her breathing—some indication of her heightened awareness of him.

Entirely against his better judgment, he wanted to speak with her—just to jog her memory of the heated hours they’d shared last night—but all four of them rose from the table and, instead of giving him a chance to hang back and exchange those few words, with an airy wave, Deliah headed for her bedroom.

Leaving him to quit the suite with Tony and Gervase, in a distinctly disgruntled mood.

His mood hadn’t improved when he returned to Grillon’s from visiting the Guards, then taking a quick swing through Whitehall and the Home Office, just to set a few more spectral cats prowling around their pigeon.

Nothing of any moment had been achieved. There’d been no one worthwhile confiding in at any of his stops, and neither Tony nor Gervase had spotted any cultists, although they were sure he’d been followed by at least three different locals working as a team—keeping watch, but too wary to try any direct attack.

Regardless, after last night, if he was to escort Deliah on another foray in which he and she would play welcoming targets, he wanted something a little more lethal than his cane.

His swordstick would feel better in his hand.

Tony and Gervase had elected to wait outside, hanging back at the corner of the street. Although he’d known they’d been close, even he hadn’t always been able to spot them.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and made for his bedchamber. He’d change his cane for his swordstick, then collect Deliah and leave for the museum.

He was still some way from the door to his room when it opened. The Indian boy who was part of Deliah’s household came out. The boy shut the door and, without seeing Del, walked off down the corridor in the opposite direction, no doubt making for the servants’ stairs at the end.

Slowing, Del watched him go, then, reaching his door, opened it and went in.

Cobby was there, folding shirts. He looked up as Del closed the door. “Any luck?”

“No.” Del tossed him his cane, which Cobby deftly caught. “I thought I’d take my swordstick.”

Cobby grinned. “By the wall beside the door.”

Del turned, saw it waiting, and grunted. Picking it up, he paused. “Did Miss Duncannon send a message?”

“No. Haven’t heard from her, nor seen her, since breakfast.”

“What was her boy doing here, then?”

“Sangay? He just looked in to see if I had anything for him to do—any errands or the like. Probably looking for an excuse to get outside.”

Del humphed, nodded. He refocused on the swordstick in his hand. “So it’s off to the museum to trawl for cultists. Wish us luck.”

“I would, only I’m not sure which way that should go. Do you want them to hang back and let you live peaceably, or come at you and try to slit your throats?”

“The latter.” Del turned to the door. “At the moment I could definitely do with engaging a cultist or two.”

Or three. By the time he and Deliah reached the museum, Del was itching for a fight. He knew the sensation well, but never before had it been provoked by a woman, a lady. And all because she was behaving absolutely perfectly.

Except….

He’d spent the short hackney ride to Montague House lecturing himself on the absurdity of wishing her to change into some different, more delicate type of female, the sort prone to displaying her sensibilities. That might make reading her, and managing her, easier, but it would conversely make his life a great deal more difficult.

And he didn’t truly want her to change. He wanted….

If she’d noticed his abstraction, she’d given no sign, but had commented happily on the sights as they’d crossed the town into Bloomsbury. Now she stood in the museum foyer scanning a board listing the current exhibits. “Where should we start? I rather fancy the Egyptian gallery. I’ve heard it’s quite fascinating.”

“The Egyptians it is.” He waved her on.

Discreet signs directed them up the stairs. As they climbed, she glanced at him, then asked, “How did your visit to the Guards go?”

It was the first she’d asked of it—which, now he thought of it, was unlike her. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected—as undistracted—as he’d thought?

“I found a few friends to chat to, but it was all for show. I didn’t even mention the Black Cobra.”

At the top of the stairs, he touched her elbow and indicated another sign down a corridor. They started toward it.

“I know you’ve resigned your commission, supposedly permanently, but was that merely for this mission? Will you rejoin when it’s over, perhaps serve in some other capacity? Or are you truly retiring from the field?”

He thought as they strolled. “The latter was my intention, and still is. Talking to the others today only confirmed that—the reasons for that.”

“Which are?”

An interrogation again, but gentler. He sensed she truly wanted to know. And after last night…“I’m thirty-five. My service has shown me much of the world, and also brought me significant wealth. Militarily, there are few challenges remaining—not for field officers such as myself. It’s time I came home and tried my hand at new challenges.”

“In Humberside?”

He felt his lips curve. “In Humberside, strange as that may seem.”

Her nose tipped upward. “It doesn’t seem strange to me.”

And that, he thought, was interesting—revealing. Despite her travels, it seemed she, too, had a special place in her heart for the county of her birth.

Before he could turn the tables on her, she asked, “So what form do you imagine this Humberside challenge will take?”

They’d reached the Egyptian gallery; side by side, they turned into it. A succession of smaller connected rooms opening off a central hall, it was tailor-made for an ambush. The silver head of his swordstick felt reassuring in Del’s hand. Taking Deliah’s elbow, he steered her toward the first of the large statues in the hall, one of Isis that towered some eight feet tall. “Let’s examine the statues in this room first, going down this side, then up the other. That’ll give them a moment to find us. Then we can go through the smaller rooms and see if we can tempt them to make a move.”

She nodded. Dutifully considered Isis, and read the description inscribed on a plaque beside it.

“So,” she said, as they moved to the next statue, “what do you plan to do on your return to Middleton on the Wolds?”

His lips quirked. “You’ve missed your calling—you should have been an interrogator.”

Her brows rose haughtily. “I take it you don’t know the answer.”

“Not entirely. I’d toyed with the idea of resigning for some time, but beyond going home to Middleton on the Wolds, I hadn’t got to the stage of making more detailed plans, then this mission arose, and as part of it I resigned. So no, I haven’t any fixed intentions beyond going home.”

“But it’s your house, isn’t it?” She glanced at him. “Delborough Hall, where your aunts live?”

“Yes.” He steered her on. “They’ve been keeping the place—house and estate—running while I’ve been away, more or less since my father’s death. But from their letters I gather they’re eager for me to take up the reins, something I did wonder about.”

“Indeed. They’ve been mistresses there for decades. They might not have wished to surrender control.”

“Apparently now peace has been established, they’re keen to travel and see all the sights the wars prevented them from seeing.”

She smiled. “From what I remember of them, they’ll thoroughly enjoy harassing some poor courier-guide.”

The notion made him grin.

They’d reached the end of the main hall. Glancing up the long room, he saw a number of other people, including two men who didn’t seem the sort to spend their hours studying ancient statuary. “I believe”—he turned back to Deliah—“that we’ve collected two watchers, but sadly, they’re not cultists.”

“But they might be…what’s the term? Scouting? For the cultists. Mightn’t they?”

“They might. Let’s go back along this side—we’ll pass them as we go up the room, then we’ll turn into the first rooms on our right.”

She nodded, and obligingly glided beside him as they perambulated up the room, stopping at every statue to admire and exchange comments.

As they left the main hall for the minor rooms, she returned to her earlier interrogation. “You don’t seem the sort to be a gentleman farmer.” She glanced at him. “Or at least, not to be satisfied with being only that.”

Very true. “I’ve been thinking, what with Kingston so close, and York and Leeds not that far away, that I might look into investing in manufacturing. Manufacturing what, I’m not sure.” He glanced at her. “Textiles, perhaps.”

She dipped her head. “There are all those mills about Leeds. I had wondered if there might be a market for cotton there.”

“And silk.”

“Actually, there are a number of combinations of silk and cotton that are quite valuable commercially.” Her skirts swished as she paused by a glass case housing pieces of pottery. “Are they still following us?”

“Yes. And they’re drawing closer.”

“Hmm. Then again, these rooms are smaller.”

“True.”

They continued ambling, and their watchers continued to follow, close enough to observe them, but not close enough to pose a physical threat. They seemed intent on watching only, thus giving Del no excuse to react.

Whether it was the possibility of impending danger abrading his protectiveness, or the airy nonchalance of her replies, or, loweringly, that he remained acutely aware of her, of the body he’d spent hours possessing thoroughly through the night that now seemed so elusive, drifting close yet beyond his reach, he didn’t know, but her continued apparent imperviousness, her insensibility to his nearness, his presence by her side, pricked him, increasingly on the raw.

Enough to have him reach for her, his hand brushing the side of her breast as he wound her arm with his.

He detected the faintest tremble, the slightest quiver in her breathing, but her serene smile never faltered. A second later, she was enthusing about some ancient scroll.

Once started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Some part of him interpreted her refusal to let any sensual awareness of him show as a challenge, even though his rational mind knew he should be grateful. Instead, as he guided her deeper into the labyrinth of smaller rooms surrounding the main hall, he let his hand linger at the small of her back. Her breath caught. When she tried to move away, he moved with her, letting his palm brush upward, then slide down.

She sucked in a breath, tighter, more constrained, and shot him a sharp, if wary, glance.

Wariness wasn’t what he wanted. When she stopped before another glass case and stared in apparent rapt contemplation, he slipped his arm from hers and stepped behind her, his palm trailing from her waist down over her hip, and around to, as he stood behind her watching her reflection in the glass, lightly caress the swell of her derriere.

This time she sucked in a more definite breath, caught her lower lip between her teeth, then looked up—and glared at him.

Her breasts swelled more definitely. She glanced swiftly across the room to where the two watchers were pretending to examine a wall plaque, then swung to face him. “What are you doing?”

Her hissing tone was music to his ears. She was no longer so unaffected.

He opened his eyes wide. “Me? Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Eyes narrowing, she prodded him in the chest. When he stepped back, she swept past and, with more of a swish than a glide, headed toward the next open door. She spoke over her shoulder in an irritated whisper. “Just because I lost my head last night doesn’t mean I’m going to—”

“Acknowledge it?”

She shot him an angry glance as he drew near. “Acknowledge what? And how?”

He halted just inside the doorway. The room was more of a small alcove; it had only one door, the one at his back. Returning his gaze to her face, he replied, “Acknowledge that you transformed into a veritable houri, and that you enjoyed every minute of what I did to you.”

“A houri? Nonsense!”

“Trust me, I know a houri when I have her beneath me.”

She nearly choked. “What about you, and what I did to you?”

“You want me to acknowledge that?”

“Why not? If you want me to do the same?”

He studied her for an instant, then nodded. “Very well.”

She frowned. “Very well what?”

He reached back and closed the little room’s door.

Her eyes flared wide. “What are you doing?”

He caught her arms, stepped back so his shoulders were against the door, then yanked her to him. Met her eyes as he lowered his head. “I’m doing as you asked—acknowledging how much I enjoyed being inside you.”

He kissed her—and every particle of pretense instantly fell away. Her lips parted beneath his, her mouth instantly yielded. Inviting, inciting; it was as if he’d waltzed them straight back into the fire that had burned so hotly through the night.

He had his answer, all but immediately. She had been pretending not to be affected; the discovery was balm to his primitive male soul.

Yet he couldn’t resist taking the kiss deeper, angling his head and taking more, demanding more. Filling his hands with the bounty of her curves, he lifted her against him, shifted his hips against her, felt her hands grip his head, felt her melt….

Hauling on his reins, he abruptly drew back, staggered that she’d been able to lure him so far so quickly, to so deeply snare him in her sensual web.

A houri, indeed.

Thank God she didn’t know how thoroughly he was smitten.

Deliah blinked dazedly up at him. Her lips throbbed, her skin felt heated. She wanted….

Then she remembered where they were. Feeling his hands gripping her bottom, she wriggled—caught her breath at the press of his erection.

Felt marginally better when he cursed through his teeth and set her down.

She was still horrified. “Don’t you dare do such a thing again—not in public!”

He arched one dark, infuriating brow. “Why not?” His lips lightly curved. “You liked it.”

“That’s not the point!” She felt flustered to her toes. The same toes that had been curling bare seconds before. Which was the point. She clearly couldn’t trust herself—her wayward, wanton, according to him hourilike self—to hold to any socially unimpeachable line. Not when it came to him. Not if he touched her, kissed her.

She felt like fanning herself, but it was the middle of winter—a muff wasn’t much use. Gritting her teeth, she tried to glare at him.

He merely smiled charmingly, stepped aside and opened the door. “Shall we go on?”

All she could do was elevate her chin and swan through the door back into the room they’d left.

Their watchers were still there; her reappearance interrupted a hasty conference, which abruptly ended.

Ignoring the two men, she led the way on.

They completed their circuit of the Egyptian gallery, then she insisted on looking through the Etruscan rooms as well, which gave her blood time to cool, but otherwise failed to advance their cause. Their watchers simply wouldn’t approach them.

Disappointed on that front, they quit the museum, only spotting Tony and Gervase as, a few minutes later, they followed them through the doors.

“Well,” she said, settling onto the seat in the hackney Del had hailed, “that gained us nothing.”

Sitting beside her, he smiled a knowing, self-satisfied, masculine smile.

She stiffened, waited, but he contented himself with looking out of the window as the hackney ferried them back to Grillon’s.

The smile, however, remained on his lips.

They returned to the hotel and repaired to the suite. Minutes later, Tony and Gervase joined them.

“Those two are still watching from down the street,” Gervase said. “They come, they go, but they don’t go far.”

“They have to be the Black Cobra’s hirelings.” Del grimaced. “Unfortunately, I can’t see any benefit in the direct approach. Like the others, they won’t know anything.”

“The best we can do is follow them this evening and hope to get a bead on the man to whom they report.” Tony turned as the door opened. “Ah—luncheon.”

They sat and ate. Deliah preserved a certain aloofness. Even she could hear the warning edge to her voice. Neither Tony nor Gervase could interpret it, but that didn’t matter—he who needed to hear the warning could.

From the look in his eyes when they met hers, Del heard her message loud and clear, but to her irritation he didn’t pay it any great heed. When, the meal concluded and their plans for the afternoon confirmed, he and she left the suite on their next foray—a visit to Hatchards, again shadowed by Tony and Gervase—in ushering her through the door, he let his hand linger at the back of her waist.

Rather than respond, she decided to ignore him. And the reactions he evoked. Nose in the air, she led the way to the stairs.

Hatchards bookshop wasn’t far. Remembering the image they wished to project, when they stepped out into Albemarle Street and Del offered his arm, she took it. Together they strolled down the street and into Piccadilly. The day had remained overcast, the heavy clouds a steel-gray; the brisk breeze carried the scent of snow, although none had yet fallen. She’d brought her umbrella just in case; getting drenched formed no part of her plans.

The bell over Hatchards’ door tinkled as Del opened the door. Deliah walked in; he followed at her heels. “Do you think they’ll come in here?” she murmured.

Pausing, they both took stock of the shop, tightly packed with bookshelves forming narrow corridors leading into the depths, with a goodly number of customers excusing themselves to each other as they passed up and down the aisles, searching the shelves.

“If I were them,” Del replied, “I’d stay outside and watch. There’s only one door for customers to use. But still, it’s worth a try—we might lure them in. Pick an aisle, and let’s disappear down it and see what happens.”

“Poets, I think.” She set off down the third aisle.

Despite the look he cast her, he followed.

“Did you ever read Byron?”

“No. Not my style.”

She cast him a glance over her shoulder. “You might be surprised. ‘Childe Harold’ was quite…adventurous.”

He merely looked at her.

She smiled and faced forward.

They spent some time loitering deep between the shelves, pretending a spurious interest in this or that, while he kept a weather eye on the others who drifted quietly up and down the aisles.

An assassin would have found the shop very much to his liking. It would have been quite easy to take someone intent on the books unawares. But Del was fast coming to the conclusion that those following them had been hired merely to watch, and nothing else.

Which worried him.

Where was the Black Cobra and his assassins? He couldn’t believe there weren’t more cultists in England, supporting their evil master. Aside from all else, their evil master was far too canny not to have brought as many men as he could with him. And he’d had days, if not weeks, to build up his troops.

His mind absorbed with speculation, his eyes scanning their surrounds, he didn’t see the danger directly before him.

Deliah didn’t intend it, and neither did he. She was about to slip past an elderly gentleman when the man turned, blocking the narrow aisle, then, eyes down, stepped toward them. Deliah stopped dead. The gentleman, apparently hard of hearing, and then shocked to find them so close, took a moment to realize and halt—forcing her to hurriedly step back.

Her neatly rounded derriere pressed snugly into Del’s groin.

An instant later, realizing the problem courtesy of his inevitable reaction, she tried to shift sideways and succeeded in making matters even worse. Biting back a curse, he closed his hands over her shoulders and forced himself to step back.

Oblivious, the elderly gentleman, with profuse apologies and an attempted bow, excused himself and squeezed past.

Deliah swung to face Del. The look with which she pinned him was full of accusation.

Eyes narrowing, he stepped closer.

She started to edge away. Reaching across, he clamped one hand on the shelf beyond her shoulder, caging her; with his shoulder against the shelf alongside her, his body shielded her from anyone starting down the aisle. There was no one else presently in it.

All points she’d already noted.

He leaned close, met her aggravated gaze. “That wasn’t my fault—not in the slightest.”

Her lips thinned. Her eyes searched his, then they widened. Her breath hitched. Her gaze lowered to his lips. “Don’t you dare kiss me—not here.”

Part protest, part order, part whispered plea.

For one defined instant, all about them stilled. The very air seemed brittle, charged, all but crackling.

Her breasts rose and fell. His gaze lowered to the tempting mounds, before rising, inevitably, to her lips….

He saw them quiver. He looked up, into her eyes, and realized she was…every bit as aroused, as tempted, as he.

But she was frightened, not of him but of what might—would—happen if….

“No. Not here.” He straightened, and she sucked in a much-needed breath.

Then she shot him a glance close to a glare. “Good.”

Spine stiff, she entirely unnecessarily shook out her skirts, then, nose once more elevated, preceded him up the aisle.

He fell into step behind her, far enough back so he could appreciate the view as they walked back up the long aisle.

That view did nothing for his painfully unsatisfied state, yet the realization that in the aftermath of their earlier kiss—and its as yet unfullfilled promise—she was every bit as exercised as he, every bit as on edge and wanting, went a long way toward easing his temper.

When they stepped out of the shop and the door closed behind them, he could still feel the charged atmosphere between them, but they were standing in Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t surprised when she squared her shoulders, then, glancing vaguely down the street, said, “It seems senseless to waste the entire afternoon. I assume they’re still watching—why don’t we give them an opportunity they can’t refuse?”

“Such as?”

Deliah bludgeoned her wits to keep them in line, to keep them focused on his mission and what they were supposed to be accomplishing, rather than on what they might instead do if they returned to the hotel.

Her pulse was still tripping, her heart still pounding, but aside from all else, there were Tony and Gervase to consider. She couldn’t see them, but they would be near, watching, waiting.

“What about Green Park?” She turned to look down Piccadilly to where, a little way along, leafless trees overhung the pavement. “I doubt there’ll be many nursemaids airing their charges in this weather.”

She cocked a brow Del’s way. He hesitated, then, it seemed with great reluctance, inclined his head. He offered his arm. Steeling herself, she took it, and let him lead her down the busy street.

The sky was darkening, the clouds louring, and, as she’d predicted, there weren’t many people strolling under the large trees in Green Park. A scattering of maids and governesses were gathering toddlers and young children, preparing to take them home.

To warm hearths and comfort, out of the chill of impending icy rain.

Deliah gave thanks for her thick pelisse. The shiver she fought to suppress wasn’t due to the cold. They were being followed, she was sure of it, and this time with more definite intent—although she might be imagining that. She glanced at Del. “There’s more of them, aren’t there?”

His features hard, his expression impassive, he nodded. “At least three, but I think there are more.”

They strolled on a few paces. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Del wasn’t sure he agreed. “It’s what we wanted to do.” To draw the cultists into an attack. Only he didn’t think they were cultists, although he still held a faint hope. More importantly, however, he had Deliah beside him—and that went against every tenet in his book.

With every step he took deeper into the park, he felt increasingly torn, one part of him urging him to take Deliah’s arm and march her straight back to the safety of the hotel, while the rest of him argued that this was a chance—a chance his mission committed him to take—to engage the enemy’s troops and reduce their number. His decoy’s mission hinged on that.

And she would fight him every step of the way if he tried to remove her from the action she’d instigated.

They slowed, but remaining apparently oblivious was essential to tempt an attack. Yet the edge of the park drew steadily nearer, and still their pursuers hung back.

“What do we do?” she asked. “Turn and saunter back?”

Mentally reviewing the areas through which they’d passed, he grimaced. “It’s too open—they’re worried others will see and come to our aid. There’s still plenty of people walking along Piccadilly—anyone could glance into the park and see.”

“In that case”—with her furled umbrella, she waved ahead—“let’s continue on into St James’s Park. Lots more bushes under the trees there, and even fewer people.”

Let alone the sort who might assist them. With the light fading, and the weather closing in, the denizens left in St. James’s Park were more likely to be pickpockets and thieves than upstanding citizens.

Del’s jaw set. He didn’t want to, but…with a stiff nod, he guided her on.

Leaving Green Park, they crossed the end of the Mall, all but deserted, and strolled, apparently nonchalantly, on into the glades of St. James’s Park.

The bushes closed around them, and every instinct Del possessed heightened, sharpened.

Beside him, he felt Deliah tense, alert, her senses no doubt reaching out, scanning, as were his.

“Tony and Gervase will be near.” He uttered the reassurance beneath his breath.

She tipped her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

The attack, when it came, was potentially more deadly than he’d foreseen. They were ambling, outwardly without a care, down a grassed avenue wide enough for three men abreast, when three thugs swung out of the bushes ten paces ahead, and faced them, blocking the way.

Movement to their rear told him there were men there, too; gripping Deliah’s arm, he pulled her behind him as he swung to place their backs to a wide tree trunk.

Two more men blocked the path they’d already trod, cutting off any retreat. At that point, the trees and bushes lining the path were too thick to easily push through.

The enemy had chosen a decent setting for their ambush, yet they were all Englishmen. Del inwardly swore as, with a click, he loosened the sword concealed in his stick. Three of the men started forward, two from one end, one from the other, leaving one man standing guard at either end of the short stretch. With a flourishing swish, Del unsheathed his sword. Stepping back, crowding Deliah between the tree and him, he beckoned. “Come on, then.”

The sword had given them pause. They already had knives in their hands. They exchanged glances, then looked back at him.

Then they launched a concerted attack.

The fighting was fast and furious, but Del had been in tighter, more dicey situations. He hadn’t, however, fought before with a demented female armed with a parasol beside him.

He should have expected it, yet he hadn’t. Far from cowering behind him—where she ought to at least have stayed—Deliah slipped out to stand alongside him, with her parasol laying into any of the men who came within beating range.

Her active participation as well as her furious flaying threw the three men facing him off balance.

Before matters got too fraught, and the two thugs standing back thought to intervene, Tony and Gervase slid silently from the bushes, and the two thugs dropped where they stood.

The remaining three suddenly realized that instead of being the ones springing a trap, a trap had been sprung on them.

But it was far too late for escape. With ruthless efficiency, Tony, Gervase and Del subdued them, using their fists, rather than any blades.

Then came silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing.

In the deepening gloom of early twilight, they hauled all five men into a row on the grass, sitting them propped against each other. None were in any state to make a bid for freedom.

The men were still groggy, but they could hear.

“Who sent you?” Gervase began the interrogation.

With short, sharp questions coming from all four of them—Deliah joined in, of course, and as her sharper tone made the men holding their heads wince, Del let her fire away—they soon extracted the expected story. The five had been hired by a man—a suspiciously tanned Englishman with close-cropped dark hair—to stalk them, watch closely, and act on any opportunity to seize either Deliah or Del.

As before, the would-be abductors had been told to bring any baggage they might acquire to a tavern, this time in a seedy alley in Tothill Fields.

Turning to Del, Deliah and Gervase, Tony shook his head. “No point going there—it’ll be the same story as last night.”

Gervase grunted an assent. He eyed the five figures slumped before them. “What should we do with them?”

While Del, Tony and Gervase evaluated the merits of turning the men over to the Watch, Deliah stood with her arms crossed and scowled at their prisoners.

They knew she was watching; none dared meet her eye. They shifted, but none showed any sign of getting to their feet and running.

As Del and the other two were in the throes of concluding they might as well let the five go—no real point in going to the Watch and having to spend hours explaining why men continued to attack them—sitting quietly and watching and waiting was wise.

And that, Deliah thought, illustrated what was different about these men. They weren’t like the lumbering louts of yesterday; these men were harder, smarter, quicker—distinctly more deadly.

They were quite a different breed.

“Very well.” Del turned to the men. “You can—”

“Wait.” Deliah shot a glance Del’s way. When he raised a brow but obediently waited, she refocused on the man in the center of the line. He was, she judged, the oldest, and appeared the most sharply observant. “Before you scurry back to your sewers, tell me—do you know others like you? Do you have contacts you can use to get out a warning?”

The man in the center returned her regard steadily. “Might have. Why?”

“Because you need to understand what’s going on here.” Deliah felt Del place a hand on her arm; she nodded slightly in acknowledgment, but continued, “The man who hired you—you noticed his tanned skin. He’s lately come from India. He’s the servant of a man from India—a fiend who’s been terrorizing the country there, among other things butchering and torturing Englishmen, English soldiers and civilians, and even women and children.”

She held the man’s gaze. “The reason the fiend—he’s known as the Black Cobra—sent his servant to hire you was because the Colonel here”—with a wave she indicated Del—“and three others who’ve yet to land in England are carrying information that must get into the right hands in our government to bring the fiend down. Naturally, the Black Cobra doesn’t want that—he wants to be able to keep killing Englishmen in India. So you might tell all your friends that, if they agree to work for any man, even a gentleman, lately from India, then they’re most likely being used as cannon fodder for the Black Cobra, so he can keep killing Englishmen.”

The five men on the ground had grown restive as she’d spoken. When she finished, the man in the center exchanged glances with his mates, then looked up at her, nodded. “We’ll spread the word. Not many of us hold with working for furriners.”

“Good.”

“Do any of you know Gallagher?” Tony asked. “Enough to get word to him?”

All five looked wary, but after a moment, the leader allowed, “I could perhaps get word through.”

“Tell him Torrington sends his regards, and Dearne—Grantham—is part of this caper, too, just not in London. Pass on all the lady told you. Gallagher will understand.”

The men’s attitude had undergone a significant shift, from adversaries almost to allies. The leader nodded more definitely. “I’ll do that.”

He started to rise, then halted, looked at Del.

Del nodded. “Go. And if you’ve got any English blood in you, spread the word.”

With nods, the men clambered to their feet, paused, then bobbed awkward bows to Deliah before lumbering off south toward the nearby slums.

“Well,” Gervase said, “that wasn’t quite a total loss.” He looked at Deliah, and his gaze hardened. “Although, in future, it might help if you would consent to leave the fighting to us. An umbrella is hardly an effective weapon.”

Slowly Deliah raised her brows, then she extended the umbrella she still held in one hand, regarded it with approval. “This, I will have you know, is the very latest patented design. It has a steel shaft, a steel frame and mechanism, and, most importantly, it has a steel point.” Raising the umbrella, she displayed the steel spike at its tip. “In terms of an unexpected weapon, one a lady might carry, it’s ideal—and if you had questioned the man with the red spotted bandana just now, he would have told you that getting jabbed with a steel spike made him think twice about getting closer.”

“Yes, but,” Tony interceded, “the point is that you’re a lady, and we’re here, three gentlemen, and having you—”

“Getting in the way?”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Having you embroiled in the action,” Tony carefully continued, “is seriously distracting.”

“For you,” Deliah countered. “But for me, what would be totally unacceptable would be for me to meekly cower behind you like some helpless ninny, when in fact, as I just proved, I can perfectly effectively contribute.” Her eyes darkened. “I will remind you, gentlemen, that I’m a part of this enterprise whether I wish it or not. That being so, if you think I’m the sort of female to hide behind your coattails and leave all the fighting to you, you will need to think again.”

Nose elevating, she swung around—casting a sidelong glance at Del.

He bit his lip and kept his mouth firmly shut. The others would have done better to save their breaths.

Deliah humphed, then looked up at the sky, now a dark slate-gray. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Head high, she led the way, umbrella swinging defiantly.

Disgruntled, disapproving, but with no option for relief, with Gervase and Tony bringing up the rear, Del fell in alongside her.

December 14
Grillon’s Hotel

Deliah reached her bedroom in a less than chipper mood.

Stripping off her gloves, then struggling out of her pelisse, she muttered, “They could at least have recognized my contribution. Acknowledged the wisdom of my idea to tell the men about the Black Cobra, and hopefully put an end to the supply of local hirelings. But no. They had to harp about me not wilting like a proper gentlewoman.”

She was disgusted with them all. Although, to his credit, Del had kept silent.

Not that he’d disagreed. She knew perfectly well he’d felt the same as the other two.

She humphed. Draping the pelisse over a chair, she carried her gloves to the bureau. Pulling open the top drawer, she went to drop the gloves in. Paused.

Her handkerchiefs were jumbled. She frowned, then opened the next drawer down. Her shawls were rumpled.

A quick survey of the dressing table and the armoire convinced her.

She looked up as the door opened.

Bess came in, packages in her hands. “There you are.”

“As you see. Has anyone unexpected called?”

“No. Why?”

Deliah cast another glance around. “I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think someone has searched through my things.”

“What?” Bess bristled. “The only other of our party who’s been up to the suite since you left is Sangay, the colonel’s boy. He came looking for the colonel’s gloves. But I was out for most of the afternoon, shopping for those things you wanted.” She raised the packages.

Deliah grimaced. “I don’t think anything’s missing.” She looked at the dressing table. “My silver-backed brushes are still there, and all my jewelry, so it couldn’t have been a thief.”

She sighed. “Never mind.” She focused on the packages. “Let’s see what you found.”

Seven

December 14
Grillon’s Hotel

Feeling sartorially better equipped to face the days to come, Deliah joined the three men for dinner in the suite’s sitting room. Tony and Gervase had just joined Del; they all exchanged nods, then took their seats so Cobby and Janay could serve the first course, a delicate chicken broth with small dumplings.

They were silent while they supped. Tension rippled between them—a certain frostiness on Deliah’s part, countered by Del’s studiously arrogant refusal to notice. Tony and Gervase, meanwhile, were exercised over the mission, as was Del; glancing at their faces, Deliah read their mounting frustration.

When they set down their spoons, Gervase spoke. “We haven’t seen anyone who isn’t English.”

Tony humphed. “We haven’t even sighted the man hiring.”

“Larkins, from all descriptions,” Del said.

“Ferrar’s man?” When Del nodded, Tony went on, “I wonder if we’d gain anything by watching Ferrar.”

“We’d have to find him first,” Gervase pointed out.

“I had Cobby ask if he’s been seen at White’s.” Del grimaced. “They said no, and the address they had for him was from years ago—a lodging house in Jermyn Street. He isn’t there, and the landlord hasn’t heard from him.”

Gervase shrugged. “If he’s using Larkins, then watching Ferrar won’t help us. And linking Larkins to the hirelings won’t materially advance our cause.” He nodded at Deliah. “Given you can identify Larkins as the man who shot at Del in Southampton, we can nobble Larkins any time we choose, but unless we can link Larkins and his lethal activities to Ferrar’s letter, we have nothing to implicate Ferrar.”

“Unless we can prove Larkins is acting under Ferrar’s direct orders, then Ferrar will simply deny any knowledge of Larkins’s doings, no matter what Larkins says,” Tony stated.

“Indeed. And it’s Ferrar we want.” Leaning back in his chair, Del looked at Gervase, then Tony. “I have to question whether there’s any point in us remaining in town.”

Cobby and Janay arrived with the next course. They waited while the pair efficiently cleared the table, served them from platters of meats and a tureen of vegetables, then, with everything in order, retreated.

Deliah decided to state the obvious. “London has a large supply of ruffians Larkins can hire to do his master’s bidding. Even if those we caught today warn their fellows, it’s likely Larkins will be able to find enough men to keep us busy here for at least a few more days.”

Del nodded. “And by dallying here, accomplishing nothing beyond running down the stocks of local louts, we give Ferrar time to build up his forces by bringing in more cultists—fighters he’ll deploy only when he needs to.”

“When we, or more likely our other three couriers, force him to act outside the major towns,” Tony said. “Even in the major towns, if the target’s moving he won’t have time to recruit. He’ll need to use his cultists then—they’re his only mobile force.”

After a moment, Gervase said, “We’re getting nowhere here. I vote we send word to Wolverstone, and tomorrow head into Cambridgeshire.”

“I second that.” Tony straightened. “We move—we force his hand. He must know by now that you’re not intending to deliver the letter to anyone in town, but he can’t risk you handing it on, so once you’re on the road he’ll have to make a bid for it, one he won’t be able to plan, and for that he’ll need his own troops.”

Del nodded. “And once we’re on the move, his attention will focus on the scroll-holder itself. That’s his real goal, the thing he needs to seize.”

“True,” Gervase said, “but if the opportunity presents, he’ll still take either you or Deliah as hostage for the letter.” Across the table, Gervase met Deliah’s eyes. “You’ll need to remain on guard.”

She nodded, but added nothing else, instead listening as the three men discussed the possibilities, then made plans to leave the next morning, with Del and Deliah and their combined households making a great and noisy show to ensure they were noted and followed.

“The scroll-holder?” Gervase cocked a brow at Del.

“Is safe.”

When Del said nothing more, Tony grinned. “Our journey to Cambridgeshire is sounding more promising by the minute.”

Deliah belatedly put two and two together. “I think my room was searched this afternoon.” She looked at Del. “Nothing was taken, but perhaps they were looking for the scroll-holder.”

“They who?” Del’s dark eyes pinned her.

The tension, which had waned, ratcheted up again.

“I don’t know who. I can’t even be sure anyone searched. The things in my drawers were moved, and the bottles on my dressing table, and I’m sure my gowns hanging in the armoire weren’t in such disarray. I didn’t leave them like that, and Bess—my maid—never would.”

“Bess wasn’t here while we were out?” Del’s expression had turned grim.

“I sent her on some errands.” Deliah raised her brows at him. “There was no reason for her to stay in and watch my room—the scroll-holder isn’t there.”

She, Tony and Gervase looked at Del.

He continued to stare at Deliah, inwardly railing, but helpless. Eventually he answered their unvoiced query. “My room hasn’t been searched.” Not yet. Cobby would have noticed and told him if it had been.

“Well, then.” Tony raised his glass. “To a more productive tomorrow.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

The men’s conversation turned to military affairs, then to sporting events.

Irritated by the renewed aggravation she sensed coming her way from Del, Deliah seized the moment when Cobby returned with the decanters to excuse herself and retire, denying any wish for tea and wishing them a good night. They all stood as she rose.

“I’ll see you in the morning, gentlemen.” With a regal nod, she left them.

Del watched the bedroom door close behind her, and felt some of the tension gripping him ease. Not, however, all of it. By no means all.

Resuming his seat, he let himself slide into a discussion of the latest boxing feats. At least outwardly. Inwardly…

She’d become an itch under his skin, even more so after last night. And she—it, whatever this was—wasn’t any simple sexual itch, one that dissipated after one scratch. Or two.

He doubted three, or even three hundred, instances of having her curvaceous body beneath his would cure his particular affliction.

She made him feel far more than he ever had. No other woman had ever been so provoking. It wasn’t simply her refusal to obey his orders, her steadfast antipathy to hiding behind him—her willful insistence on going into danger whenever and wherever she deemed it necessary—although all of that contributed to the emotions roiling through him.

In most situations he could see her point, even sympathize with it, but…

It was that but he wasn’t used to, that he had no experience in dealing with, coping with, much less controlling.

He didn’t like what she made him feel, didn’t approve of it, resented it, railed at it—all of which did no good. He was obsessed with her—and some part of him knew where that obsession was heading. What it was leading him to.

But while his mission was in train, he couldn’t think of that. Couldn’t think of what came later, after.

Eventually, the conversation died. The other two yawned, then stretched. Together they all rose and left the suite, strolling down the corridor. He halted outside his room. With relaxed good nights, Tony and Gervase went on to their rooms further around the gallery.

Del watched them go, then reached for the doorknob. His hand closed about it, but then he stopped. For what seemed an unending moment, he stared at his hand grasping the knob.

He wasn’t thinking—wasn’t even debating. He knew he should turn the knob, go inside and fall into his bed.

He couldn’t remember why.

Muttering a curse, he released the knob, turned and stalked back to the suite.

The door was still unlocked. He locked it behind him; Deliah’s maid would have come and gone via the door between bedroom and corridor.

Deliah should, by now, be abed.

He didn’t hesitate but knocked on her bedroom door.

He leaned against the jamb, waited.

Eventually, the door opened.

She stood in the doorway, no sign of surprise on her haughty face. Her hair was down, rumpled dark red tresses caressing the shoulders of the ivory silk wrap she’d flung over a prim white nightgown.

Also of soft, sensuous silk.

Behind her, the bed was disarranged, the pillow dented. She had, indeed, been abed.

Beyond his control, his gaze slid down, over the full mounds of her breasts, nipples peaking, down over the flat of her stomach and the swells of her hips, all the way down her long, long legs, outlined lovingly by the clinging gown. He was immediately, painfully hard. Aching to possess what he knew the silk concealed.

It took a moment to lift his gaze back to her eyes.

She coolly searched his face, then, imperiously, raised her brows. “What do you want?”

Her tone was even, direct, neither encouraging nor discouraging.

He gave her the truth. “You.”

For another unending moment, silence reigned.

Then he straightened from the doorjamb, stepped forward.

And she stepped back, allowing him in.

Deliah closed the door behind him.

This was madness, but what was she to do? Tell him no?

She didn’t think she could. Didn’t think her vocal cords would cooperate in uttering such a very big lie, not when her heart was turning cartwheels of anticipatory delight and her mouth was salivating in expectation.

Turning, she found him waiting. One arm sliding around her waist, he drew her to him.

She looked up, met his eyes as their bodies touched. Awareness streaked through her, but she hid it, suppressed it. Her hands rose, came to rest on his shoulders. Beneath her palms, the tempting warmth, the masculine hardness seduced as she watched his eyes search hers, then drift over her face.

Then lower to her lips.

Parting them, she drew in a shallow breath. There wasn’t anything she felt she should say. Nothing she expected him to say, to explain. He was a man of the world, and she…she could pretend to be his counterpart.

Would pretend, as his eyes touched hers again and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, he lowered his head, to be taking this all in her stride.

Determinedly pretend, as instinctively she lifted her chin, met his lips as they stooped to hers, that her nerves weren’t skittering, that her senses weren’t poised to swoon, that her heart wasn’t tripping in double time.

He kissed her, and she kissed him. Familiar, yet not. Last night had been so urgent, so heated and driven; tonight, she sensed in him a greater attention, an intention to remain focused…on her.

On what he wanted of her.

Quite what that was she didn’t know. A thrill of expectation flashed, sharp and bright, through her.

The kiss grew hungrier, more demanding. She met him, matched his claims, his conquest, with her own needs, her own wants.

All entirely instinctive, but she had no other guide. She wasn’t innocent, not in the biblical sense, yet she’d never been this way before, had never needed as she now did before.

Had never wanted a man as she wanted him.

That simple; that complicated. Her want was a pattern of needs and desires, and as he wasn’t in any hurry tonight, and neither was she, he seemed content to let her explore—those needs, those wants, and him.

He let her undress him. His lips curved when she wrestled his shirt from him and then, the garment sliding from her fingertips, stared in wonder at the muscled expanse of his chest. Eyes wide, she dropped the shirt and spread her hands, palms to his hot skin.

And learned.

She explored like a wanton, freed of restraint, and he let her.

Encouraged her.

Until he stood naked in the moonlight, each heavy bone, the taut line of every muscle, gilded in silver, and she couldn’t breathe, yet still she took his member, erect and so flagrantly male, between her hands, stroked, closed her fingers, and lightly squeezed.

He stilled. She sensed the tension in him grow, tighten—to steel, fine and hard and unwavering. Her fingers, her hands, slowed.

His chest swelled as he drew in a breath. Then his hands rose to her shoulders, cupped, tightened—then eased. He drew off the silk wrapper she’d donned over her nightgown.

And slowly, deliberately, turned the tables on her.

He took his time, his lips returning to hers now and again, to sup, to send her senses spinning again. To woo her wits into compliance with his agenda—his needs, his wants, his desires.

His wish to learn of her. To explore her even more intimately, even more thoroughly, than she had him.

His hands traced, outlined, possessed. His touch imperfectly shielded by the fine silk of her nightgown, he cupped, stroked, tantalized.

Eventually—at last!—he divested her of the gown. Stripped it away with maddening ease, and equally maddening slowness.

A slowness that stretched her nerves taut, then set them quivering. That left her lungs seized, her breath a mere sigh, her wits scattered beyond recall.

Her senses were all his. His to command.

Expectation, physical anticipation, had never been so brittlely sharp, so exquisitely honed.

So attuned to his intention, his wish, his desire.

To know her. To have her. Ultimately to possess her.

With hands and fingers, with lips and tongue, he stroked, sampled, caressed. Until her breath shuddered and hitched, until her skin burned, until need was a molten ache low in her belly.

Until reckless abandon pounded in her blood.

When he sank to his knees before her, she had no idea what he planned to do. And no time to wonder, to guess and mute the shock, before he set his lips, his hot mouth, to her curls, then, ignoring her breathless gasp, he parted her thighs, and set his wicked tongue to her softness.

He licked, laved, probed, and her senses reeled. Fingers tangled in his thick hair, she fought to remain upright while her legs threatened to give way. He sensed it, caught one of her knees, bent and lifted it to drape her leg over his broad shoulder, balancing her there, his large hands cupping her bottom, the position keeping her thighs wide—opening her to an even more intimate campaign.

One he wrought with devastating effectiveness.

With ruthless thoroughness.

Experience told.

The assault on her senses stretched her nerves to the breaking point. Head back, eyes open but unseeing, she was struggling to even gasp, battling to remain afloat on the tide of his sensual mastery, and not let the waves of tactile pleasure pull her down and drown her, when, with one last, flagrantly explicit foray, he drew back.

Still supporting her, he fluidly rose.

Before her raised foot even reached the floor, he gripped her hips and hoisted her.

She only just managed to swallow a shriek. Suspended between his hands, her body felt taut, heated by flames licking over her skin and a fiery emptiness burning within. Clutching his shoulders, her thighs clamped to his flanks, she looked down to search his face—but he was looking down as he drew her hips to his.

In the instant she understood, she felt the broad head of his erection part her slick folds, and press in.

Surrendering to instinct, she lifted her legs, wrapped them about his hips. Tilted her hips closer, wanting, needing…

She lost her breath as he thrust in.

Arms locked about his shoulders, she let her head tip back, eyes closed, spine arching as he held her and steadily pressed deeper to fill her. Tiny thrills skittered over her skin; flickering showers of bright sensation skated along her nerves. Inexorably, relentless and intent, he drew her hips to him, held her there, locked against him, and pushed deeper still.

And then he was there, hard, hot, and impossibly large, filling her, completing her.

She dragged in a huge breath.

Lost it as, his fingers biting into the lush curves of her derriere, Del lifted her, drawing his rigid erection from the scalding slickness of her sheath, only to slide smoothly home again, to the hilt.

The moan she uttered was music to his ears. He set about gaining more.

Set about discovering how much more she could take. How much more he could take of her before surrendering to the inevitable, to an all-consuming, senses-stealing rapturous release.

She hadn’t been a virgin, was twenty-nine, and had lived outside England for a decade. A woman so richly endowed, so attuned to the sexual, so openly embracing and welcoming of the act as she’d proved to be, wouldn’t have lived those years in abstinence; there was no reason he need feel constrained by typical English sexual mores.

More need, in fact, given her adventurous nature, to use his experience of exotic lovemaking to lure and hold her.

He didn’t need to think further. He walked around the room, jigging her with every stride, making her clutch and moan anew, then he walked to the bed, braced his thighs against the side and set her down on her back on the coverlet.

He straightened. Took a moment to look down at her, hair wild and spread beneath her head and shoulders, her features stamped with blatant desire, her luscious body naked, wracked with passion, her skin delicate rose-tinted ivory, her breasts full and firm, nipples tightly furled, her white thighs spread wide, her long legs wrapped around his hips.

His erection sunk in her sheath.

He looked up, caught a glimpse of jade-bright eyes beneath her lashes. Saw her watching him.

Saw her breasts rise as she drew breath.

Sliding deep, snug within her, he set his hands to her breasts, filled his palms, possessed. Drew her nipples into throbbing buds, then ran his hands down her body, over her waist, her bare stomach.

Assessing, branding.

He bent his head and with his mouth, his tongue, swiftly followed the same path. Made her gasp and squirm.

She arched, lifted to him as he returned to pay appropriate homage to her bountiful breasts. When she was reduced to desperate, wordlessly pleading need, he straightened and filled his hands with the firm cheeks of her bottom, her skin flushed and dewed, heated and damp. Tightening his grip, he withdrew from the slick clutch of her body until he was almost free, then thrust deep again, harder, more powerfully.

Holding her hips immobile, he set up a driving, compelling rhythm.

She moaned, then sobbed, threshed her head from side to side.

He released her hips, unwrapped her legs from his hips and raised her calves to prop her ankles on his shoulders, then gripped her hips anew and held her steady as he thrust repetitively, penetrating even more deeply inside her.

Her breath came in panting gasps, her hands fisting in the coverlet as the tempo increased and he pounded into her.

She tightened, and tightened, spine bowing, muscles locking.

Then she came apart.

In a glorious, rippling cascade, release took her, caught her, wracked her, rocked her, shook her. Deliah had never felt anything so sensually profound. So primitive. As if her senses had shattered, disintegrated under the onslaught of sensation he’d wrought.

But even then he wasn’t finished with her. He continued to move within her, until she reached that curious state of floating.

Then he withdrew, leaving her strangely bereft, but only for an instant.

Shrugging her legs from his shoulders, gripping her hips, he rolled her onto her stomach. He drew her toward him until her hips were at the edge of the high mattress, her legs over the side of the bed, her toes barely touching the floor.

She lay there, boneless, and he filled her from behind.

Her nerves sizzled, stretched.

Passion flared anew as he withdrew and thrust into her. Her senses expanded, greedily taking it all in—the novel sensations of his groin meeting the vulnerable skin of her exposed bottom, his heavy balls brushing the sensitive backs of her naked thighs.

The hot, hard, heavy reality of his erection pushing repeatedly into her.

Excitement melded with a sense of vulnerability as he held her there, pinned, effectively helpless, and filled her body, relentlessly filled her senses and her mind with sensual delight, with mind-melting pleasure.

Desire rose and swamped her; passion erupted in a hot tide and swept through her anew. She wanted to move with him, to contribute, to take him, but his hold was unbreakable and his strength too great; he kept her still, immobile, and thrust ever more powerfully, faster and harder into her.

She tightened about him, instinctively seeking to hold, to caress.

Sensed him shudder.

Through his hands, through the rigid columns of his thighs pressing against hers, she felt the tension holding him tighten, then she heard him drag in a huge, broken breath.

Beneath her skin, fire raced and razed. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to instinct and continued to clamp and ease about him, using her body to intimately caress his as he continued to thrust into her….

He gasped, released her hips and leaned forward. Hands sinking into the coverlet on either side of her shoulders, he hung over her. His breathing was harsh and labored above her. His weight pressed her down as his hips hugged hers, pumped desperately—

And release swept him, took him as she clung, as she tightened about him one last time, and felt herself tipping, falling into the vortex of cataclysmic sensation, too. Into a whirlpool of sharp, bright feeling that coalesced and drew in, tighter and tighter, then exploded in a nova of incandescent heat.

Glory erupted, brilliant and bright, spreading and spinning about them, over them, through them, enfolding them in golden pleasure.

Slowly, inexorably, the glow faded.

His arms gave way and he slumped over her, coming down on his elbows, his chest rising and falling like bellows against her back, his breathing harsh by her ear, his body hot, malleable steel curved protectively over hers. His heart still thundered. She felt the evocative beat against her back, felt it where they joined, in the slick furnace between her thighs, in her still clenching womb. He was in her blood, in her bones, had sunk to her marrow.

The beat gradually slowed as they drifted back to earth.

Eyes closed, thoughts in abeyance, her body more his than hers, her cheek pillowed on the coverlet, she realized she was smiling.

She was a mass of contradictions.

Later, once he’d managed to summon strength enough to disengage and lift her, then draw down the covers and rearrange them both in her bed, Del lay back on the piled pillows, one arm behind his head, the other around Deliah as she slept the sleep of the pleasurably exhausted, her cheek pillowed on his chest.

He stared at the canopy and tried to make sense of her.

Not an easy task, given said contradictions.

Her nightgown, for instance. The style was prim and proper, as befitted a deacon’s daughter—her father was a deacon, he recalled. The gown’s fabric, on the other hand, was a testament to tactile sensuality. The Indians understood the arousing properties of silk, its inherently sensual nature. So, apparently, did Deliah.

Touching her through the garment—sliding, shifting silk caressing silken skin—had been as arousing for her as it had been for him.

That contradiction mirrored another—her oftimes prim behavior, her insistence on propriety, contrasting sharply with the experienced wanton she was. Or at least appeared to be.

Which left him with the last of the contradictions he’d thus far uncovered. She hadn’t been a virgin, yet every instinct he possessed insisted that beyond the basics she was—or at least had been—untutored and untried.

He hadn’t been in any condition to think much at the time, but he had noticed. Now he had the leisure to think back…she’d been startled—honestly taken aback, even shocked—when he’d used his mouth on her.

She’d been surprised when he’d lifted her, although she’d very quickly grasped the possibilities.

When he’d had her on her back….

Eyes narrowing, he replayed all he could. Accepted that his earlier conclusion regarding her experience had been wrong.

The heat of the moment, her eager, all but molten responses, had veiled the truth. All of the aforesaid—and doubtless all that had come after, too—had been new to her.

The only way he could reconcile the nascent, latent houri he knew her to be, that she’d proved to be in his arms, with the twenty-nine-year-old non-virgin with barely a sexual encounter to her name, was that somewhere in her past lay what was commonly termed “a disappointment.”

She’d loved some man, had given herself to him, perhaps only once, but for whatever reason—him dying at Waterloo would fit the timing—no marriage had come of it, resulting in her sojourn in Jamaica, presumably to lift her spirits.

He couldn’t imagine her going into a decline, but he hadn’t known her all those years ago. Yet given how tight she was, her last sexual episode prior to him was in her dim and very distant past. She’d been with no other man—been tempted by no other man—until, the previous night, she’d lost her temper with him.

She might be a nascent, latent houri, but she was the very opposite of a light-skirted lady.

That, to him, was no contradiction but a reassuring, potentially useful fact. A highly pertinent piece of intelligence given the direction he intended to have them head in—his “later, after.”

Regardless of having spent no real time dwelling on it, their mutual destination had already taken definite shape in his mind. That being so….

He glanced at her. Spent some minutes simply drinking in the sight of her, softly flushed in sleep, boneless in the aftermath of intense satiation, curled, trusting, against his side.

Her jade-green eyes were closed. Her luscious ruby lips…

Recalling his fantasies involving those sinfully ripe lips, he smiled. Lowering his arm, he slid his hand beneath the covers, found her breast.

Gently fondled, caressed.

And felt her rouse, waken, then sinuously stretch.

Smile deepening, he slid down in the bed.

There was no reason he shouldn’t show her more. Indulge her, and himself, further. Educate the houri hidden inside her, to her gratification, and his.

No reason at all that he couldn’t open her eyes further, couldn’t feed her curiosity.

And simultaneously satisfy his.

December 15
Grillon’s Hotel

Del returned to his room before dawn the following morning in a distinctly buoyant mood. Even though nothing about his mission had changed, he felt significantly more positive.

Entering his room, he closed the door, looked at the bed. Considered its neat, pristine state. Inwardly shrugged. Cobby had been with him too long to cozen; he would guess regardless.

Going to the bellpull, he tugged it, then continued to the dresser to set down the gold pin he hadn’t bothered replacing in his cravat.

Hand poised over the top of the dresser, he froze. Frowned.

Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t pinpoint what was triggering the thought, the gut feeling. Lifting his head, he scanned the room.

When Cobby arrived, he was still prowling, frowning.

Closing the door, Cobby paused, brows rising. “Don’t rightly know which question I should ask first.”

“Don’t bother with the obvious. What’s bothering me is that…” Del looked around again. “I think someone’s been in here—that someone’s searched.” He waved a hand around the room. “See what you think.”

Cobby came deeper into the room, looked. Gradually, he, too, frowned. “Things are not quite the way we leave them—either you or me. Take the brushes on the dresser. They aren’t in any sort of order. Neither of us leave our weapons like that—even if they aren’t exactly weapons.”

Del ran a hand through his hair. “So I’m right. Someone has been searching. Who?”

Cobby pursed his lips. “Haven’t been many hotel staff about up here—just the maids cleaning, and me and Janay usually hang about then.” He darted a glance at Del. “Could it be one of Miss Duncannon’s people?”

“I can’t see how. She’s known them for years, and there’s no way the Black Cobra could have known she and I were going to travel together, that her staff would ever have any chance at the scroll-holder. He wouldn’t have had time to put his usual persuasions in place.”

The Black Cobra’s usual persuasive tactic was to get a family member into his clutches and use their safety to ensure their relative did as he bid them.

“You’re right.” Cobby nodded. “And I have to say they’re a straightforward lot. I haven’t had any qualms.”

“So it has to have been a member of the hotel’s staff. Spread the word to the others—we’ll need to stay alert while we prepare to leave.”

A tap on the door heralded a lad with a jug of steaming water. Cobby received it, then shut the door. He poured a basinful for Del as he stripped. “So what time are we leaving? You didn’t exactly say last night.”

Del considered as he washed. “Let’s say ten on the steps, ten-thirty away.” He towelled his face, then mopped his chest. “Pass the word to Janay. I don’t know how long it’ll take for Miss Duncannon’s household to get ready.”

“Oh, we heard we’d be leaving last night, so we’re ready. All of us. Just finishing up breakfast, the rest are, so as soon as you and Miss Duncannon give the word, we can go.”

“Excellent.” It was early, but Del had a definite appetite. “You can leave my clothes out, then go and rustle up breakfast. We’ll have it in the suite as usual. I’m starved.”

And so, he suspected, would be his charge.

As Cobby rummaged in the wardrobe, Del added to himself, “And then we can start out, and see what the day brings.”

December 15
Grillon’s Hotel

Sangay felt torn on the one hand, and desperate on the other. From the back of Grillon’s foyer, half concealed behind a palm in a big pot, he watched the flurry of activity as the colonel-sahib’s and the memsahib’s households prepared to depart.

He wished he could go with them. They’d been kind to him, all of them, even though they didn’t know him—not really. They’d all accepted him as one of their party. He’d been careful to avoid gatherings where they’d all been together, where one household might have said something to alert the other that he wasn’t theirs. That he didn’t really belong.

So far, the gods had smiled on him, something he didn’t understand. He was not acting honorably—he was being the hand, the tool, of an evil man—yet thus far the gods hadn’t struck him down.

Thus far the gods had left him to carry out the evil man’s instructions.

He’d searched, he’d done all he was supposed to, but he hadn’t laid eyes on any scroll-holder. He could guess what it would look like—his old captain had had similar holders for his maps and orders—but he hadn’t seen anything that might be it. And now they were all leaving.

He’d failed.

Despair dragging his heart into his thin slippers, he sucked in a breath and, with one last look at the almost gay commotion surrounding the three carriages lined up outside the hotel, slunk down the side corridor to the alley door.

He slipped out of the door, then cautiously made his way to the corner where he’d met the man before, praying with every step that the man wouldn’t simply kill him when he reported his failure. More, that he wouldn’t feel moved to have his maataa killed, too.

Nerves at full stretch, he rounded the corner. Nearly lost his brave face when, once again, he all but ran into the man.

“Well? Do you have it?”

Sangay fought not to squirm. He lifted his chin, forced himself to look in the direction of the man’s face. “I have searched all the bags, all the rooms, sahib. The scroll-holder isn’t there.”

The man swore, strings of bad words Sangay had heard often enough on the docks. Stoically, he waited for his punishment, for a blow, or worse. There was no point trying to run.

He felt the man’s irate gaze boring into him. Steeled himself. The man’s fists were clenched, hanging heavy at his sides.

“What’s all the activity?” The man tipped his head toward the front of the hotel. “Where are they going?”

Sangay pulled the answer from his skittering thoughts. “I heard they are going to some big fine house—a Somersham Place—in a country called Cambridgeshire. They hope to reach there by this evening, but they are worried about the weather—they say it is coming on to snow, and fear that that might hold them up, or at least slow them down.”

The man’s scowl grew blacker. After a moment he asked, “Are the other two men traveling with them?”

“Yes, sahib, but as I understand it, they won’t be in the carriages. They’ll be riding ahorse.”

“I see.”

The snarl wasn’t encouraging, but the man had made no move to lay a hand on him. Sangay started to wonder if the gods truly were watching over him still, despite all.

“So they’re leaving, and you’ve sighted no scroll-holder, no letter of any kind, and you’ve searched everywhere?”

“Oh, yes, sahib! I looked everywhere in every room, even the servants’ rooms. There was no scroll-holder or letter anywhere.”

“So one of them is carrying it with them. Fine.” The word was a rough snarl. “Either the Colonel or one of his two men would be my guess. So you stick with them, and you keep a close—a really close—eye on those three. They’ll put it down sometime, somewhere. When they do, you snatch it and scarper—got it?”

Sangay risked a frown. “Scarper, sahib?”

“Run like the dickens. Like the devil himself was after you—and remember that your precious mother’s continuing health depends on you getting away. Wherever you are, you lay your hands on that scroll-holder and you run—I’ll be close, watching, waiting. I’ll see you, and I’ll come and meet you.” The man’s lips curled. “Just like this.” He leaned close, putting his face close to Sangay’s. “Understand?”

Eyes like saucers, Sangay couldn’t even swallow. “Yes, sahib. I understand.” He would rather have faced a real cobra eye to eye.

The man seemed satisfied with what he saw in Sangay’s face. He slowly eased back, straightened.

Sangay inwardly trembled, but felt forced to say, “They might not put the holder down this day, sahib, not while they are traveling.”

“True enough. More likely they’ll put it down once they reach this house. It sounds like someone’s country house.” The man glanced at him. “Like a palace to you.”

“Apparently the man who owns it is a duke.”

“Is that so?” The man was silent for a moment, then said, “Likely it’ll be huge. You meet me there tonight, at ten o’clock, behind the stable there. There’ll be a big stable, for sure.” Once again, the man’s pale eyes locked on Sangay. “If you get the holder, you bring it there tonight, but even if you don’t lay hands on it, you come and meet me there, you hear?”

Sangay hung his head, forced himself to nod even as misery washed over him. His nightmare was still not at an end. “Yes, sahib.”

“You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your mother, would you?”

He looked up, eyes wide. “No, sahib! I mean, yes—I will be there. I don’t want anything to happen to my maataa, sahib.”

“Good.” The man tipped his head. “Now get back there before they miss you. Go!”

Sangay turned and all but fled. Back down the mews and up the alley, but instead of going through the side door and across the hotel foyer, he followed the alley to the street and peeked around the corner.

The flurry about the carriages was in full swing. Likely no one had missed him. Mustaf, Kumulay and Cobby each stood on the roof of a different carriage, stowing the bags that an army of footmen, under Janay’s directions, handed up. The women in their colored saris, bright shawls wrapped about their heads, stood on the pavement and pointed and directed and argued with Janay and the men over where this bag, that bundle, should go. The colonel and the memsahib stood on the pavement closer to the door, haughtily surveying and waiting.

They all had been so much kinder to Sangay than any other people in his entire life, and yet he’d have to repay their niceness, all their kindnesses, by stealing from the colonel.

Sangay felt as if dirt was being ground into his soul.

But there was no help for it. If it had been only his death to be feared, Sangay hoped he would be brave enough to tell the man no, but he couldn’t let his maataa be killed—and killed horribly, too. No good son could have that on his conscience.

Dragging in a breath, Sangay straightened, then, seeing the women start to enter the carriages, he hurried out and quietly joined the melee.

Eight

December 15
Albemarle Street, London

Her hand in Del’s, Deliah climbed onto the step of the front carriage. Pausing to, from her temporary vantage point, look over the heads at the others entering the two carriages behind, she noticed the young Indian lad—the one Bess called the colonel’s boy—scurrying up from around the corner. He spoke to Janay, then conferred with Mustaf, who pointed at the roof of the third carriage. The boy nodded eagerly, and with the agility of a monkey, swarmed up to the roof, settling amid the bags and bundles secured there.

With a quirk of her brows, Deliah ducked and entered the carriage. As she took her seat, she decided she envied the boy. He’d have a good view as they traveled north through London, and with all the luggage around him, he’d have reasonable protection from the elements.

It was a still day, pervasively cold with gray clouds hanging low and a scent in the air that foretold snow. Not yet, however. Once they reached the open countryside, they would get a better sense of what the day might bring.

Del had paused on the pavement to exchange a few words with the head porter. Deliah settled her skirts, sank into the comforting leather. Del’s household and hers had merged into an effective team. The women had banded together and commandeered the second, slightly larger carriage. They would sit and chat and gossip through the journey. The men had been consigned to the third carriage; that no doubt would travel north in greater silence.

The doorway darkened as Del climbed in. He sat beside her, and the head porter, beaming and touching the brim of his hat, shut the door.

The carriage tipped fractionally as Cobby climbed up beside the driver, then a whip cracked, the carriage jerked as the horses leaned into the harness, and they were away, rolling slowly through the streets on their journey into Cambridgeshire.

Deliah glanced at Del. He was looking out of the window at the streetscapes sliding by. Her thoughts returned to the boy. She wondered how he’d come to be part of Del’s household, felt sure there would be some story there. It was tempting to ask, but…having Del there, seated beside her, reminded her of other things. Other things she really should take the time to think about.

So she did. Let the observations and questions she’d set aside over recent days, that she’d allowed to be overtaken by recent events, finally form in her mind.

Let her thoughts dwell on him, and on what had happened between them, what now existed between them—what label it was most accurate to attach to their…liaison.

Chief among her mental questions was how long that liaison would last.

As they rattled and rumbled through the streets of London, a comfortable silence enveloped them, contrasting with the bustle and noisy hustle outside, the buzz of humanity natural in any large city. And London was the largest of them all. It had spread and sprawled since she’d last traveled through it.

They’d chosen not to take the Great North Road, the obvious route to Cambridgeshire. With its constant stream of carriages, coaches and carts, wagons and riders, that route would be no help in tempting the Black Cobra into an attack. They’d opted instead for the lesser road through Royston. They should reach that minor town in the open country beyond London’s sprawl by lunchtime.

It was after that, once they’d lunched and taken to the road again, traveling along a straight but less frequented stretch to Godmanchester, then along a series of progressively quieter country roads to Somersham, that they expected their invitation to be accepted and the fiend to stage an ambush.

The view beyond the carriage window was growing more countrified. Deliah stirred, glanced at Del. “This house—Somersham Place. Why are you, and Tony and Gervase, so sure no attack will be made after we reach there?”

His lips curved in clear reminiscence. “You’ll understand when you see it. It’s a principal ducal residence, and it’s huge—massive. You could lose a company in it without effort.” He glanced at her, met her eyes. “I visited there years ago—in my school days. I knew houses could be large, but it was a revelation.”

“Is it the duke you know from…Eton?”

He nodded. “Sylvester Cynster, as he was then, known from the cradle by all as Devil. For good reason.”

She arched her brows. “Are you sure—if he was named that from the cradle—that it wasn’t simply a case of him living up to the title?”

He smiled. “That, too. Regardless, when the word went out for extra troops, cavalry in particular, in the lead up to Waterloo, Devil and his Cynster cousins joined as a body of six. We’d kept in touch. Through a feat of string-pulling, they were attached to my troop, so we fought together there.”

“Side by side?”

“Mostly back to back. It wasn’t pretty fighting, that day.” His voice, his expression, had turned grim.

She waited.

After a moment, Del shook aside the darker memories, refocused, then smiled again. “You’ll meet them—the six cousins. Apparently they’re all at Somersham with their wives.” That he was waiting to see. The idea of those hellions brought to heel by a pack of ladies…he wasn’t quite sure he believed it, but he was certainly curious, and looking forward to meeting the ladies involved. “They—the whole family—always gather at Somersham for Christmas, but this year the six families came early so the men could assist with Wolverstone’s plan. They know the other three couriers who are ferrying in the scroll-holders almost as well as they know me.”

“So it’s a reunion of sorts?”

He nodded. “A reunion with the benefit, at least for the Cynsters, of seeing some action again.”

“I wonder how their wives feel about that?”

He wondered, too, but didn’t reply to the faintly caustic question. “The only other couple who will be there, at least that I know of, is Gyles Rawlings, the Earl of Chillingworth, and his wife. Gyles, Devil, and I were all at Eton in the same year. Devil and Gyles were the friendly foes, and I was the peacemaker.”

Deliah glanced at him—an assessing, slightly cynical, but affectionate glance.

He pretended not to notice. “But to answer your question, the reason we consider the Place a safe house, one where no attack is likely after we’ve settled there, is because once Ferrar or Larkins gets the slightest inkling of the number of ex-military men in the house, they’ll pull back. The original idea was to use it as a bolt-hole—a safe place for us to run to once we’d engaged with the cultists, hopefully drawing them along, snapping at our heels, straight into the Cynsters’ arms. Whether we manage that or not—” He broke off, lightly shrugged.

After a moment, he went on, “Wolverstone’s waiting on one of his estates conveniently nearby, so the Place is ideally situated to be a secondary barracks of sorts. We’ll learn more when we get there.”

Deliah paused to take mental note. It seemed she was shortly to meet a duchess, a countess, and at least five other ladies of their circle, all most likely a few years younger than she. Certainly a lot more haut ton than she. At least, courtesy of their visit to Madame Latour’s salon, she had a suitable wardrobe.

Dismisssing the distracting thought—she’d deal with the ladies when she met them—she refocused on the here and now, on Del and his mission.

With a better picture of the wider plan taking shape in her mind, she murmured, “So once we reach Somersham Place, any chance of the cultists mounting an attack on us will be past?”

Del nodded. Folding his arms across his chest, he volunteered nothing more.

He didn’t have to; she could read his hopes and fears with ease.

They hadn’t sighted a single one of the Black Cobra’s own men, except perhaps for the man she’d seen in Southampton, the one Del thought was Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman. Despite their plans for the day—plans she now realized were a final throw of the dice—Tony, Gervase, and even more so Del, were tending glum.

They felt they were failing in their mission—in their decoy’s task of drawing out the enemy and reducing his numbers. She could imagine how they were going to feel tonight if they reached the Place without incident.

If they failed to tempt the Black Cobra into the open, into risking his cultists against them.

Relaxing against the seat, she faced forward and thought of their strategy, and of the time they had left.

They were deep in the countryside with signposts to Royston flashing past at every crossroads when she said, “This isn’t going to work.” Turning her head, she caught Del’s eye. “Not if you want to draw out however many of the cultists are following us.”

Arms still crossed, he frowned. “We’re in slow carriages overburdened with females and luggage, and traveling on increasingly less populated byways. At some point, Ferrar—or Larkins, more likely—will risk his hand. He’ll feel he has to.”

“Not if he hasn’t that many men, and he knows about Tony and Gervase.”

He didn’t immediately reply. He studied her eyes, then, still frowning, asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that at least one of the Black Cobra’s men is English—Larkins. It wouldn’t have been that hard for him to discover through watching Grillon’s that there are two other gentlemen who are also of our party—who breakfasted and dined with us, but who otherwise weren’t seen with us. On top of that, we know someone searched our rooms. I think it very likely—indeed, we should assume—that the Black Cobra knows about Tony and Gervase, and if he’s as colossally clever as you say, he’ll have seen through that trap. We should assume he knows that if he attacks our apparently tempting little convoy, he’ll have Tony and Gervase to deal with as well.”

She paused, assembling her arguments. “You mentioned that the cultists won’t use pistols. That puts them at a disadvantage when facing opponents who will.” She looked pointedly at the pistol Del had placed on the seat between them.

“That won’t deter the Black Cobra. He’ll sacrifice foot soldiers without a blink….” Del’s voice died away, his eyes widening slightly.

Deliah nodded. “That’s my point. He might not yet feel he’s in a position to sacrifice any, because he might not yet have enough in the country. You said he—Ferrar—arrived with only his manservant, this Larkins, and only a bare week ahead of you. None of his men on your ship survived. Others presumably would have arrived by now, but surely he’s had to spread them about, keeping watch for the other three couriers. He knows who they are, but not where they are, or where they might land, or where they’ll go after that, or when. And now we’ve moved out of London, his men have to follow us, too.”

Shifting on the seat, she faced Del. “He won’t be able to hire locals for that purpose—which is what we wanted, but conversely, his numbers may well be limited to the point that he’ll feel forced to hold back, at least while he knows Tony and Gervase are with us.”

Pausing, she frowned, putting herself in the Black Cobra’s shoes. “On top of that, he doesn’t know where the scroll-holder is. That’s why someone searched our rooms at Grillon’s.” She met Del’s eyes. “Until he or one of his men actually sight it, Ferrar can’t even be sure you have it with you. That you still have it, decoy or not. It might be with Tony or Gervase. You might have left it in safekeeping in London. If he chances his men now, against our three carriages, it might well be for nought. He knows he’ll lose some men, at least, and he might not as yet be able to spare them, especially if he gets no return.”

Increasingly convinced she was right, she sat back. “If I’m correct, and he doesn’t have enough men to waste on an attack that might prove a worthless trap, when he doesn’t even know if the scroll-holder is with us, available to be snatched, then…” Eyes narrowing, she went on, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but if all is as I surmise—that he’s following us with a limited number of men, and knows Tony and Gervase are near—then the only way for him to successfully get the letter from us is if he swoops in quickly, grabs the letter and runs…but he doesn’t even know that the letter is definitely with us, let alone which carriage it’s in.”

She met Del’s gaze. “At present, you have him stymied. Frustrated, certainly, which is to our advantage, but as he’s so clever, he won’t make any move. He can’t. The odds aren’t in his favor—they’re too great that he’ll lose vital men and gain nothing in return.”

Del couldn’t fault her analysis. Slumping back against the seat, he closed his eyes, softly groaned. “You’re right.” After a moment, he opened his eyes. “In reality we have no chance of luring him into mounting an attack.”

An instant of silence followed, then Deliah said, “I didn’t say that.”

He took a moment to consider, then, feeling his features harden, turned his head and met her gaze. “If you’re about to suggest that, in extremis over this, I should countenance you putting yourself in danger—for instance by acting as bait to lure Ferrar or Larkins into the open—then I suggest you think again.”

Her brows rose haughtily; she all but looked down her nose. “I wasn’t intending to suggest anything of the sort.”

She said nothing more, simply held his gaze.

Waited.

Lips thinning, he asked, albeit grudgingly, “What, then?”

With an air of superior nonchalance, she told him.

He didn’t like it all that much more, but given their total failure to date, and their otherwise likely failure that day, it was worth a try.

December 15
Royston, Hertfordshire

Still not entirely convinced, he decided to sound out Tony and Gervase over lunch. Reaching Royston, they drove through the town with all due fanfare, then halted at the last inn on the road leading to Godmanchester.

They pulled into the inn yard, and all clambered down. The innkeeper was delighted to see them, and even more so when Del ordered the horses to be taken from the shafts and rested.

Cobby, Mustaf, Janay, and Kumulay all sensed a change in the wind. Del paused to tell them to hold themselves ready for a variation in their plans, but meanwhile to take their ease in the taproom with the womenfolk, then he followed Deliah and the innkeeper inside.

She’d already commandeered the small private parlor, and was giving orders for a repast for four—cold meats, bread, cheese, fruit and ale, with tea for her, to be served as soon as possible.

When she turned to him, Del nodded, took her arm and escorted her into the parlor. There were a few curious locals in the tap, but otherwise the inn was perfect for their purposes.

They settled in the parlor. Deliah drifted toward the window. He called her back. “I don’t trust Larkins. If you saw him, he must have seen you, and the Black Cobra is well known for vindictiveness.”

She raised her brows, but didn’t argue, instead sinking into one of the armchairs by the hearth. The parlor was on the opposite side of the inn to the yard; they couldn’t see any arrivals. When the door opened to admit two maids with their meal, Del stepped out of the parlor, scanned the patrons and spotted Tony and Gervase just settling at a table at the rear of the tap. He openly beckoned.

They eyed him for a moment, then rose and joined him.

Tony’s brows quirked. “What’s happened?”

Del tipped his head to the table being set for four. “Join us and you’ll hear.”

The maids bustled out, and the four of them sat.

At his suggestion, while they ate, Deliah repeated her rationale of why their original plan was unlikely to work, why it probably wouldn’t draw the cultists out and give them a chance to thin the ranks.

He then outlined the plan he’d developed to meet her stipulations of what they needed to do to lure the Black Cobra from hiding, to tempt him to strike.

Tony and Gervase listened to the whole impassively.

When Del fell silent, Tony nodded. “It’s worth a try. We’ll be at Somersham tonight, and from all Royce has said, the chances of an attack once we’re there aren’t high. Yet reporting to him without having accounted for even one cultist doesn’t appeal. So I vote we try your lure.”

Gervase likewise nodded. “There’s no harm in dangling it. He’ll either bite, or he won’t.”

Del glanced at Deliah; she raised her brows as if to ask what more he was waiting for.

Suppressing a grimace, he rose, and went out to arrange their departure.

The first carriage—the one he and Deliah were traveling in—was brought around to the front of the inn. Cobby was on the box, the reins in his hand, with Kumulay beside him. Cobby had formed a high opinion of Deliah’s bodyguard’s abilities, and in such matters, Del trusted Cobby’s instincts.

The other two carriages remained in the inn yard, with the six women, Janay, Mustaf and the boy all making a noisy show of reorganizing the luggage. Del stood at the end of the inn’s front porch, hands on hips, impatience radiating from him, and watched.

Deliah walked out of the inn’s front door and across to join Del. She looked at the two carriages, at their obvious disarray, then sighed and looked at Del. “Do we have to wait?”

They didn’t know how close the Black Cobra’s men might be, or if they could read lips.

Del frowned. He studied the two carriages again, then stepped down. He crossed the yard to Mustaf and held out one hand. “Give me the scroll-holder.”

Mustaf looked at him, then reached under his baggy white shirt and drew the cylinder from the leather pouch strapped around his waist.

Taking it, Del turned, used the holder to wave a farewell as he walked back to Deliah, calling, “We’ll see you at Somersham. Don’t take too long.”

“We’ll be after you in no time, sahib.” Mustaf turned and, with a frown, chivvied the women on.

Del hoped the Black Cobra was listening. In reality, instead of following his and Deliah’s carriage, the other two carriages, now much less well-defended, would head to Somersham via Cambridge, a slower and longer, but much more populated and therefore much safer, route.

Reaching Deliah, Del took her arm. “Come on—we may as well get started. They must have given up and”—he glanced back at the inn’s tap—“the other two will be along soon enough.”

Gervase’s and Tony’s horses stood tethered just inside the open stable door, in plain sight.

“Good.” Deliah allowed him to lead her to their carriage’s door. “I can’t wait to have a proper cup of tea.”

He helped her climb in. She smiled at Tony and Gervase, slouched low beneath a traveling blanket on the rear-facing seat, then sat. Del followed her in, closing the door behind him. Picking his way between the others’ long legs, he sat beside Deliah. “Go!” he called, and Cobby flicked the reins.

The carriage lurched, then rolled slowly away from the inn. After turning into the road, it picked up pace.

Once they were clear of the town and bowling along, Gervase and Tony carefully eased up. They remained slouched, back in the shadows and away from the windows, minimizing any chance of their being spotted, even by someone with a spyglass trained on the swiftly moving carriage.

“According to the innkeep,” Gervase said, “the most likely stretch for fun and games is, as we’d thought, between Croydon and Caxton. We’ve got five miles before Croydon.”

“If they wait that long.” Shifting carefully, Tony drew a pistol from one pocket. Two long-barreled pistols already lay on the seat between him and Gervase, with another on the seat between Del and Deliah. Tony checked his smaller pistol, then grinned at the others. “Anyone care to wager on the number they’ll send against us?”

Deliah guessed eight, Tony nine, Gervase eleven and Del fourteen. Deliah told Del not to be so pessimistic, but as matters transpired, both she and he won the wager.

As the innkeeper had predicted, the attack came on the long stretch to Caxton. Their carriage flashed around a stand of trees skirting the slightest of curves and a shot rang out.

Cobby swore, yelled, “Over my head from the trees on the left!” as he hauled on the reins and brought the horses to a plunging halt.

The carriage rocked heavily, crazily, then settled.

As eight dun-clothed figures rushed from the cover of the trees.

Before Deliah could blink, the men had all swung to face the threat. Four shots rang out in quick succession, then the shoulders shifted, and she looked out. Only four cultists remained upright.

The shock of the shots gave them pause, but then they shook their long knives, screamed, and came on.

Gervase was already out of the door on that side, sword in hand. Del, similarly armed, jumped down to join him.

Clutching a long sword, Tony went out of the carriage’s other door just as Kumulay dropped from above to join him in meeting the two cultists who’d rushed around the rear of the carriage.

Her heart in her throat, Deliah did as she’d promised. She shifted to the middle of the carriage seat, equidistant from both doors, firmly gripping the small pistol Del had given her, along with strict instructions to shoot any cultist who tried to get in. Otherwise, she was to remain where she was.

Native war-shrieks punctuated the clang and hiss of steel meeting steel. Shoulders swung, shifted; bodies lunged, retreated. Her breathing constricted, Deliah watched wide-eyed, looking this way, then that. She tried to shut her ears to the distracting clamor.

She had every intention of obeying Del’s orders to the letter—she wasn’t recklessly brave.

Then, with bloodcurdling screams, six more cultists came pelting from the trees.

Deliah sucked in a breath, horror and terror gripping her chest, tight as any vise. Del had warned that the cultists habitually used sheer numbers to win their fights.

That they were finally fighting cultists wasn’t in doubt. Their attackers were clothed in traditional Indian garb of loose trousers and tunic, albeit with plaids or blankets fastened about them for warmth. All had turbans of one sort or another wound about their heads, and the faces below were mahogany brown.

The carriage rocked as bodies hit it. The clashes of steel sounded horribly close. Tony and Kumulay now had four cultists ranged against them. As she counted, one staggered and fell.

She looked the other way. Gervase was further from the carriage, sword in hand, slashing at two opponents, with one already prone at his feet.

Del had his back to the carriage door, with three cultists pressing in on him. As Deliah watched, he swore and slashed wildly, and one cultist fell to the ground, shrieking and kicking. Del had to leap clear.

The two remaining cultists drove forward. Resolutely he beat them back.

The opposite carriage door was abruptly wrenched open.

With a start, Deliah turned—and met a horrible smile and fanatically glowing dark eyes. Dark fingers reached for her.

She didn’t even think before she fired.

The cultist’s eyes flew wide. Sheer shock seized his features. He dropped his long knife. It landed with a clatter on the carriage step as, clutching the patch of red blossoming on his chest, he staggered back, then fell.

The fighting raged on.

Dragging in a breath, telling herself this was no time to succumb to hysterics, Deliah realized she was weaponless. Defenseless should another cultist come for her. Setting the used pistol aside, she reached down and pulled the cultist’s knife to her.

It didn’t look used.

She picked it up, gripped the hilt. The blade was longish, but not as long as a full-sized sword or a cavalry saber. It wasn’t so heavy she couldn’t wield it. Use it if need be.

Then someone slammed the open carriage door shut. Tony. He was immediately engaged by a cultist, but he and Kumulay were now fighting one on one. She felt certain both would prevail.

She looked the other way, at Del, then edged toward that door. There were more cultists on that side of the carriage. Gervase was still trading blows with the two before him. Del had done some damage, but still had two vicious opponents attacking him.

Drawn, she inched closer, then, knowing better than to distract him, she crouched down inside the door and silently watched.

With an ear-splitting yell, one of the cultists jabbing at Gervase abruptly whirled and, sword raised high, raced toward Del.

Toward his back, exposed because the other cultists had drawn him to one side.

Fully engaged with the opponents before him, there was no chance he could turn and meet the attack.

Deliah swung the carriage door open and stepped out onto the high step.

The cultist saw her and changed direction.

Eyes alight, he charged toward her.

Desperately she freed the sword from her skirts. Gripping it with both hands, she brought it up to ward him off.

He ran straight onto it.

The shock on his face was mirrored on hers.

Stunned, his mouth still wide open, but with no sound any longer issuing forth, the cultist looked down. Stared at the long blade embedded in his chest. His own knife fell from his nerveless fingers, then his eyes closed and he crumpled, jerking the sword from her slackened grasp.

Her appearance had spurred Gervase and Del to even greater efforts. Cursing, they left their opponents writhing and moaning on the ground, clutching wounds. They exchanged a single glance, then Del whirled and strode for the carriage while Gervase raced around to the other side.

When Del reached Deliah, she was still staring, stunned, at the fallen cultist. Hand to her midriff, he pressed her back. “Sit down.”

His tone, the one he used on the battlefield, had her blinking and shuffling back. She dropped onto the seat as he climbed in and slammed the door shut.

From above, Cobby yelled, “All aboard!”

Their agreed signal for “cut and run.”

Gervase yanked open the other door and scrambled in. Tony followed on his heels, slamming the door shut behind him as the carriage dipped heavily—Kumulay climbing up again.

Cobby didn’t wait for anyone to settle. He sprang the horses, spooked by the rising scent of blood and more than ready to race on.

In a blink, they were away from the trees and thundering out into the open.

For long minutes, they all just sat there, breathing heavily, regaining their sanity.

Eventually, Tony stirred. “How many did we get?”

Deliah swallowed, looked at Del. “Fourteen. All told, there were fourteen.”

When he met her gaze, she raised her brows. “Satisfied?”

His eyes were still hard, his jaw still set. “It’s a start.”

What could he say?

They’d made a respectable dent in the Black Cobra’s forces, but…

She’d been far too involved, too exposed to real danger and death. So much for his careful planning. When he’d glanced across and seen her standing on the carriage step, one of their long knives in her hand with a cultist skewered on the end of it, his blood had run cold.

Not at all helpful in the middle of a fraught clash.

He’d wanted to roar at her for disobeying his strict orders, but if she hadn’t…he’d have been in much worse strife—possibly not able to roar at her at all.

Certainly not able to ease her back into the carriage and, under cover of her skirts, hold her hand—probably too tightly—all the way to Somersham Place.

He’d contented himself with that—with the simple contact—while the horses had raced on through the increasingly dark afternoon.

A winter storm was massing, roiling and boiling, ready to sweep in from the North Sea. One glance at the horizon, at the color and density of the clouds building there, confirmed snow by nightfall was a certainty.

It was early evening, already full dark, by the time they reached the massive pillars that marked the drive of the Place. Cobby had never been there before, but Del had described the pillars; the carriage slowed, turned into the drive, then continued bowling steadily along.

A welcoming light shone through the bare branches of massive oaks. Then the carriage rounded a corner and the house lay before them, as massive as he remembered, and as welcoming. Lamps on the porch were burning, casting a warm glow down the porch steps, illuminating the couple who walked out, alerted by the rattle of wheels on the gravel.

The gentleman halted at the top of the steps. Del felt his lips curve; Devil looked the same as ever, but the lady who came to stand by his shoulder, linking her arm with his, was new.

The carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop. A footman hurried to open the door and let down the carriage steps. Gervase and Tony waved them on. Del descended first, then turned to give Deliah his hand. She descended, twitched her plum-colored skirts straight, then, head rising, spine straight, allowed him to lead her up the porch steps to where Devil waited with his duchess.

As they neared, Devil’s lips curved and his pale green eyes lit. “Del! Welcome, once again, to Somersham.”

A spontaneous smile wreathing his face, Del clasped Devil’s proferred hand. “It’s beyond good to be here again.”

Devil hauled him into a brief embrace, clapped his back. “I confess I’m amazed you’re still hale and whole—I would have sworn someone would have skewered you by now.”

Del made a rude, if muted, noise in reply as they both turned to their respective ladies.

Who hadn’t waited for them.

“I’m Honoria—this reprobate’s duchess.” With an engaging smile for Deliah, Devil’s duchess held out her hand.

“Deliah Duncannon.” Deliah rose from a curtsy and touched fingers, adding, “I unwittingly became embroiled in Delborough’s mission, and so have had to tag along. I hope my unexpected presence, and that of my household—they’re following—won’t discompose yours.”

“Not at all! I’m delighted—and so will all the other ladies be—to welcome you.” Honoria’s gray eyes testified to her sincerity. “You’ll be able to give us a female view on all that’s going on.”

The duke smiled and smoothly introduced himself—as Devil—to Deliah.

She gave him her hand, and curtsied as he bowed. He was much like Del—tall, starkly handsome, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, with the long, powerful frame of a natural horseman—but in place of Del’s military bearing, Devil exuded aristocratic command.

Then Tony and Gervase joined them. Del made the introductions, and discovered Devil had met the other two before.

“At Wolverstone’s wedding,” Gervase explained. “There was a spot of bother we all helped him tidy up.”

“Indeed?” Honoria’s finely arched brows rose. She shot a look at her husband. “I must ask Minerva for the story. Now, however”—she took Deliah’s arm—“do come in out of the cold. It’s positively frigid out here, and much warmer inside.”

Warmer because of the huge fire blazing in the massive hearth at the far end of the long halfpaneled hall, and warmer because of the almost joyous welcome accorded them by the others gathered about the tables and comfortable chairs. Although it was too early for the customary yuletide decorations, here the emotional ambiance of the approaching season seemed already to have taken hold. Deliah felt herself literally thawing, both her flesh and her reservations.

She, Del, Tony and Gervase were taken on a circuit of introductions. The men all either knew each other, or knew of each other. She was the only true newcomer to the group; she’d expected to hang back, to find herself left on the fringe. Instead, as Honoria had foretold, the ladies, one and all, were not just delighted to meet her but keen and eager to hear all she could tell them.

For all their warmth, the couples littering the big hall were an imposing and impressive lot. The males were especially notable. Scandal Cynster, who his wife Catriona called Richard, was clearly Devil’s brother, with similar features and build, but cornflower blue eyes. The duke’s cousins included Demon Cynster, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes, and his diminuitive wife, Felicity—whom he referred to as Flick—and his older brother, Vane, a harder, quieter man, yet very much in the Cynster physical mold but with brown hair and gray eyes, and his wife, Patience. Then came a Lucifer Cynster, all dark-haired, blue-eyed elegance, and his wife, Phyllida, and a Gabriel Cynster, the epitome of sophistication, brown-haired and hazel-eyed, and his wife, Alathea.

All the Cynster men had fought alongside Del and his three friends—the other three couriers—at Waterloo. In addition, the Earl of Chillingworth—who, from his interaction with Del and Devil, Deliah placed as Gyles Rawlings, the third of the schoolboy trio—was there, with his countess, Francesca; brown-haired and gray-eyed, he, too, possessed a commanding presence.

Deliah made a mental note to inquire at some point as to how the men had come by their odd names, but even more than the men, she was curious about the women.

Physically they varied dramatically, from Catriona’s serene, red-haired beauty, through Phyllida’s dark-haired vitality, and Alathea’s, Patience’s and Honoria’s perfectly groomed shades of calm and collected brown, to Flick’s blond vivacity and Francesca’s black-haired, gypsylike vibrance. In appearance they were widely dissimilar, yet in presence and character, in their attitude to their world, they seemed of one mind. They were confident, assured and assertive, not afraid to state their opinions and make their wishes known.

Not one was the meek, mild or retiring sort. Not one was prim and proper, any more than Deliah was.

Which was something of a social shock.

Other than Alathea, who, Deliah suspected, was a few years older than she, most of the ladies were younger, ranging in age down to Flick, who must have been in her early twenties. These ladies, with their positions, connections and wealth, would be part of the core of the current society-defining generation, the arbiters of social acceptance for the upper class, for the ton.

All her life, Deliah had been lectured on how she needed to behave to be socially accepted, yet these ladies, one and all, were of a vastly different stripe from those she’d always been instructed she should emulate. These ladies were…

Like her.

From Honoria, with her rich chestnut hair gleaming in the firelight, her gray eyes alert and all-seeing, to Flick, with her guinea gold curls bouncing and her blue eyes bright with interest, these ladies, each in her own way, were bold, determined and decisive.

Why they were the Cynsters’ chosen mates wasn’t any great mystery.

To Deliah, with just a few words exchanged recognizing like-minded souls, meeting them was both eye-opening, and an immense relief.

With these ladies, she could be herself.

Honoria turned aside to speak with a majestic butler who had come to hover by her elbow. “Dinner at eight-thirty, I think, Webster. That will give our latest arrivals time to settle in.” She glanced to where the men had gradually gravitated into a group halfway up the hall. “And allow the gentlemen time to satisfy their collective curiosity.”

On the word, she looked at Deliah, then at the other ladies gathered in the chairs before the fire. “Might I suggest we adjourn to my sitting room? We can sit and chat, and have tea in comfort.”

“And greater privacy.” With a conspiratorial smile, Francesca stood.

Honoria turned to Webster. “Tea in my sitting room, Webster. And please convey my compliments to Mrs. Hull and tell her and Sligo of Miss Duncannon’s arrival, and of the imminent arrival of Miss Duncannon’s household, and the colonel’s, too.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Webster bowed low and departed.

As the ladies rose, Devil strolled up. He smiled—innocently—at Honoria. “We’ll be in the library.”

She smiled back, not even feigning innocence. “We’ll be in my sitting room.” With a wave, she sent the other ladies ahead, then linked her arm in Deliah’s and glanced up at her spouse. “We’ll see you all at dinner. Eight-thirty.”

Deliah grinned as, with that parting shot, she was determinedly led to the stairs.

Strolling beside Devil, Del followed the others along the corridor to the library. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’d forgotten you’d have so many children here. For my peace of mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d post guards around the nursery areas.” He met Devil’s green gaze. “Just in case.”

Devil smiled, but it wasn’t a humorous gesture. “It’s already taken care of. And now that Sligo has been reinforced by Cobby, I doubt there’s any likelihood of anyone getting past their pickets.”

Del inclined his head in agreement. Sligo—now Devil’s majordomo—had been Devil’s batman at Waterloo, just as Cobby had been his. The two batmen had forged a friendship under fire, one just as close as their masters’.

Devil paused by an open door, through which the comforting ambiance of a very male library could be glimpsed. He waved Del through. “Come, sit, and tell us the whole story.”

Del preceded him into the luxurious yet comfortable room, and proceeded to do just that.

He told the tale of his mission, from its beginning in the Marquess of Hastings’s office months before. Describing the Black Cobra’s atrocities while sitting in leather-cushioned luxury, a crystal tumbler filled with the finest malt whiskey in his hand, only made the details doubly stark, and even more disturbing.

There were grim looks all around, and softly muttered curses, when he described James MacFarlane’s death.

“He was a good man.” Devil drained his glass, then reached for the decanter. His words were echoed as the others did the same.

Del nodded and continued, detailing the events that had led to the four of them—he, Gareth, Logan, and Rafe—leaving Bombay, then described the action he’d seen on his journey, all the way through to that afternoon. Tony and Gervase supplied their observations, and the outcomes of their attempts to gain some clue as to the Black Cobra’s lair.

Tony shook his dark head. “Until today, we’d seen nary a sign of any cultist. But clearly they’re here—the Lord only knows where he’s hiding them. With their peculiar costume, they’ll have no hope of blending into the scenery.”

Devil met Del’s eyes. “That’s a point we should convey to Wolverstone. We’ll send a rider before dinner. The weather’s closing in, so we’d better seize the chance to let him know you’ve arrived safely, and that there are indeed cultists about.”

“How far away is he?” Del asked.

“He’s at Elveden Grange, about thirty miles due east.” Devil sipped, then went on, “Our orders are to have all three of you remain, for a few days at least, in the hope—distant though it might be—that the Black Cobra will try a sortie. It’s possible that, not knowing you were headed here, he won’t have had time to do any reconnaissance, and so won’t realize how many ex-cavalry there are in the house.” He paused, head tilted. “If he could throw fourteen at you on the road, it’s possible he might feel he has the numbers for a foray against this place.”

Del grimaced. “That’s a long shot. On his own ground, he’s showy and confident, but he’s been careful, watchful and wary over here.”

Devil levelled a sharp gaze on him. “Don’t disillusion us. You’ll have noticed none of us have taken you to task over reducing the enemy by fourteen, all by yourselves? You were supposed to share.”

Del hid his curving lips behind his glass. “Sorry. Blame our success on Deliah—if it weren’t for her, we’d never have drawn the cultists out.”

Demon snorted. “Typical female. And she killed two as well? Haven’t you explained that’s our job? She’s supposed to sit quietly and leave it to us.”

Del’s brows rose. “I don’t suppose you’d like to undertake to explain that to her in words she’ll accept?”

Quite a few men choked.

“Once he’s worked out how to do that with his wife,” Scandal put in, “no doubt he’ll oblige.”

A heavy sigh sounded, drawing all attention to Vane, who’d been prowling behind Devil’s chair. He turned from the window, letting the curtain fall closed. “I hate to further dampen spirits, so to speak, but it’s started snowing.” He looked at Devil. “You’d better get that rider on his way if you want him to reach Elveden tonight.”

There were groans all around.

Devil rose and rang for Sligo.

Del, listening to the others’ predictions, recalled that in that season, in that part of the country, the snowfalls could be considerable.

Slumping back, he grimaced. “It doesn’t look as if we’re going to have much luck in getting the Black Cobra to come to us.”

Upstairs in the duchess’s sitting room, Deliah had just finished telling the other ladies everything she knew of Del’s mission.

Relating the details of the incident that afternoon had left her more shaken than she’d been at the time.

Honoria calmly handed her another cup of tea. “It’s often worse reliving it—that’s when you realize all the things that might have gone wrong, how much worse it all might have been.”

Deliah sipped, met Honoria’s eyes, glanced at the others, all nodding sagely. Amazing. Not one of them had paled, let alone looked likely to faint when she’d described shooting a man, then running one through—although technically he’d run himself through. She’d just held the sword.

The tea slid down, warming, comforting—just like the company.

“I believe I speak for all of us”—Catriona glanced around the circle before focusing on Deliah—“in extending my heartfelt thanks to you for reducing the threat. For engineering a situation that successfully reduced this fiend’s troops, especially those in this area.”

“Indeed.” Alathea exchanged a long-suffering look with the others. “We know what our husbands are like.”

Felicity set down her empty cup. “We’ll have to keep an eye on them.” She glanced at Honoria. “A closer eye than usual.”

Honoria nodded. “Luckily, it appears the weather has come to our aid.” She smiled. “It’s snowing.”

“Really?”

“At last!”

“Let’s see.”

Phyllida, Catriona and Flick all rose and went to the wide window. Throwing open the curtains, they peered through the glass.

“It’s coming down nicely,” Flick reported.

“Wonderful!” Phyllida turned back inside. “Who knows? We might even have a white Christmas. The children will be in alt.”

A discussion ensued of the possibilities for keeping their numerous offspring amused. Deliah sat back and listened, smiling at the comments.

For quite the first time in her life wishing she had reason to join in.

The realization was so startling she sobered, blinked.

Just as the sound of a gong resonated through the house.

“Time to dress for dinner.” Honoria stood, waited until Deliah set down her cup and rose, too. “Come, I’ll show you to your room. Your maid should be there by now.”

They dispersed, the others heading down various corridors in groups of twos and threes, heads together, chatting, while she and Honoria headed around the gallery.

“If you get tired of us, do say.” Honoria caught her eye and smiled. “I assure you we won’t be offended. You’ve been traveling, while we’ve been sitting here waiting for something to happen. And you’ve already done wonders to relieve our boredom.”

“That,” Deliah replied, “was entirely my pleasure.”

And it had been.

Honoria left her at the door of a well-appointed chamber, and went on to her own rooms to change for the evening.

Closing the door, Deliah smiled at Bess. “Everything all right?”

Bess’s answering smile was wide. “Lovely place, this. The staff is so friendly. We’ve all settled in already. Now!” Going to the bed, Bess picked up and displayed the gold satin gown from Madame Latour. “Seeing as this is a duke’s house, I thought you might want to wear this.”

Deliah studied the deceptively simple, unquestionably elegant evening gown, and gave thanks for Del’s insistence that she take it. She nodded. “Yes—that’s perfect.”

Standing before the mirror, she started pulling the pins from her hair, and reminded herself to extract from him the sum he’d paid for the gowns before they reached home.

For tonight, however, she saw no reason not to take advantage of time, place, and gown.

Nine

Del was standing by the fireplace with Devil when Deliah walked into the drawing room.

The room was abuzz with conversation, yet for him a silence fell.

He was deaf. He felt dazed.

He couldn’t drag his eyes from the sight of Deliah in the gold satin gown he remembered so well, standing poised in the doorway—apparently unaware of the havoc she was causing.

Then she moved. His mouth dried as he watched her, lips lightly curved, glide across the room to join Honoria and two of the other ladies standing chatting with Gervase.

Del’s chest swelled as he finally managed to drag in a breath and break free of her spell. Instinctively, he looked at Devil. And saw his green gaze also fixed across the room.

Some unfamiliar emotion flared—part irritation, part irrational fear…jealousy? He couldn’t recall feeling it before, not over a woman, and never so sharply. Tamping it down, he glanced again across the room.

She looked like a golden flame, a beacon of warmth and promise. Gaze circling the room, he confirmed all the other men had noticed. Impossible to hold it against them; they were male, too.

Jaw setting, he turned to Devil, only to meet an amused, but understanding, grin. To his relief, his old friend made no reference to Deliah but instead chose to rib Gyles as he joined them.

Gyles, of course, struck back. Del laughed and felt the years slide away. They no longer stood in Eton’s schoolyard, yet beneath the changes of the years, some things—loyalties, friendships—remained the same.

“How’s your daughter?” Devil asked Gyles.

“Contrary to my beliefs, she’s apparently thriving. Colic, so I’ve been informed, is something they—and we—have to go through.”

Devil grimaced. “I’m still working on developing immunity.” His gaze traveled to Honoria, then on to Francesca, standing in another group. “I don’t understand how they can, apparently without difficulty, tell the difference between a wail that signifies serious pain and one that merely means they’re grumpy.”

“Let me know when you’ve worked it out.” Gyles shook his head. “You might have warned me how…distracting a wife and family were going to be.”

Devil shrugged. “No point—it was in your stars as much as mine. No chance we could have avoided it.” He grinned, shot a glance at Gyles. “So we might as well enjoy it.”

Gyles laughed, his gaze on Francesca. “True.” Then he looked at Del. “So what about you, Del? What lies in your future?”

Neither Gyles nor Devil glanced at Deliah, but Del knew they knew…he waved nonchalantly. “I haven’t really thought. This mission blew up, and it seemed more appropriate to put consideration of the future off until it’s done.”

“Sometimes,” Devil said, “fate and the future come knocking.”

“She certainly did where we were concerned,” Gyles said. “No reason it should be any different for you.”

Del smiled. “We’ll see.”

The conversation moved on to different topics, but the notion of marriage, of having a wife and family, of putting down roots in the rich soil of England and establishing a real home—making Delborough Hall into a real home—continued to drift through his mind, coming to the fore whenever he spoke to the other Cynsters, all men he knew, and he sensed, as he had with Devil and Gyles, their contentment.

A contentment he wanted, one he felt he’d earned.

Again and again, his gaze returned to Deliah.

He wasn’t surprised to find they were paired at dinner. He led her in with a believable show of sangfroid, one that deceived neither him nor her.

There was a light in his dark eyes, a warm possessiveness in his touch as his hand grazed the back of her waist when he guided her to her chair. Deliah felt it, on some level reveled in it, even though outwardly she pretended not to notice.

As they sat at the long table and entertained the others with stories of India and Jamaica, she couldn’t recall feeling so relaxed…ever. For the first time in her adult life she felt free to simply be, to interact without constantly monitoring her words and her behavior.

Free to be herself, because in this company her true self wasn’t in any way remarkable. Not shocking, not out of place. In this company, she fitted.

The men had been open in their appreciation of her in Madame Latour’s stunning gown. The ladies, one and all, had asked for the modiste’s direction. Honoria and Alathea had even inquired if she had more of Madame’s creations with her, and whether they might see them.

She’d never shared anything with other women before. Other women had universally regarded her as…too much. Too outspoken, too headstrong, too willful—too striking. Too tall, too well curved, too sharp-tongued.

The word too had always featured in others’ descriptions of her.

Not here. Here, all the toos she possessed were accepted, even encouraged. Certainly these ladies exhibited most of the same, and she couldn’t help but note all they’d achieved in their lives—husbands, children, marriages based on love and trust and a great deal more besides.

Ever since the Great Scandal, she’d tried to suppress her inner self, tried to transform herself, cram herself into the mold of a proper English lady, but the mold her parents’ had held up for her—one of a lady who clung to convention at every step—had never fitted.

What she saw, what she learned as the conversations flashed and sparked around the dining table, was that there was another mold, one equally socially acceptable. One that fitted her like the proverbial glove.

And that mold was compatible with marriage—with a sort of marriage she could see herself within, one that was more a partnership, a relationship based on sharing.

She wasn’t an irredeemable outcast. She’d simply been moving in the wrong circles.

A strange buoyancy gripped her. Seized her. By the time they all rose and, the gentlemen denying any wish for separation, repaired all together to the drawing room to sit and, still very much a large group, continue their conversations, she felt almost giddy.

Freedom, she realized. This is what it tastes like.

She smiled up at Del as she sank onto the sofa to which he’d led her.

He looked down at her for a moment, his features set in easy, social lines, yet his eyes…then he smiled and turned to sit in the armchair beside her.

Webster circled with port and brandy for the gentlemen. Some of the ladies, too, accepted a glass. Deliah declined. She wanted her wits unclouded so she could continue to notice and absorb all about her. While she was unlikely ever to face the altar, a long-term relationship wasn’t out of her cards.

Once everyone was settled, the talk turned to the Black Cobra cult, then to the incident that afternoon. Together with Tony and Gervase, she and Del remained the center of attention as they described the cultists and their actions.

“So there were fourteen?” Honoria looked thoroughly disapproving. She glanced at her husband. “You’d better lay Ferrar by the heels soon, or else this cult of his will be taking over villages and setting up in England.”

“Perish the thought.” Devil looked at Del. “Did you leave them all dead, or…?”

“We deemed it wiser not to wait and check. We couldn’t tell if there were more in the trees, or, even more likely, Larkins with a brace of pistols.”

“I, for one,” Tony said, “was taken aback that he had fourteen men he was willing to send against us. Del warned us, and they did send eight first, then the other six only when needed, but still, committing fourteen men to one such action…”

Gervase concluded, “It suggests he has more he can lose.”

The talk diverged to considering ways to locate any body of cultists in the surrounding area. That gave the Cynster males something to gnaw on, raising the prospect of some action to ease their disappointment over the unlikelihood of any immediate clash with the cultists.

Del contributed little. He didn’t know the county well, and he was exercised by other things.

Other thoughts, other feelings.

Unaccustomed feelings, but they were proving to be strong and thoroughly distracting—stronger and more distracting than he liked.

Recounting the clash that afternoon had called to mind, too vividly, all he’d felt over those fraught minutes. Re-evoked the staggeringly intense fear he’d felt on seeing Deliah exposed to danger—a fear of a type that for all his experience of life and death on battlefields around the globe, he’d never felt before.

More intense, reaching deeper, that fear had sunk talons into his very soul.

He hadn’t liked it at the time.

Looking back, he liked it even less.

He cast a sidelong glance at the cause of his distress. She sat relaxed on the sofa, a smile of genuine happiness on her face.

The sight of it did nothing to ease his mood. Yes, she was safe, and apparently content. Yet although her well-being was the crux on which his unnerving fear hinged, something within him wasn’t appeased. Responsibility for his near-crippling fear lay at her door.

Something he fully intended to point out. To explain. Later.

Tonight.

Shifting his gaze forward, he smothered his surging impulses, bit his tongue, and concentrated on shoring up his relaxed façade while inwardly rehearsing a suitable tirade.

December 15
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Shivering uncontrollably, Sangay slogged and slid his way through the layer of icy white stuff that cloaked the rear yard of the very big house. It was as big as a palace, and equally busy, which was a blessing from the gods. No one had paid him too much attention. No one had spoken harshly or questioned him. Instead, they’d given him a small room all to himself, high beneath the roof where it was warm, and Cobby’s friend, Sligo, had found him a jacket—he’d called it a page’s coat—to put over his tunic.

Hands sunk in the pockets of the coat, the collar turned up and his head ducked against the wind, Sangay awkwardly hurried as fast as he dared toward the massive bulk of the stable.

At the back, the man had said.

The stable was bounded on three sides by high brick walls. Sangay felt his way down one side, then around to the rear, where what looked like a small forest encroached.

He halted in a small clearing midway along the stable’s back wall. At least the cold white flakes had ceased falling, but the wind still sliced, and a heavy feeling in the air, as if it were weighed down, suggested the snow would start coming down again soon.

It wasn’t inky dark. The white blanket reflected what little light there was and gave Sangay enough illumination to see. Even so, he heard the man’s boots crunching through the white crust long before the heavy figure loomed out of the black shadows beneath the trees.

“Have you got it?”

The harsh demand made Sangay tremble beneath his shivering, but he forced himself to shake his head. “But, sahib-sir, I’ve seen it!”

Larkins eyed the boy dispassionately. “At the inn, when the colonel fetched it?”

“Yes, sahib. I saw it then.”

“But have you seen it since?”

“No, sahib, but we’ve only just got here and the house is very large, but now I know what to look for! And this house is so big no one will notice me! I will be able to search tomorrow and find the scroll-holder, and then I will be bringing it out to you.”

Dark eyes wide, trained on Larkins’s face, the boy made an effort to disguise his tremors, and look eager and confident.

He didn’t fool Larkins, but conversely Larkins knew the boy was his best route to the scroll-holder, and therefore, at present, his most valuable asset.

That was why he’d set this meeting for ten o’clock—not so early the boy would be missed, yet not so late he might attract attention if seen slipping out.

Larkins knew the ways of households like this, knew the routines the servants followed. He’d once been one of them, but it had been a long time since he’d been a lowly servant. Working for the Black Cobra had made him rich. Wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. He was rich enough to have servants himself, if he’d wanted them. But acquiring such chattels didn’t bring him pleasure. Nowhere near as much pleasure as dealing in terror did. That was the one thing he most valued about being in the Black Cobra’s service—the chance to indulge in the vilest deeds.

He enjoyed terrorizing the innocent. Yet in this case…. The failure of the afternoon was acid in his gut. That failure made the boy—getting the boy to deliver the scroll-holder into his hands—even more vital.

He’d never failed his master, but he knew how his master rewarded failure and had no wish to receive such attention.

So he nodded. “Good.” He glanced up at the louring sky. “It’s going to snow more—probably a lot more. I won’t be able to meet you here. So you find the scroll-holder, and the instant you do, you head for the big church.” He pointed to the northeast. “There’s a big tower you can see for miles. Tomorrow, you look in that direction, and you’ll see it. Find the scroll-holder and bring it to me there—inside the cathedral, under the highest tower. I’ll be watching. I’ll meet you there.”

Larkins looked down at the shivering little sod, remembered the value of the letter in the scroll-holder. “Now you listen to me, son—don’t, under any circumstances, leave the roads. You have to leave here by the drive you came in on, then go around by the roads, staying on them all the way—understand? That country out there”—with one hand he indicated the stretch to the northeast—“it’s all fens and swamps. Lots of it looks solid, but you put a foot in the wrong place and it’ll swallow you whole. Got that?”

The boy’s eyes had grown even rounder. He nodded. “I take the scroll-holder and go by the roads to the big church and meet you there.”

“That’s right.” Larkins narrowed his eyes. “And you won’t forget what will happen to your ma if you don’t, will you?”

The boy’s eyes darkened. His jaw trembled, but he clenched it and shook his head side to side. “No, sahib. I won’t forget that. I will find the letter and bring it with all haste.”

“Good. Now you better get back before anyone misses you.”

“Yes, sahib.” Sangay turned and, without looking back, made his way around the stables. Pulling his collar up around his ears, he clutched it closed, then dashed back through a thickening veil of white.

It had started to snow again.

Eventually everyone retired for the night. In the pleasant chamber she’d been given, Deliah held her hands to the cheery fire and gave thanks the day had ended so well.

Straightening, she glanced at the bed, then at Bess, flicking out a nightgown and laying it over a chair. “I’m not sleepy enough for bed yet. I can get out of this gown by myself, and you’ve had a long day, too. You can go.”

Bess grinned. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes.” Deliah waved at the door. “Off with you.”

Bess chuckled, bobbed and went.

Alone, Deliah idly wandered the room, looking at the paintings, at the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Del, she knew, was in a mood. A restless, edgy, and, despite his outward smiles, scowling mood.

She’d felt it, sensed it. She was fairly certain of its cause.

But be damned if she’d apologize for saving his life.

If she hadn’t stepped out onto the carriage step…just the thought of seeing him cut down sent a sensation of pure ice shafting through her.

The coldness spread until she shivered and shook aside her imagined vision. Bending, she held her hands to the fire again.

Once again, she glanced at the bed. Inwardly frowned at her reluctance to get into it.

Eventually she realized it was the afternoon’s incident—the aftermath of it—that was feeding that reluctance.

She hadn’t thought the fight had affected her that deeply. She’d been shocked and frightened at the time, but they’d come through it, more or less unscathed. They’d triumphed, they’d won, albeit it on a restricted canvas.

It was all over now, and all was well.

Yet still she didn’t want to sleep alone in the big bed.

She was eying the pale blue expanse of the coverlet with increasing self-annoyance, when a soft tap on her door had her whirling.

The door opened, and Del looked in. He glanced once around the room, then slipped in and shut the door.

And locked it.

For one instant, Deliah debated whether to take umbrage at his assumption, but decided she couldn’t be that hypocritical. She was far more thankful she wasn’t, it seemed, destined to sleep alone.

Del crossed the room and halted directly before her. He’d dropped his mask. He knew his expression was tending grim, but although her eyes calmly searched his face, she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Not even mildly worried.

He let his inner scowl materialize. “You promised to sit in the middle of the carriage and not move.”

“And I did. At first.”

“We didn’t put any time limit on your actions. It was understood you would remain where I’d left you until we quit the scene.”

Her eyes narrowed fractionally. “I also understood you didn’t intend to die. Or even allow yourself to be mortally wounded.”

“I didn’t intend—”

“And neither did I.” She met his determination with blatant intransigence. “Is there any point to this?”

“Yes!” If only he could figure out how to state it. He searched her eyes, seeking inspiration. “If you can’t obey orders—”

“There’s really no point in going over this again.”

“—then how can I trust that you’ll remain safe?” He hauled in a breath. “Damn it, woman, I can’t function if I don’t know that you’ll have the good sense to stay out of the action—”

“And just stand by and watch you get killed?” She came up on her toes, all but nose to nose. “Permit me to inform you, Colonel, that that’s only going to happen in your dreams!”

Her eyes blazed into his.

Lips thin, he met her glare for glare.

Without warning, she clamped her palms about his face, muttered, “Shut up!” and kissed him.

As if she wanted to devour him.

He fought to hold aloof, succeeded for two heartbeats. Then he was with her in her ravenous need; he met her, matched her, an equal participant in the greedy exchange.

He told himself he should use it—the moment, her wildness, her wanting. Her wantonness. That if he was wise, he’d wield her desire like a whip, withholding gratification until she promised—

She pressed against him, into him, and his thought processes stuttered. Stopped.

Evaporated.

She wound her arms about his neck, pressed her breasts to his chest, slid her hips, her belly, sinuously over his erection, and he was lost.

Lost to all pretense that he wasn’t as helplessly in thrall to her as, it appeared, she was to him. That he didn’t want her as much, didn’t need her as much, didn’t crave her as desperately as her lips, her mouth, every seductive curve of her body announced she craved him.

Her need was visceral, flagrant and declared. Her wanting was tangible, a giddy purpose scenting the air. Her craving was elemental, a primitive itch that demanded to be scratched.

All she felt resonated within him.

Their kiss was all-consuming, a blatant expression of all that was to come. Her hands slid from his hair to grip his shoulders. She pushed; when he stepped back, she steered. With slow deliberation, she backed him to the bed.

He let her.

Curious to see what her wishes were, he complied when she pressed down on his shoulders; without breaking the kiss, he sank down to sit on the side of the bed.

She came between his widespread thighs. One hand trailed down from shoulder to chest, to waist. To his groin to cup him.

To fondle with intent.

He mentally gritted his teeth and let her play, while he reached around her and found the laces of her gown. Stripping it from her slowly had been his ambition from the first instant he’d seen her in it, in Madame Latour’s salon.

Now he got to, and she allowed him to, realize that ambition. To slowly peel the gold satin from her perfect shoulders, to ease the slinky fabric down, taking her chemise with it, to expose her magnificent breasts.

Then it was his turn to fondle, with educated intent.

Her turn to grow even more heated. Until she moaned and drew back from the kiss. Until her spine bowed and she leaned back in his hands, and he bent his head and set his hot mouth to her flesh.

And ardently possessed.

By the time he consented to draw back, to push her gown down, over the swell of her hips until it slid of its own accord, whispering down her legs to puddle on the floor, her ivory skin was flushed with desire, her nipples tightly peaked, her breasts swollen and firm.

Her lids were so heavy she could barely lift them enough to see as she slipped the buttons at his waist free, and took his rampant erection between her hands.

Then it was his turn to close his eyes, to bite back a moan. To feel her hands possessing until the desire that rose beneath his skin seemed too much for his body to hold.

She leaned in, nipped his earlobe. Gained his attention. “I want you inside me. Now.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. His hands tightened about her waist and he lifted her, set her down on her knees on the bed, straddling him.

She didn’t hesitate, but shifted closer. One small hand wrapped about his shaft, she guided the engorged head between her slick lips.

Then sank down.

Took him in.

The air left Deliah’s lungs in a slow exhalation as she sank steadily down and he filled her. Stretched her, completed her.

It felt better than good, even better than blissful, to have the rigid rod of his erection buried so deeply inside her. It felt right. Sublime.

When he nudged deeper, nudged her womb, she reversed direction. She rose upon him, gauging the distance. Just before she lost the fullness of him, she smoothly changed direction and sank down.

Slowly.

She knew the theory of what she, they, were doing, but she’d never before experienced this particular pleasure. Now she was so engaged, she wanted to feel all, learn all, know all there was.

All that might come of loving him like this.

Of using her body to pleasure his like this.

Of taking her pleasure in pleasuring him.

And it was more, much more, than she’d ever imagined. The ride was exhilarating, stupendous, marvelously freeing. She was in charge, and he ceded the reins to her, let her set the pace, let her take him as she would.

Watched her as she did.

Watched as she experimented, then found her rhythm.

Watched as she rode him hard, then harder.

Watched her as she crested, as she rode faster, more desperately, taking him ever deeper as they pushed relentlessly up the final peak.

He held her, his hands tight about her hips, her arms locked about his shoulders, through those last fraught moments when the friction of their joining became a fire that ravaged and consumed.

At the very last moment her eyes locked with his, then she gasped, let her lids fall as she leaned in, and pressed her lips to his. Felt his open.

She slid her tongue between, found his tongue. Stroked, caressed, as the flames erupted, and the world cindered about them.

Del held her, kissed her, felt her sheath clamp tight, all fire and wet heat, about him. Felt her burn between his hands with an incandescent glory.

With a power he couldn’t deny.

Then he felt her soar.

Felt the tug, the command, the need to join her flower and sear, and pull him on.

To her promise of paradise. To all he knew awaited him in her arms.

He wanted her, and she wanted him.

Surrender was his only option. He closed his eyes and did.

Later, much, much later, when they’d recovered enough to together remove his clothes and then crawl between her sheets, he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up unseeing as he listened to their tumultuous heartbeats slow, feeling all residual tension fading into sated languor.

Gradually, his mind cleared.

Leaving, etched with crystal-clear clarity, all she’d revealed—everything the most vulnerable part of him had so desperately needed to know.

He hadn’t known the question he’d needed to ask, but she’d unstintingly given him the answer.

Glancing down at her, curled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her hair fanned over his chest, he saw she was at peace, floating, but not yet asleep.

Beneath the sheet, he slapped her naked rump, not enough to hurt, enough to claim her attention. “Don’t, for the love of God, ever do what you did this afternoon again.”

“I won’t, as long as you don’t attempt to fight three cultists at once in front of me again.” She scowled up at him, then pouted as she rubbed her abused posterior. “It would have served you right if I hadn’t intervened and saved you. I should have left you to reap your just rewards.”

He was, he realized, still smiling inanely. He couldn’t seem to stop. He’d just reaped all the rewards he presently needed. Still, with a sense of inner wonder, he stated what he now realized was obvious. “You wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, sat still and let that happen.”

“No, you’re right.” She snuggled down against him again. “Sadly, I’m too patriotic for my own good.”

“So you saved me for the good of the country?”

“Of course.”

His smile only broadened, deepened; he felt as if the sun were shining on his soul. He might not appreciate how he felt when she tried to protect him at the expense of her own safety, but at least now he understood why she did.

Understood that she might not be able to refuse the call any more than he could when it came to her.

And, oddly, that felt right. Good. Elementally reassuring.

Fundamentally contradictory, but that seemed the norm for his feelings about her.

His thoughts circled, settled…as far as he could see through the haze of pleasure clouding his brain, there was really only one—or maybe two—questions remaining. How should he propose? And when?

He fell asleep before he could decide.

Ten

December 16
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

In the wee small hours of the morning, Sangay crept along the corridor on the first floor of the very big house.

He’d seen the colonel take the scroll-holder from Mustaf in the inn yard. He hadn’t seen either Mustaf or Cobby take the scroll-holder back. And now he knew what to look for, once they’d all settled in the big house he’d been able to tell that neither Cobby nor Mustaf had been carrying the holder.

Just before the servants had had their dinner in the servants’ hall, when Cobby had been sitting with Sligo before the fire there, and Mustaf and Kumulay had been waiting at the big table, Sangay had slipped into first Mustaf’s, then Cobby’s rooms, and searched. Thoroughly. He was getting very good at searching. But the scroll-holder hadn’t been there.

Later still, after he’d come back from speaking with the evil sahib behind the stable, he’d surreptitiously followed Cobby and learned where the colonel’s room was.

Now, silent as a ghost, he slipped through the deep shadows. The house was gloomy and dark, but it was almost as if he could hear it breathing—as if the house itself were alive. As if it might wake at any moment and see him. He tried not to think of such fanciful things, but concentrated on retracing his steps to the colonel’s room without getting lost.

There were so many rooms down so many different corridors, but he’d noted the steel armor mounted like a metal man on a stand just along from the colonel’s door. Finally he saw it, and hurried forward, his slippered feet silent on the rugs. He took a moment to check that it was indeed the right armor, then, going to the door, he opened it, peeked in, then slipped inside.

The colonel spent his nights in the memsahib’s bedroom. He was never in his room until close to dawn. So Sangay was free to search.

It was still hours before dawn when he reached into the top drawer of a high chest and his fingers closed around polished wood and brass.

Almost reverently, he drew the holder out. One glance was enough to confirm it was the one the evil sahib sought.

Closing the drawer, Sangay slid the holder up the sleeves of his tunic and the coat he’d donned over it, then, quiet as a mouse, he slipped out of the room and shut the door.

He was downstairs in mere minutes. He paused in the corridor leading to the back door and closed his coat up tight. It would be cold out there—freezing. He hadn’t yet had a chance to look for the big church, but the evil sahib had said he had to go back down the carriage drive, and he knew where that was. He would go now and be well away from the house before the other servants stirred. When daylight came, he would be able to see the church tower.

He wondered how long it would take him to reach it. Even going around by the roads, in this country it wouldn’t be that far. A few hours, perhaps?

Telling himself to keep his spirits up—he was nearly free of the evil sahib’s demands—he reached for the bolts closing the back door, eased them back with barely a sound. Carefully, he lifted the latch, opened the door.

And looked out at a wall of white.

He stared. He could only just see over the top of the white blockage. Hesitantly, he put out a hand. White sand, but cold, and it melted where he touched.

The white stuff slithered, started to slide like sand in through the door. Quickly, he swung the door closed, pushed hard and managed to shut it.

Snow! The white stuff was snow. He’d had no idea it could come like this.

That it could trap him in the house with the scroll-holder.

Stunned, he reclosed the bolts, then looked for a window, saw one over the iron trough in the next room. He hurried over, had to clamber up and balance on the trough to see through. The snow had piled up across the bottom of the window. He couldn’t push it open. Looking out, he saw to his amazement that there was plenty of light to see, even though it was still hours until dawn.

A soft, pearly-gray glow bathed the scene, moonlight and starlight reflecting off the snow. Sangay had never imagined the world might look like this—untouched, and so cold. As if there were no people, no animals anywhere. Only the naked trees and the buildings…and in the far distance, off to the east, the huge tower of a church spearing up through the white-gray, its stone a solid, deeper gray than the sky behind it.

Three hours at most, Sangay thought, but he couldn’t walk through snow that deep.

He looked at the white dunes filling the kitchen yard. Perhaps it might be less on the other sides of the house?

He spent the next hour frantically going from room to room, window to window, but the snow lay everywhere, apparently equally thick. There was no window he could open, no door he could slip through. Everywhere he looked, the snow hemmed him in.

Then he heard the first maids stirring.

Sternly he told himself he couldn’t sniffle and cry, that his maataa’s life depended on him getting the holder to the evil sahib.

He looked down at the wooden holder, peeking past the edge of his sleeve. He couldn’t afford to be found with it, but if he put it back in the colonel’s room, he might not be able to fetch it later.

On impulse, he hurried back to the kitchen, slipped into the corridor to the back door, then turned off it into a big storeroom. It was close to the back door, and he’d seen bins there. He found one behind some bags; it was half-filled with wheat. He buried the scroll-holder deep, then, feeling a vise ease from about his chest, drew an easier breath. He went back into the kitchen and curled up in a corner near the fire.

He didn’t have long to wait. Three of the kitchen girls came down the servants’ stairs. Yawning, laughing, they saw him, smiled and called a good morning, and started taking down pots and plates.

Sangay returned their greetings, then got to his feet. He went to the table, smiled as best he could. “There’s lots of snow outside.”

The girls exchanged glances, then set down what they held and rushed down the corridor to the window over the iron trough.

Sangay followed them.

“Ooh! Look, Maisie. It’s ever so pretty.”

“Looks to be dry, too—it won’t be thawing today.”

“Ah—how long will it last?” Sangay asked.

The girls looked at him, then out at the snow. They pulled measuring faces, then the one called Maisie said, “No one’ll be moving for a couple o’ days, at least.” She flashed Sangay a grin. “Assuming no more comes down, that is.”

Sangay felt his eyes grow wide. “Will more come down before this lot goes?”

Maisie shrugged. “Who’s to say? In the lap of the gods, that is.”

Sangay managed a weak smile. Turning, he left the room. He slipped through the kitchen and went quickly up the stairs. Reaching his room, he quietly shut the door, then climbed into his bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

He tried not to shiver. He wasn’t cold. But he didn’t know what to do. Desperation clutched his chest, his heart.

What would happen to his maataa?

He believed in the gods. They had sent the snow. They didn’t want him to take the holder to the evil sahib, at least not yet.

But was that so? Was there some other route he was meant to take to the big church?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know this country, and with the snow on the ground, it had only become more alien.

Curling up in the bed, he shivered harder.

Del woke to see a strange, subdued light slanting through a gap in the curtains drawn across the window in Deliah’s room.

It took a moment for him to recall what such a light portended.

Deliah slumbered, warm and soft against his side. He glanced at her, then, carefully easing from under the covers, leaving her sleeping, he padded quickly across the room, pushed the curtain aside—and looked out on a scene that embodied the essence of “home” to him.

He looked out on a world covered in white. The thick blanket stretched as far as he could see, the bare branches of trees weighted with an inches-thick coating of soft white. The air was curiously clear. The wind had died during the night, leaving the smothering snow undisturbed, unmarred.

He hadn’t seen such a sight for decades.

A soft footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, Deliah was there, as naked as he, but she’d brought the counterpane with her; she tossed one end over his bare shoulders as she came to lean against his side.

Her face was alight. “I haven’t seen snow for more than seven years!”

The excitement in her voice, innocent and sincere, found an echo inside him. Tugging the counterpane around him, he put his arms around her, held her close. For long moments, they stood snuggling together, looking out on the pristine scene.

“We might even have a white Christmas,” she said.

“Much as I, personally, would appreciate that, I hope this will thaw, and soon.” When she looked up at him, brows rising, he explained, “The others have yet to get through. Snow will only make them slower—make them easier targets.”

She sobered, closed her hand on his arm. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she frowned. “But there’s—what?—nine days to go? They should be here before then, surely?”

“I don’t know. Devil hasn’t heard anything about the others. We’ll have to wait until I see Wolverstone to ask.”

They stood silently for some minutes, he thinking about his colleagues, most likely still some way from home. “With luck Gareth will have landed in England by now.”

Deliah gave him another moment, then jabbed her elbow into his side. “Let’s go down. I haven’t thrown a snowball since I left Humberside.”

He chuckled. “All right—I challenge you to a snowball duel.” Ducking out from under the counterpane, he headed for his clothes.

Trailing the counterpane like a shawl, she went to the wardrobe. “What are the rules?”

“There aren’t any.” In his trousers and shirt, he slung his coat on. “I need a different coat. I’ll meet you in the front hall.”

Pulling out a red woolen gown, she nodded. “Five minutes.”

He left.

She rushed.

He’d only just reached the front door when she hurried down the stairs, buttoning her pelisse. Breathless, more with excitement and anticipation than exertion, she let her momentum carry her to the door.

Del pulled back the heavy bolts, then reached for the doorknob. He swung the door open, waved Deliah through, then followed her into a world turned white.

Into a world of long-ago childhoods and innocent delights.

The carriage drive had disappeared beneath the tide. The lawns were a blanket of glistening purity, punctured by the skeletal trees, their branches limned with a thick coating of snow.

Shutting the door, he walked forward to join Deliah at the edge of the porch steps. White crust crunched beneath his boots. Their breaths fogged before their faces.

She was testing the snow piled on the steps with the toe of her red halfboot. “Too soft to walk in, and it looks to be more than knee-deep.”

He watched as she crouched, then reached out to brush her hand over the snow. She’d put on a pair of knitted gloves. After brushing the surface, she plunged her fingers in. The snow was dry and as yet uncompacted.

She drew out a handful, let it sift through her fingers. Marveled.

He watched her, saw the light in her eyes, the expressions flitting over her face, and felt each resonate within him. “Our snow’s usually heavier.”

She nodded. “This is so fine. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“Not like our weeks of white.”

Home for them lay north of the Humber, in the Wolds. Snow often closed them in, blanketing the ground for weeks at a time.

“It’s strange how a sight like this—one unseen for years—suddenly takes one back.” Looking down, she started gathering snow.

“It reinforces that we’re home—that we really are home, because where we were before it never snowed.” He strolled to the other side of the porch, hunkered down and started to gather a snowball of his own.

She beat him to it. Her first attempt hit him squarely on the side of his head. It broke in a shower of dry, ice-cold white, dusting his shoulders.

He swung to face her, pelted the ball he’d fashioned at her.

She yelped, dodged, and the ball struck the wall behind her.

Laughing, she bent and quickly gathered more snow for another ball.

Muttering mock-direfully, he did the same.

For the next ten minutes, they were children again, in the snow again, at home again. They shied loose balls of white at each other, laughing, calling insults both adult and childish. There was no one about to hear or see.

Only each other.

By the time she waved and, breathless, called a halt, they were both holding their sides from laughing so much. He looked into her bright eyes, noted the flush on her cheeks, sensed the sheer exuberance that filled her.

Felt the same coursing through him. “Pax,” he agreed. The cold was starting to reach through their clothes.

They shook and dusted the powdery snow from their coats, stamped their feet, then headed for the door.

In the front hall, Webster was supervising the rebuilding of the fire in the huge fireplace. Seeing them, he bowed. “Miss Duncannon. Colonel. If you care to go through to the breakfast parlor, we’ll be ready to serve you shortly.”

Relaxed, still smiling, they ambled down the corridor Webster had indicated. The breakfast parlor proved to be a large room with a series of windows looking south over a terrace, currently lightly covered in snow. A long sideboard hugged the opposite wall, with countless covered chafing dishes lined up along it. A parade of footmen were ferrying hot dishes up from the kitchen to lay beneath the domed covers.

The long table was set. They took seats along one side, facing the view. Coffeepot and teapot appeared before them all but instantly.

Webster brought a rack of fresh toast himself, and extolled the wonders of the offerings on the sideboard, exhorting them to make their selections.

He didn’t have to exhort twice. Their impromptu snowball fight had stirred their appetites. Returning to the table, a quite astonishing mound of food on her plate, Deliah suspected their late-night activities had also contributed.

They sat, ate, and shared—long moments of reflective silence as well as comments, most of which centered on their earlier lives in Humberside, but which, in the retelling, highlighted elements each clearly hoped to experience again.

Now they were heading home again.

Now they were close enough to imagine being there.

Now that they were looking their futures in the eyes.

It was apparent neither had any definite vision of what their respective futures would be like.

“You said you wanted to invest in manufacturing.” Deliah raised her brows at Del. “Do you have any preferences as to what?”

“I’m not yet sure, but I had thought to look at some of the woolen mills in the West Riding, and perhaps a flour mill in Hull—something along those lines. There’s new advances on the horizon which should make great improvements, and it seems somehow fitting that a fortune I—born and raised in Humberside—made protecting our overseas trade should be invested in activities that create jobs in Humberside.”

Deliah inclined her head. “A worthy ambition.”

“You mentioned the cotton trade.”

She nodded. “I think I’ll approach the weaving guilds, and see whether there’s any interest. Initially I assume I’ll remain an absentee grower and importer, supplying the mills rather than investing in them directly. But eventually I may look at investing in the mills, too.”

Del seized the moment to ask, “I take it you intend returning to live with your parents at Holme on the Wolds?”

“At first. But I doubt I’ll remain there for long.”

“Oh? Why?”

She seemed to search for words, then offered, “Consider it along the lines of a clash of personalities. My parents have always expected me to conform to a rigid…I suppose you could say mold. A pattern of behavior that allows only the most strictly conservative, prim and proper conduct in all things.” She slanted a glance at him. “That mold didn’t fit years ago, and while I thought, perhaps, after my years away I might have grown closer to their ideal, sadly…” She shook her head and looked down at her plate. “I fear I was fooling myself. So I’ll go home, and the instant I do anything outside their expectations—start looking into investments, or, heaven help me, telling them of my interests in cotton and the like—Papa will get on his high horse and forbid it, and I’ll refuse, and then I’ll feel honor-bound to leave.”

“Where will you go?” Del fought to keep his tone even. If she was going to disappear from Humberside, he needed her destination. He couldn’t ask her to marry him if he couldn’t find her. He didn’t want to have to chase her to Jamaica, either.

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She waved her fork. “Courtesy of my highly-disreputable-for-a-lady, as my parents will term it, commercial interests, I’m hardly a pauper.”

Footsteps in the corridor heralded the rest of the company. The men came in first, the ladies drifting in later, having been to the nurseries to supervise their offsprings’ ablutions and breakfasts.

Within minutes the room was full of bustle and good cheer. The men looked out at the snow and made disparaging comments, disgruntled that the extensive covering effectively put paid to any chance of a Black Cobra attack, at least not that day.

“Or very likely the next.” Demon, who owned a racing stud in nearby Newmarket, shook his head. “I can’t see us even riding out tomorrow.”

“Never mind.” Demon’s wife, Flick, smiled at him across the table. “You can spend a few hours with your children—that will keep at least them amused.”

All the Cynster wives were quick to concur.

All the Cynster males looked horrified.

But that, Deliah soon realized, was all pretense. To a man, the Cynsters, and Chillingworth, too, were exceedingly proud papas. When, later that morning, the nursemaids brought all the toddlers and babies down to join the company in the long library to which they’d repaired, the men were very ready to jig their offspring on their knees and compare their various putative talents.

Which activity resulted in a great deal of laughter.

Despite the constraint imposed by the weather, the day rolled on in relaxed, good-humored, pleasantly comfortable style.

December 16
Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

Alex led the way through the reception rooms of the house the Black Cobra had commandeered. “This will do nicely. So helpful of the owners, whoever they are, to have vacated it just when we need a headquarters in this area.”

When Delborough had left London, scroll-holder still in his keeping, and headed into Cambridgeshire, it had become clear that whoever he intended delivering the scroll-holder to wasn’t in town. Hardly surprising, given there were so few people of power left in the capital that close to Christmas.

When Larkins had sent word that Delborough had stopped at Somersham, so close to the many great houses of the truly powerful scattered throughout northern Suffolk and neighboring Norfolk, Alex had given orders to shift their base from Shrewton House—pleasantly satisfying though their stay there had been—to some place better situated to block the couriers’ access to those “truly powerful.”

Bury St. Edmunds was perfectly positioned. Thus far the town was proving exceedingly accommodating.

“Creighton heard the owners had gone to stay with family in the north for Christmas, so he came to take a look.” Following Alex into the sitting room, Daniel sprawled on the holland-covered sofa, putting his feet up on the low table before it. Creighton was his gentleman’s gentleman. “The back door apparently opened very easily.”

“Well, we couldn’t have stayed at an inn,” Alex said. “Can you imagine the talk once the locals laid eyes on M’wallah and the others?”

“Especially the others,” Daniel replied.

They’d assembled a select body of cultists—assassins and foot soldiers both—to act as bodyguards for them under the command of M’wallah, Alex’s fanatically loyal Indian houseman. The same cultists would also serve as a well-trained force should they need to deploy men from their base. Their preference, however, was, as always, to act from a distance by sending cultists from groups not directly connected to their households to do their bidding.

Concealing the Black Cobra’s identity had become second nature to them all.

Roderick drifted in, looking around, assessing. Seeing a sideboard along one wall, he walked to it and tried the cupboard doors. Finding them locked, he smiled, drew a lock-pick from his pocket and crouched before them.

An instant later, the doors popped open. Sliding the pick back in his pocket, Roderick pulled out a bottle, held it up to read the label. “Whoever he is, the owner has a nice taste in brandy. Lucky for us.” Putting the bottle back, he rose.

At the far end of the sitting room, Alex had parted the curtains covering the front window to peer outside. “With the house built into these old arches, we can even have the curtains open during the day. The front façade is so shadowed and gloomy, no one will be able to see in from the street.”

The house was one of a short row built into the massive arches along the west face of the ruined Abbey Church.

“So Delborough’s taken refuge at Somersham.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “Why there?”

“Not Somersham the village, but Somersham Place. It’s the principal residence of the Duke of St. Ives—Devil Cynster.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Alex returned to join Daniel on the sofa. “Could St. Ives be Delborough’s contact? Is St. Ives in a position to bring us down?”

Shaking his head, Roderick dropped into an armchair facing the other two. “It’s a mystery why Delborough’s chosen to go there. St. Ives is eminently well-connected within the ton, very much haut ton, but he’s not a political heavyweight, at least not in foreign matters. Papa would simply shrug off any accusation St. Ives made, then bury it. I really don’t think we need to worry about St. Ives. Besides, Larkins believes Delborough hasn’t handed over the scroll-holder but has it still in his keeping, which suggests Somersham is merely a staging point—a safe house, perhaps—from which Delborough will make the last push to his ultimate destination.”

“Any guesses as to where that ‘ultimate destination’ is?” Alex asked. “I assume the other couriers will make for the same place.”

“I think we can count on that,” Roderick returned. “There has to be one person behind this—someone is the puppetmaster pulling all the strings. The big question is: who?”

Alex nodded. “Whoever they are, they are the person we need to worry about—to counter. And the safest and easiest way is by ensuring the original letter never makes it into their hands.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

“So what did Larkins report?” Daniel asked.

Roderick had made a detour to meet Larkins in Newmarket. “His thief is inside the house, still undetected, still free to move. Unfortunately, the snow was particularly heavy in that part of the country. When Larkins spoke to the little beggar last night, he—the boy—was confident he could find the scroll-holder and bring it out to Larkins, but now with the snow so deep, even if he has filched the scroll-holder he’ll have to wait for the thaw to bring it out.”

“I assume Larkins was wise enough to arrange to meet this boy-thief at a distance?” Alex asked.

Lips curving, Roderick nodded. “He’s picked a place anyone can find—Ely Cathedral.”

“Oh, I do approve.” Alex smiled back. “Not so much appropriate as…contemptuous. Very much in keeping with the Black Cobra style.”

“Larkins thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am, but…I have to say, thus far Larkins isn’t living up to his usual efficiency.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes. “Delborough, after all, still lives, and we’re still waiting for his scroll-holder.”

Roderick shrugged. “You can hardly blame Larkins. If it hadn’t been for that damned redhead, we’d have done for Delborough in Southampton. And got the scroll-holder, too. As you’d predicted, after the attacks by the two cultists we put on board his ship at Capetown, the good colonel had fallen into the habit of assuming he only had knives to fear.”

“While it’s nice to be proved correct,” Alex dryly replied, “we sacrificed two good men, and we still have Delborough alive and running around Cambridgeshire with his scroll-holder.”

Alex never liked losing cultists.

Roderick sighed. “We’ve lost more than two, now.”

“What?” The sharp question came from both Alex and Daniel.

“That’s the rest of what Larkins had to report. If you recall, we’d ordered him to, if an opportunity presented, seize Delborough alive, and the scroll-holder, too. He was to exercise caution, and not go against a superior force, but if the chance was there, he was to take it. What looked like such a chance—and yes, it was engineered deliberately to look that way—occurred, and Larkins felt obliged to risk his force. He sent only eight out initially, but when the strength of the opposition became clear, he sent in the rest of the cultists he had with him—six more—trying to tip the scales.” Roderick grimaced. “They failed.”

“So…we lost another fourteen.” Alex’s eyes glittered. “And we can lay that at Delborough’s door.”

“Indeed.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “So Larkins is now alone?”

Roderick nodded. “I told him we couldn’t spare more men to him, not when all he’s doing is waiting for this boy-thief. As things stand at present, there’s nothing else he can do, not with the snow and Delborough staying put in the ducal mansion.”

“Any chance we can overrun said mansion?” Alex asked.

Roderick shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise attempting it. I vaguely recall that the Cynsters hold a family gathering there every Christmas. And the duke and his five cousins were all in the Guards, and all fought at Waterloo.”

“That must be how Delborough knows them,” Alex said. “He was in the Guards and fought at Waterloo, too.”

“As did the other four—the three other couriers and MacFarlane,” Daniel added.

“So we now know the connection between Cynster and Delborough and the others. Somersham Place might be a staging post for all of them, or some of them.” Alex grimaced. “Or only Delborough.”

They pondered that, then Alex continued, “This is turning out to be rather more involved than we expected. I was right in predicting the colonel would lead the charge home, and while it’s a pity we’ve missed our chance to capture, or even harm, him, it’s the original letter we really want…and I have to say, given his actions since landing, I’m increasingly inclined to think he’s carrying a copy.”

Roderick opened his mouth. Alex silenced him with an upraised hand and went on, “However, we can’t make that assumption safely, so we need the scroll-holder the colonel’s carrying. If we could seize him, too, I’m sure we could persuade him to tell us which of his friends has the real letter, and which port he’ll be coming through.”

Daniel shifted. “Delborough would be no easy nut to crack.”

“True.” Alex smiled coldly. “But I would love a chance to break him. Unfortunately, I agree our seizing him now seems remote—not unless we can lay our hands on the redheaded female, and perhaps not even then. There’s no telling how much she means to him, but regardless, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this puppetmaster.”

Roderick frowned. “How so?”

“It’s occurred to me that Delborough and his cohorts are not the sort to put their faith—and their lives and their mission—into the hands of another, not unless he commands their absolute respect.”

“And someone who commands such respect,” Daniel said, “is someone we should perhaps fear?”

“Not fear.” Alex dismissed the notion with contempt. “But we should treat this puppetmaster with due caution. This is starting to feel like a game—a chess match, almost. Even us moving here—we’re not on the box seat but are having to respond to…the puppetmaster’s plan. We need to think more carefully—we need to allow for an enemy with brains. Take Delborough’s actions, the reason I believe he’s a decoy. When you look at his going to London, it makes no sense—not unless his mission was to draw our fire. To make us send our men after him so he could engage and reduce their number. He’s clearing the field, and the other two decoys will do the same. However, because of my newfound respect for this puppetmaster, I agree we can’t assume, based on behavior, who is decoy and who is not. So until we find the original letter, we need to concentrate on that—the letter—rather than being drawn into unnecessary skirmishes. And, of course, always covering our tracks. Speaking of which.” Alex looked at Roderick. “I assume Larkins will kill his boy-thief once he has the scroll-holder? Not that I imagine an Indian boy being all that much of a threat, but we might as well be thorough.”

“Of course,” Roderick replied. “It’s only Larkins the boy has seen. Larkins knows whose head is in the noose should the boy—somehow—be believed.”

“Excellent. Now if only we knew where and to whom Delborough and his friends are ferrying the letter.” Alex looked at the other two. “If the decoys are trying to draw our fire, then I believe we can assume it’s someone with an estate in this area, someone powerful enough, well-connected enough politically to make a charge against Roderick stick. So who might that someone be?”

Roderick shrugged. “Norfolk is littered with the discreet mansions of the truly wealthy, the seriously powerful—houses many of those gentlemen use over winter, even when their principal estates are elsewhere. It could be anyone.”

“No,” Alex corrected, “it has to be someone with the clout to stand against our dear father.”

“They wouldn’t be making for Shrewton himself, would they?” Daniel looked at Roderick. “He winters on his estate outside Norwich, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but that hardly makes sense—he’s not the puppetmaster, and anyone could guess he’ll simply destroy the letter.” Roderick shook his head. “As Alex says, Delborough and his colleagues must be planning to get the letter into the hands of someone willing and able to do something with it, or what’s the point?”

“Indeed,” Alex said. “And sadly there are quite a few powerful men around here.”

December 16
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Del sprawled in an armchair by Devil’s library fire, legs stretched before him, a glass of brandy in his hand, and laughed.

He’d laughed more today, been more genuinely amused than he had been in decades. A sad reflection on how lacking his life had been. A hint, a prod, as to what he wanted, even needed of his future, of his life yet to come.

Despite the snow, the day had been truly relaxing. There’d even been a glimmer of sunshine to lighten it, but then the clouds had closed in, the wind had picked up, and blizzard-like conditions had set in.

Night had fallen like a pall. There’d been no letup in the wind, presently howling, bansheelike, about the eaves. Outside, snow was swirling thick and fast, mostly scoured from what had fallen earlier, but inside, the heavy curtains had been drawn and the fires built up to cheering blazes.

With so many gathered in it, and the fire roaring, the library felt like a cozy cave. A very comfortable and luxurious cave, safe from the elements.

Dinner was over, and the children had just been recaptured and carried off by their nursemaids. The company had spent the last hour swapping tales of childhood exploits—not so much of the young ones rolling and crawling about the floor or toddling awkwardly on short stubby legs, but of their parents. Tales of family, of shared adventures, of kinship in the true sense.

From the padded comfort of the armchair, Del watched Deliah, seated on the chaise opposite, drinking in the ambiance, noted that she, like he, was drawn to the stories of childhood daring and thrills.

He and she were the exotics in the room. They were both only children; neither had had siblings with whom to share. But it wasn’t only that that drew them to the stories the Cynsters had in abundance. The tales epitomized normal English life, life in this country, their homeland—a life neither he nor she had experienced for many years. If ever.

The Cynsters’ experience hadn’t been theirs.

Yet.

There was no reason it couldn’t be, that together they couldn’t make a bid to have just that sort of life, those sorts of experiences. Have similar family stories to tell, perhaps not of themselves, but of their children.

He felt an inner tug at the thought.

His gaze traveled her face, saw laughter light her fine eyes at some comment. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. To marry her, and try his hand at creating a real family at Delborough Hall.

But what did she want?

He was who he was; he couldn’t help but approach the task of gaining her hand—her agreement to wed him—as a campaign.

The easiest way to get her to fall into line was to discover what she wanted of her life, her future, and couch his proposal in a way that best paralleled that. That supported that.

Not that he intended accepting any reply other than a “yes.” Preferably a “yes, please.” What he was more concerned with was the speed, the rapidity with which he could secure that correct response, thus minimizing any cost to himself, to his pride by way of any revelations required to convince her to utter that small word.

His decision to wait until his mission was concluded still seemed the wisest course, but her comment that morning about leaving her Humberside home for parts unknown had sounded a warning. Once his mission was ended, it wouldn’t be wise to let her have her head for long.

Indeed, with every hour that passed, he was more inclined to refine his plan. The instant his mission was ended, before he surrendered her to her parents, he would offer for her hand, and be accepted, thus reducing the separation that would naturally occur between returning her to her home and her coming to live permanently with him.

He wasn’t of a mind to let her go, not even for a day. Somehow simply having her about, in the same house, knowing she was there, made him feel more settled. More complete.

As if he’d found his future purpose and she was an instrinsic part.

He was too seasoned a campaigner not to pay attention to instinct.

So what did she want? How could he tempt her?

At that moment, despite her outward appearance of content, Deliah was feeling distinctly downhearted.

Not that she had any reason to be; she kept telling herself that, but it didn’t help.

For the first time in her life, she’d experienced a day in the company of genuine friends, women and men who saw her as she was yet did not consider her—the real her—as in any way beyond their pale. Throughout the day, little incidents had underscored that in this company, she—her character, her traits—were the norm. In the world the Cynsters and Chillingworth inhabited, ladies were life partners, not cyphers, their existences significantly more than mere adjuncts to their husbands’ lives.

The events of the day had conspired to educate and show her, to lay before her in all its glory the precise type of life she might have had had her Great Scandal not derailed her. A life she would even now sell her soul to seize and enjoy—if she could.

If any gentleman of similar ilk to the Cynsters, one with similar expectations of his wife, could be prevailed on to offer for her hand.

If Del would.

But he wouldn’t.

He’d taken her as his lover—she’d accepted him as hers. And that was that. As she’d years ago proved, and as she’d been lectured about ad nauseam in the aftermath of the scandal, gentlemen did not marry their lovers.

More specifically, no gentleman would ever marry her.

Her spirits sank lower as the thought floated blackly through her mind. Its darkness, its intensity, made her wonder—made her look more closely at what she felt. And why….

She managed to keep a smile on her face, or at least keep her lips curved, her expression relaxed, while inwardly she berated herself. How unutterably foolish. How unforgivably silly. How inexcusably willful.

She’d done it again—fallen in love, again.

No. She caught herself, looked anew, reconsidered. She’d fallen in love, really, truly, head over heels forevermore in love, for the first time. What she felt for Del was oceans apart from the mild emotion she’d felt for that bastard Griffiths. Then, in her innocence, her naïveté, she’d convinced herself that what she’d felt was love; she hadn’t at the time known enough to know the difference.

Now she did.

She knew she loved Del.

To the absolute bottom of her foolish, foolish heart.

Bad enough. She would not—could not—allow herself to compound her stupidity by even imagining that there was even the slightest hope that he might feel the same for her, let alone that he might see her as an eligible lady. One he might marry.

As she’d been told from adolescence on, she wasn’t the marriageable kind. The kind of lady gentlemen wanted to marry.

She was too bossy. Too headstrong, too opinionated. Too willful.

Regardless, even if Del were different, and might have considered her for the position of his wife, he wouldn’t now, now that they were lovers.

The wash of deadening, dismal feelings that flowed through her threatened to sink her.

Still smiling, but inwardly desperate for escape, for distraction, she looked around—and met Del’s eyes.

He’d been watching her. Some part of her had registered it—she’d felt the telltale warmth—but she’d been too engrossed in her black thoughts to respond.

He smiled, and slowly—with his signature languid grace—drew in his long legs and rose.

She swallowed as he crossed to the chaise. Instinct brought her to her feet as he neared.

His eyes met hers. “You look like you need to escape. We could walk in the long gallery, if you like.” His dark gaze was rich and warm. Enfolding.

“Ah…” It was herself she wanted to escape. Herself and her deadening, desolating reality. She glanced around. The others were mingling, chatting in groups. She looked back at him. “Actually, I have a headache.”

A frown came into his eyes.

She hurried on, “Just a mild one—nothing too bad. But…I think I’ll go up now.”

Summoning the smile she’d let drop, she turned to Catriona, on the chaise beside her, then let her gaze travel on to the other ladies. “I’m going to retire. I’m feeling rather jaded. A good night’s sleep will no doubt see me right.”

Catriona smiled her madonna’s smile and touched Deliah’s hand. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Deliah nodded a smiling good night to the others, at the last inclined her head to Del—still standing by her side, eyes too shrewd for her liking fixed on her face—murmured, “Good night,” then walked from the room.

Del watched her go and wondered what was wrong. She was…upset. Discomposed, disturbed, but in a strange way, one he couldn’t explain. His immediate impulse was to follow her, to ask, learn, and put right. But…she’d seemed unusually uncertain herself. Perhaps he’d give her a little time.

Fifteen minutes, maybe.

If she’d thought her comment about getting a good night’s sleep would keep him from her bed, she would need to think again. If she truly did have a headache, she could sleep in his arms.

With an easy smile for Catriona, who returned the gesture serenely, he ambled across the room to join Gyles and Gabriel in discussing sheep.

The party broke up shortly after Deliah’s retreat. Del went to his room, paced for ten minutes—not so much thinking as imagining what might be going on in her red head—then, with a muttered curse against anyone still hovering in the corridors, he opened his door and stalked to hers.

He tapped once, then opened the door. Walking in, he saw her, still gowned and coiffed, drawing the curtains over the window through which she’d clearly been staring.

Shutting the door, he snibbed the lock, then strolled toward her. He tipped his head at the window. “What did you see?”

“Snow. It’s still blizzarding.”

She’d been waiting for him, that much was clear. Why was less so, given she’d remained fully dressed.

Halting before her, he held her gaze, was about to reach for her when she looked away.

Moved away.

“I really do have a slight headache, you know. Besides”—she waved airily—“I’m sure it’s not necessary for us to live quite so much in each other’s pockets.”

He caught the hand she’d waved before she could drift further. Used it to anchor her as he turned and came up behind her. So she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the confusion, the sudden, leaping need to seize and hold.

Just the suggestion—the faint hint—that she might be trying to draw back, away from him, had been enough to spark it. That rattled him; it seemed the emotional sand was shifting beneath his feet, but he knew in his heart that wasn’t truly so.

Something was going on.

In her red head, not necessarily anywhere else.

Heaven only knew what. He didn’t, but doubted she would consent to explain.

Shifting his hold, he laced his fingers with hers, felt hers grip unconsciously, without thought. He breathed in, deeply, and the perfume of her hair, of her skin, wreathed through his brain. On some elemental level, reassured.

She was here, in his hold.

Raising their linked hands, sliding them around her waist, he lowered his head, and murmured by her ear, “Contrary to general belief, sexual indulgence is almost guaranteed to relieve a headache.”

“It is?” Distraction and interest, immediate, quite definite, resonated in her voice, but then she cleared her throat and said, “But perhaps we should try abstinence for a change—just to vary our interactions. Perhaps heighten expectations for later.”

“That won’t work. At least, not for me.”

“It won’t?”

They could circle all night. He swung into the attack. “Why are you suddenly so skittish? You haven’t lost interest, have you?”

“Lost interest? Ah…”

“It was a rhetorical question.” Raising his other hand, he brushed his palm boldly across the fullness of her breast. Feeling the nipple instantly bead beneath his palm, he cupped the full swell, gently kneaded. “The answer’s transparently clear.”

Thank heaven.

She’d stiffened, trying to hold firm, but as he continued to fondle, evocatively knead, her spine softened. She leaned back against him. “Perhaps we might experiment, and see.” He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, lightly squeezed. Spine bowing, she gasped, “About my headache, I mean. Whether it goes, or stays.”

He touched his lips to her temple. “We can experiment as much as you like.” Turning her, lowering their linked hands, he drew hers down. “Because I haven’t lost interest in you.” He molded her palm to his erection. “To having you—multiple times.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her lids lowered, and those jade eyes grew sultry. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lower lip. “I see….”

The absentminded murmur was filled with speculation.

“No, you feel.” Bending his head, he took her lips, her mouth, kissed her long, lingeringly, hungrily, but not ravenously. When he raised his head, her lids were down, her eyes concealed. “So what do you feel? What do I make you feel?”

She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff. Deliah raised her heavy lids enough to see his face, to note the intentness in his expression, his absolute focus on her.

How long would it last? When would it fade?

How was she going to feel when it did?

Worse, when they returned to Humberside and went their separate ways, and she heard on the grapevine that he’d married? Married some entirely eligible country miss with no scandal in her background, and a soft, sweet disposition. A lady totally unlike her.

She hadn’t thought of those questions before today—until half an hour ago. She’d tried to step back, but…he was here, in her bedroom, and she was in his arms.

And he was all she’d ever wanted.

How did he make her feel?

Chin firming, she closed her hand. “Wanton. Abandoned. You make me feel…” Desirable. “Lustful.”

His lips curved, sculpted, utterly mesmerizing. “Good. That’s how I want you to feel. Wanton, abandoned, and”—he bent his head—“helplessly lusting for me.”

Eleven

The kiss ripped her wits away, left her heated and yearning. There was nothing relaxed about the exchange, nothing languid, nothing tentative. His tongue found hers, stroked heavily, probed, dueled when she responded, then he settled to vanquish and claim.

Straightforward, blatant, direct.

Genuine, honest, and true.

A true expression of what he wanted from her. How he wanted her.

A declaration of possession, passionate and intense.

She sank her hands in his hair, gripped, clung, held him to her as her wits reeled and her senses spun.

His fingers found her laces, then her bodice sagged. His hands claimed her breasts, hard palms kneading, molding. Fingers clamping, squeezing, sent sensation searing through her.

Then he broke from the kiss and set his mouth to her flesh.

And devoured.

As she gasped and drank in each evocative caress, every provocative, possessive touch.

As her wanton self savored, wallowed and rejoiced.

There was no hesitation—not on her part or his—when, heated beyond bearing, they broke from the embrace to dispense with their clothes. No barriers, no shields. In seconds they were naked, a heartbeat later skin to skin.

Two heartbeats later, he lifted her and they joined.

She sobbed her joy, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, locked her legs about his hips and let him fill her. Let him stand before the fire and move her upon him until she thought she’d lose her mind.

Then she did, in a scintillating cascade of sensation.

Before it ended, he’d walked to the bed and tumbled them both upon it.

Before she caught her breath, he rose over her. His hips wedged between her widespread thighs, he thrust heavily, deeply, into her.

Then he rode her, fast, hard, determined.

Determined to wring every last gasp of surrender from her.

To take her, complete her, possess her, brand her.

With his passion, his need, his irresistible desire.

His desire for her.

Simple, intense, so strong it stole her breath.

So demanding, so commanding, she could do no other than yield.

Completely, absolutely.

To the depths of her soul.

Del looked down at her face, wracked with rapture as ecstacy claimed her. Felt her let go, felt her fly.

Felt her vulnerable and accepting beneath him.

And he took. Seized and claimed in the most fundamental way. Thrust deep, then yet deeper, driven by a lust more primitive and compelling than he’d ever known.

A lust more commanding, and fulfilling.

A lust driven by an emotion even more powerful, one that subjugated all he was, that made him the supplicant and she the conqueror as he threw his head back and, on a long groan, gave himself, commited all he was and ever would be, to her.

December 17
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Del entered the breakfast parlor early the next morning to find most of the other men already there.

Everyone, it seemed, had hearty appetites.

Taking the chair next to Devil, at the table’s head, Del joined them in assuaging his immediate need.

Devil glanced at Del’s plate, piled high with ham, kedgeree, two sausages, bacon, mushrooms, onions and a portion of roast beef, and grinned. “You didn’t eat so much at dinner. I take it the activities of your night exceeded those of yesterday.”

Del grunted.

Already finished, Gyles, sitting opposite, pushed aside his plate. “So, what are your plans for the lovely Miss Duncannon?”

Del frowned at his plate, poked at a mushroom. “Women—ladies in particular—are damned confusing.”

The others, to a man, laughed.

“There’s nothing you can tell us about that,” Demon stated.

“Mind you,” Richard said, “they do have a logic of their own.”

“Indubitably.” Gervase nodded. “It’s just that it’s so alien—”

“Not to mention convoluted,” Tony interjected.

“That it’s devilishly hard to recognize,” Gervase continued, “and near impossible to follow.”

“My advice,” Vane said, “such as it is, is not to try. Perseverance, in my experience, usually wins.”

Devil scoffed. “And your wife is called what? Patience.”

Vane grinned, and responded.

Del let the resulting exchange of jocular insults fly past him. The night had been eventful, although matters hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned—something that happened frequently when Deliah was involved.

Something had made her uncertain, tempted her to play safe and try to back away from him, to play down their relationship, yet the night’s interludes had left him even more convinced that not only was she the lady for him—the one and only lady he wanted by his side, a helpmate and partner as they constructed their joint future—but, all uncertainties aside, that he was the man for her.

What had caused her uncertainty and made her unsure, he didn’t know, but how she could miss, not see, not correctly interpret her own passionate response, her own strength and inner fierceness as she’d clung to him, soft and giving and so elementally all he would ever want in a bride, he couldn’t understand.

She was his.

He’d set out to prove that last night. To demonstrate it in actions impossible to misconstrue or misinterpret. But it had been she who had proved his point. She who, at the end, had conquered him by being everything his soul wanted, and all his heart desired.

She’d proved that he was hers.

Regardless, she didn’t seem to view their relationship with the clarity he did. With the conviction, the absolute acceptance. Presumably, she hadn’t yet thought things through to the same extent he had. She would, he assumed, but the question was when. How long would it take her to realize…?

He wasn’t of a mind to give her too long, to wait too long to formally claim her. His response to her retreat—the intense vulnerability that had reared its head and left him uncertain, unsure…almost wounded—wasn’t a feeling he wished to feel again. It had affected him on a level on which he hadn’t known he was susceptible, and left him beyond uneasy.

He wouldn’t have peace of mind, would not function at his best, if he was distracted by the prospect of her slipping through his fingers and somehow becoming “not his.”

That was a prospect he wasn’t willing to consider, let alone countenance.

Chasing the last of his kedgeree around his plate, he made up his mind. His original plan had been to wait until his mission was complete before he made an offer, but the hallmark of a good commander was an ability to rescript plans on the run, whenever circumstances changed.

Looking up, he discovered the others had progressed to discussing the likely hunting in coming months. He waited for a lull, then turned to Devil. “What do you know of Wolverstone?”

Devil arched his brows, sat back, and gave him a potted history of the man Del had heard of only as Dalziel. Devil wasn’t given to exaggeration, yet his description painted a picture of a nobleman of imposing abilities, a man of action like them, yet one who had, through necessity, been equally active in the political field.

Tony and Gervase volunteered their own views, colored by a closer professional acquaintance.

“I’d trust him with my life,” Gervase concluded. “And even more telling, with Madeline’s and my children’s lives.”

Tony merely nodded. “Your mission couldn’t be in better, safer, or more effective hands.”

Devil added a short description of Minerva, Wolverstone’s duchess, and ended with a word sketch of Elveden Grange, Wolverstone’s nearby estate. “It’s thirty miles due east, this side of Thetford. His visits there are frequent, but irregular—the family normally spend Christmas at Wolverstone Castle in Northumbria.”

“So there’s no reason Ferrar, even if he knows of him, will expect Wolverstone to be at Elveden,” Del said.

Devil nodded. “As soon as the snow thaws enough, I’ll send a rider to Elveden to ask Royce what he wants us to do next. Presumably that’ll rest at least in part on whether your other friends have reached our shores.” He looked at Demon. “Possibly tomorrow, do you think, if we get no more falls?”

Demon, living at Newmarket, knew the area in question best. He nodded. “I should be able to make it across tomorrow. Not sure I’d trust anyone else to do it, but I’m happy to go.”

Gabriel snorted. “You just want to escape another morning with your brats.”

Demon grinned. “And I can.”

A footstep sounded on the floor above. They all exchanged glances, then Devil pushed back from the table. “That sounds like our other halves are up and about. Might I suggest we retire to the billiard room?”

Chairs scraping on the floor was all the answer the others made. In a general exodus, they made their way out of the door.

Passing through it beside Del, Lucifer caught his eye. “Any chance of examining that scroll-holder? I’m curious as to the construction—it sounds unlike anything I’ve seen.”

Del had heard that Lucifer was now something of an expert on antiques and curios. He nodded. “I’ll fetch it and meet you in the billiard room.”

Lucifer inclined his head.

Del went with the others down the corridor, then parted from them and went up a secondary stair to his room.

Ten minutes later, Del strode into the billiard room. At the sound of his footsteps, all conversation ceased. Gyles, bent over the billiard table, about to place a shot, froze, then straightened. Devil and Richard, standing by the table, cues in hand, swung around, alerted.

All eyes locked on Del as he halted just inside the doorway.

Grim-faced, he met their questioning gazes. “The scroll-holder’s gone.”

There was silence for a moment, then Devil asked, “How?”

When Del shook his head, Lucifer asked, “Where was it?”

“In the top drawer of the tallboy in my room. It’s not there, nor anywhere else in the room now, and Cobby hasn’t seen it since yesterday.” One hand rising to his hip, Del plowed the other through his hair. “Before, until Royston, either Cobby or Mustaf—one of my staff—carried it with them, strapped to their body. Once we reached here, there didn’t seem any reason not to leave it in the room.” He looked at Devil. “How in all Hades did the Black Cobra reach it?”

“Are we sure it’s him?” Gabriel asked. “Could the scroll-holder itself have attracted a thief?”

“Unlikely,” Gervase replied. “I wouldn’t have said it’s all that special.”

“It isn’t,” Del said. “It’s at best a curiosity. I don’t think anyone would imagine it had any intrinsic value.”

“So the letter is the only attraction.” Gyles met Del’s gaze. “But who could have taken it? Could someone unknown have slipped inside?”

“Given the snow, I doubt it.” Vane looked at Devil. “But before we go further, perhaps we should check?”

Devil nodded. “Let’s go up to the tower and see.” Laying down his cue, he headed for the door.

His cousins fell in in his wake. Del, Tony, Gyles, and Gervase all exchanged mystified glances, but the Cynsters strode forward with purpose, so they followed.

Into the central part of the mansion, then up a narrow spiral stair that led up and up, eventually opening into a small square room. Del looked around as he stepped out of the stairwell, and realized they were at the top of the tower that stood high above the Somersham Place roofs. The wide windows on all sides gave magnificent views over the surrounding lands.

It was a tight fit with all nine of them in the tower room. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and looked out. Over an unbroken blanket of white.

“The snow fell the night before last.” Devil stood at the windows facing south. “Anyone see any tracks, footprints, signs of a horse?”

“None to the east,” Demon said.

“Nor the west,” Gabriel said.

“The north is untrammeled, too.” Vane glanced at Del. “Whoever took the scroll-holder, they arrived before or on the same night you did, and, most importantly—”

“They haven’t left.” Devil swung to meet Del’s eyes, and smiled in wolfish anticipation. “Buck up, lads—the scroll-holder’s still here, and now we get to go hunting.”

They repaired to the library to consider the suspects and plan their strategy.

Del paced before the fire. “It has to be one of the staff. The Black Cobra is inventive, relentless, and entirely without morals—the thief might be someone we would normally trust, but they’ve been threatened, or, as is more frequently the case, their family has been threatened. That’s the Black Cobra’s style.”

“Let’s start with the obvious,” Gervase said. “How well do you know Miss Duncannon?”

Del stopped pacing, stared at Gervase, then shook his head. “No—it can’t be her. Her part in this, her appearance in Southampton, had to have been in train, passage booked at least, before MacFarlane even found the letter.”

“But are you sure she is in fact Miss Duncannon?” Tony asked. “The lady you were supposed to meet?”

Del thought of all the snippets of their past lives they’d shared, her intimate knowledge of Humberside and the Wolds. “Yes, it’s her. I’ve known her family since childhood, and I even recall her, albeit distantly, and everything about her fits my picture of what she should be like too closely for her to be an imposter.”

“Very well. Not her, then,” Gervase said. “If she is who she’s supposed to be, then the enemy couldn’t have had any knowledge of her before you met her in Southampton, and so couldn’t have had any chance of subverting her.”

“By the same standard of when the opposition would have known about people currently under this roof,” Tony said, “we can exclude all those who traveled here with the various Cynster families—” He broke off, looked at Devil. “But that assumes there was no chance our enemy could have learned the role Somersham Place was to play in Royce’s plans earlier—in time to arrange to bring pressure to bear on someone here, or someone who has traveled here. How sound is that assumption?”

“What you’re effectively asking,” Devil said, “is how secure Wolverstone’s plans are, and you’d know that better than I.”

Tony grimaced. “More secure than the Crown jewels.”

“And in organizing all this”—Devil waved at those gathered around—“nothing was written down. Wolverstone rode over with Minerva—outwardly one of the occasional social visits we exchange when they’re in residence in Suffolk. Nothing to alert anyone, even had they been watching, but how the Black Cobra could have guessed what was going on months ago…” Devil looked at Del.

Who shook his head. “That’s drawing an altogether-too-long a bow. Wolverstone communicated with me by letter, but that was long before we found Ferrar’s letter.”

“And as for Royce’s security,” Gervase said, “while he’d be the first to tell us not to count on anything, he was the one we—all his operatives—constantly relied on for absolute secrecy, and he never let any of us down. Why his security would be breached now, by someone who, no matter how brutal, is really not in his league experience-wise…” He shook his head. “I really can’t see it.” He met Del’s eyes. “We’ll have to look elsewhere for our thief.”

“I agree.” Tony looked at Del, too. “That leaves your staffs—yours and Deliah’s. Let’s take yours first. How can you be sure none of them have been subverted?”

Del’s impulse was to shrug the question aside, but the matter was too grave. He forced himself to consider what to him was the unthinkable. “Cobby…he’s been with me for years, from long before Waterloo. I don’t think anyone here could imagine him being subverted by the enemy, in this case an enemy of England.”

He started pacing again. “Other than him, there’s only Mustaf and his wife, Amaya, and Mustaf has been carrying the scroll-holder for much of our journey here. If he’d wanted to, he could have opened the holder, seen the letter wasn’t the original, and reported that to the enemy long ago—in which case I seriously doubt the Black Cobra would have been chasing us through Cambridgeshire. The same applies to Amaya—she would have had opportunity aplenty to act before now. No reason for either of them to wait until we’re trapped here. And in terms of the cult’s usual means of bringing pressure to bear, namely through family members, Mustaf and Amaya hail from a region of India entirely free of the Black Cobra’s influence.”

Gervase nodded. “So not them. What about the girl?”

“Alia?” Del paused, then allowed, “Normally I would count her as a likely prospect, but she’s an orphan, and her only living relatives are Mustaf and Amaya. And Amaya keeps a very close eye on her—she’s very protective, worse than any mother hen. It’s part of their culture to keep girls close, almost cloistered.”

“So no obvious chance there,” Richard concluded. “What of Deliah’s staff? Do you know much about them?”

Del opened his mouth to reply just as the double doors to the library were sent swinging wide.

Honoria stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing as she surveyed the gathering. “So this is where you’re all hiding.”

The other ladies ranged at her back.

Devil smiled. “Just in time. Come and join us. Developments have occurred, we have questions, and would value your sage counsel.”

Honoria humphed, bent a steely, disapproving look on her spouse, but consented to lead the ladies in.

“We weren’t hiding,” Demon said, shifting his legs so Flick could sit on the sofa beside him.

Flick poked his shoulder. “Of course not. You’d just forgotten your appointment to entertain your children in the nursery. But never mind. You can fill in the time after their afternoon naps.”

The fond papas exchanged glances, but didn’t dare moan.

“Now.” Honoria had settled in an armchair by Devil’s desk. She fixed her imperious gaze on Del. “What are these developments?”

Gabriel caught Del’s gaze. “Allow me.” At Del’s nod, Gabriel swiftly and succinctly summarized the recent happenings.

The ladies were predictably horrified, none more so than Deliah.

She stared all but openmouthed at Del. “You left it in a drawer?”

He shrugged. “It seemed safe enough.”

Before Deliah could respond, Tony smoothly cut in. “We’ve been considering whether any of the staff might have been subverted.”

Del leapt in to explain the Black Cobra’s usual tactics. “Could any of your staff have been pressured like that?”

“They would have to have been approached either at Southampton, or after we left there,” Tony said. “Before then, the Black Cobra couldn’t have known that you might be traveling with Del.”

Deliah was already frowning. “Bess is English and has been with me most of my life. She’s very patriotic, too. I don’t think there’s any likelihood the Black Cobra could persuade her to anything—she’d be much more likely to report any approach to me, or Del, or you two.” With a nod she indicated Tony and Gervase. “As for the others, Kumulay has been with me since I landed in Jamaica—my uncle recommended him as my bodyguard.” For the benefit of the others, she explained, “My uncle is the Chief Magistrate of Jamaica. He’d be unlikely to recommend anyone whose integrity wasn’t beyond question.”

She looked at Del, still standing before the hearth. “Like Kumulay, although they’ve only been on my payroll for the last few years, Janay and Matara were in my uncle’s household for over a decade. They left India long ago and have no family left there.”

“Ferrar created the Black Cobra sometime after he landed in India. The cult first surfaced in ’19.” Del shook his head. “Hard to see how there could be any connection.”

“No. I’m sure there’s not.” Deliah forced herself to consider all the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched. The scroll-holder was too important, not just to Del but to England, too. “The girls—Essa and Muna, Janay and Matara’s daughters—would be easy to threaten, but I’ve seen them both over the last days, and they’ve been their usual, giggling, bright-eyed selves.” She met Del’s gaze, then glanced at Tony and Gervase. “You’ve seen them—you know what they’re like. If there’s anything the least bit wrong in their lives, no matter how inconsequential, it instantly shows in their faces, in their demeanors. Of everyone here, they’d be the last two to be able to carry out any secret or subversive mission.”

She looked at Del. “So in answer to your question, no, I don’t think any of my people are involved.”

Del started to nod, then stopped. “What about the boy?”

“Sangay? What about him?”

Del frowned. “What’s his background? Where does he come from? What do you know of him?”

Deliah frowned back. “I don’t know where he comes from—I know nothing about him. He’s your staff, not mine.”

Del froze. “He’s not mine.” When Deliah blinked, he added, “I—and my people—thought he was yours.”

She stared at him. “My people thought the reverse.”

“Aha!” Devil rose and, grim-faced, crossed to the bellpull. “It sounds like we’ve identified our thief.”

Webster answered the summons remarkably quickly.

“Tell Sligo and Cobby to report here,” Devil said.

“And Mustaf, too.” Del glanced at Devil. “He might know more.”

“And please ask Janay and Kumulay to come up, too,” Deliah added. She met Del’s gaze. “They’ve all been talking to him.”

Webster bowed and departed on his mission.

“When did you first notice the boy?” Gyles asked.

Del and Deliah looked at each other.

“He was with us in London,” Deliah said.

Del nodded. “I can’t recall seeing him before then, but he might have joined us at Southampton.”

“That would make more sense,” Deliah pointed out. “Our respective households knew each other by the time we reached London. But we left Southampton in a rush—if he was suddenly among them then, they would have assumed, as they did, that he belonged to the other household.”

Devil raised his brows. “Quick thinking on his part, if that was so.”

A tap on the door heralded those summoned. Sligo led the others in. “Y’r Graces.” He bowed, and the others followed suit.

“Colonel Delborough has a few questions about the boy, Sangay.” Devil arched a brow at Del.

Briefly, concisely, Del explained the situation—the missing scroll-holder, and the recent realization that Sangay did not belong to either his or Deliah’s household.

“He doesn’t?” Cobby gave voice to the astonishment lighting his, Mustaf’s, Janay’s, and Kumulay’s faces.

Sligo growled, “The little beggar.”

“Wait before you judge, Sligo,” Del recommended. “The boy’s likely to be a victim in all this.” He glanced at Cobby and Mustaf. “You two know how the Black Cobra operates. Any thoughts?”

After a moment, Mustaf volunteered, “I did think he—Sangay—seemed…” He waggled a hand, pulled a face. “Oddly quiet for a boy of his years, his background.”

Kumulay nodded. “I originally thought he must have been an orphan—that he’d lost his family. He seemed…reserved, you would say, and quietly sad. But then I heard him praying for his maataa.” He glanced around the company. “His mother.”

Del and Deliah exchanged a glance.

“Could the Black Cobra be holding Sangay’s mother as a hostage against him stealing the scroll-holder?” she asked.

Del frowned. “I can’t see how Ferrar might have arranged that—to be already holding her—not unless, foreseeing a need he couldn’t possibly have foreseen, he brought Sangay with him from India.” He looked inquiringly at Cobby.

Cobby shook his head. “No Indian boy on the ship Ferrar and Larkins arrived on. Not in any capacity.”

“So Ferrar—or more likely Larkins—must have picked him up in Southampton, or even in London. Plenty of East Indiamen in the Pool of London on any given day.” Del’s face hardened. “And just because the Black Cobra recruited Sangay here in England doesn’t mean that Sangay doesn’t believe his mother is in dire and imminent peril back in India.”

Cobby was nodding, his expression grim. “Young, impressionable, and well out of his league—not even in his own country. Sangay’d be an easy target for anyone who knew what levers to pull.”

“Indeed. And the Black Cobra certainly knows.” Del looked at Mustaf. “Where is Sangay?”

“He was in the servants’ hall when we left to come here.”

“I’ll go and bring him up,” Cobby said.

Del nodded. He dismissed the others with a word of thanks, and they all trooped out on Cobby’s heels.

A murmur of light voices filled the silence as the ladies asked questions, seeking clarification on the Black Cobra’s heinous tactics. Minutes passed while they listened, then, shocked, exclaimed.

Del inwardly grimaced, and paced before the hearth.

After a while, he frowned, halted, and looked at Devil. Caught his eye. “Perhaps—”

A tap on the door interrupted his suggestion that they ring to find out what was going on. Cobby had been far too long.

At Devil’s “Come!” the door opened. Sligo and Cobby walked heavily in. Sligo met Del’s gaze, then Devil’s, and nodded grimly. “You’ve guessed it. He’s gone.”

“Where?” Devil asked.

“That’s just it.” Cobby looked at Del. “We don’t think he’s left the house.”

Twelve

Verbal pandemonium ensued.

Ignoring all the questions and exclamations, suppositions and speculations, Devil dispatched Vane and Demon, along with Cobby and Sligo, to the tower.

Vane and Demon returned ten minutes later, confirming that the blanket of snow surrounding the house remained unbroken.

“No one’s come in, and no one’s left.” Vane dropped back into his chair. “Cobby and Sligo have gone down to do a quick reconnoiter of the nether regions.”

The pair of erstwhile batmen returned fifteen minutes later to report. By then, the rest of them had beaten all the suppositions to death and been left with a large handful of unanswered, and as yet unanswerable, questions.

“Have to say it’s dreadful outside,” Sligo said. “Not fit for man nor beast. Freeze your…toes off, it would, and Sangay wouldn’t be used to cold like that, would he? Any roads, the scullery maids said they’ve found him looking out the scullery window on and off since yesterday morning. That window looks onto the rear yard, and the snow is undisturbed out that way.”

“Mustaf and I searched his room in the attic,” Cobby reported. “There was nothing there. Literally nothing beyond a comb he’d borrowed from Matara saying he’d lost his own. Sligo found him a page’s coat once we got here—poor lad was shivering and said he had nothing warmer to wear. That wasn’t in the room, nor was Sangay.”

“He’s got the scroll-holder and is worried about being caught,” Deliah said. “So he’s hiding.”

Del met her eyes, nodded. “He’s quick—he must be to have got this far without any of us suspecting. He must have got the wind up when we called the others up here, and gone off to find a safe place to hide.” Del looked at Devil. “The question is: where?”

Devil returned his gaze, then raised his brows. “Strange to say, despite its long past, I don’t believe anyone has ever tried to search this house.”

“Hardly surprising,” Vane said. “The place is immense.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” Honoria looked at Devil. “Ring for Webster. We’ll need to confer.”

Devil nodded. Richard, the closest, rose and tugged the bellpull.

Demon had returned to the sofa beside Flick. “It’s still blowing a gale outside, but there’s no snow falling, and the clouds aren’t promising more. However, the wind is scouring what’s already fallen and blowing it about like the worst sort of sleet. Not even a desperate boy would try to leave just yet. It might be possible by tomorrow, depending on his level of desperation and if it ices over, but today not even Goliath would get twenty yards.”

“That’s something,” Devil said. “So we’ll have at least all day to find him and the scroll-holder.”

“And we’ll most likely need every minute.” Gabriel looked cynically resigned. Alathea poked him. He looked at her. “Just being realistic.”

“Try being encouraging instead.”

Webster arrived, and the talk turned to how best to quarter such a very large house. All the ladies joined in, which drew their menfolk to offer helpful, and in some cases less helpful, suggestions.

At an early point in the proceedings, Devil sent Sligo up to the nursery. He returned to report that all was quiet up there. “The footmen and nursemaids haven’t seen or heard anything—most haven’t sighted Sangay at all—but now they know, they’ll keep their eyes open, and their ears, too, in case he tries to hide somewhere up there.”

Still seated behind his desk, Devil nodded, continuing to jot notes on a piece of paper as, with Webster standing behind him, Gyles perched on the desk to his left, Del in similar position on his right, and Sligo and Cobby hovering near, they thrashed out the basic skeleton of an effective search.

Eventually, Devil reached for a heavy paperweight and banged it on his blotter. “Quiet!”

Everyone fell silent. All heads turned his way.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head to Honoria, then went on, “We’ve come up with a reasonable plan of campaign. Webster and Sligo will coordinate a search of the lower levels, and all the servants’ domains belowstairs. They’ll do that now, first. Once those areas are known to be clear, we’ll seal them off by placing footmen or stable lads at all the relevant doors and on all the stairs. There’s only so many routes that connect abovestairs with below. By blocking those, we can ensure Sangay can’t slip past and get behind the searchers.”

Devil glanced around at the attentive faces. “There’s no sense in being anything but methodical. Once belowstairs is cleared and sealed off, then all those who normally have business abovestairs and so know the basic layout of the house will start searching, working from the ground floor up. We’ll go floor by floor, all the way to the third floor—the attics—if need be. As each floor is cleared, we’ll put watchers on the stairs so Sangay can’t slip through our net.” Devil laid down his notes, looked at the others. “That seems the only way to efficiently and effectively search this place, and we’ll need all hands on deck to help.”

“Well, of course,” Honoria said.

No one disagreed.

“However,” Honoria continued, “I suggest that when it comes to us”—a wave of her hand indicated them all—“we should search in pairs. A lady will think to look in places a gentleman won’t, and vice versa.”

“So we search as couples?” When Honoria nodded, and the other ladies mirrored the gesture, Devil glanced at the males scattered about the room, then smiled in mild acceptance. “That sounds like an eminently…sensible idea.”

Honoria narrowed her eyes at him.

Devil pretended not to notice.

They decided to have an early lunch while the areas beyond the green baize doors were searched. Cobby and Sligo took charge, leaving Webster to supervise the serving of the meal.

The seating was impromptu, resulting in the ladies congregating at one end, flanking Honoria, with the men at the other, on either side of Devil. There was much discussion in both groups. The ladies’ attention centered on the life Sangay must have led to that point, which resulted in a discussion of conditions in India and elsewhere in the colonies. Deliah found herself peppered with questions, most of which she could answer, either from her own experience, or her uncle’s, or Del’s. Over the past days, she’d picked up quite a lot about the Black Cobra and his nefarious ways.

The ladies’ sympathies were all for Sangay. Other than Deliah, all were mothers, and all had baby boys.

They were just finishing the fruit course, a degree of mild excitement burgeoning, when Cobby and Sligo presented themselves. In keeping with the campaignlike atmosphere, they both stood to attention.

“He’s not anywhere belowstairs.” Sligo sounded unshakably confident.

“We’ve cleared the attics, as well, Your Graces.” Cobby nodded respectfully to the table at large. “It was easy enough to open the doors and see the dust hadn’t been disturbed. We left some stable lads to guard the attic doors, just in case, once he hears us searching, Sangay thinks to slip up there.”

“Excellent.” Devil sat back. “You’ve done your bit—you can stand down and hold your lines while we do ours.” He looked around the table. “So here’s what we’ll do.”

It was a massive house, and they would have only so long before the gray light faded. Searching by candelight would be that much harder; with that prospect hovering, they were committed to searching thoroughly, yet as quickly as they could.

They’d agreed each floor had to be declared clear before any of them moved on to the next. On the ground floor, Del walked beside Deliah as she bustled down the corridor into the middle section of the wing to which they’d been assigned. Following them, Richard and Catriona were to search the rooms further along, to the wing’s end, while Vane and Patience had already disappeared into the room nearest the front hall.

The other couples were likewise spread throughout the house, down each of the main wings, and through the central section around the massive stairs.

Many footmen, all the parlor maids and housemaids, all the ladies’ maids and gentleman’s gentlemen—anyone familiar with the rooms abovestairs—were assisting, searching the smaller rooms, the service rooms, storage areas and cupboards hidden behind paneling or tucked between the main rooms. Grooms and stable lads, meanwhile, were positioned on all the stairs.

Reaching their appointed position along the wing, Del saluted Richard and Catriona, then followed Deliah into the billiard room.

She’d halted beside the massive table that dominated the room, looking around, taking stock. “There doesn’t seem all that many places to hide in here.”

“There’s cupboards along the side walls.” Del pointed out the doors cunningly set into the paneling. “They’re deep enough to hide a scrawny boy.”

Deliah nodded. “I’ll take this side.”

Del headed for the other side of the room. Although the billiard table currently held pride of place, this room had originally been a general indoor games room. The cupboards held boards, stacks of cards and assorted paraphernalia associated with various games popular with the aristocracy over the last…Del thought it must be something like a century. Some of the cupboards certainly held enough dust.

Across the room, Deliah sneezed, then muttered, “Ugh—there are spiders.”

A moment later, she reached the end of her wall of cupboards. Straightening, she noticed the heavy velvet curtains looped back with cords framing each of the wide windows. Each swag of gathered curtain was wide enough to hide a boy.

Walking to the windows, she patted and poked the first curtain, then continued along, subjecting the other curtains to the same treatment.

“No boy.” Turning, she arched a brow at Del. “Shall we move on?”

Before he rose, Del looked under the billiard table itself, then he nodded and straightened. “He’s definitely not in here.”

They only had two rooms to search on this level. The next proved to be a minor sitting room adjacent to the conservatory. The room was relatively small and contained no concealed cupboards. The two sideboards it did contain were easy to search, the few pieces of furniture easy to check beneath or behind.

“He’s not here either.” Through the window, Deliah could see Vane and Patience going down the avenues between the plants in the well-stocked conservatory. Every so often, one would duck to look under this palm, or behind that plant; when next she straightened, Patience flung a frowning glance over her shoulder at her spouse. “Perhaps we should help in the conservatory.”

Del came to stand beside Deliah. His lips curved as he looked into the glass-roofed room. “I think Vane has it in hand.”

Arching her brows, Deliah turned away. “In that case, we may as well wait in the corridor.”

As the searchers finished their allotted tasks, all returned to the wide corridors, shaking their heads when others looked inquiringly. Deliah considered the line of people gradually assembling along the wing. Richard and Catriona were strolling back to join them.

Gaze rising, she looked upward, thinking of the bedrooms, sitting rooms, bathing chambers and dressing rooms above. “If I were Sangay, I’d curl up in some unlikely spot—one that might be overlooked.”

Del nodded. “I’d wager that’s exactly what he’s done. And the rooms upstairs provide more scope for that.”

Vane and Patience emerged from the conservatory. Vane shook his head. Patience looked down, straightening her gown.

In the distance, Devil’s voice rang out. “All clear?”

Vane called back from their wing. They heard Gabriel reply from the other. Sangay wasn’t on the ground floor.

“Right, then!” Devil called. “Everyone back to the front hall, then it’s up to the first floor.”

Like well-ordered troops, they all headed for the hall.

Searching thoroughly ate the minutes; the light was starting to fade by the time Deliah and Del, along with all the others, trudged up the main stairs to the second floor.

All the men were starting to look a trifle grim.

Casting a glance at Del as she went past him into the first room they were due to search—a good-sized bedchamber—Deliah inwardly humphed. “I have to say that, quite aside from seeing a room through different eyes, Honoria was very wise in suggesting we search in pairs.” She halted by the foot of the four-poster bed and, hands on hips, surveyed the bedchamber. “At least this way there’s a lady with every overpowering man.”

Del threw her an uncomprehending frown as he walked to the armoire standing against one wall. “We aren’t overpowering.”

“Oh, yes, you are—even you. Or at least you’ll appear that way to a young boy who knows you’re after him.” She started with the bed, bending to check beneath it, then patting the pile of pillows and bolsters at its head.

Even though Sangay had some knowledge of Del, Del was still a man of action—a hard, military man. Even though he’d been out of uniform the entire time she’d known him, there was absolutely no chance of mistaking his bearing. Those shoulders, the way he moved.

As if seeking to refresh her memory, without conscious thought she glanced across the room.

Turning from the armoire, he caught her gaze. Held it for an instant, then slowly arched a brow. “What?”

She waved. “Nothing.” Suddenly feeling unaccountably warm, she turned and went to the window.

Del watched her pat down the cushions covering the wide window seat, then focus her attention on the swagged curtains. Noted the way her hands fluttered as she fussed. That glance she’d cast him…no matter what she said, it meant something. Said something.

Of how she saw him.

Given his resolution of the morning, put in abeyance but only postponed by the search, that—how she saw him—was something he wanted to know. Needed to know.

And, unlike every other couple he’d laid eyes on, he and she had yet to take a break from their searching to investigate other things.

Rounding the bed on silent feet, he closed in on her.

Finished with the window and its accoutrements, she turned—into his arms.

She started, startled, but her body knew his and softened immediately his arms closed around her.

Her widening eyes darted to the door.

Her lips parted—on what protest he didn’t need to know.

He swooped and covered them with his, took them in a long, lingering, searching kiss. With slow deliberation he filled her mouth, her mind, her senses, with something he wanted her to think about instead—him.

He kissed, and persuaded. Lured her into the silent communion, then used it.

Used the caress as a means to show her, to reveal and explain and cajole. He let all that he intended, all that he felt, well and flow through the interaction.

From him, to her.

This was what he felt for her, this was what he wanted, what he needed from her. The comfort, the inexpressible closeness, the simple joy.

The pleasure, yes, but beneath that, more important than that, he wanted and needed…her.

Just her, being there.

Just her, in his arms.

Just her lips against his and her body surrendered.

Her commitment. To simply being there.

For him.

Deliah couldn’t mistake the tenor of his kiss, the truth, the simple honesty, the directness. As if barriers had fallen, as if he’d set some shield aside, she felt immeasurably closer, more linked.

More a part of him.

Sensed that he would be—wanted to be—more a part of her.

Myriad images whirled through her mind. The faint color in Patience’s cheeks as she’d left the conservatory, the glint of something in Catriona’s fine eyes—and the devilish look in her husband’s—when they’d finally congregated on the floor below…was this what they’d been doing?

And was that what she and Del were doing now?

Simply being together, a couple together, acknowledging what lay between them…

Admitting what lay between them.

Yes, that was it.

She knew it was unwise, but as his lips moved on hers, as his tongue caressed hers, she sank into the kiss, sank her hands into his hair and gave herself over to it. Gave herself up to it. Surrendered.

To the simple communion of two people who shared.

The caress stretched, warm, real. They’d reached some plateau—of reality, of understanding—and lingered there for some time, long enough to feel settled, before, with obvious reluctance, he drew back.

It was with real regret that she relinquished his lips and, with a sigh, returned to the mundane world.

Opening her eyes, she looked into his. Dark, rich, inexpressibly warm, his gaze held her.

Told her. Spoke to her. Reminded her of all they’d just shared.

He’d meant it, she realized. Meant her to see, to sense, to know. To experience and understand how he felt for her.

Her heart swelled with the knowledge that she felt the same for him.

For long moments, they stood locked in each other’s gaze, communing silently as they had through the kiss.

A noise—a stealthy shuffle of leather on wood—had her blinking.

Had Del frowning. Raising a finger, he laid it across his lips, then hers.

She nodded. They remained as they were, unmoving and silent. Earlier, locked in the kiss, they must have been all but soundless and motionless for minutes—five, or even more. Long enough for someone hidden to have assumed they’d gone.

But where the devil was he?

Slowly, she turned her head, visually searched one side of the room while Del did the same for the other.

She didn’t immediately see it, not even when another slight sound reached her ears. But the sound fixed her attention on the window…on the window seat.

Del had turned, too. He studied the seat, then glanced at her.

They exchanged a look, then he nodded.

His arms fell from her. Together they turned and silently crept across the floor to the window.

It was a bay window. Without touching anything, she peered around and out, looking through the side panel along the wall of the house. She saw the window of the next bedchamber along—another bay. It would be identical to the window they were studying, and it told her what she needed to know.

Groping blindly, she grasped Del’s sleeve, tugged. Glancing at him, she pointed out of the side window, then silently stepped back.

He looked, saw, but when he turned back to her, incomprehension lit his eyes.

With her hands, she sketched in the air what he’d seen—the protrusion of the bay beyond the wall. It didn’t stop at the bottom of the window, as some bays did, nor did it stop at the level of the window seat. The built-out section continued to floor level, including the area between the seat and the floor.

There was a cavity of some kind beneath the seat.

Understanding dawned; Del pointed below the seat, and she nodded.

Carefully, they lifted the cushions off the wooden seat. Del felt with his fingers, and located the hinges set in the wooden top near the wall.

He glanced at her, and reached for the edge of the window seat.

She did the same, grasping the wooden edge.

She drew breath, then together they swung the seat back.

And looked down into a shadowed box, and a pair of stunned dark eyes.

“Aii-yii!” Sangay let out a wail, struggled to his feet, and tried to leap from the box.

Del caught him, initially by the collar, but when Sangay, head down, flailed at him, he grabbed one thin arm, then the other, swung Sangay around and, pinning his arms to his body, hoisted him out of the window seat and stood him on his feet on the floor.

Trapped with his back to Del, Sangay wriggled, squirmed, then tried to kick.

“Sangay!” Deliah loaded the word with command, and was relieved when the boy slowed his struggles to glance at her. “Stop it. You’ll only hurt yourself. The colonel doesn’t want to hurt you—no one will hurt you if you’ll just stand still.”

Eyes huge, he stared at her, sniffed.

Then his face crumpled. “Oh, no, miss—you don’t understand. The man—the evil sahib—he will hurt my maataa if I don’t—” He caught his breath on a giant sob. “If I don’t, he will…”

Overcome, Sangay opened his mouth to wail again.

“No, he won’t.” Releasing Sangay’s arms, Del dropped a hand on his bony shoulder, gripped firmly. “The evil-sahibs won’t be able to hurt your maataa, Sangay.”

Very slowly, Sangay turned his head to look up at Del. The dawning, all but disbelieving hope in his eyes was painful to see. “They won’t?”

Del shook his head. “I don’t think they’ll be able to. But to be sure, you’ll need to tell us your tale—where you come from, and how you came to be working for the evil-sahibs.”

Sangay swallowed, his eyes locked on Del’s face. “Only one, colonel-sahib. I have seen only one evil-sahib.”

Del nodded solemnly. “I see.”

“I didn’t want to be working for him,” Sangay replied, equally solemn.

“We know that, Sangay,” Deliah said. “He told you that he’d hurt your mother if you didn’t bring him the colonel’s scroll-holder. Is that right?”

Sangay, all round eyes, nodded. “Yes, miss. That is it exactly.”

“Where were you when the evil-sahib found you?” she asked.

“I was in London, at the East India Docks. My captain—I was on a ship from India, you understand. First cabin boy, I was, until…” Sangay blinked. “My captain sent me to fetch him some tobacco from the shop near the docks. The evil-sahib saw me. He took hold of me and dragged me aside, into an alley. He told me his men had my maataa and she would die a terrible death if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

Eyes like bruised brown pansies, Sangay shrugged. “So I had to go with him, and he took me in a coach to some other town with ships—then he sent me into the inn where you were staying to find the scroll-holder.” Sangay paused, then went on, “Then there was the pistol shot, and then there was the panic, and because I had to search the luggage Cobby put in the carriage, I went with it.” He looked up at Deliah, then Del. “With you.”

Sangay studied Del’s face, then swallowed. In a small voice, he asked, “If I tell you all I know of the evil-sahib, will you let me go, and let me give to the sahib this scroll-holder so he will not kill my maataa?” He shifted, looked down, straightened the sleeve of the page’s coat he wore. “I know you don’t think he will be able to do that last, but how can you be sure? And”—dragging in a deep breath, Sangay looked up again, into Del’s face—“you see, I must be sure.”

Del looked down into the boy’s big eyes, read the tortured uncertainty that held him. Crouching down so his eyes were level with Sangay’s, he said, “We’re going to find a way to keep you safe, and also to ensure—make absolutely sure—that your maataa is safe, too. I don’t know at this stage exactly how we’ll do it, but we’ll make a good plan, and we’ll make sure.” Del searched Sangay’s dark eyes, then added, “I’m thinking that killing the evil-sahib would be a good first step. What do you think?”

Sangay’s eyes fired, finally came alive with a hint of the vitality that should be in any boy’s eyes. “Oh, yes, sahib. That sounds an excellent plan. That one—the evil-sahib—is definitely by way of needing killing.”

“Good. Then that’s what we’ll do.” Rising, Del looked at Deliah, then glanced down at Sangay. “So now we need to go downstairs and talk to the duke and his cousins and all the others, and together we’ll work out a good plan.”

Sangay actually smiled.

“Well, then.” Deliah looked at Del. “I think it’s time we told the others they can all stop searching.”

Everyone reassembled in the library, including Sligo and Cobby.

“It might help to have the rest of our staffs in, too,” Deliah suggested to Del. “Not the girls, but the others. They’ll need to understand.”

Del nodded, looked at Cobby.

Cobby saluted. “I’ll fetch them.”

As they resettled on the sofas, chaises and armchairs, two footmen briskly restoked the fire into a roaring blaze while maids bustled about, drawing the curtains. Then Mrs. Hull arrived, supervising a trolley laden with teacups, saucers, and plates piled with biscuits and pieces of cake—and a glass of milk for Sangay. Seated on a straightbacked chair beside Devil’s desk, he accepted it gratefully.

The rest of them accepted cups of tea from Honoria, and made their selections from the cakes and biscuits.

From her position on one chaise, Deliah noticed that Sangay’s feet didn’t even reach the floor, and that he sat with his knees pressed tight, head ducked, as if to quell knocking knees and make himself invisible. She hesitated, then leaned forward, picked up one of Mrs. Hull’s justifiably famous jam tarts, rose, and went to give it to Sangay.

He looked up at her, surprised, but then took it with a murmured word of thanks.

The tart was gone, every last crumb, before Deliah resumed her seat. She thought it likely Sangay hadn’t eaten at all that day.

Then Cobby arrived, ushering in her senior staff and Del’s. Both Matara and Amaya stopped by Sangay’s chair. Straining her ears, Deliah heard them telling him to be a good boy and answer the sahibs’ questions directly—by which they meant truthfully—and all would be well.

As Deliah had suspected, Sangay was comforted by the other servants’ presence. Still…he remained very much alone on his chair by the desk.

Surrendering to impulse, she rose, set down her teacup and crossed to where another straightbacked chair stood against the wall. She started to lift it. Vane came to help. She directed him to set it next to Sangay’s chair.

Once he had, she thanked him with a smile, and sat, then reached out and patted Sangay’s thin hand. “All you have to do is what Matara and Amaya told you. Just answer the questions, and everything will be all right.”

Sangay met her eyes for a moment, then bobbed his head.

Devil chose that moment to call the gathering to order. “Now we’ve found our missing young man, let’s hear what he has to say.” He smiled at Sangay, perfectly innocuously, but Sangay no longer trusted the smiles of powerful men, and there was nothing wrong with his instincts. Deliah sensed the tension holding him increase.

But then Del came around the front of Devil’s desk. He relaxed against it and smiled at Sangay.

Sangay looked back. He didn’t smile, but his tension eased.

“Sangay, we need to tell these people where you came from, and all that you know of the evil-sahib, the man who bullied you into stealing the scroll-holder.” Del paused, then asked, “Incidentally, where is it?”

“In one of the bins in the big storeroom near to the back door, sahib. The bin nearest the back of the room.” Sangay started to slide off the chair, but Del waved at him to stay and looked at Sligo and Cobby instead.

“That’s the pantry,” Sligo said.

“I’ll fetch it.” Cobby headed for the door.

Del turned back to Sangay. “Meanwhile—”

With a series of simple questions, Del led Sangay through his story. He didn’t rush, didn’t let the ladies’ sympathetic murmurs and outraged exclamations distract him or the boy. Sangay’s answers came haltingly at first, but with each point he relaxed and grew more confident, until, when Del asked for a description of Sangay’s evil-sahib, an excellent word picture tripped off the boy’s tongue.

Del glanced at Devil, seated silently behind the desk. “Larkins.”

Devil frowned. “Why so sure?”

“The deeply tanned skin plus the close-cropped hair—not many Englishmen would fit that description.”

Devil conceded that with a nod.

Turning back to Sangay, Del saw the question in the boy’s face. “I think the evil-sahib’s name is Larkins.”

Sangay nodded solemnly, and they continued with their questions and answers.

When it came to the man’s instructions, and the place where Sangay was to meet him to hand over the scroll-holder, Devil and Demon, the two locals, were unequivocal in their interpretation.

“The big church with the big tower to the northwest can only be Ely Cathedral,” Devil said. “And Larkins was wise to warn Sangay not to attempt to get there across country but to stick to the roads. The fenland between here and there is treacherous.”

“So,” Del said, his gaze on Devil’s face, “Larkins definitely wouldn’t expect Sangay to arrive at the church until after the snow melts—at least enough to make travel by road possible?”

Both Devil and Demon nodded. “Clearly he knows,” Devil said, “that there’s no chance Sangay can make it to the church before at least the day after tomorrow.”

Del hid a smile. “Just so.” The little play had been for Sangay’s benefit. He looked at the boy. “So we have time to make a very good plan.”

Sangay said nothing. He shifted, bit his lip. Looked down.

Deliah glanced at him, then looked up at Del.

Del crouched so his head was level with the boy’s. “Sangay?”

Sangay lifted his gaze only briefly to Del’s face. He spoke in a bare whisper. “I’m afraid, sahib—not for me, but for my maataa. What if the evil-sahib gets angry because I don’t come, and then he might think I have failed, and been caught, and so….”

Del welcomed the reassuring noises the ladies made; they seemed to soothe Sangay.

“Listen to me, Sangay. The evil-sahib is a servant for a much more evil man, but that much more evil man is here, in England, so he can’t give any orders to make anything happen to your maataa. Just think—as neither the evil-sahib nor his master knew it was you they were going to pick to be their thief, they can’t have already seized your maataa. You know how long it takes to get letters back to India—you’ve sailed back and forth many times yourself, haven’t you?”

Sangay nodded, but his eyes remained filled with uncertainty. If there was one thing Del was sure of, it was that they—his mission—would need Sangay as a part of any “very good plan,” so he persevered. “The master of the evil-sahib won’t have sent any word back to India yet—there’s been no need, because you’ve been doing what the evil-sahib wanted. And all those here”—he gestured to those around them—“and lots of others who are helping with this mission, are going to make sure that the evil-sahib’s master is too busy to worry about sending any message, no matter what happens with you.”

Del could see from Sangay’s dark eyes—feel from the intensity of Deliah’s regard—that he hadn’t yet succeeded in allaying all fear. “And Sangay—regardless of what happens, I’ll make sure your maataa is safe. I’m a colonel, you know that?” When Sangay nodded, Del continued, “So, being a colonel, I can send a message back to India, to the Governor-General, who is the man I’m working for, and ask him to make sure that your maataa is safe.” He looked into Sangay’s eyes. “All right?”

Sangay’s fear dissolved into abject relief. “Oh, yes, please, Colonel-sahib. That would be very very good.” He hesitated, then said, his dark eyes locked with Del’s, “If you will do that for me and my maataa, I will do anything I can to help you capture the evil-sahib and his very evil master.”

Feeling relieved himself, Del allowed his features to ease into a smile, and rose. “That’s good—very good. Now”—he glanced at the other servants standing by the wall—“these gentlemen and I will need to sit down and make our plan. While we do, you can go down with the others to the servants’ hall. You must be hungry.”

“Oh, yes, Colonel-sahib. I am famished.” Smiling, Sangay slipped off the chair. He turned, and Matara waved him on ahead of her. With a little bow to Del, then another to the company, Sangay hurried to join the other servants as, with welcoming smiles for him, they filed out.

When the door shut behind Sligo, Del looked at Devil. “It’s not hard to see what we should do.”

Steepling his long fingers, Devil inclined his head. “If the Black Cobra or one of his senior henchman is going to be waiting in Ely Cathedral for Sangay to bring him the scroll-holder, I suggest we give him what he’s expecting.” He smiled, all teeth. “And just a little bit more.”

Del smiled back, equally predatorially. “My thoughts exactly.”

There were nothing but assenting sounds from the other men. The ladies, too, led by Deliah and Honoria, were in a distinctly bloodthirsty mood.

Of necessity they had to allow for the weather, but ultimately their plan wasn’t that hard to formulate.

Execution, however, was another matter.

Thirteen

December 18
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

The next day went in preparation.

At first light Demon, rugged up to the teeth against the bitter cold, rode out on the strongest horse in the stables—Devil’s Sulieman. Anyone who knew Demon would expect him to ride into Newmarket to check on his racing stables. That was his overt goal, his initial destination.

Once he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he would continue on to Elveden Grange to alert Royce to the developments and report their plan. If possible, Demon would return that evening in time to join the group going to the cathedral.

After an early breakfast, all the other men adjourned to the library. All the Cynsters were familiar with the cathedral, but Tony, Gervase, Del, and Gyles didn’t know the interior. Defining exactly where each of them would hide once inside, given they had to both protect Sangay and block all the numerous exits, wasn’t straightforward. In the end, Devil drew a detailed plan.

“As you can see”—he turned the sketch so the others, gathered about his desk, could more easily view it—“the cathedral’s both large and complex. The nave runs west to east. It’s extremely long, the longest in England, and the only place inside from which you can see all the principal doors is from the center of the octagon under the tower, which is where the altar sits. In other words, there isn’t any single concealed position that will allow us to cover even the main entrances. In addition, there’s umpteen smaller rooms off the various transepts, and some of them have external doors.”

He pointed to various areas on the sketch. “There’s a lady chapel and two chantry chapels at the east end. We have a presbytery here, and choir stalls separated from the nave by a screen. There are stalls between four pairs of pillars in the octagon. In the south transept, we have the cathedral library on one side and the vestries on the other. The north transept contains two chapels on one side and another chantry chapel at the end. And right at the east end of the cathedral we have the chapel of St. Etheldreda. The prior’s door—here, off the south aisle of the nave—is one example of the many unexpected entrances.”

“So our evil-sahib chose well.” Gyles glanced at Del. “That suggests he knows the area.”

“He’s probably visited,” Del said. “As Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman, he would have stayed from time to time with Ferrar’s father’s household. I’ve heard the Earl of Shrewton spends his winters on an estate at Wymondham, outside Norwich.”

“So Ferrar himself would be familiar with the place?” Lucifer asked.

“Almost certainly. He was born at Wymondham.”

At that point, the ladies, having risen somewhat later from their beds, joined them. They asked questions, glanced at the sketch, reiterated that Sangay had to be kept safe, then subsided in various chairs and sofas around the room. Many had brought pieces of sewing, knitting, embroidery and the like to keep their hands busy while they listened.

The men all looked at them.

Honoria waved a haughty hand. “Carry on.”

The men exchanged glances, then turned back to the desk and got down to business, placing themselves like pieces on a game board, then assessing how well the arrangement satisfied their criteria.

“Not easy,” Tony concluded. “Covering all the exits is difficult enough, but because of this octagon with the altar at its center, to sufficiently protect Sangay we’ll need at least three men close in—inside the octagon, or within a few steps of it.”

They all looked at the sketch.

“The octagon’s definitely the place to stage the handover,” Devil said. “It gives us the best chance of catching whoever comes to get the scroll-holder, Larkins, Ferrar, or both. Anywhere else is more problematical.”

“True,” Richard allowed. “But Tony’s right—we need three men to cover that area. And there’s no way to have three men that close without them being seen.”

“Disguises.” Gervase glanced at Devil. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of laying our hands on some monk’s robes?”

Devil met his gaze, then looked down the room at Honoria. “Monk’s robes?”

She raised both brows. “We have some, certainly. In the costume box, I think.” She rose. “I’ll go and hunt them out.”

“I’ll help.” Catriona rose, too.

“Three would be useful,” Devil called.

Honoria waved as she headed for the door.

Del studied the sketch. “Let’s assume we can place three men in monk’s robes close. Where, exactly?”

They worked that out, then, once Honoria and Catriona had returned with three passable monk’s robes and they’d been tried on and approved, with those three deployments settled, they made final judgments on their other positions. Lastly, they worked out who would go where.

They each had their strengths. In the end, it was decided Tony, Gervase, and Gyles would be the monks. Their primary aim would be to protect Sangay. With a glance toward the ladies, Del added, “At all costs.”

All the rest had only one aim, one goal. “We concentrate on apprehending whoever comes to fetch the scroll-holder.”

Gabriel frowned. “What are the odds Ferrar, or even Larkins, sends a foot soldier? All that’s required is to pick up a scroll-holder from a boy, after all. No urgent need to risk getting caught themselves.” He looked around at the others. “Surely by now Ferrar has realized that the critical point in Wolverstone’s plan is to tempt him to show his hand, and through that action to connect himself irrevocably with the scroll-holder, and therefore with the letter it supposedly contains?”

Del forced himself to weigh the chances, but then shook his head. “No. It’ll be Larkins who comes. He’ll definitely be there. Whether Ferrar will come, too, is anyone’s guess. Consider. Larkins has been the one throughout to deal with Sangay. He told Sangay he’d be there, and I’m sure he will be if for no other reason than to make sure Sangay hands the scroll-holder over and doesn’t get confused by someone he doesn’t recognize and instead slip away.

“In addition to that, Ferrar knows the letter—the real one—is damning. He won’t risk such a thing falling into the hands even of one of his cultists. He’ll send someone he trusts implicitly—Larkins—or he’ll come himself.”

After a pause during which they digested that, Vane asked, “So what are our chances of getting Larkins—presuming it’s he we catch in our trap—to point the finger at Ferrar?”

“Reasonable,” Del said. “Larkins has been with Ferrar for years, and has relished his time in the upper echelons of the Black Cobra cult. But when faced with the choice between a rope or transportation? I’d say it’s more likely he’ll cooperate than he won’t.”

Del looked down at Devil’s sketch, at their planning represented by the crosses and notes marked on it. “If we can hobble the Black Cobra before the others have to wrestle through his coils, I’ll be more than content.”

“As will we all,” Devil said.

An “indeed,” followed by soft “hear, hears” from the sofas, chaises and armchairs further down the room had the men exchanging uneasy glances. They were planning a dangerous foray, and their ladies were listening. All were aware of the looming problem. Only Tony and Gervase were immune.

But they had to make their plans, and there was no point trying to hide that—or the plans themselves—from the ladies.

Devil and Del studied the sketch of the cathedral yet again.

“Even though there’ll be ten of us—assuming Demon makes it back in time—we’ll be spread thin,” Del noted.

“True,” Devil returned. “But at least there are plenty of places to hide once we move away from the altar and that end of the nave.”

“One eventuality we haven’t considered,” Tony said. “What if he comes in force?”

Standing beside Devil, his fingertips brushing the desk, Del considered, eventually said, “I can’t see it. If I had to wager on it, I’d say he’ll come alone, or with only one, or two, others. More, and he’ll risk attracting attention—”

“Given the cultists are Indian,” Deliah put in from the nearest sofa, “it’s likely he won’t want them seen. They create too much notice. People will look, and remember which way they go.”

“Indeed.” Devil sat back, looked up at Del. “So we assume we’ll be facing no more than a handful, all most likely Englishmen.”

Del nodded. There seemed nothing more to add to their plan of action for inside the cathedral. Talk veered to the logistics of getting into position without alerting the enemy.

“A night march.” Lucifer sighed resignedly. “I’d hoped I’d left such horrors behind me.”

“At least,” Gabriel said, “there won’t be a bloody battlefield at the end of it.”

Ultimately they agreed they would leave at four o’clock the next morning. Despite the hideous hour, they would still have to travel by a circuitous route to make sure they didn’t inadvertently pass the enemy’s bolt-hole, wherever that might be.

“In order to circumnavigate the fens”—Devil pointed to the areas on a map he’d spread on his desk—“Chatteris, Horseley, and Langwood Fens, we’ll need to go up to Chatteris, then toward Sutton, but turn off onto minor lanes before we reach the village, and then progress by minor routes until we reach Ely and come down to the cathedral from the north.”

“What about Sangay?” Honoria asked. “You can’t seriously be thinking of having him walk that distance, not in this weather.”

“He’ll catch his death,” Catriona stated.

No one argued.

“I’ve thought of that.” Del turned to face the ladies. “We’ll have Sligo and Cobby dress as laborers and drive a loaded cart away from the place, apparently heading for the market in Ely. Sangay can hide in the back beneath a blanket, as if he’s stowed away. They’ll take the obvious route via Earith, Sutton, and then the main road directly east to Ely. That way they’ll approach the main street from the south. There’ll be an inn there they can stop at. Cobby and Sligo will go in as if for a late breakfast, leaving Sangay to slip out of the cart and over the lawns into the cathedral.”

“With the scroll-holder,” Gervase added.

Del nodded. “Exactly. If Larkins is watching for him as he said he will be, he’ll see him, then he’ll follow him inside.”

“That will work,” Devil confirmed. “There’s an inn perfectly situated across from the cathedral, and the area between the street and the main cathedral door is open ground—easy to spot a boy scampering across, especially one dressed as Sangay will be.”

The men glanced at the ladies. As a group, they nodded approvingly.

“And once inside the cathedral, there’ll be three of you watching over him—all within easy reach?” Deliah arched a brow at Del.

He nodded. “He won’t be alone, and he’ll know that.”

Inclining her head, appeased, she transferred her attention to the ball of yarn she was rolling.

Interpreting the ladies’ subsequent silence as permission to proceed, the men huddled closer and quickly revisited the details of their plan one last time. Then, at a look and a nod from Devil, Vane stepped back from the desk, with a glance enlisted Richard, Lucifer, and Gabriel, then the four strolled the short distance to stand in a line, chatting with the ladies.

Distracting them as Devil, Del, Gyles, Tony, and Gervase left the room.

As the five men made their way to Devil’s study, Gyles sighed. “Honoria noticed.”

“So did Francesca,” Devil returned.

Gyles pulled a face. “Fifteen minutes, do you think, before they hunt us down?”

“If we’re lucky.”

They wanted to work with Sangay, to rehearse him in his role, without the distraction of the ladies. Not that the women would distract Sangay that much. The evasion was more in the nature of self-preservation.

Gaining the study, Devil sent Webster to fetch Sligo, Cobby, and Sangay. When the three presented themselves, expectant and eager to learn of their roles, Del took them through the plan, explaining their strategy, then settled to take them, step by step, through the parts the three of them would play.

He’d reached the point where the cart with Sangay hidden in the back reached the outskirts of Ely, when he was interrupted by a light rap on the door.

They all looked at the innocent panels.

Although Devil didn’t respond, after an instant’s hesitation the knob turned, the door opened, and Deliah walked in.

After one comprehensive sweep of the room, her gaze settled on Sangay. “Are you all right, Sangay?”

Del managed not to roll his eyes.

Sangay’s innocent reply did more good. Bright-eyed, he nodded excitedly. “Oh, yes, miss. I’m to be a part of the plan, too. The colonel-sahib was just telling me.”

Switching his gaze back to Del, Sangay waited, eager and attentive.

Del looked at Deliah.

She looked back, eyes narrowing a fraction, then closed the door and came forward to sit in a chair near Sangay’s. “I’ll just listen, too.”

Sangay looked perfectly happy. Del squelched his own reaction, and calmly continued with his rehearsal of their plan.

When he got to the point of Cobby and Sligo leaving the cart and going into the inn, and Sangay slipping out and on his own going into the cathedral, Deliah frowned…but, thank heaven, kept her lips shut and allowed him to continue.

Del was at pains to stress to Sangay—and therefore to Deliah, representative of the ladies as she indubitably was—that once he set foot in the cathedral, Sangay would have numerous men protecting him, three of whom would be devoted to ensuring he came to no harm. Del was permitted to continue outlining the plan to the point where Sangay handed the scroll-holder to the evil-sahib, or whoever came to fetch it from him.

“And then,” Del said, holding the boy’s dark gaze, “you run. As if the devil was on your heels. You run to one of these three gentlemen.” He pointed to Tony, Gervase, and Gyles. “They’ll be dressed in these robes.”

Gyles held up one robe, displaying it. “We’ll look like monks, and have the hoods up, but you’ll know it’ll be us.”

Sangay nodded, eyes wide as he surveyed the three large men. He turned to Del. “So they are to be my bodyguards?”

Recollecting that in India, people of high rank often had bodyguards as a mark of status, Del smiled. “Exactly. Just like a maharajah, you’ll have your very own bodyguards.”

Sangay was clearly beyond delighted.

“And,” Gervase said, “just like all those who have bodyguards, when in a dangerous situation, you must do exactly as your bodyguards tell you.”

Round-eyed, Sangay nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, sahib. I will do exactly as you and my other two bodyguard-sahibs say.”

Gervase inclined his head, endeavoring to keep his lips reasonably straight.

“Good.” Del reclaimed the stage. “Now you should go downstairs with the others. There’s nothing more you need to do today. Cobby will wake you in the morning when it’s time to leave. He’ll have the scroll-holder for you to take.”

“Yes, sahib.” Abruptly assuming a serious mien, Sangay wriggled down from the chair, then bowed solemnly to Del, then Devil, and lastly the other three men.

Then, his smile blooming anew, he hurried to join Cobby.

Grinning himself, with a neat bow for the company, Cobby led the boy from the room. Sligo followed, closing the door.

Del had been watching Deliah. She was still frowning slightly.

He was trying to predict why, what part of their plan failed to meet with feminine approval, but just as she raised her gaze to his face, the first gong for dinner echoed through the house.

Gyles stepped in. With a charming smile, he gave her his hand to rise, and, with a wink over her head for Del, bowed her out of the door.

Demon walked into the dining room just as they were preparing to address the main course. He grinned, paused to drop a kiss on his wife’s upturned cheek, then slid into the chair beside her. Helping himself from the platter of roast beef Webster immediately offered, Demon informed them, “It was very dirty riding, but the sky looks to be clear of snow. Temperatures are up. The roads will be passable and people will be on the move as usual tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” Devil smiled. “So our plan can go ahead.”

“What did Wolverstone say?” Del asked.

Demon grinned wolfishly. “Short and sweet. By all means proceed, then we’re to come on to Elveden with whatever prey we manage to trap. He’ll be waiting.”

Del felt satisfied expectation bloom in his chest. A familiar feeling, one he’d often experienced on learning he’d see action soon. “Any word on the other three couriers?”

“Yes, and no,” Demon replied. “You’ll be the first to reach Elveden, but another of your comrades, Hamilton, has landed in England. He’s in Surrey at a safe house there.”

“Probably Trentham’s estate,” Gervase said.

Demon nodded, swallowed. “That was the name.” He looked at Del. “Now that Royce knows you’re about to land on his doorstep, he’s sent word to Hamilton and his escort to come on. According to Trentham, Hamilton has a Miss Ensworth with him.”

Del choked, coughed, then managed to wheeze, “The governor’s niece? How the deuce did she come to be with Hamilton?”

Demon shrugged. “Royce doesn’t know the details. Sounds an interesting tale. Apparently she’s been with him since Aden. He came up through Alexandria, then Marseille to Boulogne, where apparently they ran into quite a bit of action, but eventually they got to Dover, where two of your crew”—Demon nodded to Gervase and Tony—“nabbed them and whisked them into hiding.”

“Hamilton’s a good man,” Del said. “Any word of the other two?”

“Not that Royce mentioned,” Demon replied. “I took it to mean he hasn’t yet heard.”

After dinner, the men gathered in the billiard room.

Devil looked up as Vane, the last to join them, came in and closed the door. “How are we situated?”

Vane gave him a wry grin. “We’re safe enough for the moment. They’ve got their heads together, doubtless planning an early morning jaunt.”

Del had been wondering if Deliah might attempt such a thing. Now he looked his horror. “Not all of them?”

Devil just looked at him as all the others with wives nodded. “Every last one, which brings us to what we need to plan now. How to stop them.”

“We only need to delay them for a few hours,” Richard pointed out. “Long enough to make sure they can’t reach the cathedral in time.”

“We could lock them in their rooms,” Demon suggested.

“Alathea can pick locks,” Gabriel said.

“So can Francesca, I think,” Gyles put in. “Whatever we do has to hobble all of them, and effectively, or those who get loose will release the rest.”

“What about blocking their access to transport—in this case, horses?” Lucifer suggested. “Order the stable staff to sleep in. The ladies can’t follow us if they can’t get beasts saddled or horses put to.”

Demon humphed. “Flick can saddle anything with four feet. And she’s perfectly capable of organizing the others to put horses to gigs.”

“Catriona can, too,” Richard said. “Forget that tack.”

They all thought. Hard. Some of their suggestions were wildly fanciful. By and large, all were impractical.

Devil drummed his fingers on the billiard table. “We only need to stop them from following us and arriving early morning, before or during the action. It would be useful, in fact, if they arrived at Ely after the excitement, say by ten or so. That way we could go on to Elveden all together—an inclusion to salvage some hope of our continuing felicitous matrimonial existence.”

There was silence for a moment, then Vane admitted, “That’s a serious consideration. No need to court unnecessary retribution by excluding them from sharing whatever triumph we reap.”

“What we need,” Gyles stated, his gaze locking with Devil’s, “is to stop them from leaving their beds before dawn.”

Lucifer waggled his brows. “Surely we can manage that.”

Gabriel snorted. “Sadly, determination can overcome a great deal. We can’t rely on exhaustion to accomplish what we need. We have to have something more certain.”

“Indeed.” Devil’s tone was decisive. “And as we’ve just demonstrated, when it comes down to it, there really is only one way.”

Fourteen

December 18
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Later that evening, Del made his way to Deliah’s bedchamber, Devil’s strategy for dealing with the pending problem posed by the ladies wishing to join them circling in his brain.

It was, by any measure, an outrageous proposition, yet it would work, and he couldn’t think of anything else that might.

Every male linked with one of the aforesaid ladies had sworn to do their part. Only Tony and Gervase were excused. Yet while all the others—being married to their respective ladies—were in a sound position to weather the resultant and inevitable storm, he stood on significantly less firm footing.

Unless he took steps to shore up his position before he put Devil’s plan into action, he would risk losing all. Losing her. That was not something he wished to contemplate. It was certainly not a situation he would accept.

Ergo, it was now imperative that he take the necessary steps—to offer for her and secure her, and through that gain the right to protect her at all costs. Once she’d agreed to be his, she couldn’t argue with him doing everything—and anything—necessary to protect her.

She might try, but then it would be she standing on shaky ground.

Reaching her door, he paused, conscious at some deeper, rarely stirred level that, aside from all else, it was somehow now fundamentally important for him to know she was unquestionably his—declared to be his—and that she was safe. He needed her to somehow balance him; she was now essential to the framework of the life he wanted to live.

She was crucial to his future, and not having her agreement to be that critical and necessary part of it wasn’t a situation he could any longer accept.

Before he went out to face the Black Cobra, he needed to know she would be there—his—when he got back.

Determination hardening to resolution, he reached for the knob and opened the door.

Firelight flickered inside. A single candle was burning on the table by the bed. Beyond its glow, the rest of the room lay in deep shadow.

Deliah was waiting, already in her nightgown with a warm shawl draped about her shoulders to defeat the winter chill. Arms folded, she’d been standing before the hearth gazing at the fire. She turned as he entered, and smiled.

That smile embodied everything he wanted, not just for tonight but for every night for the rest of his life.

He returned it as he crossed to halt before her. He looked into her eyes as he drew her into his arms.

She held his gaze. Searched it.

Read something in his eyes—saw something of his resolution, his purpose. Head tilting, she parted her lips—

He bent his head and kissed her. Gathered her closer as, after an instant’s surprise, she responded. Ardent as always, instantly willing to follow his lead, to waltz into the fire and the flames with him.

To let mutual passions flare and burn.

The last thing he needed was for her to ask questions—not yet, not now. So he kissed her to distract her.

Then he realized, and kissed her to persuade.

To convince.

To woo.

She was supple and giving in his arms, all feminine curves and lush challenge. Raising her arms, she wound them about his neck and kissed him back, enticing and provoking. His arms locked as she pressed against him, into him, and his world narrowed and condensed.

To just this. To her, and all he’d found in her arms.

To her, and all he felt for her.

Sunk in her mouth, his tongue dueling with hers, he seized the moment, used it to show her.

What she meant to him.

How much he needed her, wanted her, desired her.

Deliah read his message with ease, but when he lingered, holding her in the kiss, letting the exchange stretch until her wits and senses spun, some part of her wondered.

Some tiny rational part of her mind looked, and saw. Sensed and felt with every heartbeat something deeper. Some element she hadn’t seen, or hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt before. It didn’t feel new, just…more.

Even as she sensed it, and wondered, he pressed deeper, tasting her, inciting her to taste him, to drown in the flavors she now knew so well—him, all heady masculinity and passion, strength, desire, and the promise of possession.

All there, all familiar, yet there was a deeper thread running beneath all. A powerful current that fed all the rest, that gave the rest life.

For the first time she could touch it.

Stroke it, know it.

Welcome it as his hand closed over her breast and, pulling back from the kiss, she gasped.

Eyes closed, head back, she drew that novel power in with every racing beat of her heart as his hands, hard, possessive, sculpted her curves. Arousing, yet not driving.

This was lovemaking with a different slant. With something else in the mix. Something he was letting rise up and fill him, and pour into her.

It was glory of a different degree. It took desire and passion, hunger and need, and gilded them. Made them shimmer with meaning, with purpose.

She drank it in, focused on each and every caress. Every explicit act of claiming. Reveled in the heat, the deeper warmth that suffused every inch of skin, and sank to her bones.

Raising her heavy lids, from beneath her lashes she studied his face. His features were set, harshly passion-etched, his lips a firm, unyielding line, yet his eyes as he surveyed the bounty of her breast, filling one of his hands, held an expression of…reverence.

Possession, too, but there was a deeper joy, a deeper appreciation beneath.

Before she could concentrate and identify the impression, he saw her watching him. He bent his head and took her lips again.

Again swept her away on the familiar tide…but slowly.

As if their heartbeats were counting the bars, marking time.

He waltzed her to the bed, but before he could tug away her shawl, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. He paused, but didn’t break the kiss.

She seized the moment, and slowly—still keeping to that deeper, slower, compulsive beat—pushed his coat off his shoulders. Unwound his cravat and let it fall from her fingers, unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it away. Spread her hands over the fine linen of his shirt, traced, unlaced, then pulled the tails from his waistband, slid her hands beneath to find his heated skin, and stroked, caressed.

Del broke from the kiss, and drew the shirt off over his head. Watched as her eyes fastened on his chest, watched them gleam, watched her lips curve with feminine greed and blatant anticipation.

She touched him. Spread her small hands and possessed.

He let her, captive to some compulsion he didn’t fully understand, yet he was the one who had let it free. His pulse drummed in a slow cadence—powerful, controlled, all passion and driving need held subservient to that greater force.

Together, they dispensed with his trousers, his stockings, his shoes, until he stood naked before her.

He reached for her, needing the promise of her body against his. She came, but with one hand on his chest, stayed him from locking her against him. Looking down, she closed her other hand about his jutting staff.

Caressed, possessed.

Deliah traced his heavy erection, took it in her palm and stroked down, up, then she ran her fingertips around the bulbous head.

And he shuddered.

She glanced up, and their eyes met. Gaze to gaze in the candlelit gloom, the dark pools of his eyes drew her in. Held her. Even as she cradled him. Then she felt him tug at her shawl; this time she let it go. Let him divest her of shawl and nightgown, let him pull back the covers, lift her and lay her down, and join her.

He drew the covers over them, creating a cocoon of warmth, a cave, a place that, with the firelight flickering over the walls, was safe and theirs. She’d expected him to join with her immediately, but he propped himself on his elbow beside her, leaned over her, captured her mouth once more with his, filled it, her mind and her senses, then set his hands once more to her body.

Stroked, caressed…worshipped.

There was no other word to describe what she felt, what she sensed through his touch. He’d never made her feel less than desired. This night he made her feel…

Loved.

Cherished.

Desired not just in a physical sense but on some deeper emotional plane. While one part of her mind scoffed at such thoughts, at such an interpretation of his motives, another part saw, and knew.

She felt it in her heart, recognized it in every slow beat of his.

Sensed it in the rise of their pulses as desire thundered anew.

As passion rose and claimed them, and he lifted over her, spread her thighs with his, and filled her.

Completed her.

As she took him in and gloried.

Del wasn’t holding the reins. He’d given them over, ceded all control, surrendered to the compulsive force that was the reality of what he felt for her.

That was the reality of why he needed her.

Giving that reality free rein had been easier than he’d thought—showing her, letting her see. But now it whipped them both, raged through them both, leaving them blind, deaf and consumed, victims to the fire raging in their blood. To the molten heat, to the need to be one, caught in the inexorable drive to consummation.

Their blood pounded in their veins, and glory beckoned.

Desire lifted them on a wave of raw, exquisite, mind-numbing sensation.

Ecstacy sharpened, heightened, brightened, then exploded.

And they shattered, fragmented.

She screamed his name as she clung and fell.

He smothered a roar in the curve of her throat as he followed.

They spiralled back to earth through the fading brightness, to the comfort of that familiar golden sea, to satiation and completeness.

And, he suspected—he hoped—to a deeper understanding.

Never had he felt so utterly wracked with pleasure.

Never had the act been so deeply fulfilling.

Never had he felt so vulnerable—as if he’d placed his heart and his soul in her hands.

Deliah didn’t immediately sink into sated slumber. Sated she was, to her toes, yet…curiosity niggled. What had changed? And, more importantly, why?

He’d dropped his guard completely, lowered all inner shields, and given her honesty—emotional honesty. With a compelling sincerity he’d shown her what he felt.

But why? Or rather, why now?

From the depths of her mind surfaced the thought that tomorrow might well see the end of his mission. If, as she suspected he would, he decided to stay in Cambridgeshire to wait for his friends to reach safety, he might well send her north with an escort.

Once his mission was over, there would no longer be any further danger to her, no further need to keep her with him.

Was this—tonight—their last time? The last night they would share?

A species of dark panic bloomed inside; she felt it grip her throat, black and strangling.

His fingers touched, traced her forehead, her temple, her cheek.

She opened her eyes, and fell into his.

Searched them frantically. Waited, breath bated, for him to tell her their time together was over.

His gaze remained unwavering, rock-steady and sure.

“I want you to marry me.”

She opened her mouth, arguments jostling on her tongue—then his words registered.

And her world spun.

She blinked at him. “W-what?”

He frowned, then tried, not entirely successfully, to banish the expression. “You heard me. You can hardly be surprised…” His frown deepened as he studied her face, her eyes. His jaw firmed. “I want to offer for your hand—whatever the correct form of words is, consider it said.”

She gaped at him.

Del gave up trying to lighten his frown. “Why the devil are you so surprised?”

Surprise, shock—utter astonishment—were writ large in her eyes and invested every line of her face.

“Ah…” Finally she found her tongue enough to say, “I wasn’t expecting you to propose—that’s all.”

“All?” He blinked at her. If she hadn’t been expecting…his frown turned to a scowl, and he came up on one elbow so he could glare down at her. “We’ve been sharing a bed for nearly a week. What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”

“The usual sort.”

He stiffened, but then she waved as if to erase the words. “No—wait. Let me explain.”

“Please. Do.” He bit off the words.

He felt almost insulted when, wriggling up on the pillows the better to meet his glare, she vaguely patted his chest as if to calm him.

She stared down the bed, unseeing for a moment, then slanted him a glance—one filled with such uncertainty, such vulnerability, that he nearly weakened and gathered her to him to comfort her.

But he needed to hear what she was going to say. Needed an explanation. Needed her answer to his offer.

Needed to make sure she accepted.

“What?” he prompted.

She bit her lower lip—such an un-Deliahlike action that he nearly broke. “Are you really…I mean, did you really mean…what you just said? That you want me as your wife?”

There was some problem; he could see it in her eyes. Feeling grimmer by the second, he nodded. “I wouldn’t have uttered the words if I didn’t. Why?”

She drew in a breath. Held it for a second, then in a rush said, “Are you sure?”

“Deliah—” He held on to his frustration with an effort. Nodded again. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Oh.”

When she stared at him, perplexed, he drew patience to him. “Earlier, you said you thought I was the usual sort of gentleman—implying that the usual sort of gentleman wouldn’t want to marry you. Why did you say that?”

“Because they don’t. Gentlemen—the usual sort—never marry ladies like me. I’ve been told that more times than I can count. And—”

“Who told you? Your parents?” Her parents, as he recalled, were strict and highly conservative—and she’d been the bane of her mother’s life.

“My parents, my aunts, my cousins—everyone.”

“Meaning everyone in a tiny pocket of the Wolds north of the Humber.” He caught her eyes. “That’s a very small, isolated, and, in this regard, narrow-minded part of the world.”

She held his gaze, then her lashes flickered and she looked away. “There’s more.”

She was already married. She was a convicted murderess. She…clinging to patience, he asked, “What?”

Looking down, she picked at the coverlet lying over her breasts. “You know I wasn’t a virgin.”

He’d noticed, in passing as it were, and been cravenly thankful he hadn’t had to mute his lust, or hers, to ease her through her first time. “You’re what? Twenty-nine? I would have been more surprised if you had been.”

She flicked him a frown. “It was only a few times with one young man, when I was twenty-one.” Her gaze grew distant; then she looked down. “He was the younger son of a viscount, on a repairing lease, although I didn’t know that until later. He was dashing, and charming, and I thought…”

“You thought he loved you?”

She nodded. “And I thought I loved him. I didn’t—I know that now—but I was young and naïve and I thought…so when he wanted me, I agreed. I thought it was all part of our courtship.”

“Only it wasn’t?”

“No. A week later—after quarter day had come—I heard he was leaving, going south again.” She dragged in a tight breath. “I asked him about us—what would happen. He laughed.” Her voice grew bleaker. “He told me I was a fool—that no gentleman in his right mind would ever marry a lady like me. I was a Long Meg, I was too sharp-tongued, too headstrong, too independent. I was too everything—no one would ever have me.”

“He was wrong.” Del made the statement unequivocally. She’d lived with that judgment, that belief, for eight long years. A species of fury boiled up inside him. “What is this younger son of a viscount’s name?”

“The Honorable Melvin Griffiths. But he’s dead now—he died at Waterloo.”

Sparing Del the need to beat the bastard bloody. “Good.”

Her lips twisted; she glanced at him. “That’s what I thought, too.”

He nodded. When she said nothing more, he asked, “Is that all?”

She met his gaze, surprise in hers. “Isn’t that enough?”

“To make me change my mind about marrying you?” He shook his head. “So, will you marry me, Deliah Duncannon?”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Hope and uncertainty warred in her eyes. Then, in a small voice she asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”

He could see all sorts of reasons, surmises, hovering in her mind—waiting for him to confirm them. That he felt he should because he’d ruined her in the eyes of his friends by sharing her bed. That he felt he owed it to her parents—and his aunts—to make an honest woman of her. That…there were dozens of reasons she would consider more likely than the simple truth.

Some part of him was horrified, but he didn’t hesitate.

“I want to marry you because I love you.” Cupping her face in one palm, he looked into her eyes, held her gaze steadily. “I love you, and want you and only you as my wife precisely because you’re not the common sort of lady. You’re more. You’re everything I need, everything I want, everything I must have to build the future I want—a future I couldn’t even see until we met.”

He paused, watched dawning belief lift the clouds from her jade eyes. “We belong together, you and I. Marry me, and together we’ll create a future that’s ours, that’s rich and vibrant, exciting and fulfilling.”

She raised a hand, touched the back of his. “You make me believe.”

“Because I believe—that I love you, and that you love me.” The twin facts were enshrined in his heart. Set in stone and immutable, they simply were. “So—will you do it? Throw your lot in with mine and see what we can make of life together?”

Her lips slowly curved. To his horror, tears filled her eyes.

But she was smiling.

“Yes.” She blinked, blotted her cheeks as the tears overflowed, then laughed at the look on his face. “I told you I didn’t love Griffiths—I know I didn’t because what I felt for him was nothing, simply nothing, to what I feel for you.”

She sniffed delicately, then smiled mistily up at him. “So yes, I’ll marry you. I’ll put my hand in yours”—she suited the action to the words—“and see where life takes us.”

He stared at her for a moment, then the wondrous reality finally impinged. “Thank God,” he said.

And kissed her.

She laughed through the kiss, wound her arms around his neck—and kissed him back.

December 19
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

He was still freely thanking all beneficent deities when, in the wee small hours by the faint light of a waning moon, he stetched an arm from beneath the covers and managed to snag his coat from where they’d left it lying on the floor. Deliah slept on, warm and snug beside him. Quietly going through his pockets, he withdrew the silk scarves he’d poked into them.

Dropping the coat, he turned to her.

She murmured sleepily when he reached over her to tie one long scarf to the bedhead on that side. He dropped a kiss on her temple, another on her bare shoulder as he drew back.

To anchor the second scarf more or less above where his head had been, it was easier to move over her and settle between her thighs—they parted welcomingly, her hips cradling him instinctively.

He reached up, secured the second tether.

Instinctively rocked his hips against her, the head of his erection seeking, finding, sliding into scalding wetness, penetrating her a fraction as he tugged the scarves tight.

After that, it was easier to slide slowly home. To feel her come awake beneath him as he filled her.

To feel her softness fully surrendered, and to instinctively take what was offered.

To bend his head and, as he rocked, find her lips with his. Cover them. Fill her mouth, helplessly yielded, and take that, too.

To lay claim. In the quiet of the night with the dark enfolding them, to love her.

Slowly, silently, she crested beneath him, her cries as she fell from the peak muffled by his lips. He felt the inexorable tug, the clenching of her sheath along his length, but this time resisted the call.

This time waited until she slumped, boneless and spent, beneath him.

Then he withdrew from her.

It was the work of a moment to lash both her wrists, one in each scarf. Dazed, still floating, she turned her head and watched him secure the second, then she looked at him.

Even in the dimness, he could sense her question.

In answer, he reared back on his knees, grasped her hips and flipped her. He drew her down the bed just enough for the scarves to pull taut, enough to keep her arms extended, her wrists higher than her head.

Then he lifted her hips, rearranged her long legs so she was kneeling on the bed, too, bent over her knees, her arms stretched before her.

He touched between her thighs, found her wet and weeping, set his groin to the luscious curves of her bottom, guided his erection to her entrance, then thrust powerfully into the scalding slickness.

And let instinct rule.

He took her as he wished, hard and deep, slow and thorough, until passion rose and swamped him. Until it drove him, ruthless, relentless, to, with his hands sunk into the bedding on either side of her shoulders, pump into her and fill her.

She shattered again, her strangled cry fracturing the silver silence of the night.

Her body clutched, spasmed, caressed. Lured…

He let go, let her take him. With a roar he muffled in her hair, let ecstacy wrack him.

Until he slumped, as boneless as she, over her.

He couldn’t move, had no strength he could yet command to lift from her. Freeing one hand, he brushed her hair from her face, glanced down at her features.

Noted their softness, the satisfied—sated—curve of her lips.

He remained where he was, savoring the lingering clutch of her body, until he had full command of his limbs. Then he gently drew back from her, reached over her head and tested his restraints, then he slid from beneath the covers, letting them resettle over her.

She woke as his weight left the bed. Watched in silence as he rapidly gathered his clothes. Frowned as he started donning them. “Where are you—” She blinked; straightening her legs, she slid around to fully face him, the scarves twisting as she did. She peered at the window. “Is it time to go?”

He glanced at his fob-watch, then slid it back into his waistcoat pocket, reached for his coat. “It’s nearly four o’clock.”

She tried to sit up, but the scarves held her back. Frowning even more, she looked at them, tugged. “You forgot to untie me.”

He stepped into his shoes, and didn’t say anything.

Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him, suspicion dawning in her face, her breasts swelling in incipient outrage, mounding above the upper edge of the covers.

“It was that, or lock you all in your rooms. We thought you’d prefer this way, so Bess—and the other lady’s maids—can release you when they come up, and you can join us at Ely once the action’s over.” Voice low, he hurried on, “We thought you’d like to see what the outcome was, and go with us to Elveden.”

“Well, of course we want that, but…” She tugged at the bonds. “We were supposed to go with you—as you well know.”

“No, you weren’t.” He took a step back.

It wasn’t just outrage that lit her face. “You can’t leave me tied up like this!”

“Not just you—all the ladies.”

She stopped struggling, stared again. “All?”

He saluted and backed another step. “Every last one. So there’s no point shrieking or calling for help. Everyone left on this level will be tied up, too.”

Turning, he had his hand on the doorknob when she said, “Delborough, so help me, if you leave me here like this, I’ll…I’ll…”

On a muttered curse he swung back into the room. Returned to the bed, leaned over her—and kissed her soundly.

“Be good.” He was at the door before she’d managed to draw breath. With a last salute, he opened it. “I’ll see you at Ely.” He walked out and shut the door behind him.

Listened. An ominous silence was all he heard.

Lips twisting, reassured by her promise to be his wife, he strode down the corridor.

Returning to his room, he quickly changed into breeches, boots and donned a heavier coat, then rendezvoused as arranged with the other men at the bottom of the main stairs. Devil was the last to join them, still shrugging on his coat as he came, a grin still lingering about his mobile lips. He waved them all on, then fell into step beside Del.

There was a strong sense of déjà vu as they strode out to the stables and saddled up. They’d done this before, he and Devil at the head of a group of men, many of whom were Cynsters, going out to face an enemy.

And bring him down.

They led their horses out to the stable yard, mounted, all but oblivious to the icy breeze, the crisp crust on the cobbles, the coldness of the white drifts all around. Cobby and Sligo had come out to see them on their way.

In his saddle, Del looked up at the window behind which Deliah lay.

Sated, but almost certainly stewing.

Very likely planning retribution.

But that was for later.

With everyone mounted, Devil looked at Del. Grinned. “Lead on, Colonel.”

With an answering grin, Del wheeled his horse and smartly led the way out.

December 19
Ely, Cambridgeshire

In an icy misery of overwhelming dampness carried by a desolate, sleeting wind, the group reached Ely in the last of the long night.

Leaving their horses tethered in a field outside the town, they slipped through the shadows in twos and threes, approaching the massive bulk of the cathedral from the north, as planned.

The main doors would be unlocked, but they didn’t want to risk being seen. Gabriel picked the lock on one of the side doors, and they slid quietly inside.

To Del, who had been inside only once decades before, the cathedral, with its soaring arches and massive walls, felt like the belly of a sleeping stone giant. They all walked slowly around, getting their bearings and familiarizing themselves with the layout, with the numerous corridors, major and minor, the rooms giving off them, and, most importantly, the location of the doors that led outside.

Finally, wraithlike, they drifted to their assigned places.

The soft slap of their footsteps on the stone floor ceased.

They settled in for a long wait.

Silence descended.

Fifteen

December 19
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Deliah roused from a fitful sleep to find Bess supervising one of the housemaids making up the fire. A glance at the window, at the narrow slit between the curtains, showed the faintest trace of gray light outside; it was barely dawn.

Courtesy of her earlier, futile efforts to loosen Del’s silken bonds, the pillows now hid said bonds from view. She’d look as if she’d simply fallen asleep with her arms splayed out. Which was what, furious and defeated, she’d eventually done.

She feigned sleep until the housemaid left. Then she called Bess. “Don’t ask questions—just come and untie me.”

“Untie you?” Eyes wide, Bess hurried over.

Deliah raised her arms, displaying the scarves wound about her wrists.

Bess’s eyes widened even more. “Oh, my.”

“No questions.” Deliah waggled one wrist.

Bess fell to picking apart the knot securing it.

Del had gauged the bonds so while she’d had some play in her arms, she hadn’t been able to reach one hand to her other wrist, and undo the knot herself. She’d tried every contortion possible, to no avail.

When Bess had both her wrists free, she nodded with what dignity she could muster. “Thank you.”

Sitting up against the pillows, she rubbed her wrists, then noticed Bess was frowning. “What?”

Her expression disapproving, Bess gathered the scarves and set them on the dresser. “I don’t know as I hold with tying up, no matter the reason. I had thought the colonel quite gentlemanly.” Bess was quite a few years older than Deliah, and occasionally, when she deemed it necessary, could become quite motherly on Deliah’s behalf.

Deliah waved Bess to her robe. “If you must know, he tied me up so I couldn’t go with him, or follow him to the cathedral. Not until all the action is over—then, mind you, I’m supposed to join him. Huh!”

“Oh.” Returning to the bed with the robe, Bess looked thoughtful. “So he was protecting you—that’s why he tied you up.” She held up the robe as Deliah slid from the bed. “If that’s the case, I don’t suppose I can hold it against him.”

Belting the robe, Deliah leveled a narrow-eyed look at her maid. “You don’t have to. I’m holding it against him enough for us both.”

With a frustrated humph, she headed for her washstand. “Incidentally, apparently it wasn’t only me who was tied up. You might slip downstairs and make sure all the other lady’s maids have gone up to free their mistresses.”

Bess had followed her. Deliah heard a smothered giggle from behind her, then Bess said, “Yes, miss. I’ll just slip down, if you don’t need me for a moment?”

With haughty grace, Deliah inclined her head.

Left alone, she washed, then poked in her armoire, wondering what to wear.

Wondering how she felt.

Her principal conclusion was that she felt far too much.

Elated because she and Del were to marry—that he loved her, actually loved her! Her, the lady with so many character flaws that no gentleman was supposed to be able to overlook them.

But perhaps that was what love was, what it did? Presumably it was love that made Del overlook all her flaws…no. He’d said he loved her because of, not in spite of, her unconventional traits.

Even better. The fiend.

He loved her, and he’d made her love him—set her free to openly love him. She’d already loved him before, but now…

Now she loved him unreservedly.

And now she was worried. Now she was afraid.

For him. The damned man had gone off to face who knew what without her to watch his back. No her to step out of a carriage with a sword this time. So who was going to distract the enemy for him today?

She pulled out a forest-green pelisse, frogged with gold braid, that she’d yet to wear. That he’d paid an exorbitant sum for it was a point in its favor. Tossing it on the bed and resuming her hunt for a gown to go beneath it, she reminded herself that Del had the other men with him.

Presumably Devil and the others would watch his back, as she had no doubt he would theirs.

But…this loving someone, being free to love someone and therefore fall victim to all the accompanying feelings, was new to her.

Fear for another—another who now meant a very great deal to her—was new to her.

And she wasn’t at all sure she liked it.

She pulled out an elegant gown in pale green wool. It had long sleeves and was closed to the throat. If she was to go to the cathedral, she would need all the warmth she could wear, and hadn’t he said something about going on to Wolverstone’s residence afterward? In which case, she’d need the elegance, too. Laying the gown on the bed, she went to find underclothes.

Bess returned, breathless. Deliah suspected it was from laughing, not running.

“All the other maids have gone up and freed their mistresses. The duchess has called a meeting in the breakfast parlor as soon as maybe—they’re rushing to serve breakfast now—so we’d better get you dressed and ready.” Bess hurried to help her tie off her petticoat, then lifted the gown over her head.

Gowned and laced, Deliah sat at the dressing table, let Bess brush and braid her hair, and wondered what the other ladies thought. She strongly suspected they’d be as unimpressed with their spouses’ actions as she was with her spouse-to-be’s.

While she’d lain in the bed tied to the headboard waiting for dawn to arrive, she’d had plenty of time to consider the timing of Del’s offer for her hand. Being a spouse-to-be gave him certain rights—one of which he’d claimed mere hours later.

Had he made the offer so he would have the right to do what he felt he had to to protect her? Was that why he’d offered for her hand?

The uncertainty tried to insinuate itself into her mind. She considered it, but rejected it. Felt confident enough to reject it. Del was too practical a man to, as it were, sacrifice his future merely to protect a woman he considered to be in his charge—a woman he had no real feelings for. He could have tied her up without her promise to marry him, risking her wrath and subsequent alienation, if he’d had no feelings for her. If he hadn’t wanted a future with her.

She remembered enough of his words, his declarations of the night. He’d been sincere and absolute in his wishes and wants, his view of them together as the cornerstone of his future.

And the very fact that he’d gone to exceedingly domineering lengths to protect her was an irrefutable indication that he did, indeed, harbor strong feelings for her.

But she didn’t like being tied up, helpless to help him.

That, she was going to make very clear, simply would not do.

“There.” Bess slid the last pin into place. She glanced at the pelisse. “Will you be going out later?”

“Yes.” Deliah rose, tweaked her gown straight. “And I suspect it will be sooner rather than later.”

Turning, she headed for the door and the breakfast parlor. “I’m going to see what the other ladies think.”

On more than one front.

“So he proposed, and then he tied you up? Congratulations!” Eyes twinkling, Alathea beamed at Deliah. “On the proposal front, I mean. As for the rest.” Wryly, she glanced around the table. “Welcome to the club.”

Deliah glanced at the other ladies gathered about the long table in the breakfast parlor. All seemed to share Alathea’s sentiments. “So we really were all tied up?”

Nods and affirmations came from every occupied seat. It transpired their men had been rather inventive in their choice of restraints—silk scarves, cravats, silk curtain cords, even silk stockings.

“And,” Honoria said, eying them all from her position at the end of the table, “not one of us got free. For that, they’ll all have to pay.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed around the table.

Having discovered, the instant she’d smelled food, that she was ravenous, Deliah made steady inroads into the selections she’d heaped on her plate, and tried to assess the other ladies’ thoughts and intentions. In the end, she simply asked, “What do you mean by pay?”

Honoria’s fine gray eyes came to rest on her face. “After behaving in such a high-handed fashion, they’ll expect us to react. They’ll be expecting us to extract our ounce of flesh”—she paused to smile—“in one way or another. And, of course, we will, not least because we would never want them to believe we’d grown resigned, or, heaven help us, were no longer annoyed by said high-handed ways.”

“If they ever thought that, we’d be in dire straits.” Patience sipped her tea.

“But,” Deliah allowed her inner frown to show, “you don’t seem all that annoyed. You do seem rather resigned. Much more so than I. When Del first left, I was furious.”

“That’s because you’re new to this…for want of a better description, emotional game.” Phyllida toasted Deliah with her teacup.

“The emotional game of being married to a strong, dominant, possessive—and protective—gentleman,” Flick added. “Sadly, you can’t take the protective-to-a-serious-fault characteristic out of the mix. It’s an inescapable part of who they are—the sort of men they are.”

“Exactly.” Chin propped in one hand, Alathea nodded. “If we want all their other characteristics exactly as they are—as we do—then we have to accept their sometimes overactive protectiveness.”

“Especially,” Catriona said, “when you realize that that protectiveness, and its sometimes extreme nature, is a direct reflection of how much we mean to them.” She smiled at Deliah. “They’re really quite simple and straightforward in that way.”

“Mind you.” Honoria set down her teacup with a definite click. “That does not mean that they get to exercise that protectiveness to the extreme without paying us our due.” She met Deliah’s eyes. “Over the years, we’ve grown increasingly shrewd. Anything you ask—and if you’re wise you can extend the boon time to quite a few days—he’ll feel forced to grant.”

“To make up for his high-handedness,” Flick explained. “I once managed to get Demon to take me to a horse fair he never would have countenanced me attending otherwise.”

Alathea nodded. “I’ve managed to get Gabriel to more than one ball on the strength of an overprotective incident.”

Catriona smiled serenely. “And then there’s the other, more personal benefits.”

All the ladies smiled in what was clearly fond memory, and equally fond anticipation.

Deliah blinked, imagined…. “I see.”

“Indeed.” Honoria folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “And, of course, they’re all together.”

“We would be much more exercised if it was any of them alone,” Phyllida told Deliah, “or even just two of them against unknown others.”

“In this case,” Honoria said, “we don’t need to actually worry for their safety—they’re as safe as they could be even were we there to watch over them. However, while I will admit us being anywhere near the cathedral while they’re dealing with this Black Cobra person would distract them utterly—and we don’t want to forget they have Sangay to protect—there’s no reason I can see that we shouldn’t arrive the instant the action’s over.”

“Which by my calculation,” Patience said, “means we should leave as soon as possible.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Flick glanced around the table. “So—how many horses, how many gigs?”

Del sat on the floor of one of the stalls around the octagon in Ely Cathedral and prayed he wouldn’t get a cramp. At least the stall floor was timber, not stone. The cathedral—so much massive stone in the depths of winter—was as cold as the proverbial tomb.

Waiting for time to pass—it was exactly like being on picket duty. Not that he’d been a picket all that often, let alone recently, yet at least in war, there was an element of omnipresent danger to help keep one alert. Here…they all knew nothing would happen until after Sangay arrived.

Which would be shortly, Del hoped. Shifting silently in the confined space, he pulled out his fob-watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Outside the stained-glass windows of the octagonal tower, it was full daylight—or as full as the light was going to be that day.

Settling back into his hunched position, he found himself staring at the hilt of his sword. The sheathed blade lay on the floor beside him. He had a loaded pistol, too. Many of them had elected to carry one, just in case Larkins resorted to firearms. The cultists, thank heaven, abjured such weapons on some convoluted religious grounds, which was all to the good. He had no doubt that, regardless of how many came to the cathedral, his side would see victory, at least of a sorts, that day.

He was in a mood for victories. Succeeding in gaining Deliah’s promise to marry him had meant more to him than he’d thought it would. He’d intended to ask her regardless and had told himself he’d been asking then because of the necessity of his mission—because he’d needed the right to ensure she didn’t arrive at the cathedral too soon.

While all of that had been true, he’d needed to know she was his on some much more crucial, personal plane. Knowing she’d agreed had filled him with a…certainty. A jubilation, an assurance and an absolute conviction that this—all of this—was proceeding exactly as fate decreed. Exactly as it was supposed to be.

His only remaining uncertainty was a small, tiny, niggling one. He hoped his and Deliah’s exchange of promises would be strong enough to stand against the inevitable ramifications of his morning’s actions. He hoped she’d understand that he’d simply had to do it, that given what she meant to him, he’d had no choice.

Regardless, he thought, as he shifted awkwardly again, he couldn’t regret tying her to the bed. She was safe, and in his new world—the future he’d taken his first steps into last night—that, to him, was the most important thing.

A loud creak had him raising his head, listening, straining his ears.

Light shafted above his head, then slowly faded as the sound of a heavy door closing reached him.

Someone had just entered through the main doors at the end of the nave. Sangay? Or someone else?

Carefully shifting into a crouch, he slowly raised his head, until he could look out over the front lip of the stall. His line of sight was across the octagon, past the altar, and down the nave. He could see Gervase in his borrowed monk’s robe seated halfway along a pew three rows from the front, head bowed, apparently deep in prayer. Glancing to his right, Del saw Tony, also garbed as a monk, all but invisible, seated at prayer in the shadows of one of the stalls across the octagon from Del’s position. Gyles, the other monk, Del couldn’t see, but he knew Gyles was sitting or kneeling in prayerful attitude beyond one of the columns on the other side of the nave.

Whoever had entered had hesitated at the far end of the nave. Thinking of how awestruck Sangay would feel in an edifice that struck awe into the hearts of grown men, Del prayed the boy would remember his instructions.

Assuming it was he.

Finally, on slippered feet, the newcomer crept slowly up the central aisle. It was Sangay.

Del exhaled. Watched as the boy, still wary, but with increasing assurance—presumably he’d sighted his bodyguards—made his way to the second pew from the front, and slid into it to perch at the end by the aisle.

Everything was in place. No matter how he strained his ears, Del could hear not even a shuffle to give away the presence of the other men concealed at various points inside the cathedral. Even the monks were as still and silent as statues; in their gray robes in the shadows, they were difficult to see unless one looked directly at them.

Sangay looked around, scroll-holder in clear view in one hand. Seeing no one frightening, the boy settled on the pew.

He didn’t have long to wait. As they’d surmised, the Black Cobra had had someone watching the cathedral, too wise to get trapped inside. Less than two minutes had passed when a door somewhere opened and shut, then footsteps—confident and assured—came striding in. They were coming from the south transept, past the vestries.

Whoever had come to fetch the scroll-holder would appear through the massive archway on Del’s left. He ducked down, peered through a narrow gap he’d found in the front paneling of the stall.

Held his breath.

A man—large, heavy, close-cropped dark hair—Larkins!—strode into the octagon.

Del looked at Sangay. The boy’s eyes had widened, locking on Larkins. To his credit, Sangay didn’t do the one thing that might give their game away—he didn’t glance at any of his bodyguards.

Instead, even though he was visibly trembling, he gamely stood and slipped out of the pew. And halted, waited. There, at the top of the long nave, in the middle of the central aisle, the scroll-holder clutched in one thin hand.

As they’d hoped, Larkins saw no reason not to go to Sangay. The boy was the epitome of unthreatening. Larkins slowed, but didn’t break stride, almost swaggering as he crossed to halt before the boy, towering over him.

Watching Larkins from behind the man’s back, Del couldn’t see his face, but he saw no evidence of a glance to either side, no indication Larkins had even noticed the monks. None of them had been, or were, in his immediate line of vision.

Larkins looked down at Sangay. “Well?” His voice was rough, dark with suppressed menace.

Sangay ducked his head respectfully. “I have brought the scroll-holder as you wanted, sahib.” Sangay offered it up, balanced across both his palms.

Unseen by Larkins, Tony slid silently from the stall in which he’d been sitting and, sword in hand, glided to the altar. Gyles appeared, hovering just behind the column to Larkins’s right. Gervase held his position, apparently as yet unseen, but he was closest to Sangay—he would be the last to move.

“Good.” Reaching out, Larkins took the scroll-holder. He turned it in his hands, examining it. Then his fingers flicked and tugged, releasing the six levers. Opening the unlocked holder, Larkins slid the single sheet of parchment from within.

Ignoring Sangay, still standing before him, Larkins unrolled the letter. The decoy copy. Half turning so the light from the tower windows above fell on the sheet, Larkins quickly perused it. Then he smiled.

Del caught the satisfaction in that smile—also saw the evil anticipation infusing Larkins’s features. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, felt his body tense.

Still turned away from Sangay, Larkins slid the letter back into the scroll-holder, closed and locked it, then put it into the pocket of the heavy coat he wore.

Focused on securing the letter and holder, Larkins missed seeing the three monks draw closer.

Focused on Larkins, Del didn’t miss the glint of light along the blade the bastard drew from the pocket into which he’d dropped the holder.

“Run, Sangay!”

The order rang out from multiple points around the octagon as Larkins turned and lunged for the boy, but Sangay had already yelped and danced sideways, avoiding Larkins’s grasping hand and his deadly knife.

Leaving Larkins momentarily off-balance.

Before the heavy man could recover, Sangay shrieked, “Ai-ai-ai!” and fled—flew—past him, straight to Tony, rounding the altar some paces beyond Larkins.

Larkins whirled with a roar—then gaped. Froze at the sight of Tony, monk’s robe thrown back over his shoulder, sword raised, his other arm clamped protectively around Sangay’s shivering shoulders.

Larkins’s eyes widened. He looked to the left, toward the north transept, and saw Gyles move out from behind the column.

Larkins whirled to face down the nave.

Only to find Gervase waiting, sword in hand, in the middle of the aisle, with Vane coming up behind him.

Larkins took a step back, then swung to the south—to the corridor through which he’d entered. He’d already taken a step before he registered that Del stood there, blocking that route of escape. Demon hovered in the shadows behind him.

Meeting Larkins’s eyes, Del saw recognition flare—felt grim retribution curve his lips as Larkins stared.

Then Larkins glanced around, and bolted.

Tony had grasped the moments of Larkins’s distraction to draw Sangay back to safety beyond the choir screen. Larkins thought that meant the east corridor was unguarded—mistakenly.

He ran into Gabriel and Lucifer, avenging angels with swords in their hands. Larkins saw them a few steps before it would have been too late. He slid to a halt, then reversed direction and came pelting back toward the altar.

One glance down the north transept revealed Devil and Richard, coming up fast to corner him.

With a scrape and a hiss, Larkins drew a long cutlass from beneath his coat, then swung to put his back to the altar, facing them all, menacing them all, a snarl distorting his features.

None of them were impressed.

“No need for any heroics.” Del stepped forward. They had Larkins exactly where they wanted him, trapped in the octagon. Their plan was to take him alive so he could talk about his master. And none of them were all that keen to even wound him literally on the altar.

However, Del doubted Larkins possessed any such reciprocal sensibility.

Larkins had one hand on the altar as, head slightly lowered, he stood watching Del. Larkins could possibly vault onto the altar. Standing atop it, he’d have something of an advantage, but, regardless, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—escape them.

Rather than prolong the standoff until Larkins sensed their reluctance, Del switched his sword to his left hand, intending to make use of his pistol to capture Larkins.

Larkins saw the move. Desperate, he thought to capitalize. Raising his sword high, he uttered a bellow—

“Good gracious! What’s going on?”

All of them jolted. All of them swung to look.

At the two middle-aged ladies who had appeared behind Devil and Richard. Both ladies had huge flower-filled urns in their arms.

Between them, a pace behind them, stood a cleric, the vicar. He’d halted, blinking myopically toward the altar. “Great heavens! Is that a sword?”

Behind the vicar, the door through which the trio had come stood open.

The next actions happened in the blink of an eye, but to Del, viewing them, time slowed.

Like all of them, Larkins had swung to face the intruders. As Del saw the open door, so did he.

Del saw Larkins’s body shift, knew what he was going to do. With a muttered curse, he stopped reaching for the pistol in his pocket, grasped his sword in his right hand and started forward.

Just as Larkins’s sword arm started to rise again.

Larkins raised his sword above his head, with a roar swung it wildly—and charged.

Devil and Richard had no choice. They turned. Ducking one shoulder, each grabbed one of the women, and in a shower of water, flowers and urns, to ear-splitting screams they hoisted them and rushed them back down the corridor, beyond the door through which they’d come, to safety.

His way cleared, Gyles leapt in and hauled the vicar to him, sword raised, sparks flashing down its length as he used it to ward off Larkins’s roundhouse slash.

Then Larkins was through, past, and racing for the open door.

Del raced after him, but wasn’t close enough. Larkins barreled through the door, then whirled and slammed it shut.

Just before his shoulder hit the panel, Del heard a key grate in the lock.

The door was like the cathedral—solid. The heavy iron hinges were even more so.

Together with Gabriel, Del rammed his shoulder to the panel, but it didn’t so much as shake.

“Wait—wait! I have a key.” The vicar, visibly shaking, came shuffling up, hauling a massive key ring from his robe. There were at least twenty keys on it. “Now…which one is it?”

The keys jingled as he sorted through them.

Del shifted his weight, glanced at the others. “Go out and around.” Because of the risk of being seen, they hadn’t dared post anyone outside.

Gervase, Vane, Lucifer, and Demon rapidly headed out, through the octagon and down the nave—the fastest way to the outside of that part of the cathedral.

Devil came up, sword in hand. “Reverend, is there an external door in that room?”

The vicar glanced up, blinked, then smiled. “Why, my goodness. St. Ives, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Devil said, unsmiling. “Is there an external door in there?”

The vicar glanced at the door. “Well, of course. That’s how we came in.”

Someone muttered a poorly smothered expletive. Richard and Gabriel started after the others.

The vicar glanced their way. “But there’s no need to worry—I locked it after us. I had no idea you were chasing a madman, but he won’t be able to leave by that door.”

Richard and Gabriel halted, then slowly came back.

“I always lock that door,” the vicar said, returning to his keys. “It’s the parish office, you see. I wouldn’t want just anyone poking around in there—ah!” He held up a key. “This is it.”

“Allow me.” Devil took the key, fitted it in the lock, turned it. They all heard the bolt click back.

The vicar obligingly stepped to the rear.

Devil exchanged a glance with Del, who came to stand by his shoulder.

Devil’s lips quirked. “Just like old times.”

Sword in one hand, with a twist of his wrist Devil opened the door and sent it swinging wide. Del stepped through first. Devil followed on his heels to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, blocking the doorway.

Del’s first thought was that there was no one in the room. All he saw was the open window alongside the locked outer door.

A large casement window fully open, the gap was more than wide enough for a man, even one as large as Larkins, to easily escape through.

Then Del’s gaze lowered, and he realized Larkins hadn’t got away.

What in his peripheral vision he’d seen as a shadow on the floor before the window was in fact a body.

Larkins, on his back in an unnatural sprawl.

Both Del and Devil had seen death often enough to know Larkins was dead even before they reached him.

As they did, Vane appeared in the window. He looked in, swore softly.

“Search,” Del told him. “Whoever did this has only just left.”

Vane met his eyes. “We saw the open window. The others are already looking. I’ll pass the word, but so far we haven’t had sight nor sound of anyone beating a hasty retreat.”

With that, Vane went, leaving Del to look down at Larkins, at the ivory-handled dagger jutting out of his chest.

“Whoever did that knew what he was doing.” Devil nodded at the knife, then stepped over Larkins’s legs to the window.

“Oh, yes.” Del crouched, laid his sword aside. “The Black Cobra is exquisitely well-versed in dealing death.”

“So Ferrar, do you think?” Devil asked, examining the window ledge.

“He would be my guess.” Methodically, Del went through Larkins’s pockets, shifting the big man to check every section of the heavy coat.

Devil humphed. “Well, it’s clear enough what happened. Ferrar, if it was he, was watching. He saw Larkins come to this window. Before Larkins could climb through, Ferrar got here.”

Del rose. “Most likely Ferrar watched the action from outside—easy to peer through those small segments of clear glass set between the stained glass. With the light so weak outside, we wouldn’t have seen him even if we’d looked, but he would have seen all that happened inside.”

He glanced down at the body. “He saw Larkins accept the scroll-holder and try to kill Sangay—in front of all of us. All of us saw, all could bear witness. We saw Larkins attempt to kill while trying to retrieve a letter from the Black Cobra sealed with his master’s personal seal.”

Del circled the body, studying Larkins’s coarse-featured face. “What would be the odds that Larkins, given the choice between the hangman and transportation in return for his testimony, would have implicated Ferrar?”

Devil joined him. “High, I would say. If you trust a ravening dog, it’ll turn on you someday.”

“Just so. I think Ferrar thought that, too.” Del bent and retrieved his sword. “So he killed Larkins—sacrificed him to save his own skin.”

Gervase appeared at the window, Vane, Demon, and Lucifer at his back. “No sightings,” Gervase grimly reported. “The closest we got…” He glanced at Demon.

Who looked disgusted. “On the west side, heading south. I heard hoofbeats, already distant, fading rapidly. Too far away, and going too fast for us to have any chance of following. And there’ll be no tracks—the roads that way are churned to slush.”

Devil looked down at Larkins’s body. “So the Black Cobra got away, but gave up his right-hand man.”

Del finished a slow perusal of the room, then looked at the others. “And the scroll-holder’s gone.”

Sixteen

December 19
Elveden Grange, Suffolk

Your letter was a copy, a decoy. Sacrificing it to take out his right-hand man, with a chance at Ferrar himself, was the right decision.” Royce Varisey, Duke of Wolverstone, erstwhile government spymaster, with his black hair, dark eyes, chiseled features and long, powerful frame the very epitome of a darkly dangerous nobleman of Norman descent, kept his compelling gaze fixed on Del.

The entire company, ladies included, were congregated in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, a sprawling Jacobean manor house set amid extensive gardens in a forested area a little way from the village of that name. The ambiance was soothing, and very English. The instant Del had set eyes on the house—two low stories with attics set under a many-gabled roof—he’d suspected what he would find inside. Lots of oak, on the floors, in the linen-fold paneling and ornate woodwork, even in some of the ceilings. The furniture, too, all lovingly polished until it glowed with a honey-gold patina.

Outside, there were ramblers festooning the walls, bare branches now, but he could imagine what they would be like in summer, blossoms nodding in the breeze. Inside, a similar sensual luxury abounded, with richly painted artworks and exquisite ornaments, velvet and satin-striped fabrics, and the jewel tones of precious Eastern carpets.

The result was both colorful and comfortably restful.

Royce stood to one side of the hearth, by the chair his duchess, Minerva—a calm, graceful, and ineffably capable blond beauty—had claimed.

Del stood in a similar position by the chair in which Deliah sat.

Both ladies, of course, were avidly—and openly—listening.

Del grimaced. “It’s an anticlimax to know we almost certainly succeeded in drawing Ferrar into the action himself, but that we missed him by minutes.”

“I’m more than happy simply to know he’s definitely engaged.” Royce’s lips curved. “I didn’t actually expect you to accomplish that. Reducing the cultists by fourteen more than fulfilled my expectations of what we might reasonably achieve from your mission. But by attempting to use the boy as a thief, Ferrar gave us a weapon—by seizing it, we’ve achieved a great deal more than I, for one, anticipated.”

“Yet he escaped.” Del was still irritated by that. To have come so close….

“True, but he’s chanced his hand—he’s dealt himself personally into the game. It was a bold act, to step in and kill Larkins like that, with all of you so close. From all you’ve told me, that was characteristic in its arrogance, but uncharacteristic in that it was massive risk. Trust me, he’s rattled. We’ll keep tempting him—taunting him—with the others as they come in. Eventually, one way or another, we’ll have him.”

“Speaking of having him.” Devil strolled up to join them, Vane by his side. “Is there anything useful we can do with Larkins’s body?”

They’d conveyed the body to the magistrate in Ely with the recommendation he wait on further orders from Wolverstone—a name that carried quite amazing weight. Given it was Devil—St. Ives—making the recommendation, the magistrate had been only too happy to await developments.

The ladies had arrived very soon after the end of the action, much to the men’s unfeigned delight; they’d been able to hand the two hysterical local women into gentler clutches to be soothed and calmed. Eventually, Devil had nudged the vicar in the same direction.

As Del had been quick to later acknowledge, the ladies had contributed in a very real way to the success of their mission.

Sangay had been thrilled, especially when he’d seen Larkins’s dead body. When Sligo and Cobby had arrived, he’d happily recited every second of his ordeal, every last detail of all he’d witnessed. He’d still been chattering when they’d reached the Grange. Being introduced to Royce had abruptly sealed his lips. Wide-eyed, he’d bowed low, and accepted a commendation for his bravery in stunned silence. Despite the assembled ladies’ kind words and reassuring smiles, he’d been perfectly happy to be dispatched with Cobby and Sligo to the kitchens.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Gervase strolled up, his wife, Madeline, on his arm. He and Tony had been stunned to discover their wives and families—in both cases their wives had much younger brothers as well as their own young children with them—in residence at the Grange. Minerva, it transpired, had made plans of her own.

“It does seem as if,” Tony said as he and his wife, Alicia, joined the group, “a dead Larkins ought to be worth something—that his body is a weapon we could use in some way.”

“Perhaps,” Royce said, “but not yet, I think.”

“I heard that Shrewton—Ferrar’s father—is in residence at Wymondham, as he usually is at this time of year.” Demon, with Flick, joined them. “Wymondham’s this side of Norwich, not all that far from here.” Demon arched a brow at Royce. “I assume that’s one reason you’re using this as your base.”

Royce smiled. “That, and knowing I had all you Cynsters I could call on as additional troops.”

“We’ve still got three men—three couriers—to come in,” Del said.

“Which is why I think we might wait and see what comes next before deciding how best to use Larkins’s body.” Royce glanced at Devil, then Vane and Demon. “In case you haven’t yet realized, your roles in this game are far from over. All the couriers are to make their way here, and this is home territory for you.”

Devil, Vane, and Demon looked delighted.

Honoria had come up beside Devil in time to hear Royce’s words, and to witness her husband’s reaction. She poked him in the arm. “Which, of course, means our roles in this game are not yet over, either.” As she exchanged a partner-like nod with Minerva on the words, there was no doubt that her “our” meant the assembled ladies.

All the wives—and Deliah. A funny little frisson of happiness went through her to know she was included in that company.

Honoria raised her eyes to Royce’s face. “Which leads me to ask, what does this letter say, exactly? I assume”—she glanced at Del—“that you have a copy?”

Del exchanged a glance with Royce.

Royce didn’t frown, but the expression filled his eyes. “No. We don’t.” He glanced again at Del. “Unless you made another?”

Lips twisting wryly, Del shook his head. “I never imagined the Black Cobra would succeed in stealing the copy I was carrying, so no, I didn’t make another.”

Minerva looked at Del, then twisted in her chair to look up at her husband. “So you still don’t know exactly what’s in this letter? I thought you said there was a chance there might be more in it than Del and his colleagues had seen?”

Lips firming, Royce nodded. “I did.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll send a messenger to Trentham and ask him to ensure a copy is made from the decoy Hamilton’s carrying, in case, as with Del’s, they decide to sacrifice it.”

Minerva and Honoria approved the action with identical imperious nods. Turning back in her chair, Minerva saw their butler appear in the doorway. “However”—she rose—“you’ll have to wait until after dinner to send your messenger. Dinner is ready to be served, and tonight, we’re celebrating.”

No one was game enough to attempt to gainsay the Duchess of Wolverstone, least of all her arrogantly powerful husband. The company duly fell into line, husbands unfashionably, and with all due attention, escorting their wives; the majority had yet to be informed of the penance they would have to pay for their rabid protectiveness, and not one of them had forgotten it.

Del offered Deliah his arm, and they went in with the others, all chatting and commenting in relaxed and easy camaraderie, all glad the day was ending so well. While it might not have yielded the ultimate victory they wanted—not yet—a definite blow had been struck, and they’d all come away without hurt or harm.

Once the glasses were charged, at the head of the table Royce rose to address them. An expectant hush fell over the room. He looked down the long board, lips lightly curving as he included them all. “We’ve drawn first blood. In the last days, we’ve won a number of skirmishes and, this morning, the first battle. Yes, we haven’t yet won our war, but we’ve made an excellent start.”

He raised his glass to Del, seated halfway down the table. “To Delborough, and the successful conclusion of his part in this mission.”

They all cheered and drank.

Del smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“The next engagement,” Royce continued, “will be on us soon—as Hamilton draws near, which, with any luck, will be tomorrow.”

Cheers from all the men greeted that news.

“However,” Royce went on, his gaze returning to Del, “tonight is for celebrating the success of today. For that, and for all that’s to come, I give you a toast.” He raised his glass high. “To justice for all who deserve it. And death to the Black Cobra.”

“Hear, hear!” came from all around. The men all rose, raised their glasses high and drank. The ladies drank, too. Not one shied from the sentiment declared.

Then everyone subsided, and the meal began.

Excellent food, excellent wine, and excellent company. Free-flowing conversations and the warmth of good cheer wrapped Deliah in their comfort, welcomed and reassured. As the meal progressed, she became increasingly aware of the quiet happiness welling within her. Content beyond measure, she glanced at Del, seated beside her, and saw the same appreciation in his eyes.

They shared a smile, knew without speaking what was in the other’s mind. This was home—at last, they were here. For both of them the journey had been long, but they were there now; at last they knew what their future would hold.

His eyes still locked with hers, Del found her hand, raised it, placed a kiss in her palm, then closed his hand over her fingers. He turned his head to answer a question from Devil.

Deliah studied his profile, let her happiness continue to well.

Home is where the heart is.

She’d heard the phrase before.

Now she understood it.

All their ladies seemed to have taken being tied up that morning relatively well.

Later that evening, back at Somersham Place, Del followed Deliah up the stairs to her room—just as all the other men were following their wives, metaphorically trotting penitently at their heels to face whatever penance was to be theirs.

And just like all the other men, he had to fight to keep a smile from his face.

In his case, the only thing that had marred his day was Ferrar escaping, but as he hadn’t really expected the bastard to even be there, he couldn’t repine too much. Tomorrow, as Royce had intimated, was another day.

Overall, as Deliah halted before her door and he reached around her to open it, he was feeling distinctly…mellow. It had been such a long time since he’d felt that way that the word took a moment to come to his mind.

Following Deliah into the room, he shut the door behind them. She was unbuttoning her pelisse. He crossed to lift it from her shoulders.

The pale green gown she wore beneath, another of Madame Latour’s creations, fitted Deliah’s lush curves exceedingly well; he’d admired the result throughout the evening. He vaguely recalled paying a pretty penny for the gown, and considered it money well spent.

He laid her pelisse over a chair. Her back to him, she glanced at him over her shoulder, then glided into the room.

“This morning…” She said nothing more, but crossed to the dresser. On its top, he saw the two colorful scarves he’d used to secure her to the bed. She picked them up, slowly ran the silk through her fingers as she turned to, across the dimly lit room, regard him.

She tilted her head. “You tied me up.”

Despite his conviction that all was well, more than well, and settled—definitely settled—between them, his stomach contracted at her distant and chilly tone. But…lips thinning, he nodded. “I had to. If you’d been at the cathedral when the fiend, or even Larkins, was there…”

He inwardly shuddered at the thought even now.

Her brows rose. “I would have distracted you?”

He nodded. “I would have been thinking about you—focusing on you, and not on what I was doing.”

“Hmm…that’s what the others said.”

“The other ladies?”

When she nodded, he eased out a breath, and walked forward, closing the distance to halt just before her.

She studied his face. “They also said you…fussing protectively over me was a measure of how much I mean to you. Were they right in that, too?”

Some part of him squirmed, literally squirmed at the thought that she—and the other ladies—saw through him so easily. But he forced himself to nod, albeit curtly. “Yes.”

She smiled. “In that case, all else they said on that subject is presumably correct, too.” She pulled the scarves taut between her hands.

He suddenly felt exceedingly wary. “What else did they say?”

“Actually, it was Minerva who recommended the…procedure. As you might imagine, we spent some time after dinner discussing what recompense would be most appropriate to demand for your high-handedness in tying us all to our beds. A piece of male arrogance that, as you might expect, we were not, individually or collectively, inclined to let pass unanswered. Unremarked on. Unpaid for.”

He was perfectly sure he didn’t want to know the answer, but had to ask, “What is this procedure?”

“It’s very simple.” Her smile was the epitome of feminine triumph. “It’s along the lines of, ‘What’s sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander.’”

“Ah.” He looked down at the scarves she kept tugging taut between her hands. “I…see.”

“I’m told it works best if you first remove your boots and stockings, coat, waistcoat and cravat.” Stepping back, she gestured with a wave to the bed. “So if you will?”

He eyed the bed, glanced briefly her way, then relucantly shrugged out of his coat. Laying it aside, he set his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, rapidly assessing her tack, her options, the likely outcome.

It wasn’t all bad.

Dispensing with his waistcoat, he caught her eye. “Just promise me one thing—you won’t leave me tied naked to your bed in the morning.”

She laughed, a distinctly sultry sound. “We’ll have to see how well you perform in fulfilling your penance.” She turned to survey the bed, as if measuring him lying upon it. Then she walked toward it. “Just console yourself with the thought that every man who sinned is paying the same price.”

“They are?”

“Well, of course.”

That cast the matter in a completely different light. Del inwardly grinned, wondering what comments he, Devil, and the others would be sharing tomorrow morning.

Tossing his cravat aside, he followed her to the bed, where she was lacing the scarves through the ornate headboard, just as he had that morning.

She straightened and turned as he neared.

He caught her in one arm, bent his head and kissed her soundly.

Lifting his head, he looked into her jade eyes, already hazed with rising passion. “I’ll do anything you ask of me—anything and everything—just as long as, come the morning, you’ll still be mine.”

She looked into his eyes, studied them, then smiled. “Always.” Her smile deepened. She raised a hand, laid her palm to his cheek. “Always and forever.”

A heartbeat passed, then she lightly patted his cheek. “Now get on the bed.”

He did, and gave himself up to her torment.

To giving his all, and accepting hers in return.

The night rolled on as passion roiled about them, as desire surged, then, sated, waned. Only to wax anew, and take them again.

They found new ways to use the scarves, experimented and laughed, then fell silent as desire and joy twined again, crested again, wracked them again.

At the end they lay entwined, his arms around her, their legs tangled, and traded whispers and hopes, thoughts and ideas of what their joint life would be like once the Black Cobra was brought down.

Ultimately, sleep crept in on quiet wings and enfolded them.

Deliah’s last thought was that for her part in Del’s mission she’d gained a reward far greater than she ever would have—ever could have—imagined. She’d gained the love of an honorable, courageous, handsome, and passionate gentleman—something she’d been so often told, and had for so long believed, she could never have.

He was with her now, hers now, and she was his forevermore.

She closed her eyes, hugged that glorious truth close, and let sleep claim her.

Del listened to her breathing slow, felt her warmth filling his arms, and knew he’d already gained the greatest reward he could possibly expect from this mission. He’d defined and secured his future—their future.

It lay waiting for them, just ahead on their road, a shared life in which she would be his—his wife, his lover, his helpmate, his heart—while he would be hers, her husband, her protector.

Even if he had to pay a penance every time he exercised the latter right.

His lips curved as sleep tugged him down. He surrendered as one last thought slid through his mind.

Home.

He was finally there.

Home for him lay in Deliah’s arms.

December 19
Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

In the darkest hour of the long night, Roderick Ferrar strode up to the back door of the house in Bury St. Edmunds that the cult had made its own.

The door opened before he reached it. He strode in, fighting to keep the shivers that racked him at bay. He went straight through the house to the drawing room, barely noticing the silks now draping the walls, the incense permeating the air, the servants and cultists who bowed low as he passed.

Alex and Daniel were waiting, playing cards at a small table set between two armchairs angled before the hearth. They looked up as he entered. Stiffly, he walked to the hearth, and bent to warm his icy hands at the blaze.

One look at Roderick’s face, and all expression leached from Alex’s. “You’re exceedingly late. What happened?”

Roderick straightened, drew a tight breath, then faced them. “It was a trap. They turned Larkins’s brilliant plan into a trap, and Larkins walked right into it.”

Alex blinked, slowly. “Where is Larkins?”

Roderick snorted. Gripped the mantelpiece. “He’s dead. He’d been seen by a bevy of them—St. Ives was there, for heaven’s sake! And Chillingworth. And a host of others of that ilk—including Delborough, of course. They all saw Larkins take the scroll-holder, open it, read the letter, then pocket it—then, of course, he moved to silence the boy. That’s when they showed themselves. There were a dozen of them, maybe more. I didn’t wait to count. I had to get to Larkins, had to kill him. They had more than enough testimony to take him up, to prove he was after the letter with my seal. And once they had him—”

“He would have given us up to save his miserable hide.” Daniel nodded. “I take it you managed to eliminate Larkins without being seen yourself?”

Roderick wiped a hand over his mouth. “Just. It was a near-run thing, but I got clean away.” He looked at Alex. “That’s why I’m so late. I stopped in Newmarket—in a tavern—to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Sound thinking.” Alex leaned back in the armchair.

Roderick started to pace before the fire. “This is unbelievably irritating. Where the hell am I to find someone to replace Larkins? Someone who understands our needs, knows how the cult operates, is willing and able to do what’s required, and above all, given these damned couriers and our present need, is an Englishman?”

The other two exchanged a glance, but neither leapt to answer.

Eventually, Daniel murmured, “Larkins did have his uses.”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” Roderick ran a hand through his hair. “Lord knows, he’s been with me for decades.”

“You did the right thing,” Alex reassured him, in a voice of infinite, collected calm. “If he’d been taken up, as inevitably he would have been—impossible to hide him forever—he would have given you, and us, up. There’s no doubt of that. You would have been a fool to wager your neck on his loyalty. You had to act as you did.”

Alex’s words had the desired effect. Roderick calmed, grew less agitated.

“There’s too much at stake in this game,” Daniel said. “We have to play to win.”

“Indeed, “Alex concurred. “Those who are weak enough to get caught…have to be eliminated.”

Neither Roderick nor Daniel argued.

After a pause, Alex continued, “You mentioned Delborough’s scroll-holder. What happened to it?”

“Larkins’s last useful act. He had it when he met me.” Roderick felt in the pockets of the greatcoat he still wore, pulled out the scroll-holder, and handed it to Alex. “I checked. It’s a copy, not the original.”

Alex’s lips twisted wryly. “So I was right. Delborough was a decoy.”

“Your prescience is not much use after the fact,” Roderick said. “But at least we now know why Delborough went to Somersham Place. What better reinforcements than a whole troop of Cynsters?”

Daniel shrugged. “So they rattle their sabers around these parts. We’ll just make sure all the action henceforth takes place far from here.”

“Exactly.” Alex looked at Roderick. “So where is Hamilton?”

Roderick gave a brief report. “So in the matter of the major, we’ve done all we can—put everything in place—that we can to this point. But Hamilton and Miss Ensworth are already at Chelmsford. They appear to be heading this way.” He glanced at Alex and Daniel. “The question is, are they heading to Somersham Place as well, or somewhere else?”

“It’s possible, of course, that they’re heading to Somersham.” There was a frown etched on Alex’s face. “I just wish we’d known about the damned Cynsters in time to act earlier, at least to keep Hamilton from getting this close.”

“Too late for that now,” Daniel observed. “He’s virtually on our doorstep.”

“True,” Alex allowed. “But what worries me more is these others our puppetmaster has drawn into this fight. We’re not, as we thought we would be, facing only the colonel and his three friends. We’ve the Cynsters getting in our way up here, and bodyguards escorting our pigeons from the moment they land. Delborough had two, and now you say Hamilton has another two—a different two—who were waiting for him when he landed.”

Head slowly shaking, Alex met Roderick’s, then Daniel’s eyes. “This is all too expertly organized. We’re facing an enemy more able than we’d thought, and being forced to fight on a front far wider than we’d anticipated.”

When Alex fell silent, Daniel prompted, “So?”

Alex pulled a face. “I just wish I knew who was behind this. It’s much easier to triumph over an enemy if you know who that enemy is. How else can you learn his weaknesses?”

Neither of the other two answered.

Roderick shifted his weight. “What we do know is that, whoever he is, he poses a very real danger to us—or will if the original letter gets through to him.”

Alex examined the scroll-holder Larkins had died for. “The usual contraption.” The cult used similar devices to transport sensitive communications.

With quick flicks, Alex manipulated the levers, unlocked the scroll-holder, opened it, and drew out the single sheet of parchment it held.

Daniel looked at Roderick. “While our men are taking Hamilton down, we should put more effort into identifying who our puppetmaster is. Chances are it’s someone with links both to the Cynsters and to these other men—the ones acting as bodyguards. What do you know of them? Are they from some arm of the services, or…?”

“At this point,” Roderick said, “I don’t even know who they are.”

While Daniel and Roderick discussed ways and means to identify their unexpected opponents, Alex unrolled the letter and, after checking—just to make sure—that it was indeed a copy with no incriminating seal, idly scanned the contents.

The rumble of the others’ voices filled the night’s silence. Alex’s eyes traveled the sheet, then halted.

Neither Alex nor Daniel had previously seen the letter. Neither had had any idea of its full contents.

A long moment passed. Alex’s eyes remained locked on the letter, on a single line. Roderick and Daniel continued to talk.

Abruptly, Alex looked up. “You used my name.”

The words resonated with accusation and incipient black fury.

Roderick looked at Alex, frowned. “Of course I mentioned you. If you recall, I was trying to persuade that bastard, Govind Holkar, to commit more deeply—men and money. We’d discussed mentioning you visiting Poona as an incentive—you knew I’d be mentioning it.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Alex bit off each word, gaze boring into Roderick. “You used my real name.”

Both Roderick and Daniel blinked. Then both froze.

In a movement redolent with rage, eyes narrowed to glittering shards, Alex tossed the letter on the table. “And just what do you think, brother-mine, will happen if our dear father is shown this letter? Even a copy of this letter?” The words were vicious, lashing, scathing as Alex’s voice rose. “You don’t think, perhaps, that he might be tempted to throw me and Daniel to the wolves to save you? To save the honor of his house?” Eyes blazing, Alex pushed upright. “Of course he will!”

Alex shouldered past Roderick and fell to pacing, a great deal more violently than Roderick had.

Daniel reached for the letter. It took him only a moment to find the relevant line. Lips tightening, he tossed the letter back on the table. Sitting back, he caught Roderick’s eye. “My name, too, brother-mine. And just when were you going to remember to tell us?”

“I didn’t know—I swear I didn’t know.” Pale, looking suddenly ill, Roderick raked a hand through his hair. He glanced at Alex, who shot him a murderous look, then he hauled in a huge breath. “We don’t need this. We need to concentrate. I was in a rush when I wrote the damned thing—remember? I didn’t even register that I’d used your real names.”

“Make no mistake,” Alex scoffed. “Our father will register that, if he’s ever shown it.”

“So we make sure he never sees the damned thing.” Roderick swung to Daniel, who was leaning back in his armchair, his face a mask. “We’ll intercept all the letters—the copies as well as the original. Chances were we would have had to do that anyway in order to seize the original.”

Roderick glanced at Alex, still pacing viciously, then looked back at Daniel. “So—Hamilton’s next.” Roderick stole another glance at Alex. “What are we going to do about him?”

“Not we. You!” Swinging around, Alex pointed a finger at Roderick. “You asked before where you might find a man to replace Larkins. His replacement, Roderick, is you!” Another jab of Alex’s finger emphasized the word. “You take on Larkins’s role, and you get those damned letters back—every copy, every last one!”

Roderick’s eyes narrowed to shards of blue ice. “All right.” Face set, he nodded. “I will.”

The Elusive Bride

STEPHANIE
LAURENS

The
Elusive
Bride
THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET

Dear Diary,

I have waited for so long and will admit that I had fallen into the habit of imagining it would never happen, that now that it might have, I find myself rather cautious. Is this what my sisters meant when they said I would simply know? Certainly, my stomach and my nerves proved to be singularly sensitive to Major Hamilton’s nearness, but how reliable is that indicator?

Until I know more about Major Hamilton, I cannot know if he is “the one”—my “one,” the gentleman for me—so my most urgent need is to learn more about him, but from whom?

And I need to spend more time with him, too—but how?

I must devote myself to finding ways—I have only a few days left.

And after all these years of waiting for him to appear and coming all this way before meet-ing him, sailing away and leaving my “one” behind just doesn’t bear thinking about.

E.

Prologue

September 2, 1822
Road from Poona to Bombay

Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul!”

The battle cries of their pursuers faded momentarily as Emily Ensworth and her escort thundered around the next bend. Gaze locked on the beaten surface of the dirt road, she concentrated on urging her mare even faster—on fleeing down the mountain road as if her life depended on it.

She suspected it did.

They were halfway down the hill road from Poona, the monsoon capital for the upper echelons of the British governing Bombay. Bombay itself was still hours of hard riding ahead. About them, the usually serene beauty of the hills, with their majestic firs and cool crisp air, was again fractured by the ululations of the riders pursuing them.

She’d got a good look at them earlier. Clad in traditional native garb, their insignia was a black silk scarf wound about their heads, long ends flying as, swords flashing, they’d charged wildly in their wake.

Their pursuers were Black Cobra cultists. She’d heard the grisly tales, and had no wish to feature in the next horrific installment.

She and her escort, led by young Captain MacFarlane, had fled at a flat gallop, yet somehow the cultists had closed the distance. She’d initially felt confident she and the troop could outrun them; she was no longer so sure.

Captain MacFarlane rode alongside her. Her eyes locked on the sharply descending road, she sensed him glance back, then, a moment later, he glanced at her. She was about to snap that she was an accomplished rider, as he should by now have noticed, when he looked ahead and pointed.

“There!” MacFarlane waved at his lieutenant. “Those two rocks on the next stretch. With two others I can hold them back long enough for Miss Ensworth and the rest of you to reach safety.”

“I’ll stay with you!” the lieutenant shouted across Emily’s head. “Binta and the others can carry on with the memsahib.”

The memsahib—Emily—stared at the rocks in question. Two tall, massive boulders, they framed the road, with the sheer cliff face on one side, and an equally sheer drop on the other. She was no general, but while three men might delay their pursuers, they’d never hold them back.

“No!” She glanced at MacFarlane while they continued to thunder on. “We all of us stay, or we all of us go on.”

Blue eyes narrowed on her face. His jaw set. “Miss Ensworth, I’ve no time to argue. You will go on with the bulk of the troop.”

Of course she argued, but he wouldn’t listen.

So complete was his ignoring of her words that she suddenly realized he knew he wouldn’t survive. That he’d die—here on this road—and it wouldn’t be a pretty death.

He’d accepted that.

His bravery stunned her, rendered her silent as, reaching the rocks, they pulled up, milling as MacFarlane snapped out orders.

Then he reached over, grabbed her bridle, and drew her on down the road.

“Here.” Drawing a folded parchment packet from inside his coat, he thrust it into her hand. “Take this—get it to Colonel Derek Delborough. He’s at the fort in Bombay.” Blue eyes met hers. “It’s vital you place that in his hands—his and no others. Do you understand?”

Numb, she nodded. “Colonel Delborough, at the fort.”

“Right. Now ride!” He slapped her mare’s rump.

The horse leapt forward. Emily shoved the packet into the front of her riding jacket and tightened her grip on the reins. Behind her, the troop came pounding up, forming around her as they again fled on.

She glanced back as they rounded the next curve. Two of the troop were taking up positions on either side of the rocks. MacFarlane was freeing their horses, shooing them on.

Then they swept around the curve and he was lost to her sight.

She had to ride on. He’d given her no choice. If she didn’t reach Bombay and deliver his packet, his death—his sacrifice—would be for naught.

That couldn’t be. She couldn’t let that happen.

But he’d been so young.

Tears stung her eyes. Viciously she blinked them back.

She had to concentrate on the godforsaken road and ride.

Later that day
East India Company Fort, Bombay

Emily fixed the sepoy guarding the fort gates with a steady direct gaze. “Captain MacFarlane?”

As the niece of the Governor of Bombay, visiting her uncle for the last six months, she could ask and expect to be answered.

The sepoy blanched, olive skin and all. The glance he bent on her was sorrowful and compassionate. “I am very sorry, miss, but the captain is dead.”

She’d expected it, yet…looking down, she swallowed, then lifted her head, drew breath. Fixed the guard with an even more imperious gaze. “I wish to speak with Colonel Delborough. Where may I find him?”

The answer had been the officers’ bar, the enclosed front verandah of the officers’ mess. Emily wasn’t sure it was acceptable for her—a female—to go inside, but that wasn’t going to stop her.

Idi, the Indian maid she’d borrowed from her uncle’s household, trailing behind her, she mounted the shallow steps. Moving into the dim shadows of the verandah, she halted to let her eyes adjust.

Once they had, she swept the verandah left to right, registering the familiar click of billiard balls coming from an alcove off one end, several officers in groups of twos and threes gathered about round tables, and one larger group haunting the far right corner.

Of course they’d all noticed her the instant she’d walked in.

A serving boy quickly came forward. “Miss?”

Transferring her gaze from the group to the boy’s face, she stated, “I’m looking for Colonel Delborough. I was informed he was here.”

The boy bobbed. “Yes, miss.” He swung and pointed to the group in the corner. “He is there with his men.”

Had MacFarlane been one of Delborough’s men? Emily thanked the boy and headed for the corner table.

There were four very large officers seated at the table. All four slowly rose as she approached. Remembering Idi dutifully dogging her heels, Emily paused and waved the maid to a chair by the verandah’s side. “Wait there.”

Holding the edge of her sari half over her face, Idi nodded and sat.

Drawing breath, head rising, Emily walked on.

As she neared, she scanned, not the men’s faces—even without looking she knew their expressions were bleak; they’d learned of MacFarlane’s death, almost certainly knew the manner of it, something she was sure she didn’t need to know—but instead she searched each pair of broad shoulders for a colonel’s epaulettes.

Distantly she registered that, in common female parlance, these men would be termed “impressive,” with their broad chests, their height and their air of rugged physical strength. She was surprised she hadn’t seen them in any of the drawing rooms she’d visited with her aunt over recent months.

Another captain—blonder than MacFarlane—and two majors, one with light brown hair…she had to tug her gaze on to the other major, the one with rakish dark hair, then she finally found the colonel among them—presumably Delborough. He had dark hair, too.

She halted before him, lifted her gaze to his face, set her teeth against the emotions surging about the table; she couldn’t let them draw her in. Down. Make her cry. She’d cried enough when she’d reached her uncle’s house, and she hadn’t known MacFarlane as, from the intensity of their feelings, these four had. “Colonel Delborough?”

The colonel inclined his head, dark eyes searching her face. “Ma’am?”

“I’m Emily Ensworth, the governor’s niece. I…” Recalling MacFarlane’s instructions—Delborough’s hands and no others—she glanced at the other three. “If I could trouble you for a word in private, Colonel?”

Delborough hesitated, then said, “Every man about this table is an old friend and colleague of James MacFarlane. We were all working together. If your business with me has anything to do with James, I would ask that you speak before us all.”

His eyes were weary, and so sad. One glance at the others, at their rigid expressions—so contained—and she nodded. “Very well.”

There was an empty chair between the two majors. The brown-haired one held it for her.

She briefly met his eyes, a tawnier hazel than her own. “Thank you.” Ignoring the sudden flutter in her stomach, she sat. Determinedly directing her gaze forward, she found herself staring at a three-quarters empty bottle of arrack at the table’s center.

With a shuffle of chairs, the men resumed their seats.

She glanced at Delborough. “I realize it might be irregular, but if I could have a small glass of that…?”

He met her eyes. “It’s arrack.”

“I know.”

He signaled to the barboy to bring another glass. While they waited, beneath the table’s edge she opened her reticule and drew out MacFarlane’s packet.

The boy delivered the glass, and Delborough poured a half measure.

With a smile that went awry, she accepted it and took a small sip. The sharp taste made her nose wrinkle, but her uncle had allowed her to partake of the liquor in an experimental fashion; she knew of its fortifying properties. She took a larger sip, then lowered the glass. Quashing the impulse to look at the brown-haired major, she fixed her gaze on Delborough. “I asked at the gate and they told me. I’m very sorry that Captain MacFarlane didn’t make it back.”

Delborough’s expression couldn’t get any stonier, but he inclined his head. “If you could tell us what happened from the beginning, it would help us understand.”

They’d been MacFarlane’s friends; they needed to know. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “We started very early from Poona.”

She told the story simply, without embellishment.

When she reached the point where she’d parted from the gallant captain, she paused and drained her glass. “I tried to argue, but he would have none of it. He drew me aside—ahead—and gave me this.” She lifted the packet. Laying it on the table, she pushed it toward Delborough. “Captain MacFarlane asked me to bring this to you.”

She finished her tale in the minimum of words, ending with, “He turned back with a few men, and the rest came with me.”

When she fell silent, the distracting major on her left shifted. Spoke gently. “And you sent them back when you came within sight of safety.” When she glanced his way, met his hazel eyes, he added, “You did the best you could.”

The instant she’d sighted Bombay, she’d insisted all but two of the troop return to help their comrades; unfortunately, they’d been too late.

Setting a hand on the packet, Delborough drew it to him. “And you did the right thing.”

She blinked several times, then lifted her chin, her gaze on the packet. “I don’t know what’s in that—I didn’t look. But whatever it is…I hope it’s worth it, worth the sacrifice he made.” She raised her gaze to Delborough’s. “I’ll leave it in your hands, Colonel, as I promised Captain MacFarlane I would.” She pushed back from the table.

They all rose. The brown-haired major drew back her chair. “Allow me to organize an escort for you back to the governor’s house.”

She inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Major.” Who was he? Her nerves were fluttering again. He was standing closer than before; she didn’t think her lightheadedness was due to the arrack.

Forcing her attention to Delborough and the other two, she nodded. “Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”

“Miss Ensworth.” They all bowed.

Turning, she strolled back down the verandah, the major pacing slowly alongside. She waved to Idi, who fell into step behind her.

She glanced at the major’s carefully blank expression, then cleared her throat. “You all knew him well, I take it?”

He glanced at her. “He’d served with us, alongside us, for over eight years. He was a comrade, and a close friend.”

She’d noticed their uniforms, but now it struck her. She looked at the major. “You’re not regulars.”

“No.” His lips twisted. “We’re Hastings’s own.”

The Marquess of Hastings, the Governor-General of India. This group, and MacFarlane, had worked directly for him? “I see.” She didn’t, but she felt sure her uncle would be able to enlighten her.

They emerged onto the verandah steps.

“If you’ll wait here for a moment?”

It wasn’t really a question. She halted and, with Idi beside her, watched as the major raised a hand, attracting the attention of a sepoy sergeant drilling his troop on the maidan.

The sergeant quickly presented himself. With a few words, the major organized a group of sepoys to escort her back to the governor’s residence deeper in the town.

His innate yet understated air of command, and the attentiveness and willingness—even eagerness—of the sergeant to obey, were as impressive as his physical presence.

As the sepoys hurried to form up before the steps, Emily turned to the soldier beside her and held out her hand. “Thank you, Major…?”

He took her hand in a warm, strong clasp, met her eyes briefly, then half bowed. “Major Gareth Hamilton, Miss Ensworth.” Releasing her, he looked at the well-ordered sepoys, nodded his approval, then turned again to her.

Again met her eyes. “Please. Be careful.”

She blinked. “Yes, of course.” Her heart was thumping unusually quickly. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers around hers. Drawing in a much-needed breath, she inclined her head and stepped down to the dusty ground. “Good evening, Major.”

“Good evening, Miss Ensworth.”

Gareth stood on the steps and watched Emily Ensworth walk away across the sunburned ground toward the massive fort gates. With her porcelain complexion, rose-tinted and pure, her delicate features and soft brown hair, she looked so quintessentially English, so much the epitomization of lovely English maids he’d carried with him through all his years of service.

That had to be the reason he felt as if he’d just met his future.

But it couldn’t be her, couldn’t be now.

Now, duty called.

Duty, and the memory of James MacFarlane.

Turning, he climbed the steps and went back inside.

3rd September, 1822
My room in the Governor’s Residence, Bombay

Dear Diary,

I have waited for so long, and will admit that I had fallen into the habit of imagining it would never happen, that now it might have, I find myself rather cautious. Is this what my sisters meant when they said I would simply know? Certainly, my stomach and my nerves proved to be singularly sensitive to Major Hamilton’s nearness—as Ester, Meggie, and Hilary foretold—but how reliable is that indicator?

On the other hand, this does sound like fate playing her usual tricks. Here am I, virtually at the end of my stay in India—a sojourn expressly undertaken to broaden my horizons vis à vis marriageable gentlemen, exposing me to more specimens of varying character so that my well-known “pickiness” might become better informed—and I finally stumble on one who affects me, and after an entire day, I have barely learned his name and station.

It is no help that Aunt Selma remains in Poona, too far away to provide advice, and so all my information needs must come from my uncle, although Uncle Ralph does answer without thinking of the motives behind my questions, which is all to the good.

Until I know more about Major Hamilton, I cannot know if, as I am starting to fervently hope, he is “the one”—my “one,” the gentleman for me—so my most urgent need is to learn more about him, but from whom?

And I need to spend more time with him, too—but how?

I must devote myself to finding ways—I have only a few days left.

And after all these years of waiting for him to appear, and coming all this way before meeting him, sailing away and leaving my “one” behind just doesn’t bear thinking about.

E.

September 10, 1822
The Governor’s Residence, Bombay

Emily frowned at the Indian houseboy standing in the patch of sunlight slanting across the silk rug in her aunt’s parlor. “He’s leaving?”

The boy, Chandra, nodded. “Yes, miss. It is said he and his other friends have all resigned their commissions because they are so cast down by the death of their friend the captain.”

She resisted the urge to drop her head in her hands and tug at her braids. What the devil was Hamilton about? How could he be her “one” if he was so cowardly as to run home to England? What about honor and avenging a friend—a comrade and fellow officer killed in the most ghastly and gruesome manner?

A vision of the four men as they’d stood around the table in the officers’ bar swam across her mind. Her frown deepened. “All of them—all four—have resigned?”

When Chandra nodded, she specified, “And they’re all heading back to England?”

“That’s what everyone says. I have spoken with some who know their servants—they are all excited about seeing England.”

Emily sat back in the chair behind her aunt’s desk, thought again of those four men, of all she’d sensed of them, remembered the packet she’d placed in Delborough’s hands, and inwardly shook her head. Any one of those four turning tail was hard enough to swallow, but all four of them? She wouldn’t lose faith in Hamilton just yet.

They were up to something.

She wondered what.

She was due to board ship on the eighteenth of the month, sailing via the Cape to Southampton. She needed to learn more about Hamilton, a lot more, before she left. Once she was convinced he was not as cowardly as his present actions painted him, as he was going home, she could—somehow would—arrange to meet him again there.

But first…

She refocused on Chandra. “I want you to concentrate on Major Hamilton. See what you can learn of his plans—not just from his household but from the barracks and anywhere else he goes. But whatever you do, don’t get caught.”

Chandra grinned, his big smile startlingly white in his mahogany face. “You can count on Chandra, miss.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know I can.” She’d caught him gaming, which was forbidden for those on the governor’s payroll, but on learning his need for rupees to pay for medicine for his mother, had arranged for him to have money advanced from his pay, and for his mother, who also worked in the governor’s mansion, to receive better care. Ever since, Chandra had been her willing slave. And as he was quick, observant, and all but invisible in Bombay’s busy streets, he’d proved extremely useful in following Hamilton and the other three.

“One thing—Hamilton has no other Anglo friends, just those three officers?”

“Yes, miss. They all came from Calcutta some months ago, and have kept to themselves.”

Which would explain why she’d learned nothing of Hamilton through the Bombay social grapevine. She nodded to Chandra. “Very well. Let me know what you learn.”

September 15, 1822
The Governor’s Residence, Bombay

“He’s left?” Emily stared at Chandra. “When? And how?”

“This morning, miss. He took the sloop to Aden.”

“He and his servants?”

“So I heard tell, miss—they were already gone when I got there.”

Mind racing, she asked, “The other three—have they gone, too?”

“I have only had the chance to check on the colonel, miss. Apparently he left on the company ship this morning. Everyone was surprised. No one knew they were leaving so soon.”

The company ship was a mammoth East Indiaman which went via the Cape to Southampton. She was due to board a sister ship in a few days.

“See what you can learn about the other two—the other major and the captain.” If all four had precipitously departed Bombay…

Chandra bowed and left.

Emily felt a headache coming on.

Gareth Hamilton—he who might be her “one”—had left Bombay via the diplomatic route. Why?

Regardless of his motives, his sudden departure left her with a very big unanswered question—and an even bigger decision to make. Was he her “one,” or not? She needed more time with him to tell. If she wanted to get that time, following him might—just—be possible. If she acted now.

Should she follow him, or let him go?

Closing her eyes, she revisited those moments in the officers’ bar, the only moments on which she could judge him. Surprisingly vividly, she recalled the sensation of his fingers closing around hers, felt again that odd leap of her pulse, the frisson that had set her nerves jangling.

Felt, remembered, relived.

On a sigh, she opened her eyes. One point was inescapable.

Of all the men she’d ever met, only Gareth Hamilton had affected her in the slightest.

Only he had set her heart racing.

September 16, 1822
The Governor’s Residence, Bombay

“Good evening, Uncle.” Emily swept into the dining room and took her seat on her uncle’s right. They were the only two at dinner. Her aunt was still in Poona—which was a very good thing. Flicking out her napkin, she smiled at the butler, waited for him to serve her and step back before she said, “I have an announcement of sorts to make.”

“Oh?” Her uncle Ralph rolled a wary eye her way.

She smiled. She and Ralph had always got on well. “Don’t worry—it’s only a minor change in my plans. As you know, I was scheduled to depart on the company ship two days hence, but after speaking with others I’ve decided that, as I came by that route, I should instead go home by the direct and more scenic way.” She waved her fork. “See Egypt and the pyramids—and as it is the diplomatic route, there’s unlikely to be any serious danger, and plenty of embassies and consulates to call on for help if luck says otherwise.”

Ralph chewed, frowned. “Your father won’t like the idea, but then he won’t know—not until you’re standing in front of him again.”

Emily grinned. “I knew I could trust you to see the salient point. There’s really no reason I shouldn’t go home that way.”

“Assuming you can find passage at short notice. Your parents are expecting you back in four months—going via Cairo you’ll be able to surprise them, if you can find a berth—” Seeing the light in her face, Ralph broke off. “You’ve found one, I take it.”

Emily nodded. “And yes, it’s on one of the sloops the company regularly uses, so the captain and crew are vouched for.”

Ralph considered, then nodded. “Well, you’re the most sensible young lady I’ve ever known, and you’ll have Watson and Mullins with you, so I trust you’ll be all right.” He cocked a brow at her. “So, when do you leave?”

One

17th September, 1822
My cabin aboard the sloop Mary Alice

Dear Diary,

As usual, I will endeavor to record my thoughts at 5 o’clock every afternoon, before I dress for dinner. This morning I departed Bombay, and I understand we are making good time as the Mary Alice slices its way through the waves to Aden.

And yes, I acknowledge that it’s undeniably bold to be pursuing a gentleman as I’m pursuing Major Hamilton, but as we all know, fortune favors the bold. Indeed, even my parents should accept the necessity—they sent me to Bombay because I dragged my heels over choosing any of the young men who offered, opting instead to wait for my “one,” as all my sisters—and I suspect my sisters-in-law, too—did. I have always maintained that it was simply a matter of waiting for the right man to appear, and if Major Hamilton proves to be my right man, then at the ripe old age of twenty and four, I doubt anyone would argue against my pursuing him.

Of course, I have yet to determine if he truly is my “one,” but I can only decide that after meeting him again.

Speaking of which…he and his party are two days ahead of me.

I wonder how fast a sloop can go?

E.

1st October, 1822
My cabin aboard the Mary Alice

Dear Diary,

The answer to my last question is: quite amazingly fast when all sail is risked. My being extra charming to the captain and challenging him to demonstrate how fast his ship can go has paid a handsome dividend. We passed the Egret, the sloop carrying the major and his household, sometime last night. With luck and continuing fair winds, I will disembark in Aden before him, and he will have no reason to suspect I set out on this journey to follow him.

E.

October 2, 1822
Aden

What the…?” Gareth Hamilton stood in the bow of the Egret and stared incredulously at the pale pink parasol bobbing through the crowd on the wharf alongside.

They’d followed another of the company sloops into the harbor, and had had to wait for that vessel, the Mary Alice, to be unloaded first.

His bags, along with the minimal luggage carried by his small but efficient household—his batman, Bister, his houseman, Mooktu, an ex-sepoy, and Mooktu’s wife, Arnia—were being stacked that very minute on the wooden wharf, but that wasn’t the cause of the consternation—to put it mildly—that had seized him.

He’d noticed the parasol bobbing down the gangway of the Mary Alice, tied up almost at the end of the long wharf. He’d watched the bearer, a lady in matching pale pink skirts, tack and weave through the crowd. She and the contingent of staff following at her heels, with one heavily muscled man clearing a path through the noisy, jostling throng ahead of her, had to pass along the wharf beside the Egret in order to enter the town.

Until a moment ago, he hadn’t been able to see the parasol holder’s face. But passing the Egret, she’d tipped the parasol aside and glanced up—and he’d glimpsed…a face he hadn’t expected to see again.

A face that, for the last few weeks, had haunted his dreams.

Yet all but immediately, the damn parasol had come up and re-obscured his view.

“Damn!” One part of his mind was telling him, calmly, that it couldn’t possibly be she, that he was seeing things he wanted to see…Some other part, a more visceral part, was already sure.

He hesitated, waiting to see again—to know for sure.

Movement in the crowd behind the parasol caught his eye.

Cultists.

His blood literally ran cold. He’d known they’d be waiting for him—he and his people were expecting a welcome.

But Emily Ensworth and her people weren’t.

He’d vaulted the railing on the thought. He landed on the wharf, his gaze locked on her.

He came up from his crouch with considerable momentum, cleaving his way bodily through the crowd. He came up with her just in time to grab her and haul her away from the blade a cultist thrust at her.

Her gasp was drowned beneath a cacophony of sound—exclamations, shrieks, shouts. Others had seen the menacing sword, but even as the crowd turned and garrulously searched, the cultists melted away. Taller than most, Gareth saw them pull back. Over the heads, one cultist—an older, black-bearded man—met his eye. Even across the distance, Gareth felt the malevolence in the man’s gaze. Then the man turned and was swallowed by the crowd.

Mooktu appeared by Gareth’s shoulder. “Should we follow?”

Bister was already further afield, scouting.

Gareth’s instincts screamed follow, to pursue and deal appropriately with any cultist he could find. But…he glanced down at the woman he still held, his hands locked about her upper arms.

With her parasol now askew, he looked down into wide, moss-hazel eyes. Into a face that was as perfect as he recalled, but pale. She was stunned.

At least she wasn’t screaming.

“No.” He glanced at Mooktu. “We have to get away from here—off the docks—quickly.”

Mooktu nodded. “I’ll get the others.”

He was gone on the word, leaving Gareth to set Miss Ensworth back on her feet.

Gently, as if she were porcelain and might shatter at any instant.

“Are you all right?”

As the warmth—the heat—of his hard hands fell from her, Emily managed to blink. “Y-yes.” This must be what shock felt like.

Indeed, she was amazed she hadn’t swooned. He’d seized her, dragged her from danger, then held her close, effectively plastered to the side of his body. His brick-wall-hard, excessively warm—not to say hot—body.

She didn’t think she’d ever be the same.

“Ah…” Where was a fan when one needed one? She glanced around, and noise suddenly assaulted her ears. Everyone was talking, in several different languages.

Hamilton hadn’t moved. He stood like a rock amid the sea of surging humanity. She wasn’t too proud to shelter in his lee.

She finally located Mullins—her grizzly ex-soldier guard—as he came stumping back through the crowd. Just before the attack, a wave of bodies had pushed him ahead and separated them—then her attacker had stepped between her and Watson, her courier-guide, who’d been following on her heels.

Her people were armed, but having lost her assailant in the melee, they gradually returned. Mullins recognized Hamilton as a solider even though he wasn’t in uniform, and raised a hand in an abbreviated salute. “Thanking you, sir—don’t know what we’d’ve done without you.”

Emily noted the way Hamilton’s lips tightened. She was grateful he didn’t state the obvious—if not for his intervention, she’d be dead.

The rest of her party gathered. Without prompting, she quickly put names and roles to their worried faces—Mullins, Watson, Jimmy, Watson’s young nephew, and Dorcas, her very English maid.

Hamilton acknowledged the information with a nod, then looked from her to Watson. “Where were you planning to stay?”

Hamilton and his people—a batman in his mid-twenties but with experience etched in his face, a fierce Pashtun warrior, and his equally fierce wife—escorted her party off the docks, then, with their combined luggage in a wooden cart, continued through the streets of Aden to the edge of the diplomatic quarter, and the quietly fashionable hotel her uncle had recommended.

Hamilton halted in the street outside, studied the building, then simply said, “No.” He glanced at her, then past her to Mullins. “You can’t stay there. There’re too many entrances.”

Stunned anew—and she still hadn’t managed to marshal her senses enough to think through the implications of the cultists’ attack—she looked at Mullins to discover him nodding his grizzled head.

“You’re right,” Mullins allowed. “Death trap, that is.” He glanced at her and added, “In the circumstances.”

Before she could argue, Hamilton smoothly continued, “For the moment, at least, I’m afraid our parties will need to stay together.”

She looked at him.

He caught her eye. “We need to find somewhere a lot less…obvious.”

There was nothing the least obvious about the house in the Arab quarter Emily later found herself gracing. Not far from the docks, and in the opposite direction to the area inhabited by Europeans, she had to admit the private guesthouse was quite the last place anyone would think to look for her—the Governor of Bombay’s niece.

Nestled behind a high stone wall off a minor side street, the modest house was arranged around a central courtyard. The owners, an Arab family, lived in one wing, leaving the main living quarters and two other wings of bedchambers for guests.

At present their combined party were the only guests. From what she’d understood of the negotiations, Hamilton had hired the entire house for the duration of their stay.

He hadn’t consulted her, not even informed her of his intentions. He hadn’t told her anything at all—simply whisked her and her people up, and set them down there with his household.

Admittedly they were safe. Or at least as safe as they could be.

She’d been just a little distracted at the time as the implications of the attack on the docks had finally impinged. Realizing she’d come within an inch of death had sobered and shaken her, but had also raised questions—ones she couldn’t answer.

She was fairly sure Hamilton could. As soon as she’d seen her people settled, and had washed off the dust of the streets, she made her way to the salon that served as drawing room-cum-parlor.

Hamilton was there, alone, seated on one of the long cushion-covered divans. He looked up, saw her, and came to his feet.

With an easy smile, she went forward, and sat on the divan to his left. Opposite, wide doors stood open to the courtyard, with its small central pool and shading tree.

He resumed his seat. “I…er, hope you have everything you need.”

“The accommodations are adequate, thank you.” They were not what she was accustomed to, but they were clean and comfortable enough—they would do. “However”—she fixed her gaze on his face—“I have a number of questions, Major, that I hope you’ll be able to answer. I only caught the briefest glimpse of my attacker, but I saw enough to know he was a Black Cobra cultist. What I don’t understand is why he would attack me, or why a cultist should be here, in Aden, at all.”

When he didn’t leap into reassuring speech, she went on, “The only contact I’ve had with the Black Cobra cult is through the incident with poor Captain MacFarlane and the packet I delivered for him to your friend, Colonel Delborough. I presume the attack today was connected with that?”

Gareth studied her face—her determined expression, the directness of her gaze—and regretfully jettisoned his preferred option of revealing nothing at all. If she’d been a typical miss with not a great deal of wit…but there was intelligence, willfulness, and a definite—potentially dangerous—curiosity lurking behind her lovely eyes…“I suspect the cultists are here to intercept me, and yes, that’s linked to the packet you brought to Bombay. The only reasons they would have for attacking you is if they recognized you, and either thought you might still have the packet, or simply wanted to punish you for your part in the packet’s loss.”

“What’s in the packet the Black Cobra wants so desperately?”

As he’d thought—far too quick-witted. He’d hoped to gloss over his mission, conceal the major aspects, but…her moss-hazel gaze was too acute, too intent. And many—she, certainly—would argue she had a right to know, now more than ever given the cult had just demonstrated that it wasn’t inclined to overlook her part in the affair. He inwardly sighed. “I assume you’d prefer I start at the beginning?”

“Indeed.”

“Five of us—Delborough, me, Major Logan Monteith, Captains Rafe Carstairs and James MacFarlane—were sent to Bombay by Governor-General Hastings with specific orders to do whatever was needed to bring the Black Cobra to justice.” He sank back against the cushions, his gaze fixing, unseeing, on the wall opposite. “That was in March. Within a few months, we’d identified the Black Cobra, but the evidence was circumstantial, and given our suspect, our case needed to be beyond question.”

“Who is the Black Cobra?”

He turned his head and regarded her. If he told her…but the cult had just demonstrated it didn’t care if she knew or not, and now she was with him, had been seen with him…“The Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar.”

“Ferrar? Great heavens! I’ve met him, of course.”

“What did you think of him?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not a nice man.”

“Indeed not. So we knew it was him, but had no way to prove it conclusively. We kept searching…then, while James was at Poona fetching you, he stumbled on a letter from the Black Cobra to one of the princelings. We’d found similar missives, but this one was different. It was signed by the Black Cobra, but sealed with Ferrar’s personal seal—the ring seal he wears on his little finger and can’t take off. Once you’d brought that letter to us, we had what we needed, and we’d already consulted others back in England, so we knew what we had to do.”

He saw her shut her lips on an eager prompt, but she’d guessed at least part of it. “We have to get that letter—the original—to the Duke of Wolverstone in England. Ferrar, of course, will do everything in his considerable power to stop us. Our instructions from Wolverstone—he’s the key planner in this—were to make four copies, and each bring one home, all traveling by widely different routes.”

“To make it harder for the Cobra to stop you.”

He nodded. “With James gone, there are four of us, now all on our way back to England. Only one of us has the original, but the Cobra doesn’t know which one, so he has to try to intercept each of us.”

Head tilting, she studied him. “Are you…” She paused, eyes on his, then went on, “I suspect you’re carrying one of the copies—a decoy, as it were.”

He was glad there was no one else in the room. He frowned. “How…?”

Her lips curved briefly. “On the wharf, you and your men wanted to chase the cultists—if you’d been carrying the original, you wouldn’t have risked engaging directly. You would defend, not attack—you’d do all you could not to draw attention to your party.”

He humphed. “Yes, well, from here on, we’ll be running. My orders are explicit—I’m to do all I can to distract the cultists between here and the Channel, do all I can to make them chase me, to make the Cobra throw as many of his forces in Europe into dealing with me.”

“Without making it obvious you’re carrying a copy and not the original.” She nodded, then looked frowningly at him. “You’re not carrying the letter on you, are you?”

“No.” He couldn’t see any reason not to tell her. “It’s in one of those wooden scroll holders the Indians use to ferry documents.”

“Ah—I see.” She studied him a moment more. “Arnia’s carrying it.”

He stared at her. “It can’t be that obvious.”

She lifted one shoulder. “That’s who I’d leave it with—she’s from a warrior tribe and quite dangerous, I imagine, yet to the cultists she’ll be all but invisible. They’ll never think of her.”

He grunted, partly mollified. “Watson mentioned you’d decided to return home by the overland route—that you hoped to see the pyramids and other sights along the way.”

She shrugged again. “It seemed sensible to see more of the world while I can, and as I was already in Bombay…”

“Be that as it may, now that the cult have sighted you, and clearly would be happy to do you harm, it would be wiser, for safety’s sake, to combine our parties, at least until we reach Alexandria.” He paused, then went on, “I don’t believe Ferrar knew of our endeavor before we left Bombay, but he must have learned soon after, and has moved quickly to get cultists ahead of us—I believe they were waiting, watching the docks. They were already here.”

“Which means they might be ahead of us, potentially all the way home?”

He nodded. “If I were Ferrar, in the position he’s now in, that’s what I’d do, and he has men to spare. Which, of course, is the principal aim of my mission—reducing his forces.”

She nodded, her gaze abstracted. When she ventured nothing more, he prompted, “So, do you agree that it’s best to go onward together? To combine our parties in the interests of safety?”

Hers, especially.

To his relief, she smiled. “Yes, of course. I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed together. I have my maid with me, and in the circumstances, my parents would approve.”

“Excellent.” He felt like a weight was slipping from his shoulders, yet he’d just taken on all responsibility for her safety. For her life. With the cultists at large, that wasn’t putting it too highly.

She continued to smile at him. “Besides, I became involved in this through helping poor Captain MacFarlane, and in light of his sacrifice I feel compelled to do whatever little I may to ensure his mission succeeds.”

The mention of James reminded him that, in some respects, he now stood in James’s shoes, taking on a responsibility that originally had been James’s—seeing Miss Ensworth safely home.

For a moment, he felt as if James’s ghost hovered in the room beside them—he could almost see his insouciant smile. James had died a hero. He’d been dashing and handsome, a few years older than Miss Ensworth—hardly surprising if, in the circumstances, she harbored some romantic feelings for his dead friend.

He wondered if that was what he saw in her eyes.

Somewhat abruptly, he stood. “I must check with the others about setting a watch—we can’t be too careful. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She inclined her head. “We’ll need to decide how best to journey on.”

“I’ll check what our options are tomorrow. I’ll tell you once I know.” He headed for the door.

“Excellent—we can discuss it in the morning.”

In the doorway, he looked back, then nodded. “In the morning.”

He strode down the corridor, a sense of relief returning. She’d agreed to travel on together. He’d be able to keep her safe. That was the critical point. The instant he’d seen the cultist making for her on the dock, he’d known he’d have to keep her with him, almost certainly all the way back to England, until he could leave her somewhere the cult couldn’t reach her.

The responsibility wasn’t one he could possibly shirk. Quite aside from all else, honor wouldn’t allow it. She’d become a target for the Black Cobra through helping with their mission, and he and his comrades, James included, owed her a huge debt. If she hadn’t played her part and brought the letter to Del, they would still be chasing cultists through the Indian countryside, and the Black Cobra would be continuing his reign of terror and destruction unabated.

Instead, thanks in large part to Emily Ensworth, the Black Cobra was now chasing them.

All they had to do was keep one step ahead of the fiend’s minions all the way back to England, and all would be well.

Two

3rd October, 1822
Morning
A private guesthouse in Aden’s Arab quarter

Dear Diary,

I was too distracted to write last night. I suspect that while traveling, the time of my entries may vary due to whatever exigencies might arise. But to my news! First and most importantly, I’ve learned that Major Hamilton is innocent of any degree of cowardice in returning home—indeed, he is on a mission to vanquish the Black Cobra, and by extension avenge his friend, MacFarlane. I had felt that the major could not be cowardly—how could he be my “one” and be so?—but I freely admit I had no idea of the level of noble enterprise on which he and his friends have embarked. It is truly humbling, and I am delighted to report that, by a twist of fate, it appears I, too, will be able to play a part. Thus the second half of my news—we are to combine our parties and travel on together!

While I must admit I am not at all keen to meet any further cultists—they are fanatics and quite mad—I do feel moved to do whatever I may to avenge poor MacFarlane given he was, after all, there to be killed because he was escorting me. However, my primary consideration in agreeing to Hamilton’s request to join forces is more prosaic—what if I declined, and something happened to him? Something I might have, had I been with him, prevented?

No. Now that I know he is no coward—in fact, quite the opposite—and the opportunity to aid him has come my way, if, as I ever more strongly suspect given the sensory turmoil he continues to evoke in me, he is my “one,” then it is clearly incumbent upon me to continue by his side.

That said, I am writing this this morning as I discover I have time on my hands. I rose fresh and rested, and emerged from my chamber ready to discuss our onward journey, as I believed we’d arranged, only to discover he had already quit the house. Apparently his definition of “morning” means before 8 o’clock—which as a start to our joint journey does not bode well.

E.

Gareth returned to the guesthouse at noon, Mooktu by his side. Exchanging a word with Mullins, currently on watch by the gate in the wall, he passed through, and found Bister sharpening swords and various knives by the pool in the courtyard.

Bister, a cockney lad who’d attached himself to Gareth in the last year of the Peninsula campaign and stayed stuck ever since, glanced up. “So are we moving soon?”

Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow evening was the earliest possible.” He glanced at the house. “All quiet here?”

“Seems to be.” Bister went back to his whetstone. “But the lady’s in the parlor—I think she’s waiting for you. Been pacing something fierce.”

Gareth was unsurprised to learn that Miss Ensworth was keen to learn of his arrangements. “I’ll speak with her now, tell her the news. You can spread the word to the others—we’ll be leaving tomorrow on the evening tide.”

Bister nodded.

Rather than use the main door, Gareth crossed to the open doors of the salon. As he paused on the threshold, the sun threw his shadow across the room—making Miss Ensworth, who was indeed pacing, whirl to face him.

“Oh! It’s you!”

“Yes.” He inwardly frowned at her tone, unsure of the emotion beneath it. “I have guards on the gate and in the courtyard—there’s no need to fear the cultists getting in.”

She looked at him. “That hadn’t entered my head.”

Not fear, then. Before he could think of his next leading comment, she stated, “I’ve been waiting to discuss our onward journey.”

“Indeed.” Maybe she was just impatient? There was a crispness in her tone that made him think of folded arms and tapping toes. As she was still standing, he remained standing, too. “We’ll be leaving on the evening tide tomorrow. While I would have preferred an earlier departure and a faster craft, that was the best option.” He met her widening eyes. “I’m afraid it’s a barge, so we’ll be slow going through the straits into the Red Sea, but once we reach Mocha, we should be able to hire a schooner to take us on to Suez.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought her jaw had dropped.

“You’ve made the arrangements.”

A statement of the obvious, but in an oddly distant voice.

He nodded, increasingly wary, unsure of her thoughts. Unsure of her. “We have to leave as soon as possible, so—”

“I thought we were going to discuss our options.”

He thought back, replayed their conversation of the previous afternoon. “I said I’d assess our options, and tell you once I knew. The barge is our best option for evading the cultists.”

Her chin went up. “What about riding? People ride to Mocha—it’s the usual route for couriers. And surely, being mobile is better than being stuck on a—as I understand it—slow-moving vessel?”

True, but…were they having an argument? “The road to Mocha goes through desert and rocky hills, both inhabited by bandits with whom governments make arrangements to let their couriers through. And that’s the route the cultists will expect us to take—they’ll be on our heels the instant we leave town, or worse, waiting for us up in the passes. You may be an excellent rider, and all my people are, but what about your maid, and Mullins and Watson? Will they be able to keep up in a flat-out chase?”

Her eyes held his, then slowly narrowed. Her lips had compressed to a thin line.

The moment stretched. He wasn’t accustomed to consulting others; he was used to being in command. And if he and she were to journey on together, she was going to have to accept that there could be only one leader.

He was inwardly steeling himself for her challenge when, to his surprise, her expression changed—exactly how he couldn’t have said—and she nodded. Once. “Very well. The barge it is.”

In the distance a bell tinkled, summoning them to luncheon.

To his even greater surprise, and his unease, not to mention his discomfort, she smiled brilliantly. “Excellent! I’m famished. And with the mode of our onward transport settled, we can start reorganizing our bags.”

She whirled and, head high, led the way out of the room.

He followed rather more slowly, his gaze locked on her back, wondering. He should have felt pleased she’d backed down; he told himself he did, but he also felt…

It wasn’t until he was lying in bed that night that the right word to describe how he felt over that exchange fell into his head.

Humored.

He snorted, rolled over and pulled the sheet up over his shoulder. He wasn’t worried—she would learn.

4th October, 1822
Still in Aden, at the guesthouse

Dear Diary,

In just a few hours, we will depart on the first leg of our shared journey home—and once we’re away, he—Gareth, Major Hamilton—won’t be able to send me back. I was on the brink of explaining that I wasn’t one of his men, and he should not therefore assume that I will simply fall in with any decision he makes, but just in time I recalled that in Aden we are within reach of the company ships. Should he take it into his head that my accompanying him is too difficult—or as he would put it, too dangerous—then it might well be within his scope to commandeer a sloop and pack me and my party off, either back to Bombay or on to the Cape, thereafter to travel on a ship of the line home.

I abruptly changed my tune. Given my need to learn more of him, the opportunity to share the journey home, in daily contact and close proximity, is simply too good to let slip through my fingers.

True, his habit of command is sadly entrenched, but I can make my opinion on that issue clear later.

On reflection, I really couldn’t have planned things better. How ironic that I owe this chance to confirm, and hopefully, in the fullness of time, secure my “one”—the one and only gentleman for me—to that horrible fiend of a Black Cobra.

E.

They returned to the docks with the sun a glowing fireball hanging over the sea. The low angle of light glancing off the waves made recognizing people difficult. Gareth hoped the cultists clung to their black silk head scarves, their only readily identifiable feature.

He glanced at Emily, walking briskly alongside him. At his suggestion, she’d worn a dun-colored gown, and her parasol was safely stowed in the luggage. At this hour, everyone on the docks was striding purposefully, all the vessels keen to make the evening tide, so their rapid and determined progress was in no way remarkable.

What might have alerted a shrewd observer was the way he, and the other men in their small group, constantly scanned the crowds, but that couldn’t be helped. The cultists were sure to be hanging about the docks.

He’d managed not to think too much about Emily, not in a personal sense. He kept trying to make his mind conform and label her Miss Ensworth, preferably with the words the Governor’s niece tacked on for good measure, but his mind had other ideas. Striding along the dock where just days before he’d saved her from an assassin’s blade, he couldn’t ignore his awareness of her—of her body, slender, warm and femininely curved, moving gracefully beside him.

He wanted her much closer—at least his mind and body did. Both could recall—could re-create—the sensations of the moments when he’d held her tucked protectively against him.

That instant when something buried deep inside him had surged to the surface and growled, Mine.

He shook his head in a vain effort to dispel the distraction.

She noticed and glanced up. “What?”

He couldn’t fault her focus. Her eyes were wide, alert. He looked at the ships. “I was just wondering where the cultists are. I haven’t sighted any.” He pointed to the barge two vessels along. “That’s ours.”

She nodded crisply, and made a beeline for the appropriate gangplank.

Grasping her arm, he halted her at its foot. “Wait.” He signaled to Bister, who with a nod went racing up the gangplank, Jimmy, Watson’s seventeen-year-old nephew, at his heels.

Two minutes later, Bister reappeared. “All clear.”

Getting the women, their luggage, and then their men aboard took ten minutes. The captain nodded benignly; the crew all smiled.

Shouts ran the length of the barge, ropes were cast off, and at last they were away.

The barge moved slowly, ponderously turning on the increasingly fast-rushing tide. One of many so engaged, the throng of vessels gave them extra cover. To Gareth’s relief, all three females—Emily, her maid Dorcas, and Arnia—had retreated without prompting into the cabins built along the length of the barge. Watson had gone inside, too, taking Jimmy with him, leaving Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to keep watch.

They found what cover they could, but the barge was carrying little freight beyond its passengers.

Gareth had hoped that by timing their departure to the very last usable minute of the tide, then even if the cultists spotted them—as he felt sure they would—their pursuers wouldn’t be able to sail after them for at least another twelve hours, if not more.

At this point, a day’s head start was all he could hope for.

They got away, swinging out of the harbor and onto the ocean swell, then turning along the coast for the straits without challenge. But as they rounded the last headland, Jimmy caught the reflection off a spyglass directed their way.

Bister drew the younger lad with him to report to Gareth. “I saw it, too, once he pointed it out. Sure as eggs, someone was watching us.”

Gareth grimaced. “No prizes for guessing who. But at least we’ve got away, and with the straits ahead, I doubt they’ll catch us up, not before Mocha.”

Later that evening
Elsewhere in Aden

“Uncle—we have news!”

The tall bearded man known throughout the Black Cobra cult simply as Uncle slowly lifted his gaze from the pomegranate he was peeling. “Yes, my son?”

The younger man he’d sent to supervise the watch on the harbor drew himself up, head high. “We saw the Major Hamilton leave on a barge, but the barge was on the ocean, heading for the straits, before we could get a clear sighting.”

“I see.” Uncle paused to eat a piece of pomegranate, then asked, “Did he have a woman—the Englishwoman he saved from our blades on the docks—with him?”

The young man turned to his colleagues, who had followed him into the courtyard. A whispered conference ensued, then the young man turned back. “She was seen briefly on the docks, but we didn’t sight her on the barge—howsoever there were cabins.”

“Ah.” Unhurriedly Uncle finished the pomegranate, then carefully wiped his hands. Then he nodded and looked to his second-in-command. His only true son. “In that case, I believe my work here is done.”

His son nodded. “We will catch them in Mocha—there are men already there.”

“Indeed.” Uncle slowly stood, stretching to his full, impressive height. “Our illustrious leader has truly foreseen the gentlemen’s paths. There are men watching, ready to act, along all the routes they might take. But my mission—” He broke off and inclined his head to his son. “Our mission is not just to stop these men reaching England. The Black Cobra demands a greater retribution from those who oppose its might and power.”

Turning to the younger man and his comrades, Uncle raised a hand in benediction. “You have done well enough. You will remain here in case any of the other gentlemen come this way. But I and mine”—he glanced at his son and smiled—“we ride to Mocha.”

His gaze passed on to the older, more hardened men—assassins all—lined up behind his son. His anticipatory smile deepened. “Find horses. The overland route is shorter.”

October 5, 1822
The mouth of the Red Sea

Dawn broke in a pearly golden wash spreading like gilt across the waves. Stepping out of the narrow corridor running the length of the cabins, Gareth drew the salty air deep, slowly exhaled. The barge was angling northwest, following others into the narrowing mouth of the Red Sea, still some way ahead.

Seeing Watson leaning on the railing, eyes on the distant shore, Gareth ambled over. Watson glanced at him, then straightened.

Gareth smiled. “Go in and get some sleep—I’ll take over until Mooktu appears.”

Stifling a yawn, Watson nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s been quiet all night.” He looked over the water. “Lovely morning, but I’m going to find my bed. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a half salute, Gareth settled, still smiling, against the rails. He heard Watson stump off into the cabins. The slap of waves against the hull was soothing, the faint mumble of voices from the stern—the crew chatting—punctuated by the call of a wheeling gull.

Over the last days, while avoiding their mistress, he’d made an effort to get to know her people. If they were to travel on together, he needed to know what manner of troops he had under his command.

Both Watson and Mullins were unreservedly grateful for his rescue of their charge. Mullins had been an infantryman until after Waterloo. He’d returned to his home village in Northamptonshire, looking for employment, and had run into Watson, who, with Bonaparte defeated and the Continent safe again, had been setting up as a travel guide to take young gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the old Grand Tour. Watson was the courier-guide, Mullins the guard. Jimmy, Watson’s sister’s son, had been brought on this trip to learn the ropes.

Over the years, Watson and Mullins had worked frequently for the Ensworth family, who they consequently knew well. The family was large; they’d conducted three male Ensworths around the Continent, as well as escorting the elder Ensworths on various trips. The family were valued and well-liked clients; just the thought of losing Emily—one of the younger of the brood—was enough to make both Watson and Mullins, experienced though they were, literally blanch.

They also liked Emily herself; seen through their eyes, she was a sensible, calm, and even-tempered young lady they had no qualms over conducting halfway around the world.

Both Watson and Mullins were in their middle years, and shared a tendency to corpulence. Although still hale, able, and active, as Gareth had earlier intimated to Emily, neither rode well, and it sounded as if Jimmy’s equestrian abilities owed more to enthusiasm than skill. It was a point he would have to bear in mind in arranging their transport onward.

Mullins took his duties seriously; in Aden he’d asked Mooktu to help sharpen his sword skills. Meanwhile Bister had, unasked, taken Jimmy under his wing; Gareth had seen the pair practicing knife throwing, Bister’s specialty. In terms of protecting the women in the party, they weren’t without resources.

Not that Gareth thought Arnia needed protecting. Like Mooktu, she hailed from the northwestern frontier, and like all the females of those tribes, was as lethal with blades as her menfolk, yet the cultists would be unlikely to recognize the danger Arnia posed, not until it was too late.

Learning about Dorcas, Emily’s very English maid, a tall, bustling and competent female somewhere in her late thirties, had required the application of a certain amount of self-effacing charm, but she’d eventually thawed enough to admit that she rode very poorly, and that she’d been with Emily and her family for most of Emily’s life.

Dorcas, too, was grateful for his rescue and subsequent protection of her mistress, yet she continued to view him with an underlying suspicion she did nothing to hide. As he’d been careful to suppress, and if not that then conceal all evidence of his unhelpful attraction to her charge, he wasn’t sure what lay behind Dorcas’s watchful, ready-to-be-censorious eye.

He heard a footfall—her footfall. He was turning to search for Emily even before she rounded the cabins in a gown of lilac cotton that fluttered in the breeze.

Seeing him, she smiled and strolled his way.

He struggled to keep his answering—too revealing—smile from his face, managed to replace it with a frown. “What are you doing up at this hour?” He glanced around. “You shouldn’t be on deck—it could be dangerous.”

She tilted her head, studied him for a moment, then, smile still flirting about the corners of her rosy lips, she looked out across the waves. “It’s so peaceful and quiet, you’d hear any other vessel approaching, surely?”

She looked back at him, met his eyes.

The best he could do was humph, and lean back on the railing. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

He was being deliberately off-putting. Just having her near…but the more he replayed their earlier conversation, the more he dwelled on the soft light he’d glimpsed in her eyes, the more he was certain she was carrying a torch for MacFarlane, and he had no intention of trying to compete with that. With his friend’s ghost.

“I seem to have been sleeping too much, if truth be told. And it’s such a lovely morning.”

She settled against the railing beside him.

The warm softness of her body called to his, a siren song weakening his defenses. He told himself he should push back and move away—seize the excuse of being on guard to do a circuit of the barge.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, from the corner of his eyes watching the breeze playing with her hair, teasing out tendrils to lie alongside her porcelain cheeks.

After a moment, he forced his attention back to the waves. “I…gather you come from a large family.”

Emily laughed. “That’s an understatement. I have three sisters and four brothers. I’m the second youngest—only Rufus is younger than me.”

“So you’re the baby of the girls?”

“Yes, but that’s something of an advantage. We’re all very close, although of course the other three are all married and have their own households. Nevertheless, we still see each other often.” She was perfectly willing to discuss her family, as it allowed her to turn his way and ask, “What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

He stiffened, straightened. “No.” He glanced down at her, then softened the single syllable with, “I was an only child.”

She noted the past tense. “Your parents…have they passed on?”

Eyes back on the waves, he nodded. “There’s no one waiting for me in England.” He shot another swift glance her way. Half smiled. “Not like you.”

“Ah, yes—there’ll be a fattened calf and all manner of celebrations when I get back.” And if matters unfolded as she hoped, he’d be there to share them. Her delighted smile as she looked out across the waves was entirely genuine. She’d had a sudden disconcerting thought that he might have someone waiting for him in England—some lady, even a fiancée—but his statement had been a blanket one. A species of relief slid through her veins, and left her almost giddy.

He was prickly and stiff, but she wasn’t going to let that deter her. According to her sisters, men—strange beasts—were often that way when they were attracted to a lady but trying to hide it. As for the rest, she’d realized that “Protective” was his middle name, at least as far as women were concerned. However, she’d yet to see any clear indication that with respect to her, that protectiveness had moved beyond the general to the specific.

But they had plenty of journey ahead of them, plenty of time for her to watch and see.

She was still at the stage of mentally ticking items off the list of characteristics her “one” should possess. Her ideal was fairly clear in her mind, but matching the reality to her list was proving more challenging than she’d expected. There were all sorts of issues one had to take into account.

But at this moment, she was content. She fully intended to work on him, on encouraging him to allow his attitude to her to grow less stilted. A moment’s consideration had her stating, “I believe I’ll take an amble about the deck.”

That brought an instant frown—as she’d expected.

“It would be safer to go back inside the main cabin.” He stepped back from the railing, frowning down at her.

She smiled sunnily back. “If you’re on watch, perhaps you should walk with me—you can view the rest of the barge as we go.” She didn’t give him a chance to refuse, but turned and started to stroll down the walkway between the cabins and the barge’s rail.

Then she turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Come on.”

Gareth couldn’t resist. Feeling inwardly grim, he found himself following in her wake—responding all too definitely to that alluring smile.

To his inner self she was far too attractive, and with every passing day, with each new fact he learned about her, grew only more so. She was distraction, and fixation, and potential obsession, and he knew he should back away, but…unlike the men under his command, she was elusive and difficult to manage, and—as she was demonstrating—their journey was going to make keeping his distance close to impossible.

He joined her as, holding back her waving hair, she excitedly pointed to a cormorant diving in the waves. And he wondered why, instead of feeling weighed down, his heart felt light—lighter than it had in a long, long time.

Three

5th October, 1822
Before dinner
My cabin on our barge heading for the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

Matters are progressing as I’d hoped. It’s said that one learns the truth about people by observing them under stressful conditions. Our journey looks set to provide such conditions, and I have great hopes of learning all I need to know of Gareth—enough to be absolutely certain that he is the one and only gentleman for me.

My hopes are high.

E.

Late that evening, while strolling the deck, eyes scanning the waves—increasingly choppy as they passed through the straits, the Bab el Mandeh, as the crew called them, that led into the Red Sea—Gareth found Bister in the stern, seated on a coil of rope polishing his knives.

His batman looked up, nodded, and continued to buff. “No sign of any of those idiot fiends.”

Gareth lounged on the railing nearby. “Why idiot? They nearly did for Miss Ensworth in Aden.”

“Which proves my point. They should have laid low and taken us out first, then Miss Ensworth would have been a sitting duck. Only Mullins has a clue how to fight, and they separated him from her easily enough.” Bister held up a knife, examined its edge.

“Not everyone has had the experiences we’ve had, but it would be unwise to treat the cultists too lightly.”

Bister nodded sagely. “Never underestimate the enemy.”

“Indeed.” Gareth looked away to hide his twitching lips. Bister was barely five and twenty. He’d joined Gareth when he’d been all of seventeen—just as gullible and inexperienced as Jimmy.

“Meant to mention.”

Gareth turned back, brows rising.

Bister kept his gaze locked on his blade, kept rubbing. “Miss Ensworth. Jimmy said as she was supposed to go home via the usual route—booked on a ship of the line to Southampton via the Cape. But a day or so before, she up and changed her mind, and decided she should go via Aden.”

Gareth let a few seconds go by. “Did she give any reason for the change in route?”

“Nope—just that she’d taken it into her head to go this way, rather than the other.”

“When, exactly, did she change her mind? Did Jimmy know?”

Bister nodded, still absorbed with his blade. “His uncle heard first, as you might imagine. Jimmy said it was a bare two days before they set out—they left on the seventeenth.”

Gareth and his household had departed on the fifteenth—the day Emily Ensworth had decided to change her plans.

The facts lined up, but…

Coincidence. It had to be. Aside from all else, she couldn’t have known about his leaving…could she?

Even if she had known, why would she bother changing her plans to follow him? It made no sense.

A niggle of a suggestion tapped his mental shoulder, but that was self-important arrogance if ever he’d heard it.

“Let me know if you learn anything more.” Pushing away from the railing, he continued on his rounds.

7th October, 1822
Morning
Still in my cabin aboard the barge

Dear Diary,

I have missed several entries for the simple reason that I have nothing to report. I suppose, in lieu of anything more interesting, I should remark on what I have seen.

Water. And interminable sandy shores. Barren sandy shores. With the occasional rocky headland. This is not a picturesque part of the world. The sun glints off the water constantly, which is pretty the first time one sees it, but my eyes now ache from squinting so much.

As intimated, I have endeavored to learn more about Gareth, but he is proving annoying adept at eluding me, even in such a restricted space. When I do manage to run him to earth, he remains stiff, literally, and tries to keep even a conversational distance. It is really most irritating. I have concluded, given he is so determinedly the strong and silent type, that I will need to look to his actions for further revelations of his character.

Thus my next question: what actions do I need to provoke?

E.

Their barge drew into the Mocha docks in the early afternoon.

With Watson’s help, Gareth had their party formed up and ready to disembark the instant the ropes were cinched tight. Within minutes they were moving swiftly along the wharf and into the town, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia walking quickly before the luggage, with the men positioned around them, all on high alert.

As Gareth passed Emily, she reached out and clutched his sleeve. Tugged him close.

Looked up and met his eyes. Hers were narrowed. “What haven’t you told me?”

He considered, but it couldn’t hurt for her to know. “The cultists might have come on by the inland route. We have to assume they’re here, and we don’t want to meet them unnecessarily.”

She held his gaze for an instant, searching his eyes, then nodded and released his sleeve.

He watched her for several moments, but far from exhibiting any degree of fear, she merely scanned the crowds, watchful and now alert. He hadn’t made any conscious decision not to spell out the situation for her as he had for the men. The men had to be on guard. Her…he simply hadn’t thought of it.

“Where are we heading?” She asked the question without looking at him.

He, too, kept his gaze on the noisy crowds. “Somewhere you and the others will be safe while I find a schooner to take us to Suez.”

Bister, scouting ahead as usual, returned at that moment with directions to a small family-run tavern down a narrow side street only a few blocks from the docks.

When they reached it, Gareth approved. The front was mostly wall, with only one door and a small glassless window covered by a leather flap, presently lowered against the day’s heat.

They went in. Given the hour, the front room was empty.

Gareth directed Emily and Dorcas to the front corner furthest from the door. Arnia followed. To his relief, although Arnia was usually exceedingly reserved, she seemed to have made some pact with Dorcas, and the pair had reached a working accord—which would certainly make his life easier.

Mooktu, with Mullins, had gone to chat with the proprietor, a middle-aged Arab who smiled and nodded. They returned bearing a tray with a pitcher and mugs. Without words, they pulled together tables, arranged benches, and sat down to refresh themselves.

And plan.

Gareth looked at Watson. “You, Mooktu, and I need to go back to the docks and look for a schooner to hire, preferably one that will take us and only us, no other cargo, and so sail to Suez in the shortest possible time.”

Watson grimaced. “That’ll cost a pretty penny.”

“Money we have,” Gareth returned. “Our safety is my primary concern.”

Watson nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“We need supplies.” Emily waited until Gareth looked her way. Raising her hand, she ticked off on her fingers, “We need flour, lentils, rice, tea, sugar, and all the other things we didn’t have on the barge.”

They’d learned that although their households could happily share the same foods, Indian or English, a steady diet of fish and only fish suited none of them.

Beside Emily, both Arnia and Dorcas were nodding, as were Bister and Jimmy.

Gareth opened his mouth, then shut it as realization dawned.

Emily gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Indeed—if you find a barge to take us straight on, as we all hope, then given the hour we’ll need to go to the souk now. We can’t afford to wait until you get back.”

He stared at her. She could all but see his instinctive refusal to let her go outside forming on his tongue. She pointed to Bister. “If Bister will come with me, and Mullins, too, we can leave Jimmy with Arnia and Dorcas to guard the luggage.”

It was a reasonable division of labor and guards. Her gaze steady on his face, she waited to see if he would accept. If he had it in him to be reasonable.

His lips thinned, but slowly he nodded—forced himself to nod. “All right.” He looked at Bister and Mullins. “But take all care. So far we’ve managed to avoid the cultists. If at all possible, we don’t want to be seen.”

The souk was a bustling hive of humanity, located within a quarter of narrow winding streets. Both traders and customers hailed from many different nations, and all were talking loudly in many different tongues. Luckily, with the expansion of French and British influence, most traders spoke a smattering of pidgin English at least, and some spoke passable French, enough for Emily to get by.

She was firmly determined not to feel cowed by having to deal with such foreign foreigners. And, indeed, she discovered that if she approached with confidence, the traders treated her with deference and politeness, and after her months in Bombay, bargaining was second nature.

They got through their list of required purchases with commendable speed. She was completing the last transaction—for chickpeas—when Gareth and Mooktu joined them.

She smiled and handed Gareth the peas. “Here—you may as well make yourself useful…” Looking into his face, she saw his expression, saw the way his eyes scanned the crowd. “What?”

Without glancing down at her, he quietly said, “As we suspected, there are cultists in town. We saw them, but thus far I don’t think they’ve seen us. If at all possible, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Emily glanced swiftly around. She made no protest when Gareth’s hard fingers closed about her elbow, and with a terse nod to the stall owner, he turned her away, back toward the tavern.

They had to backtrack across the souk to reach the tavern. As they walked, keeping their pace no different to those around them, she murmued, “Did you find a schooner?”

“Yes. We were lucky—we’ll be able to leave this evening.” Eyes constantly surveying the crowd, ready to take evasive action if he spotted any cultist, Gareth registered her nod, but again didn’t glance her way.

He was feeling exceedingly exposed, and not a little vulnerable. Mooktu, in his tribal robes, merged easily into the crowd, but there were few Europeans about, and he, Emily, Bister, and Mullins stood out.

Without warning, Emily halted.

Already frowning, his grip on her elbow tightening, he turned to urge her on. And saw she was staring down an alley of stalls.

She looked up at him, eyes bright. “Disguises.”

He looked again, and saw that the stalls were selling robes and other items of local clothing.

“We can’t merge with the crowds as we are, but if we buy some Arab robes, we’ll be able to waltz right past the cultists.”

“We don’t need to get that close, but…” He looked down and met her eyes, brimming with enthusiasm. Nodded. “Let’s take a look.”

Collecting Mooktu, Bister and Mullins with a glance, he followed Emily into the narrow, winding alley.

It didn’t take her long to discover a shop selling all manner of outer robes. She tried on a burka—a long robe that completely covered a woman from head to toe, with only a small, lace-filled panel across the eyes to see out from.

The instant the burka fell over her head, she became…utterly indistinguishable from all the other women clogging the streets.

“This is wonderful!” Her voice, muffled, came from beneath the black folds. “I can see perfectly well.” She turned this way and that, surveying the small shop. “But no one can see me.”

In a flurry of material, she pushed up the front of the robe and fixed the shopkeeper with a direct glance. “I’ll take this one, and”—she pointed to another in brown—“that one. How much for both?”

Leaving her haggling, spurred on by just how well disguised she’d been, Gareth applied himself to finding robes for himself, and urged Bister and Mullins to do the same.

Initially reticent, they were soon caught up in the transformation. Gareth was pleased with the end result. With any luck, they might—just might—escape the eyes of the cultists. If they could, it would be well worth this small effort.

Leaving the shopkeeper with instructions that there would shortly be some others of their party calling, and that he was to show them similar garments, they left the shop, all now in Arab guise.

No one so much as looked their way.

From beneath her burka, Emily studied the other Arab women, watched how they behaved. She quickly adjusted her position in their party so she was walking a pace behind Gareth. Given Mooktu and Mullins were walking behind her, Gareth made no demur; he, too, must have noticed the local practice.

When he paused at the corner of the souk and glanced back, checking that they were all behind him, she blinked, then smiled delightedly behind the concealing veil of her burka. In his flowing white robes over loose trousers, with a long, loose scarf wound about his head and another dark band cinched about his waist, he looked every inch the desert sheik—a man of mystery, dangerous power, and untold sensuality.

The others…simply looked dangerous.

As he started forward again, she meekly fell into step behind him, still smiling happily to herself.

Once back at the tavern, they sent Mooktu back to the shop with Watson, Jimmy, Dorcas, and Arnia for the others to buy suitable disguises.

While they were gone, Emily, with Mullins’s, Bister’s, and Gareth’s help, reoganized the luggage, packing their recent purchases into two large hemp bags they bought from the tavern owner.

“Arnia said she would cook for us, and Dorcas offered to help.” Emily stepped back from the bag as Gareth and Mullins worked to lash it closed. “I can cook, but I’m afraid I’ve had little experience with these sorts of ingredients.”

Gareth glanced up at her. “I doubt we’ll need to call on your culinary skills.” He suspected he could cook better than she, and he wasn’t any great chef. “Both Mooktu and Bister are passable over a campfire.”

Mullins snorted as he straightened from the now secure bag. “Just as well. If Watson or I had to help…well, you’d probably rather not eat.”

The others returned in good time. They all stood in the, thankfully, still empty tavern and admired their ingenuity. Dorcas, too, was taken with the burka, although for Arnia, who normally wore a scarf wound about her head with a long end she often pulled across her face, the change wasn’t all that remarkable.

“No one saw us,” Mooktu reported. “I saw two of the cultists through the crowd, but that was after we’d left the shop. They didn’t give us a second glance.”

“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea—and an excellent one.”

“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”

“No—it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”

The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place of spoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.

Gareth paid the tavern owner and he salaamed them out of the door.

They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured—two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.

Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.

Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.

They passed two cultists on the main street.

Passed another two close by the docks.

All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.

They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.

The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”

Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.

When he glanced around and saw everyone—he did a quick head count—gathered in a knot further down the deck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.

Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.

Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.

But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.

The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.

Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point—at the schooner.

They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.

They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together—to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.

They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.

The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.

7th October, 1822
Very late
In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension—which was positively palpable during those moments on the dock and while we waited for the schooner to sail—has not abated. I do not know why, but it is clear Gareth—and the others, too—fear the Cobra will locate us, that we are not yet free.

I have to admit that in following Gareth, I did not foresee this degree of danger and the consequent abiding tension. It is very distracting. True, I am being given the chance to observe his character under pressure, which will undoubtedly be more revealing than if we were meeting in conventional and unthreatening surrounds, but that pressure has other effects, and affects me, too.

I have discovered that I do not appreciate living under dire threat of imminent and awful death, but in the circumstances, I am determined to make the most of it.

E.

Once again she joined him as dawn lit the sky.

The deck of the schooner was empty of all others except for the night watchman yawning by the helm. Coming to stand beside him at the railing in the bow, she shook back the tendrils of hair that had come loose and, eyes closed, lifted her face to the morning breeze.

Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.

He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin—nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…

Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…

“There’s a surprising number of ships around—I didn’t think there would be so many.”

He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India—even China—destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”

She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.

“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”—he gestured to his new robes—“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”

She nodded. “That’s the problem—the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”

He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”

She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”

“I fear so.”

Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak of the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable—a shared moment.

Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.

Companionship.

That’s all this was.

“You—and the other three—you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”

The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through—we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right—each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”

He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before she looked away. “I’m glad. Given Captain MacFarlane died while escorting me, I feel I have an interest in avenging him, too.”

That came as no surprise. Gareth could still so easily bring James’s youthful engaging smile to mind. His sunny vitality had often made Gareth—and the others, too—feel like world-weary old men. James had always been popular with young ladies. Gareth slanted a glance at Emily. It wasn’t hard to imagine what romantical notions having such a dashing young man die in your defense would evoke.

Her comment, however, again raised the niggling question of whether—strange though it seemed—she’d changed her plans to follow him. But why him, and not Del, or one of the other two?

The question made him uncomfortable, and how on earth could he phrase it without sounding entirely too full of himself?

“So.” She turned to face him, leaning back against the rail. “What do you plan to do once this is all over and you’re back in England?”

He stared down at her. “I haven’t really thought.” He hadn’t, not at all. His mental slate should have been blank, but to his considerable surprise his mind was thinking now, supplying all manner of desirable images…all of which involved her. He blinked, turned aside. “I should check the decks. I’m supposed to be on picket duty.”

A frown showed more in her eyes than her expression. “But you would hear any other vessel draw close.”

“They might swim. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Very well—I’ll walk with you.”

“No!” That was the last thing he needed. It wasn’t just his mind that was reacting to her nearness. He scrambled to find a cause for his vehemence. “The light’s strengthening, and you’re not in disguise. And”—he pointed to the group of slower ships they were steadily coming up on—“we’ll soon be close to those ships. No telling how far ahead of us the cultists have reached.”

She stared—all but glared—at the ships ahead. Then her lips firmed, one step away from a petulant pout.

His errant mind suggested he kiss the expression from her lips…

“Oh, very well.”

Thank God.

She turned to the companionway, but bent a sharp glance his way. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

He inclined his head noncommittally. The instant her feet hit the companionway stairs, he set off to stride down the deck, grateful for the camouflage his new robes afforded him. One issue he didn’t need to worry quite so much about.

But he could see further problems looming.

They were on a journey that would be strewn with dangerous situations, most likely becoming increasingly fraught the closer they got to England, yet he’d had no choice but to bring her along, and now had no option but to keep her with him. Quite aside from his evolving fascination with her, her safety wasn’t something he could countenance putting at risk. Unfortunately, said evolving fascination looked set to play havoc with his interactions with her—interactions where he, in any case, would have been feeling his way.

He’d commanded men for over a decade. Women, unfortunately, were something else again.

Four

8th October, 1822
Afternoon
The deck of our schooner on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

I am starting to question how much one can learn of another while constantly on edge. On guard. With one’s head forever twisted to look over one’s shoulder. I swear I now have a permanent crick. Unfortunately we know the cultists are out there. Bister and, later, Mullins sighted their telltale black scarves.

Beyond the constant fear of an attack, we go on relatively comfortably. Dorcas thought of draping some of the ubiquitous mosquito netting over a section of the stern, giving me, her, and Arnia some cover beneath which we can sit free of the weight of our burkas. I am seated in our tent of sorts now, watching the passing ships. We are making good time, or so I have been told. The scenery hasn’t notably improved, but the weather is not quite so enervating, at least on the water…once again I find my eyes trepidatiously scanning the vessel our sleek schooner is passing.

The men of our party take turns on watch, which is distracting and makes engaging Gareth in revelatory conversation somewhat difficult, for he, of them all, is most constantly on duty, ready to respond to any alert.

I would almost rather an attack was made so that we might relieve this unending pressure.

E.

Late that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily stepped out of the companionway onto the stern deck. Straightening, she paused to flick the silk out and over her shoulders. After a glance around the immediate area—empty of all life—she set off to indulge in a late stroll.

And if by chance she ran into Gareth Hamilton, she fully intended to encourage him to take advantage of the cover of night and, so to speak, her. At least to take her hand, kiss her fingers—kiss her lips if he would. She’d done with observations and cogitations, considered as far as she could, and had yet to discover any trait or behavior incompatible with his being her “one.”

Physical attraction and interaction seemed the obvious next step. Courtship of a sort, although as yet unstated. How could she assess if they were compatible on that level without actually testing it? Her sisters maintained it was essential to ensure one wasn’t dealing with a frog—the sort who remained a frog, regardless.

The evening had turned balmy. The schooner was sliding through the black water under light sail, the breeze that had whisked them along for the past days having faded to a mere breath. The moon was young, shedding only a pale glow, but there were lanterns placed all around the railings, shining down onto the deck; Emily walked confidently toward the prow.

She’d just drawn level with the middle-mast when a shift in the air behind her had her turning.

A dark, dripping head, a mahogany face with wild, staring eyes, a long lanky body, bare but for a sodden loincloth, materialized out of the darkness. Teeth flashed in a wicked grin. One hand rose, a wicked blade gleaming in the moonlight.

She screamed, loud and long as she whirled and fled.

The man lunged and seized. His fingers caught her shawl.

She let it fall and fled on.

Only to see more cultists step out from the shadows by the railings ahead. She skidded to a halt. They smiled, and hefting knives in anticipation, came on.

“Here—take my hand!”

She looked up. Saw a crouched shadow silhouetted against the sky—but she knew his voice, knew him. She reached with both hands, gripped the hand he was stretching down to her.

He rose and pulled her straight up, swinging her onto the rear of the roof of the forward cabin beside him.

The cultists howled, and flung themselves after her.

Gareth released her the instant her feet touched the roof.

As she whirled to face the threat, his saber flashed—a wild swing that had the cultists ducking.

But they immediately popped up again, and, blades waving, scrambled to gain the higher ground.

With thrust and slash, Gareth beat them back.

Then someone leapt onto the roof behind them. She whirled, but it was Mooktu, coming to his master’s aid.

She stepped back a little to give them both room, but kept a hand locked in the back of Gareth’s robes—enough to keep her anchored, not enough to impede him.

The cultists surged forward and up, more appearing, crowding the deck below Gareth and Mooktu, trying to tempt them forward, arms reaching, hands grasping to pull them down.

Twin bangs rent the night—both companionway doors slamming open. Feet pounded the deck as sailors poured from the fore and aft stairways. Emily glimpsed Mullins and Bister leading the charge from the stern.

The majority of the cultists didn’t spare the newcomers a glance. Eyes fixed on Gareth, they desperately tried to reach him…and her.

Through the wildly shifting shadows, she saw one darker apparition separate from the mass, slipping around the grappling, wrestling men. His gaze fixed on Gareth’s back, the cultist wove silently nearer.

A quick glance showed Gareth was fully occupied with the enemies before him. The cultist ignored her, his attention locked on the more dangerous opponent as he slipped into the shadows beneath the edge of the cabin’s roof.

He’d be up in a second.

Her heart in her throat, Emily glanced about—and saw a metal pail hooked to the jib arm. With her free hand she grabbed it, realized from the weight that it was half full of sand.

Just as a dark hand, followed by a dark arm and shoulder, came over the edge of the cabin roof.

She didn’t stop to think, just swung the pail the opposite way, then, as the cultist’s head cleared the roof’s edge, swung the pail back with all her might.

The solid thunk of the pail sent the cultist reeling. He tumbled back off the roof. Two sailors saw him and pounced.

Emily teetered, almost lost her balance and joined the bloody melee below; her hold on Gareth’s robes pulled her back.

He’d glanced around at the first tug, seen, grabbed his robes, and pulled. His gaze met hers. Then he turned back to hacking at the desperate cultists.

And desperate they were. They wouldn’t retreat. Wouldn’t give up.

In the end, they were all slain and their bodies tipped overboard.

Gareth didn’t stand down until the last body splashed into the water. Even then, he waited until Bister checked, with Mullins doing one last circuit of the deck before signaling that all was clear.

He straightened, easing the fingers cramped about the hilt of his saber. His and Mooktu’s new robes were liberally bloodied. A quick check confirmed none of it was theirs.

Only then, with the grip of battle fading, did he look at Emily.

She was still standing on the roof alongside him, watching the activity on the deck below. Her arms were tightly folded, hands gripping her elbows as if she were cold. Shock, yes, but not hysterics, for which small mercy he was grateful.

For the much greater mercy that she was still alive, he metaphorically went down on his knees and gave thanks.

He’d known she was up on deck. He’d heard her footsteps. He’d started circling, on the opposite side as she, avoiding her as he had whenever possible over the last days.

Her scream had put paid to that.

It had ripped through the night, and ripped through him. His heart had stopped, then started pounding so hard he’d been sure the cultists would hear and see him as he climbed up and over the roof.

But she was still alive; she didn’t appear to have taken any wound.

And she’d very effectively covered his back, which was the last thing he’d expected.

He was sincerely grateful for that, too.

The deck below was clearing. Mooktu grunted, then dropped down off the roof and strode away to reassure Arnia, who had appeared at the stern.

With his free hand, Gareth touched Emily’s slender back. “Come. I’ll lift you down.”

He dropped down to the less bloodied side of the deck, then, setting aside his saber, turned to her, reached up, set his hands about her waist and gripped.

And swung her down.

Felt his heart pound just a little harder as he set her on her feet before him. As he looked into the face that haunted his dreams. Chest swelling, he had to force his hands to ease their grip and let go.

Bister unwittingly helped, coming up to take his saber to clean it.

He’d just handed it over when Captain Ayabad turned from giving orders to have the decks sluiced and swabbed.

Gareth spoke before the captain could. “I’ll have four of my men help scour the decks tomorrow.”

Ayabad inclined his head. “And while they are doing that, I think, Major, that you and I will have a talk. There are things I don’t know that it appears I need to know.”

Gareth nodded curtly. “In the morning, we’ll talk.”

“Bon.” Ayabad, tall, dark, of similar age to Gareth, again inclined his head, then his teeth flashed as he turned to Emily. “I must thank you, mam’zelle, for an entertaining evening.”

Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”

Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel—flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.

By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.

Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.

He turned to her just as she looked up at him.

Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up on her toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.

His instincts surged, purred, reached—

Ruthlessly he slapped them down.

It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…

Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.

His hungry, starving lips.

He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.

To taste, then claim, then devour.

Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…

Her lips lingered.

Then, on a sigh, she drew back.

As her heels touched the deck, he straightened—reluctantly. Disappointedly.

Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.

“Thank you, Major.”

He forced his gaze up to her eyes.

They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”

He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.

He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.

It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.

Not to her.

He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in the opposite direction. There was nothing between them—he’d be a fool to think there was.

This—whatever it was—was all in his mind.

10th October, 1822
Very early morning
In my cabin in the schooner, bobbing on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

I am in two minds about having my last wish granted. The attack was truly frightening, and brought home to me—as if that were necessary—the true violence of the cultists’ natures. They are fanatics and think nothing of fighting to the death. If it hadn’t been for my gallant major…but that, of course, was what I gained from the experience, terrifying though it was. Gareth was nothing less than superb in whisking me from the imminent clutches of the fiends, and then protecting me against the rabble. He accounted for numerous of their number. The others, too, and the crew, did their part, I’m sure, but understandably I had eyes only for my rescuer, a fact that enabled me to account for one cultist of my own, protecting the major from a dishonorable attack from the rear, and thus evening the score between us a trifle.

Naturally, later, I had to kiss him. Yes, it was exceedingly bold, but the moment—and the excuse—were there, and I would have been foolish indeed to let the opportunity slip.

And therefore, dear Diary, I am now in a position to report that Major Gareth Hamilton is no frog. Even though the kiss was all on my part—he very properly did not respond—I could sense, and feel…suffice it to say that the aftermath of the experience disturbed my slumber for the remainder of the night.

Naturally, given its success, that kiss can only be my first step. It has opened the door, so to speak, and now I must learn what lies beyond.

I have to admit I am insatiably curious.

E.

The next morning, as he’d promised, Gareth went to speak with the captain.

In order to give himself every advantage in the negotiations that were sure to ensue, he took Emily with him.

He tapped on the captain’s cabin door, and when Ayabad bade them enter, opened the door and ushered Emily, fetchingly dressed in a flimsy spring green gown, over the threshold.

Ayabad came to his feet in a rush, then hurried to hold a chair for Emily, who returned his greeting coolly and sat.

Drawing up a second chair, Gareth sat alongside her.

She’d been as pleased as punch when he’d asked her to accompany him; he was growing adept at reading her expressions. Of course, she didn’t comprehend exactly why he’d requested her presence, but he saw no harm in allowing her to imagine he needed her counsel, and distracting Ayabad was, he judged, a strategically wise move.

“Now, Major.” Ayabad resumed his seat behind the small desk. “Perhaps you will be so good as to explain the interests of those who attacked this ship last night, and whether it is likely we will encounter more of their ilk on this voyage.”

Having already decided what to reveal, Gareth smoothly explained the basis of the Black Cobra cult, and the cultists’ interest in Emily as the one who had bravely brought critical evidence to the authorities.

Ayabad was suitably impressed and intrigued. He exclaimed at the tale of Emily’s ride from Poona and asked various questions, which Emily answered with just the right degree of feminine self-effacement.

By the simple expedient of not mentioning the copy of the letter he was carrying, Gareth’s tale, supported by Emily, left Ayabad with the impression that Gareth was acting as Emily’s escort on her journey home to England, because the Black Cobra was expected to seek revenge through attacks such as the one the previous night.

After that, it took little to convince Ayabad that he should support them by continuing to ferry them north to Suez, beating off any cult attacks along the way. Gareth was a shrewd judge of men like the captain; Ayabad and his sailors were only too ready to enliven their lives by joining in a good fight. There was, of course, a fee to be paid. He and Ayabad haggled over the additional sum.

A glance at Emily showed she was horrified—whether by the amount or simply the fact of the extra sum, he couldn’t tell—but to his relief she remained silent, although he, certainly, felt her disapproval.

Emily was indeed incensed, but as Gareth seemed to think nothing of either the captain’s demand, or of the—to her quite horrendous—sums being bandied about, she felt she had to hold her tongue.

Which left her time to note that, given said sums, Gareth Hamilton was no pauper. She hadn’t thought of the expenses he’d been meeting, but the briefest of considerations confirmed he must command resources well beyond that of the average army major. Then again, she’d heard plenty of tales of the wealth accummulated by those in the employ of the East India Company, and Gareth had told her that he and his fellow officers had been, in his words, “Hastings’s own.”

His wealth therefore would not derive from his army stipend alone.

His affluence or otherwise made little difference to her—if he proved to be her “one,” she would marry him regardless—but his relative wealth would certainly help in securing her parents’ approval of the match.

She brought her attention back to the captain’s cabin to discover he and Gareth were shaking hands.

Both were smiling identical smiles.

They both looked like pirates.

She rose as Gareth did, and they took their leave of the captain, who bowed very prettily over her hand. She made a mental note to be sure to do nothing to encourage Ayabad. She judged him a womanizer, undoubtedly with a woman in every port on the Red Sea.

When the door had closed behind them, Gareth smiled at her. “Excellent.” He waved her to the companionway.

She preceded him up the stairs. He fell in beside her as they strolled down the deck.

“That went well.” Gareth glanced at her face. “I wanted to avoid mentioning my mission, and you were a great help in that.” He looked ahead, matching her step for step as they neared the stern. “You behaved in just the right way to evoke Ayabad’s chivalrous streak. I felt sure he had one. He’s an honorable man, which is why I hired him in Mocha.”

She halted by the stern railings, gripping them and staring out over their wake.

Halting beside her, he glanced back along the length of the schooner. The decks had been scoured first thing that morning; there was no sign remaining of the night’s battle. His lips twisted. “I should upbraid you for strolling the deck alone last night, but everyone in our party is feeling rather better for having weathered the attack we all knew would come. We took a few cuts and bruises, but no one sustained any serious injury.”

He paused, recalling—vividly—that moment when, looking down from the roof, he’d seen the cultists closing in on her, seen her helplessness, understood her peril…but he’d been there, and had rescued her, for which she’d been duly appreciative.

And in the midst of the melee, she’d rescued him. He glanced at her, but she was still looking out over the waves. “I haven’t yet thanked you for your assistance last night. Indeed, to commend you on your quick thinking and levelheadedness. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have been seriously wounded.”

Or killed, Emily thought, as she swung to face him.

She caught his gaze. Expectantly waited. If he wanted to thank her, she’d shown him the way.

Her jaw had dropped, mentally if not physically, when he’d revealed his reasons for requesting her presence that morning. Every word he’d uttered since had only succeeded in prodding her temper to greater heights, but if he was going to redeem himself by thanking her appropriately, she was willing to overlook his arrogance.

So she waited.

His gaze traveled her face, returned to her eyes. “I…have to admit that when I suggested we join forces, I imagined myself taking responsibility for you much as a nursemaid with her charge, but you’ve already contributed in a positive way—many positive ways—to our joint party’s well-being, and deserve our, certainly my, thanks and gratitude.”

She waited. Waited.

He seemed to sense her expectation, but all he did was shift uneasily, then say, “I’m sure the others—”

Others? She gave up—threw up her hands on a sound of frustration, stepped closer and slapped her palms to his cheeks, hauled his face down, and pressed her lips to his.

Again. Harder this time.

More definitely, more confidently.

More evocatively.

Provocatively.

She felt the light scrape of his beard beneath her palms, felt again the hardness, the sculpted lines of his cheeks and the bones above them, traced the latter lightly with the tips of her fingers even while she registered, absorbed, and explored again the fascinating hardness of his lips with hers.

Again he didn’t return the kiss, but he did respond—she could sense it. She could all but feel the battle he waged to hold back, to keep the inch of separation between their bodies, to keep his arms from her, to keep his lips from seeking hers.

It was a battle he won—damn him!

Head starting to spin from lack of air, she was forced to draw back.

Gareth hauled in a breath the instant her lips left his, shackled his instincts in iron, nearly swayed with the effort it took.

He frowned down at her as her eyes searched his. “What was that for?”

Her eyes narrowed, golden flints sparking in the mossy green. “That was to shut you up. And to thank me for last night!”

With that, she spun on her heel and, skirts swishing angrily, stalked to the companionway.

Gareth watched her disappear down the steep stair.

Leaving him with the taste of her on his lips.

And thoroughly confused over what was going on.

11th October, 1822
Morning
My cabin on Captain Ayabad’s schooner

Dear Diary,

I fear that in the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I am in danger of becoming quite wanton. I kissed him again, in the middle of the day, on the stern deck, in full view of anyone who might have been watching. I’m not sure anyone was, but I was in such a temper that I strode off before checking.

My temper, of course, was all his fault. He admitted he commenced our journey thinking of me as a charge—a burden to be borne. No doubt out of honor. Huh! I refuse to be cast in such a light—to have him view me in such a patronizing way—but after recent events, he is, it seems, adjusting his perspective. Just as well. Him being my “one” necessitates his seeing me as the lady with whom he wishes to spend the rest of his life.

Which was in large part the reason I kissed him again—to assist in rescripting his view. And for that I cannot be sorry. My next step, clearly, is to get him to kiss me back. I did hope, for a moment, but he patently needs further encouragement to step over that line.

I am now adamant about pursuing him further. No one would expect me to desist given he is shaping up so well. With every day that passes, I grow more convinced—everything I see in him is laudable and attractive…well, except for his tendency to assume absolute command. And his continuing reticence over allowing himself to respond to me. I know he is not immune to the attraction that flares between us.

Sadly, no further opportunity to advance my cause presented itself yesterday. After stealing that second kiss, I did not feel I could initiate another, not without risking his seeing me as fast. Today is unlikely to offer any new chance to go forward, but tomorrow Captain Ayabad says we will be putting in at Suakin. We will be spending the day there, on dry land, which might well result in further opportunities.

We shall see.

E.

The next morning saw the schooner sliding over calm waters into the bay in which Suakin Island sat. Connected to the mainland by a causeway, the island itself remained the center of the bustling township. Indeed, as far as Emily could see, buildings covered the entire island, all the way to the waterline.

Their vessel circled to come into the docks. They passed craft of every conceivable type and style, but other than the heavy barges, off to one side, none were larger than the schooners.

Captain Ayabad joined her, Gareth, Dorcas, and Watson in the bow. “We must take on water and supplies, which will occupy most of the day, but I am keen to put out in mid-afternoon, to use the tide to carry us down the channel and back into the Red Sea. So if you are planning to go ashore, you must be back by then.”

Gareth nodded. He looked at Emily. “The market?”

“Yes. We need supplies, too.”

“The souk is roughly in the center of the island.” Ayabad pointed. “That is the Hanafi Mosque—if you go past it a little way, you will find the stalls.”

Gareth thanked him. By the time the schooner was made fast and the gangplank rolled out, their party was ready to depart. After some discussion, Gareth had agreed that Arnia and Dorcas had to see what was available in the souk for themselves. He’d attempted to suggest that Emily might stay on board—the implication was “safe”—but after being cooped up on the schooner for days, she wasn’t about to pass up the chance of stretching her legs.

Or of being present if the cultists attacked again.

In the end, their entire party, bar only Watson—who agreed to remain aboard and keep an eye on their possessions—went ashore. Walking through the narrow streets, which only got narrower beyond the mosque, Emily was very conscious of trying to look everywhere at once.

The others were the same. The last contact with the cultists was days past; none of them imagined they’d given up and gone home.

Once in the souk, the tension only grew. While Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia haggled over flour and dried meat, Gareth and Mooktu loomed beside them, their hard faces and menacing stances making it clear they were guards. Bister, Jimmy, and Mullins lurked nearby. Bister seemed to be educating Jimmy in how to merge with crowds, and how to find the best vantage point from which to keep watch.

Emily was glad when she could turn to Gareth and inform him that they’d completed their purchases.

He humphed, and signaled the others to form up for their journey back to the ship. No one suggested ambling around to take in the sights.

Gareth heaved an inward sigh of relief when the last of their party passed him on their way up the gangplank. He turned and followed. What they’d all hoped would be a few hours of relaxation had instead been filled with burgeoning tension.

It was now almost palpable, that expectation of attack.

Stepping onto the schooner’s deck, he paused to look back at the town. They hadn’t sighted a single cultist. That didn’t mean they hadn’t been there.

What troubled him more was that his instincts were pricking—not just a little, a lot.

The same instincts had kept him alive through a long career of often unpredictable fighting; he wasn’t about to discount them now. But according to Ayabad, their next stop would be Suez. Once they were away from here, they would have several days of yet more tension to prepare them for whatever welcome the Black Cobra had waiting for them there.

With an inward grimace, he turned and went to join the others in the stern.

Emily remained on deck with the others, watching Suakin Island slide away in their wake. The tide carried them swiftly down the channel linking the bay to the Red Sea proper. With the mouth of the channel in sight, and the wider waters of the Red Sea stretching beyond, she quit the railings and went below.

In the tiny cabin she had to herself, she sat on the edge of the bed built out from the curving outer wall, and pulled her leather-covered diary from her bag. Opening the clasp, she caught the small pencil before it could roll away. She spent a moment reading her last entry, then turned the page and smoothed it down. Pencil clutched in her fingers, she stared across the room, marshaling her thoughts, her impressions of the day.

With a sigh, she looked down and set pencil to paper.

“Hola!”

She looked up at the cry from somewhere on deck.

For one second all was still, then shouts and curses broke out—a rapidly escalating racket punctuated by the pounding of many feet.

Her diary went flying as she dashed to the door. As she hauled it open, the noise she dreaded hearing—the metallic clang and clashing slide of blades—joined the din.

Looking down the corridor, she saw Mullins disappearing up the stair, Watson behind him. Arnia and Dorcas stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking up. As Emily joined them, Arnia muttered something, then thrust a cooking knife into Dorcas’s hand. “Stupid to stay trapped down here when us being up there might tip the balance.”

With another, wicked-looking cook’s knife in her hand, Arnia climbed quickly up.

Dorcas glanced at Emily. “You’d better stay here.” With that, Dorcas went up the ladder.

An instant later, Emily stood looking up the steep stairway at blue sky—intermittently broken by a passing body.

She couldn’t tell anything from the shouts, grunts, and the thudding of feet. Couldn’t tell how many they were battling, or who was winning.

Dorcas was right—she had no weapon, so she couldn’t help. But…

She crept up the stairs. Standing one rung down, she peered out. All she could see was a shifting mass of bodies filling the stern. Taking the last step, clearing the companionway housing, she looked back along the schooner—everywhere she looked was the same.

Then she saw the ship that had slipped in close alongside. There were cultists on board. Every time the swell pushed the vessels close more jumped across onto the schooner’s deck.

Snapping her gaze back to the action around her, she realized Arnia was right—they would need every hand fighting to win this time.

Her assessment had taken less than a minute. Expecting to be noticed by some cultist at any second, she frantically looked around for something to use…and saw the trusty pail she’d wielded before. Avoiding a wrestling pair, she inched around, stretched out, and snagged the pail—just as a cultist focused on her.

Thin lips stretched in a vicious grin. Uttering a horrible yell, he flung himself through the melee at her.

She just had time to draw the pail back, then swing it forward—upward this time. It caught the cultist under the chin and lifted him off his feet, throwing him onto the backs of two other cultists. The three collapsed in a writhing heap. The sailors who’d been fighting the other two leapt on top.

Emily left them to it as she swung the other way—swung the pail again.

She knocked out another cultist, but…“Oh, no!”

Her fingers slid off the pail’s handle and it went flying into the melee.

She had to find something else. She’d rounded the stern housing. As she shrank back against the side, her heels stubbed against something. Looking down, she saw a long wooden pole.

Ducking down, she grabbed it and pulled it to her.

And discovered the pole was for dragging in sails—it had a wicked-looking brass hook on one end.

She rose with the pole held between her hands, as she’d seen her brothers do when they fought with staffs. The hook was heavy and weighed down that end. She juggled, found the balance—just as a cultist stepped away from a knot of shifting bodies and, grinning, came at her.

She stood her ground and flicked the hook end up. It caught the cultist in the throat and he halted, gurgling, then went down.

She felled two more, but of course they didn’t stay down, but then Bister popped up out of the melee and used his short sword to ensure they did.

Emily seized the moment to take in what was happening around them. The sailors were holding the rest of the ship, while their party were fighting mostly in the stern. Bodies—all cultists as far as she saw—were piling up. The throng was thinning, but four cultists still had Gareth and Mooktu backed against the stern railing. Jaw setting, she hefted her pole.

“No—wait!” Bister frantically signaled her to give him one end. “Like this.”

He crouched, held the pole low, waved with his other hand.

Emily saw what he meant. Holding her end, she crouched, too, and she and Bister swept in behind the four cultists.

The pole took them across the backs of their knees. With yells and flailing arms, they tumbled back—and Gareth and Mooktu sprang forward and finished them.

Emily was now behind Gareth, pressed up against the rails, with Bister in a similar position on the other side. Mooktu had seized the moment to leap forward and, sword slashing, win through to Arnia and Dorcas, who’d been fighting with Watson, Mullins, and Jimmy off to the side.

And still the cultists came on, hurling themselves forward, but the ranks behind were lessening. Further down the schooner, Emily glimpsed Captain Ayabad, sword swinging, a feral grin on his face, his massive Nubian first mate wielding a scimitar beside him.

The clang of swords at close quarters snapped her attention back to Gareth and Bister, who were furiously defending against another three cultists. Hauling her pole back up, she angled behind Gareth, picked her moment—and jabbed the nearest cultist in the throat.

He recoiled, and Gareth stepped forward to deal with him, allowing Emily to slip past behind him and engage one of the two cultists Bister now faced.

Her intervention allowed Bister to gain the upper hand, then Gareth joined in…and suddenly they were free.

But there were still writhing knots of men covering most of the deck.

Emily drew in a huge breath, looked to the side—then grabbed Gareth’s sleeve. “Look!”

She pointed to the cultists’ ship. It had drifted sufficiently so the gap between the vessels was just too great for men to leap across. On the other ship’s deck, a few dozen cultists yelled and shook their swords in their impatience to get aboard the schooner and fight, their attention locked on a number of their fellows, who were attempting to fling grappling hooks over the schooner’s rails.

Gareth swore, jammed his sword into his waistband, and grabbed Emily’s pole. “Come on.”

He leapt over bodies to the side railings. Leaving Bister, who had followed, to cut the ropes to the grapples that had successfully lodged over the schooner’s rails, Gareth half straddled the rails, set the end of the pole below the deck line of the cultists’ smaller vessel, and pushed.

Using all his weight, he managed to keep the smaller ship from getting any closer, but…“Mooktu! To me!”

A minute later, Mooktu appeared, looked, saw, then vanished.

A minute after that, he reappeared with a similar long pole, and set it to the other boat closer to the bow. And pushed, too.

Bister went to help Mooktu.

Emily grabbed Gareth as he nearly overbalanced. Sinking her hands in his robes, leaning back, she anchored him in place.

The cultists were all screaming, trying to find poles to knock theirs aside and pull the ships closer.

Gareth snapped a look over his shoulder. “Mullins! Jimmy!”

The pair had just fought free of their assailants.

“Get more sail on—quickly!”

Jimmy leapt up onto the stern housing. Mullins clambered up behind him. Together they managed to unfurl a small midship sail, then they hauled and tugged—and the topsail unfurled.

For one instant, the sails billowed, then they filled, grew taut.

The schooner leaned, then leapt forward.

The cultists on the smaller ship screamed in fury, then raced to let their own sails down. But the schooner was bigger and carried much more sail. As the smaller ship fell behind, Gareth turned his attention to the cultists left on board.

But seeing they were now on their own and couldn’t win, this time the cultists remaining dived overboard. Within minutes, all the fighting was over.

Captain Ayabad gave orders for more sail to be set. They’d come out of the narrow channel from Suakin on only the jib, which was how the other craft had been able to slide so close so easily.

Eventually Ayabad made his way to the stern, where Gareth and the others were all slumped, catching their breaths after disposing of all the bodies overboard.

Ayabad nodded to Gareth, bowed to Emily. “My apologies. I should have been more aware, but I did not think these vermin would attempt to board like that.”

Gareth grimaced. “Neither did I.” He glanced at the exhausted members of their group. “A few cuts, some bruises and knocks, but we took no lasting damage.” He looked at Ayabad. “Your men?”

“Some injuries, but none life-threatening. These cultists—they are not well trained.”

“Most aren’t,” Gareth replied. “Those used as guards and assassins are, but the majority are farmers with knives in their hands.”

Ayabad nodded. “It shows. However, after this, if you have no objection, I am inclined to make for Suez by the fastest possible tack.”

Gareth nodded his agreement. “We’ve been lucky so far—no sense in inviting another attack.”

By evening the schooner’s decks were clean once more, with everything shipshape and as it should be as they cleaved through the shallow waves under full sail, running before an increasingly stiff breeze.

After tending the injuries of their own small company—a number of slashes and two deep cuts—Emily had gone with Arnia and Dorcas to offer their potions and salves to Captain Ayabad and his crew. The sailors were happy enough to have more gentle hands patching their hurts, but Emily gathered from their comments that, much like their captain, they’d enjoyed the battle.

After dinner, once the sun had set and night had wrapped the waters in velvet darkness, she went up to the stern deck. Given their speed, she doubted there was any lingering danger. Leaning on the stern railings, she stared out into the night.

As she’d hoped, Gareth joined her.

She heard his footsteps before she sensed his large body beside her.

He leaned on the railings, much as she was doing, looking out over the rippling water of their wake. “It’s a lovely night—so peaceful. Who would have thought that just hours ago this deck was a battlefield?”

She glanced at him. The light of the moon reflected off the water, sending shadows to dapple his face. “That’s life, isn’t it? The battle and the triumph?”

His lips curved. He inclined his head fractionally. “This time, our injuries were minor, so I suppose the triumph is ours to enjoy.”

“Do you think, after today, that we’ll reach Suez without further incident?”

He glanced back and up at the sails. “Given our speed, with luck, we might. Those we left behind will have to report back to someone. The general cultists operate under the orders of more senior members, and I doubt there were any of those more senior men on that ship. So I don’t think we need to worry about being chased. However…” After a moment, he went on, “We have to assume there’ll be cultists keeping a watch in Suez—not specifically for us but for any of the four of us who might pass through there. It’s one of the major staging points on various routes back to England.”

She nodded. “So once we reach Suez, we’ll need to be on guard again.” She glanced at him. “How do you plan to travel on from there?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Gareth saw no reason to explain that, until he’d had to take her and her party under his wing, his mission had had a somewhat different tone. Then, he’d intended to act as an open decoy and draw as many cultists after him as he could. With Mooktu, Bister, and Arnia all capable of looking after themselves, he wouldn’t have had to worry unduly about the danger.

Having her with him changed all that.

He straightened from the railing. “I’ll have to call in a few favors, and work out the best route and manner of transport to ensure we evade the cultists’ notice. Suez will also be the last city in which we can be sure of getting suitable supplies this side of Marseilles, so we’ll need to attend to that, too.”

“All without being seen by the cult?”

“Indeed. And speaking of the cult…” He met her eyes, then grimaced. “While I should disapprove mightily of your coming up on deck in the middle of a fight, I can’t be such a hypocrite.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then her lips curved. She looked out over the water again. “Arnia said something about how foolish it was for women to cower and hope their men won, if the women’s presence in the fight might tip the scales and ensure it. I’ve decided I agree with her. Her philosophy might not apply to battlefields and army engagements, but with the sort of skirmishes we’re having to face, she has a valid point.”

No matter how much he recoiled from the notion, not addressing the issue might be worse. She’d managed today, and in the earlier fight, but finding impromptu weapons was relying on sheer luck—which next time might fail.

Quelling his instinctive reaction, he asked, “You don’t know much about weapons, do you?”

Her smile broadened; she cast him a quick glance. “I know a sword has a pointy end, and usually only one sharp edge.”

He snorted. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Bister is very good with knives, and so is Arnia. I’ll ask them to give you lessons, and find you a knife or two of your own. As you say, given what we have to face, it’s better that you shouldn’t be defenseless.”

She’d swung to face him as he spoke. Now she straightened from the railings. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her expression; it held something more than gracious delight.

“Thank you.” Her lips were lusciously curved. Her eyes seemed to softly glow.

Her movement had brought her close. She stood less than a foot away.

For a moment, they stood locked in each other’s eyes. He could have sworn the moon, the earth, and the heavens stood still. That there was no other reality beyond the pair of them standing in the soft darkness, with the breeze sending loose tendrils of her hair streaming, and plastering her gown to her svelte frame.

He caught himself as his hands rose, but he couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t. She’d kissed him to thank him—he could do the same in reverse.

Then his hands settled around the delicate curves of her face, his hard palms cradling the fine skin of her cheeks, brushing the fragile bones of her jaw as he tipped her face up to his.

He bent his head. “Thank you for today—for saving me.”

She lifted her lips, and they brushed his. But this time it was he who kissed her, who pressed his lips to hers—gently, slowly, achingly carefully.

She didn’t back away. He felt her hand rise and cup the back of one of his, anchoring her, him—them.

Accepting.

Urging.

He angled his head, and pressed just a little harder, persuaded—when her lips parted, he teased them further, then, still riding his instincts hard, reining them in, he entered, slowly, deliberately, but definitely.

When she made no demur, he pressed deeper, and laid claim.

And something flared.

She moved into him, sending a shocking wash of heat cascading through him. Her lips moved beneath his, drawing him deeper, returning the caress.

And desire was suddenly there, unfurling within him—and her.

Familiar, yet not. More specific, more aware.

He couldn’t mistake it, not in him, or in her.

Unexpected, yet beguiling, appealing, enticing. For long moments he did nothing more than savor the taste, the heady drug of having a willing woman in his arms.

What with one thing and another, this mission, the Black Cobra, it had been some time since he’d last sipped from desire’s cup, but not even that pleasure, and the promise of more, could dim his mind to the reality of which woman he was holding.

Yet the warmth remained, the promise remained—undimmed.

He wasn’t sure what this was—where they were heading. There could be no easy roll in some hammock—not for him, not with her.

This, whatever it was, was different. That much he knew, but what next…that was shrouded in mystery.

He drew back—he had to, for he didn’t know what came next. Not here and now, not with her.

He didn’t even know if she knew what he did—if she recognized the tug of burgeoning desire and understood where it would lead. If they went on, if they blindly followed the road their feet were now treading.

So he eased back from the kiss, reluctantly—so reluctantly—drew his lips from hers.

Looked down into her face as her lashes fluttered, then rose. Looked into her eyes, and saw…

Nothing beyond soft delight.

Her lips, sheening from the kiss, lightly curved.

Her hand fell from his. He released her face and she stepped back.

Still smiling that soft, elusive smile.

“Good night, Gareth.”

He heard, but said nothing.

Could do nothing but watch—trusted himself to do nothing more than watch—as she turned and unhurriedly walked to the companionway, then went down.

He heard her footsteps travel the lower corridor, heard her door open, then close.

Only then did he fill his lungs, breathing deeply and long. Then he turned and leaned on the railings again, and stared out at the moonlit water rippling in their wake.

Five

12th October, 1822
Very late night
My cabin in Ayabad’s schooner

Dear Diary,

He kissed me! I am, at last, making headway, and flatter myself that I have, at the very least, engaged his interest. And the kiss was wonderful—so much better in every way than any kiss I have experienced before. He was masterful, yet in no way overwhelming. It was the sort of kiss I have every intention of experiencing frequently—preferably with greater fervency, but that I am sure will come.

Equally promising was his unprompted recognition of my part in the day’s action—and who would have thought that he, an army major, could be so progressive and clear thinking as to accept the need for me to be better able to defend myself—and him, although I doubt the latter occurred to him.

Nevertheless, I have to report that all is progressing most favorably. Given his estimation that we will be safe from further attack until we reach Suez, I have great hopes of what the next few days will bring.

I lay my head down to sleep in excited anticipation.

E.

16th October, 1822
Afternoon
My cabin on the schooner

Dear Diary,

I have written nothing for several days, as, to my irritation, I have nothing of note to report. I had great hopes that Gareth, having broken the ice and kissed me—and we both know it had little to do with gratitude—and having realized the nature of our bond, as I am quite sure he did, would accordingly seek to kiss me again.

Sadly, he has shown no evidence of such sensitivity—indeed, his reaction to the event appears to be to try to keep me at arm’s length! Not that he is denying the attraction that flared between us—I can see knowledge of it in his eyes—but it is more a case of his having decided that we should not be permitted either time or place to further pursue our mutual interest.

I have mentioned, have I not, his distressing tendency to make unilateral decisions?

This must stop, but I have yet to discover a way of getting around his determined stance.

But I will.

E.

19th October, 1822
Very early morning
Cabin on blasted schooner

Dear Diary,

I am penning this in a hurry as we are packing and preparing to quit this restricting vessel. Suez has materialized out of the mists ahead, and we expect to be docking in a few short hours. This section of our journey is at an end, and if its revelations have been significant—I now know Gareth Hamilton bears all the hallmarks of my “one”—and subsequent developments—that kiss!—encouraging, indeed promising, I must report that I have yet to further engage with Gareth.

He has proved to be annoyingly elusive.

Exactly what the next stage of our journey will encompass neither I nor he knows, but I am hopeful it will afford me greater scope to pursue him—or, more accurately, to encourage him to pursue me.

I go forward in hope.

E.

They quit the docks as the sun rose above the eastern quarter of Suez, painting pale walls a glowing amber-pink. Gareth squinted at the buildings silhouetted against the morning sky, minarets and the domes of mosques underscoring that they walked in a foreign land.

Luckily, since the defeat of Bonaparte, this foreign land was increasingly falling under British sway.

Garbed in his Arab robes, he strode confidently forward, as if he belonged, as if he knew where he was going—which he did. He’d stopped in Suez on his way out to India. Walking into the square beyond the docks, he glanced back at the small procession trailing him—Mooktu by his shoulder, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia in their burkas a respectful pace behind, then Bister and Jimmy with the luggage, with Watson and Mullins bringing up the rear.

Facing forward, he led the way across the crowded square to the opening of a street that led, not to the diplomatic quarter, but into a quiet residential area. Halting beneath the awning of a shop that had yet to open, he waited until the three women, Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins drew near and halted, close enough to hear.

He hadn’t told them where he was taking them. He didn’t want any questions or protests along the way, nothing that might mar the image they were projecting. Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching, he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.

Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles—he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”

“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.

He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”

With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.

He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.

The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.

Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.

A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.

Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”

The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”

“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”

The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.

Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.

He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.

“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”

Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.

After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.

Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.

Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say—I must apologize. All these are local dishes—I didn’t think to order more English fare—”

“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”

“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”

“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”

While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.

Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.

She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’ brings you to my doorstep?”

When Gareth glanced at the door, Roger added, “They’ve all returned to the kitchens. There’s no one about to hear.”

Gareth nodded, and between mouthfuls of unusually spiced but delicious sustenance, he told Roger the whole tale, from Hastings’s directive to their need for the robes they had arrived on his doorstep in.

Roger was one of the few men in the world in whom he had sufficient confidence to entrust with the unvarnished truth. He’d known Roger since they were both pupils at Winchester Grammar School; neither had ever let the other down. While Gareth had gone into the army, Roger had opted for the diplomatic service, but they’d kept in touch, which was why Gareth had stopped at Suez on his way out to India.

As Gareth had expected, Roger grasped the implications of just who the Black Cobra was immediately.

Frowning, Roger pushed away his empty plate. “You can lie low here, of course—my staff are sound—but you’d be wise to keep your appearances in the streets to a minimum, and as far as possible avoid the area around the consulate.” He met Gareth’s eyes, then glanced at Emily. “I’ve seen a few turbans with unusual black silk bindings recently.”

“Cult members.” Emily’s eyes widened.

Gareth nodded. “I feared they’d be here, ahead of us, keeping watch.”

“That’s what they’re doing, all right. The only place I’ve seen them is in the streets around the consulate.”

“We’ve no reason to go into that area, but”—Gareth trapped Roger’s eyes—“you’ll need to be careful, too. Someone at the consulate might remember our connection from when I was here six years ago.”

Roger pulled a face. “Possible, but unlikely, but I will take care to ensure I’m not followed, not back here, and not to where I suspect I’ll have to go to arrange your transport onward.”

“Speaking of which.” Gareth picked up the last of the flat bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “I don’t think we should go via Cairo.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest it. I imagine if we have some of these cultists here, then Cairo will be swarming with them. Far better if you leave that wasps’ nest alone, and head straight to Alexandria.”

“Is it possible to do that?” When he’d come the other way, he’d traveled from Alexandria up the Nile to Cairo, then part by river, part overland, to Suez.

Roger nodded. “It’s straightforward enough, and”—he glanced at Emily—“given your entourage, it has the added benefit of being the last option anyone would expect you to take.”

Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”

Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they—the Berbers—unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.

Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them—those I’d trust—are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”

“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.

“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”

Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms—and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”

“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.

He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.

“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”

19th October, 1822
Before bed
In my room in Cathcart’s house in Suez

Dear Diary,

Well, at last I can report that I have indeed seen some development in Gareth’s attitude to me, although one can hardly describe it as decisive in any way. Over dinner he turned into a veritable bear, growling and grumpy, and all because his friend Cathcart paid me due attention. Not undue attention, but merely the customary appreciation any sociable and sophisticated gentleman might pay to a lady supping at his table and of a mind to be engaging. At no point did Cathcart step over the line. Gareth, on the other hand, turned positively surly. Not that he made any open fuss, but as he is normally even tempered, his disaffection was apparent to me—and I largely suspect, old friend as he is, to Cathcart as well.

I wonder what he made of it.

Regardless, although he didn’t find those he was seeking today, Cathcart is doing his best for us, and therefore entitled to my smiles.

If Gareth sees no reason to engage my attention, and invite my smiles himself, then he shouldn’t complain if I bestow them—smiles only, mind you—elsewhere.

I am not of a mind to indulge him in his present mood. He can hardly view Cathcart as a rival. It is Gareth I’ve kissed—three times! If he doesn’t act, and commence pursuing me soon, I will have to take more drastic action.

E.

The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent—or even nonurgent—attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.

Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.

Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.

But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he—and maybe even she—would have ended distracted.

His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.

Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.

Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.

His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her—her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.

He shifted, and she looked up, met his eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought.

She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Just this and that.”

The faint color in her cheeks gave her away.

He should have asked who she was thinking of.

Him? Cathcart?

Or MacFarlane’s ghost?

It was suddenly imperative he know. Ever since he’d been unwise enough to kiss her on the schooner, he’d been plagued by questions—of what she thought, what she wanted, what was going through her mind. Of what was right, honorable, what was acceptable in the circumstances. Of just how much those circumstances were to blame for her apparent interest in engaging with him. Moving into the room, he stepped around the numerous floor cushions and low tables to the divan. “May I join you?”

“Of course.” She straightened amid the cushions, drawing her skirts in, in a clear invitation for him to sit there, close beside her.

He did. But divans weren’t designed for sitting formally. Emily wriggled her hips, curled her legs beneath her green skirts, shifting around to face him. He lounged among the cushions, arms spread across the colorful silks, one bent knee on the divan so he was angled toward her. “How have you enjoyed your trip thus far?”

She waved in a gesture that encompassed many things. “It’s been…enlightening, illuminating, and undeniably exciting.”

“I fear we won’t make it to the pyramids or the sphinx.”

“As that route would take us through Cairo, I don’t feel overly exercised by that. I would rather arrive in Alexandria alive, and not in the hands of the Black Cobra’s men.”

“Indeed.” He let a moment go by, then asked, “It must have been a shock to learn James had met his death at their hands.”

She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared. “MacFarlane?” She considered, then grimaced and met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, when he insisted on remaining behind like that, given the numbers, I would have been more surprised had he survived.”

“It was an immensely brave act.”

She inclined her head. “It was an act of great self-sacrifice—I acknowledge that. Had our roles been reversed, I doubt I could have done the same.”

Emily watched Gareth’s face, and wondered why he’d introduced the topic. “Your MacFarlane died a hero, but he is still dead, and those remaining alive have to go on living.” She tilted her head, feeling her way, her eyes locked on his. “Given my chances of continuing to live were significantly improved by his sacrifice, then the best way I can honor him, I feel, is to continue with my life—more, to live life to the full.”

With you.

Her heart was beating just a touch faster. They were alone. Although the others were in the house, no one was near. And he’d made the first move by coming to sit with her—surely a clear declaration of intent.

Expectation welled; she struggled not to jig, not to lean toward him and precipitate—initiate—matters herself.

His gaze lowered to her lips as if he could hear her thoughts, but then he snapped it back to her eyes. “Cathcart. You…he…”

Sudden comprehension burst, epiphanylike, across her mind. Was he—had he been—jealous? Was that what his surliness had been about?

She smiled conspiratorially. “I thought, given his efforts are so vital to our cause, that being charming would be wise.” She opened her eyes wide. “Do you think it helped?”

He searched her eyes, then his lips twitched. “Knowing Roger, probably.” He paused, eyes still on hers, then added as he raised one arm from the cushions and, slowly sitting forward, reached for her face, “He’s no more immune to being appreciated by a lovely lady…” His hand curved about her jaw and he drew her closer; fascinated, mesmerized by the temptation in his eyes, she leaned forward, closer still…until her lids fell, her gaze lowering to his lips in time to see the end of his sentence fall from them. “…than the rest of us.”

Her mind took in the implication. Her lips curved as they met his.

The contact set her heart leaping.

She parted her lips, surrendered her mouth gladly, welcomed him in, and quelled a telltale shudder. His lips were firm, resilient, dominatingly male; his tongue stroked, sensation burgeoned and spread.

She leaned in, sank in, to the kiss.

Felt him shift closer, felt his hand slide from her face. He reached around her, drew her to him, his arm banding her waist as she joyfully obliged.

Inching closer yet, she placed her hands on the white fabric covering his upper chest. Felt the hardness of the rock-solid muscles beneath her palms and rejoiced. Greatly daring, her lips locked with his, her tongue tentatively tangling with his, she leaned further, reached further, slid her hands up, over his shoulders, then on, until she could clasp his nape, until her fingers tangled in the soft locks of his hair.

She sighed through the kiss, exhilaration and expectation melding. He gathered her closer, then tipped slowly back, sinking deeper into the cushions, taking her with him.

He ended half reclining, with her above and alongside him. She felt his lips curve beneath hers, sensed his satisfaction as, holding her locked within one muscled arm, he raised his free hand, and caressed.

From the swell of one hip to her waist.

His hand lingered, anticipation building, the heat of his palm sinking through her gown to her flesh.

Than his hand moved again, from her waist upward to, with the lightest of whispering touches, stroke her breast.

The shiver that lanced through her tightened her nerves, made something within her clench…then release as his hand, hard palm and long, knowing fingers settled, cupped. Claimed.

Her fingers firmed, tightening on his skull as he played, as with his tongue and lips he distracted her, only to draw back and let the heat, the warmth, the enticing pleasure of his caresses fill her mind.

She was lost in sensation.

And so was he. Gareth was submerged in the subtle pleasure, his mind awash with tactile delight. It had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms and so unhurriedly pleased her and himself. And even sunk in the moment, he—all of him—knew this wasn’t just any woman. She was who she was—Emily—and that made the moment even more special.

Even more addictive.

Ever more enticing.

The minutes spun on. Delight swelled, grew.

She sank closer, pressing more definitely against him.

Hauling in a breath, he gave in to the building compulsion, closed his hand about the firm mound of her breast—felt his chest tighten as she gasped through the kiss. Her spine bowed slightly as he traced the firm curves, found her nipple, circled it, then closed his fingers about the turgid peak.

She arched into the caress, the movement pressing her flesh more firmly to his palm. He closed his hand again, kneaded, and felt her melt.

Heard her softly moan.

Heat and desire shafted through him, straight to his groin. Instinctively, he shifted to roll her beneath him—

Realized just in time.

Caught himself, stopped.

Halted, teetering on that invisible edge.

If he did—if he took that next step forward—what then?

He’d entered the room with questions. She’d answered some, but he was still unclear about what she truly wanted, let alone why.

She still left him confused, and not just about her.

He broke from the kiss—just as she did, gasping.

One look into her dazed eyes told him she was, suddenly, as uncertain as he.

That she had realized, too, just how far they had gone.

That she, like he, needed to think before they went further.

They stared at each other, gazes locked, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure either of them truly knew.

Their positions, the physical closeness, gradually impinged on their minds as they slowly returned to the here and now.

Muscles tensed—hers and his—and they started to sit up and move apart.

“I think they’re in the salon.”

Watson, heading toward them, with others in his wake.

When her courier-guide appeared in the archway, Emily was sitting primly upright on the divan, with Gareth standing before the nearby window, apparently looking out.

He turned as Watson halted, and arched a brow.

“Thought you’d like to know,” Watson said, “that Mullins and Jimmy spotted a band of cultists patrolling the streets not far from here.”

The bearded cultist known to all as Uncle sat by the pool in a small courtyard. “We know they are here, somewhere in this small city. So where are they?”

The quietly uttered words were loaded with silent menace.

The three cultists kneeling before the pool trembled. One gathered his courage and spoke to Uncle’s feet. “The watchers at the consulate have seen nothing. We are combing the streets, but with the high walls all these houses have…”

Uncle studied the speaker, a faint frown in his eyes. The silence stretched, then he nodded. “The major is proving a worthy opponent. You are right, Saleeb, there is little point wasting our effort searching the warren of these streets. Instead, we must surround the town with eyes and ears and wait for them to show themselves. They must head either north or west. Go out, my sons, and befriend the herdsmen, the nomads, and those others who gather outside the town walls. Recruit them to watch and listen for us—we have coins aplenty, thanks to the bountifulness of our esteemed leader.” Uncle held up a hand, palm up, at shoulder height. His own son quickly fetched a purse and placed it on the waiting hand.

Uncle hefted the pouch, then presented it to the kneeling man who had spoken. “Here—take this, and with it buy the information we need. Then when the major and his party try to leave, we will know.” He sat back. “Go.”

The three men rose and went, bowing from his presence as fast as they dared.

Leaving Uncle to mull over the vicissitudes of fate.

He’d ordered a night attack on the major’s boat, hoping to kill the woman at least, but she’d shrieked, and despite there being a goodly number of his cultists on the deck, the major and his party had prevailed.

But then a ship carrying a large number of cultists had reached him, sent on from Aden as he’d ordered. He’d sent them and their ship to attack the major’s ship as it had, necessarily slowly, eased out of the Suakin Channel. He’d been certain of success, had already started planning what means he would employ to break the major, only to see his men repulsed again, and their ship left wallowing in the faster schooner’s wake. He’d watched his failure unfold from the deck of another ship not far away—and cursed.

Who would have thought the captain and crew of the schooner would take up arms against his men?

In India, the cultists were not opposed by others. Others stood and watched as they wreaked their vengeance on any they chose. That was the way of things…but that did not seem to be so in this wider world.

He would need to allow for such strange behavior from now on. The major seemed adept at recruiting others to his cause.

“We will find them, Father.”

Uncle looked up at his son, let his lips curve. “Indeed, we will, my son.”

Failure was not an option.

Six

20th October, 1822
Before dinner
My room in Cathcart’s house

Dear Diary,

I am rushing to write this before dinner. Although I sat down with plenty of time, I stared into space for so many minutes that now I must hurry to get my thoughts down. I have further developments to report, having spent a sizable portion of the afternoon in Gareth’s arms while we explored the depth and potential of our mutual attraction. The result is as yet undecided, for when we called a halt, by mutual accord, I for one needed to think and cogitate—not having indulged in either activity throughout the time his lips were on mine.

The truth is we have reached a point beyond which I cannot wisely go, not until and unless I am absolutely certain that Gareth Hamilton is my “one”—that one and only gentleman for whom I have waited for so long.

What will make me certain, I do not know—just as I do not know what, on this dangerous journey of ours, tomorrow will bring. Our way forward is as yet unclear. Regardless, we must forge on to England, eluding cultists and all dangers the fiend throws in our path. In similar fashion I will grasp every opportunity to convince myself that Gareth is my “one,” but whether I will be able to do so this side of Dover remains to be seen.

I am, however, determined to press on.

E.

Late the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon repairing the hem of her green gown, when a stir in the courtyard had her looking out to see Gareth greeting a smiling Cathcart.

Cathcart had gone to speak with a Berber sheik about their joining the man’s caravan. From Cathcart’s expression, he was the bearer of good tidings.

Both men turned and came striding toward the house. Emily put aside her mending, and looked up expectantly as Cathcart led Gareth into the room.

Cathcart swept her a bow. “Your carriage has been arranged, mademoiselle. You will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.” Straightening, Catchcart grimaced. “Sadly, there is no carriage as such, and, equally sadly, I fear that when Ali-Jehan says dawn, he truly does mean the instant when the sun pops over the horizon. Which”—Cathcart flung himself onto the other divan and smiled commisseratingly at Emily—“means we’ll have to leave here even earlier.”

“This Ali-Jehan understands that we might be pursued, and even attacked?” In the Arab robes he now seemed so comfortable in, Gareth stood looking down at his friend.

Cathcart grinned. “To Ali-Jehan, that point was a powerful inducement.”

Gareth humphed. He didn’t, to Emily’s eyes, look entirely pleased.

“Well,” she put in brightly, “that’s excellent news!” When both men looked at her, she continued, “We have to forge on, and journeying with a caravan will certainly be an adventure.” She caught Gareth’s eye. “One quite the equal of seeing the pyramids.”

He humphed, and prowled forward to sit on the other end of the divan she’d favored.

Turning back to Catchart, she smiled. “We must thank you, sir, for your help and hospitality. You’ve provided a much-needed respite.” She raised her brows in query. “Is there any message we can carry for you back to England? To family, perhaps?”

Cathcart thanked Emily for her kind thought but declined. Gareth watched as his friend continued to bask in the glow of Emily’s readily bestowed approbation. He tried not to growl or grind his teeth. She had no real interest in Cathcart—it had been he she’d permitted to kiss her—but Gareth wasn’t entirely sure Cathcart, happily accepting her feminine accolades, had no interest in her.

She glanced at him at that moment, a conspiratorial, inclusive expression in her eyes, then she turned back to Cathcart and continued to charm him…

Gareth realized he was scowling, and banished the expression. At least outwardly. Inwardly, he scowled even more. She knew. That’s what that brief glance was all about. She knew her charming of Cathcart was provoking him.

Of all the developments in the last hour, that pleased him least of all.

21st October, 1822
Before dinner
My room in Cathcart’s house

Dear Diary,

After Cathcart’s confirmation that we are to leave tomorrow, our party paid another necessary visit to the souk. The tension was palpable throughout, but despite keeping our eyes peeled, we saw no cultists at all—which, instead of making us feel less tense, only escalated the uncertainty. None of us believes the fiend has given up. His calling off his hounds only raises the question of what else he’s planning—how else he intends to corner us.

But as for our journey’s next stage, while I raised no open demur, I am not entirely sanguine about traveling with a caravan. However, as there appear to be no viable alternatives, then I will, of course, hold my head high and soldier on.

On the personal front, I have noted a certain dog-in-the-manger tendency on Gareth’s part. A degree of possessiveness in his attitude to me, and on that count I am uncertain how to respond. While I am not thrilled by this development, and can see definite problems looming, I suspect that with certain types of males, possessiveness is ingrained, and not easily eradicated.

My sisters, I am sure, could advise me, but sadly, they are out of reach, and there are no others I might question on such a subject. In this, I truly miss them, and Mama, too.

I am reasonably sure that when it comes to Gareth Hamilton, I am in need of sage advice.

E.

Roger Cathcart led them to meet the Berbers, a small tribe commanded by Sheik Ali-Jehan, in the coolness of the hour before dawn. The tribe’s camp was located in a dip in the sand dunes northeast of the town.

Camouflaged in her burka, Emily stood in a close group with the others of their party, likewise disguised and gathered about their baggage piled on a cart, while Gareth and Ali-Jehan—who proved to be a handsome devil of similar age to Gareth and Cathcart—conducted a low-voiced discussion, with Cathcart looking on. Peering through her burka’s little window, Emily used the minutes to see what she could of this unknown world.

There were numerous encampments dotted about the area. All appeared peopled by nomadic tribes, but not all were the rather haughty and handsome—and thus readily distinguishable—Berbers. From where she stood, Emily could see three other Berber camps, presumably three other tribes. From the other sites, men were observing their group, watching the discussion among the three men.

Turning back to see what was transpiring, Emily caught both Gareth and Ali-Jehan looking her way—specifically looking at her. Then Ali-Jehan asked Gareth a question. He nodded, and they went back to their negotiations.

Eventually Ali-Jehan flashed a white smile. When Gareth offered his hand, Ali-Jehan clasped it in his. With a nod, he released Gareth, then beckoned their group forward as he turned and shouted orders to the various men and women engaged in breaking up their camp.

Cathcart and Gareth turned to meet them as they trudged up.

“Everyone in this tribe speaks English, French, or both,” Cathcart told them. “You’ll be able to make yourselves understood, and with them, you should be safe.” Smiling, he glanced at Gareth. “As safe as it’s possible to be.”

Emily couldn’t interpret the look Gareth and Cathcart exchanged, but then Gareth looked at her. “Dorcas and Arnia will travel with the older women. Mooktu, Bister, and I will ride with the men guarding the caravan. Mullins, Watson, and Jimmy will assist with the carts carrying our luggage.”

Beneath her burka, she frowned. “And me?”

Gareth looked up, over her head. “You have a steed of your own.”

She turned—and saw Ali-Jehan returning with another man, who was leading a huge camel by a rope rein.

There were other camels linked in a long train, kicking and braying and shuffling about, each loaded with baggage of all sorts, but this camel was different. Instead of baggage, it carried a cushioned contraption lashed behind its hump.

As the camel approached, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a bray Emily took to be a camel protest.

“Oh, no.” She tried to step back.

Gareth’s hand pressed against her back. “Sadly, yes. In the circumstances, on this beast’s back is the safest place for you—the safest way for you to travel across the desert.”

“According to whom?” Emily’s eyes widened as, with a great show of teeth—both from the attendant and the camel—the beast was brought around and made to kneel, his side to her.

Ali-Jehan rounded the beast, drew down a rope stirrup-cum-ladder, then bowed, black eyes alight. “Your steed, dear lady.”

He spoke perfect English, but there was nothing civilized about the way his eyes tried to penetrate her burka.

Ignoring that, knowing full well that he couldn’t see through it—and regardless, she was fully clothed beneath—Emily eyed the camel’s shaggy head. Tentatively she stepped forward. The huge head swung her way, lips curling back.

Gareth pulled her to the side, to the saddle. “Be careful—they spit.”

Emily turned to stare at him. “Spit?”

Gareth urged her into the saddle. Rather stunned, she instinctively reached for the high pommel, planted her boot in the stirrup and raised up—and saw, beyond the camel, a string of superb horses.

Rather than swing her hips around and sit in the saddle, she froze, then tried to back down. “They have horses. I can ride perfectly well—I raced down that road from Poona, remember?”

Gareth’s hands grasped her hips and pushed her up. “No—you can’t ride one of their horses.”

“Why not?” She tried to twist enough to glare at him.

He kept hold of her hips and held her where she was. “For a start, in English terms they’re only half broken.”

“I could manage—”

“Perhaps.” Clipped accents were infusing his speech. “But the other reason you’re riding this animal is that it’s Ali-Jehan’s personal pet.”

Growing tired of her ungainly position, and distracted by having his hands gripping her hips, she gave up, swung around, and plopped down into the surprisingly comfortable saddle. She frowned at Gareth, but he was looking down, adjusting the twin rope stirrups. Glancing around, she saw the Berber chieftain striding through his people, yelling orders and gesticulating. “What does that have to do with anything?”

When she looked back, Gareth met her eyes. “It won’t leave him.”

She frowned harder. “So?”

“So”—with a last tug, he stepped back—“if raiders attack the caravan and try to steal you away, they’ll have the devil of a time shifting him. Nothing is more stubborn than a camel.”

He looked at her for an instant, then nodded to the attendant, still standing holding the camel’s head.

The attendant said one word.

Emily bit back a scream as the beast—in a series of ungainly lurches—got back to its feet.

Once it had, she stared down at Gareth. “This is—”

“What will keep you safe.” Hands on hips, he looked up at her. Then he glanced at the attendant. “This is Haneef. He’ll teach you how to guide Doha.”

“Doha?”

Haneef smiled toothily up at her. “He is really a very good beast.”

Uncle eased down to the cushions set before a low table holding an assortment of dishes he neither recognized nor particularly cared for. But in the service of his chosen master he would endure any privation necessary for success.

Before he could reach for the first dish, a stir arose in the courtyard beyond the archway. With a wave, Uncle dispatched his son to see who had arrived. An instant later, Muhlal returned with one of the lowlier cult members in tow.

The man bowed low. “Great one—we have just had word that the major and his party were seen in the grounds beyond the town.”

“And?”

Without lifting his head, the man continued, “They left with a Berber caravan. Those we paid said the caravan goes west.”

Uncle nodded. “Excellent. You may go.”

Surprised, the man looked up. He met Uncle’s eyes and quickly lowered his. “Yes, great one.” The man backed from the room, still bowing.

Once he was gone, Uncle looked up at his son. “You heard?”

Muhlal nodded.

Uncle smiled. “No doubt but that the major will make for the embassy in Cairo.” Uncle waved Muhlal to sit beside him. When he did, Uncle set one hand on his shoulder, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is your chance, my son, to shine in the service of the Black Cobra. Our leader is magnanimous to those who serve well. It has been decreed that the major must be stopped, and if the meddling Miss Ensworth is captured, too, and appropriately rewarded for her temerity, that would be a happy bonus. I suggest you make use of the nomads now in our pay and go after the major and the woman. Capturing them and delivering them to me in Cairo will surely win great glory in the eyes of the Black Cobra.”

Muhlal glowed. “I am in charge?”

Smiling, Uncle nodded. He clapped Muhlal’s shoulder. “Let us eat, and then I will see you on your way. A caravan is slow. They will not escape you.” When Muhlal eagerly reached for a plate, Uncle’s gaze softened. “And I will be waiting in Cairo to celebrate with you.”

As the sun sank, coloring the wide expanse of the desert sky with oranges, reds, and purples, Emily eased her way out of the high saddle and carefully climbed to the ground.

Doha flicked her a scowl, then ignored her.

Emily inwardly humphed, then shook out her skirts and the enveloping burka, and, leaving Doha to Haneef’s care, turned to find the others. It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the camel’s strange gait. Once she had, and was no longer in danger of tipping off, Haneef had shown her how to use the reins to exert some control—minimal control in Emily’s estimation—over the ungainly beast.

Contrary to her expectations, her first day’s travel had passed without disaster. When the caravan had halted for a light meal and refreshments a little before midday, she had asked Haneef the obvious question—if Ali-Jehan went careening off on his horse through the desert dunes, chasing attackers, for instance, wouldn’t Doha follow him?

Haneef had shaken his dark head. “Oh, no, miss. Doha is a clever beast—he knows this”—with a wave Haneef had encompassed the caravan—“is his master’s place. He will stay here and wait for Ali-Jehan to return. There is no need for him to chase after him if he knows he will come back.”

That the camel was lazy to boot hadn’t been any great surprise to Emily. “Are you sure it’s not you whom Doha is attached to?”

Haneef had smiled. “Well, I am always here—I have a bad leg and cannot ride well enough to chase raiders.”

Sighting the others across the campsite, Emily picked up her skirts and trudged their way, eyes on her feet so she didn’t trip in the sand. She couldn’t say she was enamored of her camel—he stank remarkably, much worse than horses—but riding him had been a luxury. For the most part, the others had walked.

There were carts with barrel wheels, but some were handcarts pulled by the men who, like Haneef, weren’t the mounted guard. Other carts were drawn by donkeys, and the older women and older men took turns riding in those, but in the main most of the tribe, and most of their party, had trudged steadily through the sand throughout the day.

Finding Dorcas and Arnia amid the bustle of the tribe setting up camp, she gripped her maid’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Dorcas smiled wearily. “Perfectly well.”

Understanding her question, Arnia nodded. “It wasn’t as hard as it looked. They keep a steady and reasonable pace.”

Dorcas nodded in agreement. “It’s like a long, easy stroll. Not so difficult once you get the hang of it.”

Somewhat reassured, Emily turned her attention to the camp taking shape around them. Tents were being erected around a central area, in which others were constructing a large fire pit. Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins were helping men erect one of the large Berber tents. “We didn’t bring tents.”

A snort came from behind Emily. Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow. “You will not need tents—you will share ours, lady.”

Turning her head, Emily met a pair of bright dark eyes in a deeply tanned, heavily wrinkled face. The old woman smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth with a gap in the center. She tapped Emily’s burka in the vicinity of her nose. “In camp, you will not need the covering. We are family here, and for the journey you are one with us. You may take it off.” The old woman nodded at Dorcas and Arnia. “You, too.”

Emily had grown so used to the burka she’d almost forgotten she was wearing it. But once reminded, she immediately felt its restrictions, and its weight. She readily grasped the folds and drew them off over her head.

The old woman studied Emily’s gown, thus revealed. Reaching out, she fingered the fabric. “So fine.” She shook her head. “It will never last.” She looked at Dorcas and Arnia’s clothes, and clucked her tongue. “Come.” Beckoning, she started for the carts that had been lined up behind the ring of tents. “I am Ali-Jehan’s mother. You call me Anya. You will join me and the other older women in my tent and we will find more suitable clothes for you.”

“Thank you.” Emily inclined her head respectfully.

Anya shot her a shrewdly assessing glance. “And afterward, you will repay us by telling us what is going on, yes?”

Hiding a smile, Emily nodded. “Yes, if you like.” Older ladies were the same the world over, it seemed.

“Good.” Anya waved to the carts. “First, we need to take our things inside.”

They all helped ferry rolled rugs, wool blankets, silk hangings and cotton sheets, cushions and pillows and sets of beaten plates and mugs, all the paraphenalia of nomadic comfort, into the dark tent. They were joined by four other older women, whom Anya introduced as Marila, Katun, Bersheba, and Girla. As they organized the tent, curiosity abounded on all sides.

When they finally settled cross-legged on fine rugs around the small brazier set in the center of the tent, and shared small glasses of rose-hip tea, Anya told them, “The younger women will cook on the big fire.” She pointed out of the open tent flap to the fire pit in the center of the camp. “You may assist if you wish—they are always glad of hands.”

Both Dorcas and Arnia nodded.

“The rules of our camp,” Anya went on, “are that all unmarried women must sleep in the tents of their families. As you have no families here, you must sleep in this tent, and for the most part, stay close by. It is not permitted for unmarried women to wander among the men unchaperoned.”

Emily glanced at Arnia. “Arnia is married.”

Anya inclined her head. “I have observed this. But your husband does not have a tent of his own but is sharing the tent of my son and his guards. Therefore, you”—she looked at Arnia—“will do best to remain with us here, but you may walk and talk with your husband freely.”

Arnia bent her head in graceful acceptance.

Emily shifted, and set down her empty tea glass. “I will need to speak with Major Hamilton often while in camp.”

Anya narrowed her eyes, looking rather severe. “That is only permissable if he approaches you, and only in the central space in full view.”

“But—”

“This is not negotiable.” Anya’s dark eyes held Emily’s. “You are guests among us, and will, of course, respect and follow our ways.”

Put like that, Emily could do nothing but incline her head. “As you say.”

She had no doubt Watson, Mullins, Jimmy—even Bister and Mooktu—would come to find her if they had any issue to discuss. But Gareth? She was fairly certain he would use the Berbers’ ways as an excuse to avoid discussing anything with her.

“Good.” Anya patted her hand, and set down her empty glass. “Now, let us see what we can find for you to wear.”

Emily, along with Dorcas and Arnia, spent the next hour trying on a selection of clothes the older women found for them. The women who shared Anya’s tent had all been married once, and their daughters and daughters-in-law were among the married women in the camp. As the three newcomers’ requirements were defined, the older women—the dowagers of the tribe, as Emily mentally dubbed them—summoned their younger female relatives, explained their needs and sent them scurrying back to their tents to see what they could find.

Anya’s tent was soon full of shy but giggling girls offering various robes, skirts, vests, and chemises, and waiting their turn to examine the fabrics and styles of Emily’s, Dorcas’s, and Arnia’s own clothes.

The Berber style of dress was much better suited to crossing the desert. A lighter, loose robe worn over a simple sheath of a chemise was ideal for wearing beneath the burka. Once the burka was doffed in favor of a chador, a head scarf with veil, the skirts and vests were donned over the robes, giving warmth, weight, and color.

The three of them were finally deemed suitably garbed to pass as Berber. Anya approved with a brisk nod. “Good. Now let us join the others outside.”

Across the camp, Gareth was lounging on cushions before the brazier in Ali-Jehan’s tent while learning the ins and outs of Berber life from his host. The sheik concluded with a philosophical shrug. “I rule the tribe and the caravan, but my mother rules the camp. This is the way of things. So you will not be able to meet with your women privately while with us.”

Gareth nodded and drained his glass of refreshing tea. “I foresee no difficulties adhering to your ways.” He omitted to mention that none of the three women of his party were “his.” If Ali-Jehan and his unmarried men—many of whom had found cause to pause alongside Emily’s camel throughout the day, ostensibly inquring after her comfort—had leapt to the conclusion that Emily was, in their terms, “his,” he saw no reason to correct their mistake. Safer for her—safer for him, too. She was, after all, in his care.

“Now, come.” Ali-Jehan clapped his shoulder and rose. “We should join the others—it’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

Gareth followed him from the tent. The central area was abuzz, people clustering here and there, chatting and watching the food cooking over the fire pit. Women bustled back and forth, no longer concealed beneath their robes, but most with chadors wound about their heads and draped over their faces.

It was a colorful sight, familiar in some ways, yet the presence of the women lent the camp a different air.

“We sit here.” Ali-Jehan gestured to an area about one end of the rectangular fire pit. “All the men sit at this end.”

Gareth joined him on the colorful rug flung over the sand, drawing his legs up to sit as the others were, cross-legged. He saw Bister and Mooktu, and Watson and Jimmy, and finally located Mullins scattered among the grouped men. Each was talking animatedly to one or more of their hosts.

“This black snake leader.” Ali-Jehan broke off as a woman approached, bearing a tray of flat bread and spiced meat. After helping himself, Ali-Jehan waited for Gareth to do the same, then went on, “You have told me a little of this person.” He caught Gareth’s gaze. “Tell me more.”

As they ate, Gareth obliged. Others of the caravan’s guards, the warriors of the tribe, edged closer to listen. Gareth saw no reason not to give them the full tale, from when he and his colleagues had received their orders from the Governor-General, to their last clash with the cultists on the Red Sea.

From the comments and exclamations his story provoked, the Berbers’ reaction to the atrocities of the Black Cobra was similar to his, their favored solution—beheading—eerily echoing that of his colleague Rafe Carstairs.

By the time he reached the present, the fire had died down and the wind had risen, sending heavy shadows flickering over the tents. The women had retired earlier, leaving the men to their talk.

When a comfortable silence finally fell, Ali-Jehan slowly nodded. “It is an honorable thing you do—your journey to stop this fiend’s reign of terror.” He eyed Gareth measuringly, continuing to nod. “We will assist you in this—it is the right thing to do.”

The other tribesmen murmured agreement. Gareth inclined his head. Across the group, he met Mooktu’s eyes, and saw his own confidence reflected there.

Cathcart had been right in choosing Ali-Jehan and his tribe for them to journey on with. The accents were different, the clothing, too, but they were brothers beneath the skin.

Ali-Jehan grinned, and got to his feet. “Now to sleep, and to pray to Allah that this fiend shows his face, so we can exact the vengeance of the righteous upon him.”

The guards rose along with Gareth and his men, entirely at one with that idea.

22nd October, 1822
Very late
In Anya’s tent, somewhere in the desert on our way to Alexandria

Dear Diary,

I am scribbling this by the light of an oil lamp, which I will have to turn down very soon so the ladies and I can sleep. It’s strange to lie rolled in sheet and blanket on a rug placed on sand, with the tent sides moving just a little in the wind, but there’s been so much of the unusal today that it seems all of a piece.

I have to ride a camel—who stinks!—and while I would rather be on one of their wonderful Arabian horses, I can’t complain, as most of the other women and some of the men have no mounts at all and must trudge through the sand. And, as I have discovered to my dismay, sand in the desert gets into everything. And everywhere. Everywhere including places sand was never meant to be. And again that is something I can do very little about—just another something I must endure.

But undoubtedly the most exercising aspect of traveling with our nomads is the absolute separation of men and women. How can I pursue Gareth—how can he pursue me—how can we further explore our mutual attraction—if the only times we can so much as exchange words is in full view of everyone else?

Clearly nomadic courtship follows different rules.

I suspect I will have to learn those rules, if only to work out how to bend them.

E.

Gareth settled to sleep on a rug in Ali-Jehan’s tent. As shuffles and snuffles faded, and snores swelled, a gentle symphony played against the whine of the wind, instead of drifting straight to sleep, his mind insisted on wandering…over the day, and how matters had played out, and how things looked set to go tomorrow, and in the days to follow.

His mind snagged on a mental image of his last glimpse of Emily, as she’d followed Ali-Jehan’s mother into the women’s tent, pausing at the flap to cast one last, frustrated glance his way before she’d followed the other women inside and the tent flap had fallen closed behind her.

The separation, enforced as it would be through this leg of the journey, would, he lectured himself, be helpful. Useful. It would give him time to think. To work through things and understand.

As that kiss in Cathcart’s salon had proved, he’d somehow fallen under Emily’s spell. What he didn’t know was why. Why he wanted her. Was it just lust—a more virulent form—that made him feel so drawn to her, so compelled to make her his? Yet given who she was, if he gave in and surrendered, there could only be one outcome. Marriage.

Was that what he wanted—Emily as his wife?

Was she the lady he needed by his side when he returned to England and set about creating the rest of his life?

He hadn’t—not until the last days—thought of his future beyond beheading the Black Cobra. It hadn’t seemed important, but as making love to Emily would inevitably lead to marriage, then he needed to think of it now.

Think of it, and imagine how she would fit. He lay in the tent, his gaze fixed on the darkened roof, and let the prospect take shape and substance in his mind.

Only to discover that, beyond her, he could see very little of it, his putative future.

He shifted, growing more uneasy as reality impinged. It didn’t matter what he thought, what he wanted, if she didn’t think and want the same.

Was he the man she wanted as her husband?

Even if he was the husband she wanted now, how genuine and deeply rooted was that want? What drove it? What had given it life?

Had she turned to him in lieu of MacFarlane? His friend had surely been a more romantic figure. Was he in effect standing in a dead man’s shoes?

Or was her wanting him more the outcome of being involved in dangerous and violent action? That wouldn’t be surprising. He was the only one suitable to whom she could cling. But reaction born of fear and the need it evoked was no proper basis for marriage.

He inwardly scoffed. What did he know of marriage?

The answer whispered across his mind as sleep dragged him down.

He knew no more about marriage than he knew about his future, yet he knew beyond question that unless Emily wanted him for the right reason, he wouldn’t have either, couldn’t have either—not with her.

The cultists attacked mid-morning the next day.

The caravan was wending its slow and ponderous way along the top of a dune when horsemen rose up in a dark wave from a sand valley just ahead, and came pounding over the dunes, shrieking and yelling, swords cleaving the air.

The nomads reacted with well-trained precision. While the guards wheeled their mounts, then streamed forward to meet the threat head-on, all those with the carts and the camel train grouped and clumped together, both animals and baggage providing protection for those on foot.

From her elevated perch almost at the center of the huddle, Emily had an excellent view of the clash. Squinting into the sun, she saw cultists amid the attacking horsemen, their black scarves streaming as they flew across the sand.

What surprised her were the others—other Berbers. She looked at their defenders—their guards with Gareth and Ali-Jehan in the lead, Mooktu and Bister close behind, all flashing swords and scimitars as they charged—then glanced down and located Anya, sitting with the older women, calmly waiting.

“There are other Berbers with the cultists!”

Anya looked up at her. Thought, then with unimpaired calm, nodded. “The El-Jiri. They are always ready for a fight.”

Emily glanced back just as the opposing groups of horsemen met—like two waves crashing and smashing together. She winced at the scream of steel sheering off steel, the crash and pounding of blows, audible even at a distance.

Her heart climbing steadily up her throat, she watched, waited, strained her eyes to see…

Gareth broke through, followed closely by Mooktu and Ali-Jehan. All three wheeled, swords swinging, then fell on the attackers’ rear.

It was over so fast that Emily, still catching her breath, was left wondering if all battles were so quickly won. She doubted it, but suddenly the body of attackers fractured, splintered and scattered, Berbers in their darker robes breaking off in twos and threes to ride down the dune and head back the way they’d come.

The guards chased them, but only so far. Once the attackers’ flight was assured, the guards reined in, then wheeled and trotted back.

They joined Gareth and Ali-Jehan. Emily quickly verified that all the others were there, that the only bodies lying unmoving in the sand belonged to cultists. She looked back at their defenders, riding back toward them. Every single man had a huge grin on his face.

“Amazing,” she muttered, relieved yet mystified at the transparent delight illuminating every male face.

“They were successful, yes?”

Emily looked down at Anya. All the women, surrounded as they were, couldn’t see the action. “They’re riding back, grinning like small boys.”

Anya smiled widely. “They have won, and they are happy. There will be much rejoicing in our camp tonight.”

As Anya had foretold, the mood in camp that evening was distinctly festive. While the women prepared the evening meal, the men gathered in a large clump outside Ali-Jehan’s tent.

With great cries to his health, they toasted Gareth, then settled to some deep discussion, which he seemed to be leading. As far as Emily could tell from the other side of the camp, he was drawing diagrams in the sand, pointing to this and that, holding his audience in the palm of his hand.

Bister came to check her knives.

She handed them over, then drew him aside and pointed to the male huddle. “What’s that all about?”

Bister settled on the edge of a cart to hone the edges of one knife on a whetstone. “None of that lot have seen a real cavalry charge before.”

“So?”

“There’s differences, see, in how a cavalryman sits, how he holds his sword. They just wade in, shoulders wide, all but asking to be cut down. We go in low, blade extended—makes both offensive and defensive work easier.” Bister nodded toward the knot of men. “That’s what he’s explaining.”

Emily looked across the fire pit. “Is that why the fight ended so quickly?”

“Partly.” Bister looked up, handed her back her knife, and grinned. “He also told us to go for the cultists—that if we accounted for them, the others would flee. He was right, but Ali-Jehan and the others are a trifle miffed they didn’t get more of a fight.”

Emily humphed. After a moment, she said, “But there’ll be more attacks, and more cultists, won’t there?” She met Bister’s eyes as he stood. “There were only five with that lot today—there have to be more chasing us.”

Bister nodded. “So the major thinks.” He tipped his head to the men across the camp. “That’s why he’s laying it all out for them—how best to attack and what to watch for from the cultists. We haven’t seen the last of them, for sure.”

The celebrations continued over the meal and on into the night. Emily considered them a trifle overdone. There was, however, no carousing. Cathcart had mentioned there’d be no spirits, beer, or wine carried with the caravan, which, in light of the men’s revelry, Emily could only view as to the good. If there had been ale, they would have been drunk, and there were still cultists out there.

Sitting with the older women outside their tent, she eyed the male gathering with a jaundiced eye. She battled not to scowl, or worse, pout.

If there was celebrating to do, she wanted to join in.

That wasn’t, however, the nomads’ way.

Then Gareth stood. She saw Ali-Jehan say something, to which Gareth replied. When the Berber sheik started to get to his feet, Gareth dropped a hand on his shoulder, clearly telling him to not disturb himself—he, Gareth, would see to it, whatever it was.

Emily tracked Gareth as he beckoned Mullins and Watson, and two of the guards, then led the way out of the circle of tents.

Pickets? Emily hoped so. The notion of more cultists lurking among the dunes wasn’t going to make sleeping easy. None of the other women, except perhaps Arnia and Dorcas, truly understood the danger.

But if the other men who had departed with Gareth were going out to keep watch…

Turning her head, she waited until she could catch Anya’s eye. “Is it permitted to walk around the tents to stretch my legs? They’re rather cramped after spending all day on top of Doha.”

Anya arched her brows, but then nodded. “It is permitted, but do not dally, or we will have to send others to find you.”

Emily waited for no more, but quickly got to her feet. When Dorcas looked at her inquiringly, she shook her head. “I won’t be long.”

Wrapping her chador over her head and shoulders, as she’d seen other women do around the camp, she walked down the avenue between two tents and stepped into the moonlight beyond.

The night would have been pitch-black if it hadn’t been for the large moon, hanging low on the horizon. Emily duly gave thanks as she skirted the tents, hoping…

“Where are you off to?”

Gareth stepped out from the gap between two tents as Emily whirled to face him.

“Oh! There you are.” She smiled.

He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here—it’s not safe.”

He’d been in the dark space striding back to the camp’s center when he’d sensed…something. Movement, perhaps. He’d glanced back, and seen her pass by. The moonlight had played on her pale hair, her fair skin.

She’d drawn him like a beacon; turning on his heel, he’d backtracked.

He halted just beyond the rear of the tent as she backtracked, too, drawing near.

Her eyes searched his face. “I thought you were setting pickets.”

“I was.”

“Then it’s safe enough, surely?”

He felt his lips thin. “Possibly.”

She smiled, as if she understood the contradictory impulses clashing within him. Keep her safe. Ravish her.

He reminded himself that the honorable tack was to keep her safe from him, too.

She stepped close—close enough that he could sense her alluring warmth. Close enough to lay a small hand on his chest.

He stepped back, back into the shadows between the tents.

She followed, her hand never losing contact. He felt the touch almost as acutely as if it were skin to skin.

“I watched the fight from atop Doha. It was…” Eyes darkening, she broke off with an evocative shiver. “Frightening.”

“Frightening?” That shiver made him long to sweep her into his arms. He clenched his fists against the impulse.

She nodded. “Swords, scimitars, unarmored bodies. Not a good combination.” She lifted her chin, eyes locking on his. “Not when the bodies are people I care about.”

He stilled. He told himself not to ask, not to expose his vulnerability. “You care about me?”

She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

His heart leapt, swelled.

He reached for her as she pressed closer, lifting her face to his.

Effortlessly tempting him to bend his head and cover her lips with his.

In the instant before he did, she brought him back to earth. “Of course.”

Of course? Because he was the one standing between her and frightening cultists? Because…?

He decided he didn’t need to know. He could think about it later. She was here, with him, and she wanted him to kiss her—wanted to kiss him.

Before he could act, she closed the distance, pressed her soft lips to his. The pressure, light, beguiling, called to him, and he kissed her back.

Angled his head and took charge of the kiss.

Took what he wanted—what, suddenly, he realized he needed.

She gifted him with her mouth, tempted him with her tongue, sank into him as he drew her close.

He slid his arms around her and locked her to him.

Flush against him.

Sensation flashed, streaked through him. Passion erupted, powerful, explicit, focused.

She broke from the kiss. Gasped, “I wanted to celebrate with you, but I was trapped on the other side. With the women. I wanted—”

He kissed her again, more ravenously. More rapaciously.

She answered in kind.

And rocked him back on his mental heels.

Desire flared, hot and arcing, achingly potent, burning and sweet.

In Cathcart’s salon they’d both stepped back, but this…this was fire and life, and everything he wanted.

Everything he needed.

And she wanted it, too.

She couldn’t have made her wishes clearer, and with his own need pounding a tattoo in his blood, he couldn’t deny what he felt. Didn’t want to.

No longer had the power to.

He couldn’t step away.

The kiss deepened, not gently, not slowly, but in spiraling leaps. His hands found her breasts, closed, kneaded. Her fingers slid into his hair and she clung, evocatively gripped.

Held him to her, to the kiss. Anchored him within the whirlpool of passion they’d unleashed.

His hands slid over her, learning, needing to know, wanting to possess.

That she was with him was never in doubt. Her lips were as hungry as his, her mouth as demanding. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly imprinting her flesh on his, the giving tautness of her belly impressing itself against his aching erection.

No invitation had ever been so explicit.

Then she made it more so.

She reached between them, and touched, stroked.

He shuddered—and couldn’t recall ever shuddering in quite that way at any woman’s touch before.

Her touch…he craved it. Craved her in a way that shocked even him.

Filling both hands with the lush promise of her bottom, he lifted her against him, shifted his hips evocatively, provocatively, and sensed her aroused gasp.

Holding her there in one arm, locked helplessly against him, he sank his free hand into her hair, palmed her skull, and kissed her—voraciously.

He tensed to turn, to press her back against something solid…

There wasn’t anything solid around.

“The night air is fresh and cool, don’t you think?”

The words, uttered in Anya’s calm voice, hauled them both from the kiss.

Lifting their heads, they stared, first at each other, then out along the gap between the tents, toward the voice.

But there was no one there.

“Perhaps the miss is still walking around the tents—she might be on the the other side.”

“Katun,” Emily whispered. Licking her lips, swollen she was sure, she looked into Gareth’s face. “I have to go.”

He nodded.

He set her down, but the reluctance with which his hands released her told its own story—one that gladdened her heart.

She shook out her skirt, resettled her makeshift shawl. Looked up at him, then stretched up and brushed her lips across his. “Until next time.”

With that, she stepped out from between the tents, looked, and saw the two older women strolling slowly, their backs to her. Dragging in a breath, feeling her head clear, she set out in their wake.

They’d guessed, of course. Anya and the other older women eyed her with bright-eyed interest as they all settled in their customary sleeping positions around the large tent.

“That major—he is a handsome one.” Bersheba made the comment to the tent at large, but her eyes were on Emily, carefully folding her skirts and blouse before snuggling into her blankets.

Marila snorted. “He is courageous—that is more important. You heard the sheik—the major is a great warrior.”

Emily could feel Dorcas’s and Arnia’s gazes, equally intrigued, join the older women’s, all trained on her face.

“But men are men, great warriors or not,” Katun stated. “They need to have their…egos stroked. Frequently.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Anya said, “if after the battle today, in which he and my Ali-Jehan led our men to victory, the major was in need of a degree of stroking. Men, after all, are very predictable in their ways. They crave having their bravery acknowledged.”

“Especially by those they seek to protect,” Girla put in.

“Especially if those are also ones they seek to impress,” Katun stated. After a heartbeat, she added, “With their prowess.”

Emily wriggled into her blankets. “I daresay you’re right. Good night.”

She laid her head down, tugged the blankets over her shoulder, and prayed the dark had hidden her flaming cheeks. Older women, it seemed, were incorrigible the world over. What was rather more interesting was that male behavior seemed equally universal.

Seven

26th October, 1822
Early afternoon
Anya’s tent in our camp at a desert oasis

Dear Diary,

We arrived at the oasis just after noon. There’s a clear lake, somewhat larger than I expected. It must be spring fed, and is surrounded by palms and various plants that form a ribbon of greenery around its shore. There are two other caravans, both smaller than ours, also camping here, but there is more than enough lakeshore for all. I gather it is customary to spend a few days here, allowing both animals and humans to recoup before trudging out across the desert once more.

The respite is welcome. I swear I sway to Doha’s rhythm even when I am not in the saddle. Even more wonderful there’s water enough to bathe, something I intend to take full advantage of. Despite the tribulations, I must admit I have found living among the Berbers easier than I’d thought.

Likewise, it has, apparently, been easier than I’d expected to make up my mind about Gareth. Given my behavior last night—and I would behave the same given the same opportunity—I have to conclude that my mind has made itself up and is convinced beyond doubt that he is my “one”—the gentleman for me.

No matter that rationally I feel I should be cautious, with respect to him there is nothing of caution in me. After our interlude in Cathcart’s salon I felt sure I would need time to consider before taking the next step—that step which, once taken, cannot be undone—but no. As was made transparently clear to me—and to Gareth—last evening between the tents, I am ready and willing to lie with him.

Not that that is something that can occur while we travel with the caravan, but I had thought it would take more than watching him fight in my defense to convince me.

Apparently heart is not necessarily dependent on mind in this matter.

E.

When she emerged from Anya’s tent, Emily discovered that most of the men of their party had decamped, leaving only a small number on guard.

She paused beside Arnia and Dorcas, where they sat on rugs helping some of the other women prepare the evening meal. “Where are they?”

She didn’t need to specify who “they” were.

Arnia snorted, an eloquent sound. She didn’t look up as she replied, “The major sent scouts out. They returned to report there was another band of Berbers, of the same tribe that attacked us yesterday, camped a little way ahead, and they have more cultists with them.”

“Naturally,” Dorcas said, slicing a cleaned yam into a pottery bowl, “our men were all keen to turn the tables and attack the others before they can attack us.” She looked up at Emily. “That’s where they’ve gone.”

Emily frowned. “It’s almost like a game to them. A chess game, perhaps, but a game nonetheless.”

“Our men, their men.” Arnia shrugged. “All are warriors. They live to fight.”

“That is truth.” One of the Berber women nodded sagely. “Any fight is welcome to them, but they are happiest when they fight to defend us.” She, too, shrugged philosophically. “What would you? It is their role, so they are pleased to be useful.” With a gesture, she encompassed the circle of women happily preparing the meal. “As are we. We are not so different in that.”

Emily hadn’t thought of the matter in that light. After a moment, she nodded in acknowledgment, and moved on, strolling along the lake’s edge to where Anya and the older women—the dowagers—sat on rugs in the shade of a palm grove.

Anya waved her to join them. She sank down onto a rug next to Girla, whose fingers were busy knotting a fringe. Emily sat with her arms around her drawn-up knees. Resting her chin on them, she gazed out over the lake, gently rippling in the faint breeze, and let her mind wander.

After a time, Anya said, both voice and face serene, “If, as we must hope, our men return victorious, there will be celebrations again tonight.”

The other women nodded. Katun said, “They will expect it—it is their due, after all.”

That, Emily could understand, but…“Why is it that men seem to believe that protecting a woman somehow makes her…theirs?” She felt a blush heat her cheeks, but persisted. “They protect you, defend you from attack, and then growl and scowl if you do something they don’t like.” She glanced around the circle, saw no one laughing, not even smiling. All were listening, some nodding in understanding. “It’s almost as if once they’ve fought for you, they’ve won you—that after that they somehow, in some unspecified way, own you.”

Her heart may have made up her mind regarding Gareth, but she hadn’t forgotten his dog-in-the-manger behavior over Cathcart, something she’d been reminded of only a few hours before, when they’d arrived at the oasis and Gareth had once again transformed into a bear, dispersing the young Berber men who had gathered around eager to help her from Doha’s saddle.

She didn’t like being treated in such a patently possessive way.

Katun heaved a huge sigh. “It is the bane all women must bear.”

Anya’s lips lightly curved. “All women whose men are warriors, at least.” The others nodded. Anya’s old eyes met Emily’s. “It is the price one pays to have a warrior as your mate. He will protect and keep you safe, but in return…” Her smile widened. “They are, in truth, such oddly vulnerable creatures, at least where their women are concerned.”

“Their woman becomes their one true vulnerability,” Girla offered, “so as warriors to the core, of course they guard her most fiercely.”

“From anything and everything—real or imagined.”

The others laughed and nodded at Katun’s bald statement.

“It is truly said,” Anya concluded, “that the true value a warrior places on his woman is revealed by the depth of his…what is the word?”

“Possessiveness?” Emily suggested.

Anya pulled a face. “I was thinking of protection, but possession? That is true as well, I suppose. It is the other side of the coin, no?”

Emily thought, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Where one ends and the other begins…with warriors, the line is blurred.”

On top of a dune some miles from the oasis, Gareth, Ali-Jehan, and Mooktu passed Gareth’s spyglass among them as, on their bellies in the sand, they assessed the strength of the band of Berbers and cultists gathered in the dip below.

“There are many more of your cultists than I had expected to see.” Frowning, Ali-Jehan lowered the spyglass. “If they had such numbers, why did they not make a better show against us yesterday?”

Gareth had been wondering the same thing. There were significantly more cultists than tribesmen below. He took back the spyglass, again assessed the numbers. “In light of what we’re seeing, I suspect yesterday was a feint—a battle they never expected to win, but one to make us feel they pose no real threat. That’s why the other Berbers left so abruptly—they were committed only while the cultists were there to see. Once the cultists fell, they didn’t need to remain.”

“So it was by way of a charade, in the hope we would…what is the phrase, let down our guard?”

Gareth nodded.

“There’s too many of them,” Mooktu murmured. “And those cultists down there—most have the look of assassins.”

Gareth had noted the same worrying facts.

Ali-Jehan frowned. “We might be able to take them, yet…” He waggled one hand. “With my mother and the other women in the camp”—he looked at Gareth—“and your women as well, I would prefer not to engage this group. I know my cousins the El-Jiri, and they are fierce warriors. If you say those others are also very able, then…”

When Ali-Jehan unexpectedly fell silent, Gareth glanced at him. “Can we avoid them?”

Ali-Jehan met his eyes, pulled a face. “No. The El-Jiri know my routes well, and they know the area around here as well as I.” He looked down at the camp. “Nearby is a fine place for an attack.”

Gareth hesitated. He and Ali-Jehan had got on well from their first meeting. They were much of a kind, warriors in more or less civilian guise, responsible for a band of civilians who traveled with them. They were of similar age and, Gareth judged, not all that dissimilar in character. With that last in mind, he ventured, “Is there any way we can contact your cousins down there—some way that won’t alert the cultists?”

Ali-Jehan looked at him, then looked down at the camp, surveying the outer edges, the horse and camel lines. “Perhaps.” He turned back to Gareth. “Why?”

Gareth explained his thinking, his putative strategy. A smile slowly spread across Ali-Jehan’s face. At the end, he nodded. “This we will do.”

They scrambled back down the dune, then Ali-Jehan picked two men, two of his extended family, and carefully explained what he wanted them to do.

Gareth and Ali-Jehan resumed thir position on the dune, and watched, patient and still, while the two tribesmen successfully carried out their mission.

It was another hour before the leader of the El-Jiri Berbers walked into their midst. He and Ali-Jehan exchanged elaborate greetings at some length, then set formality aside and got down to business.

Gareth was introduced and joined them.

Half an hour later, the El-Jiri leader smiled—a gesture that foretold death for someone. He nodded to Ali-Jehan. “It is good. We will do as you say. I must return to my men and pass the word. You will see when we are ready.”

Ali-Jehan smiled a similarly chilling smile. “And then we will rid our lands of these minions of the snake.”

Gareth watched the two Berber sheiks take leave of each other, watched the El-Jiri leader stride off through the dunes.

The unrolling of his strategy had gone more smoothly than he’d thought. With luck, the execution would be equally successful.

Emily was standing chatting about the cook-pots when the men, who had been absent for most of the day, rode back into camp—victorious.

There was no need to wonder at the outcome of their day’s adventures—the whoops, the prancing horses, the face-splitting grins were declaration enough.

Other Berbers arrived with them, including a leader who Ali-Jehan took to introduce to Anya. Relegated as usual to the company of the women, Emily heard only that the newcomer was the sheik of the El-Jiri.

Puzzled, she exchanged a glance with Arnia, beside her. “Weren’t the El-Jiri the Berber tribe who attacked us yesterday?”

Arnia nodded. “It seems they turned against the cultists.”

This time, however, there were wounded. Emily went to help tend them. From those she helped care for she gained a better description of what had happened.

Assassins. The word made her blood run cold. She’d heard too many tales of the viciousness of the cult’s most hardened followers. As she understood it, there had been more cultists, mostly assassins, than all the Berbers combined, but with Gareth commanding a joint attack—quite how he’d managed to get the two normally bickering Berber tribes to work together she didn’t hear—but all together and well directed, they’d triumphed.

Half the cultists had died, and the other half…they were the El-Jiri’s reward.

When she clearly didn’t understand what that meant, the woman whose husband she was helping bandage leaned close and whispered, “The El-Jiri sometimes deal in slaves. A group of men trained to fight? They would be happy to have them to trade.”

Emily paused, mentally questioning how she felt about that. But she’d seen too much of the cultists’ handiwork to think it anything other than fitting.

When she was free again, the sun had sunk low, and it was time for the evening meal. As the dowagers had predicted, there was a feastlike atmosphere, with much wild talking, laughing, and backslapping among the men. The women…

Now she looked more closely, Emily saw not resignation so much as fond affection in the women’s glances, in the way they waited upon their men. Their defenders and protectors. She’d heard enough to realize that, the way matters had stood before this afternoon, their caravan had been in grave danger of being attacked and overwhelmed when they attempted to move on.

The action of the afternoon had eradicated that threat. The men had indeed defended and protected them.

She saw Gareth across the fire and was conscious of a flaring desire to go to him, to congratulate him, to smile and fill his cup and offer him the sweetmeats being passed around.

But she and he weren’t married.

She wasn’t his—so he wasn’t hers.

She didn’t have the right to share his triumphs, to laud and celebrate, and make much of him, as the other women whose husbands had fought were doing with their men. Even Arnia, she noted, smiled and waited on Mooktu, sitting just behind him, leaning against the back of one broad shoulder as she ate from her own plate.

Emily slowly circled the fire. Her eyes returned to Gareth—and his found her as she paused by Anya’s side. He smiled, and she smiled back—honestly, joyously—feeling within her the same emotion that colored the married women’s eyes—but then Ali-Jehan asked him something and he turned to answer.

Emily sank to the rug beside and a little behind Anya.

A second later, the older woman reached out and, without turning her head, patted her hand. “They are difficult, our men, but they are worth it in the end.”

Her gaze fixed across the fire pit, Emily discovered she agreed.

Three days later, a single cultist, disheveled, dusty, bearing wounds that, untended, had festered, groveled on the flagstones of a small courtyard in a quiet section of old Cairo.

Uncle looked down on the bedraggled head of the man who had just reported the complete and utter defeat of the men he had sent to capture the major. One question burned in his brain. “What of my son?”

The man, forehead to the stones, visibly shook with fear. “Gone,” he managed to gabble. “They’re all gone. All fallen.”

Uncle knew a moment of sheer madness, of keening devastation, but by sheer force of will he held it all within. “The Arabs we hired turned against us.” He still couldn’t take that in. In India, no one—no one—would dare betray the Black Cobra.

According to all precepts, he should ensure the offending Arabs were suitably dealt with—their children slaughtered, their women debauched and killed, a long slow death for the men. His vengeful soul cried out for that succor—he craved vengeance for his only son—but here, now, he didn’t have the time.

And he was running low on men. He had few of the elite he’d left India with left.

Swallowing his fury, his grief, his rage, wasn’t easy, but if he didn’t satisfy his master, all would be in vain.

He forced himself to swing away from the groveling man, to glare at his acting lieutenant, the one who would now take Muhlal’s place at his side. “Make sure—sure—that the major and his people are captured the instant the caravan comes in. Put men—”

“No. Uncle…”

Uncle swung back to see the man on the flagstones raise his hand in placation. “What?”

“The caravan is not headed here. I heard the Arabs talking before we were attacked—the major’s caravan heads to Alexandria.”

Uncle narrowed his eyes. “You are sure?”

“On my life, I swear it. The El-Jiri knew the Arabs with the major—they said they go to Alexandria.”

Uncle wasted no more time. Swinging to face his lieutenant, he rapped out, “Get the fastest boat you can find on the river—we must reach Alexandria before them.”

31st October, 1822
Before dinner
Anya’s tent in the Berber camp

Dear Diary,

Tonight will be our last with the Berbers. Tomorrow we will reach Alexandria, and go our separate ways. Entirely contrary to my original expectations, our time with them has not simply been a matter of traversing distance, of moving from one place to another, but a journey laced with interest and discovery.

I have learned much—from Anya and the dowagers, from observing the Berbers going about their straightforward, more open and less complicated lives. Through that, my appreciation of Gareth has moved onto a new plane. I feel I am now viewing him through better-educated eyes.

I have also learned more about the important things in life—or rather, what things are important to me. That has led me to reevaluate what I am willing to give ground on in return for what marriage to Gareth will bring. Such a decision is not a simple matter, yet I am looking forward to returning to civilization to see how those traits I have grown more adept at discerning in him in less civilized surrounds will then appear.

Strangely, and this almost beggars belief, I suspect I will miss my stinky camel. I have grown used to his rolling yet steady gait.

E.

They arrived on the outskirts of Alexandria just before noon the next day. The El-Jiri had taken their captives to some desert meeting place to the south. Gareth hadn’t asked too much about their plans.

He had suggested his party separate from the caravan some little distance from the town walls, but Ali-Jehan would have none of it. The caravan halted at their usual grounds, then Ali-Jehan, his mother, and a detachment of the guards, walked with them to the town gate.

There they parted, with much slapping of backs and shaking of hands—and, Gareth noted, embraces among the women. If asked two months before whether the Governor of Bombay’s niece could find her feet in a Berber tribe, he would have said no, but he hadn’t then met Emily. He was beginning to think very little could seriously discompose her for long; she seemed to possess the happy knack of coping, regardless.

Emily blinked rapidly and as they strode off down the street, looked back one last time to wave to Anya. She was even sorry to see the last of Ali-Jehan. He’d been an excellent companion for Gareth. Then again…she glanced at the man striding forcefully a pace ahead of her, his Arab robes swishing about his calves. After their days in the desert, he looked every inch an Arab sheik, and they his retinue, trailing after him.

Consorting with Ali-Jehan had uncovered a more primitive streak, or at least made it more readily detectable. She wondered how long it would take for the patina of civilization to gloss over it again.

Ali-Jehan had told them of a guesthouse run by a relative in which they would be safe. It lay in the Arab quarter behind the docks, but to reach it they had to traverse the town.

They did so at a steady, unhurried pace, once again all careful to do nothing, say nothing, that might get them noticed by any watchers the cult had posted. This time, as Gareth had lectured them, it wasn’t simply a matter of avoiding being caught. If the cultists knew for certain that they’d arrived, they would be systematically hunted—and given that they had no transport onward yet organized, being sighted at all raised the prospect of being cornered before they could get away.

By the time they left the central part of the town behind, Emily’s nerves had tightened, stretching taut in a manner she’d forgotten over recent days.

Eyes flicking watchfully from side to side beneath the veil of her chador, she discovered something else to miss about traveling with the Berbers. Security. Safety. She’d forgotten what not having them was like.

Accustomed to command, to managing men, Gareth was aware of the rising tension in the group at his heels.

He shared it.

Alexandria was an ancient town. The narrow, twisting streets, with house walls built right to their edges, formed warrens tailor-made for assassins. If assassins were trailing them, by the time any of them saw the danger, it would be too late.

The last days had seen them cross out of the desert into the wide, flat fields of the Nile delta. Low lying, with numerous minor rivers cutting through the landscape carrying the waters of the mighty Nile to the Mediterranean Sea, the delta region was not only easier to traverse but also provided much better cover in which to conceal a caravan. Ali-Jehan had planned to take his people across the main channel of the Nile today, so that they would be well away from the usual places where caravans to Alexandria camped.

Gareth had enjoyed his time with the Berbers, and hoped they would be safe, that no harm would befall them through helping him and his small company.

He glanced briefly to the side, from the corner of his eye confirming that Emily was walking no more than a step behind him. While they’d been with the Berbers, he’d known she was safe. Safe with their women—as safe as she could be. Now…

He was once again gripped by a familiar tension, felt responsibility for her safety once again weigh heavily on his shoulders. He didn’t resent the burden; not for one minute would he have handed it to another.

What he did resent was that, courtesy of his mission—no, courtesy of the Black Cobra—she, her life and her future, were once again in real danger.

Under real threat.

He wasn’t at all happy to be back in civilization.

They found the guesthouse, and were made welcome by Ali-Jehan’s cousin and his wife. To Gareth’s relief, the guesthouse had no other patrons staying that night. He immediately negotiated to close the house to all others, something Jemal—Ali-Jehan’s cousin—was happy to do when Gareth dropped triple his expected takings into his palm.

They were accustomed by now to settling into new accommodation. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins walked the perimeter and assessed the defenses, while the others efficiently stowed their belongings in the guestrooms they chose, then gathered in the main salon, where, it then being early afternoon, their hosts served them a meal of flat bread, fish, and mussels.

When Jemal placed a large platter of prepared fruit on the table, then bowed himself out, Gareth looked around the table, and decided everyone seated about it deserved to hear all he had to say. All of them, having selected various fruits, seemed to sense his intention, and looked expectantly up the table at him.

Emily sat at the other end. She arched her brows, waited.

Gareth grimaced. “First, we need to be extra careful. This is a major Mediterranean port—there will definitely be cultists here, watching, although not necessarily specifically for us. We cannot afford to give them any definite sight of us, any confirmation that we are indeed inside the walls. If we were leaving tomorrow, it wouldn’t be such a danger, but until we’re ready to quit this town, it’s vitally important they don’t know we’re here.”

He looked at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “What are our defenses like?”

The other two looked to Mullins.

“Better than we’d hoped. The other houses are built right up to this one at the back and both sides, and the wall at the front is nice and high.” Mullins pointed upward. “Best of all, this house is the tallest in the immediate area. From the roof, we can keep watch over all approaches while staying largely out of sight ourselves.”

Gareth put a few more questions, but Ali-Jehan had steered them well. The house was a highly defendable abode. “Good. We’ll keep a guard on the roof at all times. Aside from all else, it’s the most obvious way for them to try to gain access to the house. To us.”

Jimmy volunteered to take first watch.

Gareth nodded. “You can go up when we finish here.” He glanced around the table. “Our most urgent need is to find transport onward. We need to reach Marseilles, preferably as quickly and as easily as we can.”

“Is there anyone here you can approach for help?” Emily asked.

Gareth shook his head. “Not safely. Theoretically the consulate would assist us, but with Ferrar’s political clout, it’s too risky, and I have no old friends here, no one I can absolutely trust.”

No one he would trust with his life, let alone hers.

“As I said,” he went on, “we need to be cautious. If that means all the rest of you stay here, indoors and out of sight while Watson, Mooktu, and I spend a few days finding the right ship, then that’s the way it will have to be.”

He expected arguments, protests at the very least. Instead, after a moment of regarding him, Emily surprised him by nodding. “Very well.”

There was little else to say, not until they’d assessed their chances of finding a ship to carry them to Marseilles. He, Watson, and Mooktu resettled their robes, then left the house for the docks.

Emily watched them go, then followed Jimmy up onto the flat roof, but couldn’t spot them amid the teeming hordes in the streets.

Anxiety—a feeling that was sufficiently unfamilar it impinged on her awareness—blossomed, spread through her. And gripped.

After a moment of staring across the roofs of Alexandria, she turned away and went downstairs. Finding Dorcas and Arnia, calling Bister and Mullins to join them, she sat at the table and briskly said, “We need to make lists. One, of the items we need for the next few days, and another, of the supplies we should have to see us through to Marseilles.” Determined to keep busy, she looked at the others. “Do we have two pieces of paper?”

Gareth, Watson, and Mooktu returned to the guesthouse as evening was closing in.

Emily was waiting in the large front room. She searched their faces. “No luck?”

Gareth shook his head. “Although there are a large number of ships putting out each day for Marseilles, most are booked for months ahead.” He sat at the table as she sank into the chair at the other end.

Watson and Mooktu sat as Mullins came to join them. “So what are our options?” Mullins asked.

Dorcas wandered in as Watson replied, “Today we were inquiring about the most direct route, but there are other routes we could take.”

“It also occurs to me,” Gareth said, finger tapping the table, “that the direct route will be the one the Black Cobra will expect us to take. I would expect to run into heavier concentrations of cultists if we go that way.”

Watson spread his hands. “We’re in Alexandria—essentially all of Europe lies north of us. We could go by numerous less-traveled ways.” He looked at Gareth. “Do we have to go via Marseilles?”

Gareth nodded. “My route specifically directs us through Marseilles.”

Watson grimaced. “That reduces our options, but still—we could go via numerous routes around or over the Mediterranean.”

“But, for example, a route north along the coast and then east via Turkey, Greece, and Italy to France would surely take much longer.” Emily glanced at Gareth. “Do we have the time to amble?”

He met her gaze, shook his head. “It’s taken us longer to get here than Wolverstone anticipated. He wants me—us—in England by mid-December.”

Emily blinked. “Today’s the first of November.”

“Exactly. So allowing for the necessary days to cross France…we need to reach Marseilles as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” Watson said, “we’ll have to travel by ship all the way.” He glanced at the others. “Travel by sea is significantly faster than travel by land. On one of the more direct routes, a fast ship could make the run to Marseilles in anything from nine to fifteen days.”

“But we can’t find passage on one of those,” Mooktu rumbled. He looked at Gareth. “And we don’t have time to wait here until berths become available.”

Gareth humphed. “Sitting here just waiting for the cultists to stumble over us is not an option in any case.”

“So we take our next best option.” Emily turned to Watson. “Whatever that is.”

Watson frowned. “I would say…either via Italy, then Corsica, to Marseilles, or, possibly, west to Tunis, and then north to Marseilles.” He looked at Gareth. “I know the distances, but sailing times are harder to guess. We’ll need to ask around, then see what ships might be heading that way with space enough to take us.”

Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow. We’ll go down to the docks at first light. It’s less crowded then.”

“I have been thinking,” Mooktu said, “that if the cultists sent to watch us here have not yet been warned that we are going in disguise, then they are less likely to spot us.”

“True. So we’ll need to remember to always go disguised.” Gareth glanced around the table. “It would be preferable to stay in our Arab clothes even in here.”

Emily was perfectly happy to do so; her Arab clothes were less confining and in this climate certainly more comfortable than gown and petticoats. She’d tried to hand back the garments the Berber women had loaned her, but they’d waved their hands and told her to keep them and use them while she was in Arab lands.

She caught Gareth’s gaze. “We’ll need to go to the souk tomorrow. We’ll do that while you’re at the docks. We’ll take Mullins and Bister, and be extra careful, but it won’t hurt to take a look around.”

He didn’t like it—she could see that in his eyes—but eventually he inclined his head. “No, it won’t.”

Eight

2nd November, 1822
Early morning
My room in the guesthouse at Alexandria

Dear Diary,

Something has altered between me and Gareth, although I cannot put my finger on exactly what. There is a greater sense of shared endeavor, as if he now accepts that I can contribute in real ways to our survival. The timing suggests that our sojourn with the Berbers is responsible for his altered attitude, but why spending time, largely separated, in a less-civilized society that only exacerbated his protective and possessive streaks should result in a more inclusive attitude is a mystery. However, we are once again under such threat of being discovered by cultists sent to await our arrival and cut off our heads that it is difficult to find time, or space in my mind, to dwell on such personal questions.

Today I must lead an expedition to the souk to replenish necessary supplies, while Gareth searches for passage onward. The tension is palpable. He hasn’t yet stated it, but I can see he is concerned for us all—and perhaps most especially for me…

Despite the exigencies of our situation, there are moments such as this when I realize in which direction the changes between us are steering us.

More anon.

E.

The souk in Alexandria was set well back from the harbor, tucked inside the old city wall. There was a central covered marketplace, with alley after alley of stalls, most selling fresh produce or clothing. Narrow, cramped, and winding streets gave off the marketplace, tentacles leading deeper into a labyrinth of tiny shops and clustered workshops. There was a goldsmiths’ alley, and a basketweavers’ alley, and lanes for clothing, metalware, glassware and every conceivable commodity.

Feeling entirely comfortable in her Berber clothes beneath her enveloping burka, Emily led their party through the marketplace, finding the items they required, then haggling in French—something at which she’d grown increasingly proficient through the journey.

It didn’t take long to gather all they required for the next few days. Buying supplies for their journey onward would have to wait until they knew when they would be leaving, and how. Remembering the basketweavers’ alley, she detoured and went down it. She found two very large, pliable baskets woven of palm fronds that would be perfect for carrying extra supplies on board a vessel; after a spirited round of bargaining with the shopkeeper, she acquired both.

They were strolling back down the basketweavers’ alley and had nearly reached the marketplace when two cultists appeared at the alley’s mouth and paused, studying the shoppers thronging the narrow space.

Emily’s heart leapt, then thumped. Hard. Instinctively she halted. Luckily an Arab man crossed in front of her, temporarily blocking her and the rest of their party behind her from the cultists’ view—giving her time to realize that stopping and staring would be very unwise.

When the Arab shifted, then turned and moved away, Emily dragged breath into her suddenly tight lungs and, head high beneath her burka, continued on, idly strolling onward as if she had not a care in the world—praying the others followed her cue and did the same.

The cultists saw them—they couldn’t very well miss them—but their gazes passed over them without a flicker of interest, much less recognition.

Greatly daring, Emily continued on and passed by both cultists. Stepping into the marketplace proper, she walked on until the crowds between her and the alley grew thick enough to risk halting and, while pretending to look at some fabric, cast a sideways glance back.

Dorcas and Arnia had followed at her heels. Bister and Mullins were nowhere to be seen.

Dorcas leaned close to whisper, “Bister and Mullins slipped into a shop. Their faces…”

Emily nodded. Although all their men’s faces were now deeply tanned, their features were still too European to flaunt.

Arnia pressed close on Emily’s other side. “If we stay here, they’ll catch us up.”

Watching the cultists still hovering in the mouth of the alley but now surveying the marketplace, Emily nodded again.

A moment later, the cultists moved on. Unhurriedly. Still looking and searching.

Emily breathed easier. She, Dorcas, and Arnia wandered back up the aisle toward the basketweavers’ alley. As they neared, Bister and Mullins emerged from the crowded alley and fell in with them again.

“Let’s get back to the guesthouse,” Mullins growled.

Emily nodded. “Yes. We’ll go now.”

They made it back to the guesthouse without further incident. Once there, once she could throw off the burka and think and pace, Emily’s imagination came unhelpfully alive.

The cultists hadn’t recognized her, but why would they? Covered by the burka, there was nothing of her to see. But Gareth…he was taller than most Arabs. Tall, and broad-shouldered. Even in England, in a crowd he would stand out. And while he’d adopted the Berber style of headdress, covering his neatly cut hair, if the cultists got a look at his eyes, at his cheekbones above his lean, sculpted cheeks, let alone his chin, they couldn’t fail to recognize him as an Englishman.

Arms crossed, she was pacing back and forth in the front room, telling herself she shouldn’t panic until dark fell and they were still not back, when the rattle of the gate latch stopped her in her tracks.

The gate swung inward—and Gareth stepped through, followed by Watson and Mooktu.

She had never been so relieved to see anyone in her life.

She was halfway across the courtyard to meet him before she realized.

The almost relaxed expression—the smile that had been in his eyes—slid away as he searched her face. “What happened?”

The words were rapped out, and then he was there. Fingers closing about her elbow, he turned her and urged her back into the front room, glancing up at the roof as he did.

“Cultists,” she managed to say, pausing on the threshold. “In the souk—not here. But they didn’t see us. Or rather, they saw us but thought we were locals. They didn’t react at all.”

Gareth stared at her. His blood ran cold as horrific visions of what might have happened cascaded through his mind—what the cultists would have done had they caught her—

He blinked, shook his head to clear the visions. She was here, with him, and patently unharmed.

Watson and Mooktu slipped past them, heading deeper into the room. Mooktu continued on, no doubt to find Arnia.

Emily looked into Gareth’s face. “I was so worried they’d see you—you’re much more recognizable than we are.” Turning, she walked into the room.

Releasing her, he followed more slowly.

“We were in our burkas, and Mullins and Bister were behind us, so had time to hide before the cultists could get a good look at them.” She turned to face him. The worry and utter relief he’d seen blazoned in her face earlier had faded. She seemed happy, quite cheery, now.

She studied his face, then tilted her head. “But you’re back early. Does that mean—”

She broke off. They both turned to the gate as it opened again. This time it was Bister, even more heavily disguised than usual with scarves swathing his head and face, who strolled in.

He closed the gate, then, all nonchalance falling away, came striding quickly to them.

He nodded to Emily, then reported to Gareth. “After we got the ladies back here, I thought I’d take a quick gander to see if I could follow those damned cultists back to their nest. I didn’t find those two again, but two others, also wandering the streets, keeping an eye out, true enough, but not searching like they knew who they were searching for.”

“Did you find their base?” Gareth asked.

“Yes, and you’re not going to like it. They’re in a house opposite the consulate, strolling in and out as calm as you please. Bad enough, but while I was watching, a party rode in. A group of assassins, but in the lead was an older, bearded man. Point is, I think I saw him on the docks at Aden.”

Gareth’s face felt like stone. “Tall, slightly stooped, black beard, definitely older?”

Grimly, Bister nodded. “That’s him.”

Damn! They had one of the cult’s upper echelon on their heels.

Emily was looking from his face to Bister’s. From her increasingly sober expression, she understood the implications. “I was going to ask,” she said, “whether your returning early meant you’d found a ship to take us to Marseilles?”

“Not quite.” He met her eyes. “Watson asked around. Seems our best chance of avoiding the cultists and reaching Marseilles in reasonable time is to go west along the coast. We found a merchant with a xebec and space for us all heading that way, but he isn’t ready to leave yet.”

He glanced at Bister, then at all the others who had come into the room to hear the news. “One of the cult members who was in Aden when we arrived there has just arrived here. From now on, we need to assume the cultists are specifically searching for us, that they know the composition of our party—how many men, how many women, approximate ages, and so on.” He paused, then walked to the table and halted at its end. He looked around at the faces, all familiar now. “Alexandria”—with a wave he indicated the area around them—“this quarter in particular—is not a good place to get caught in. Trapped in. Although this house is defendable, if the cult learns we’re here, they’ll be able to hem us in and keep us here.”

Until they wear us down.

Until they pick off enough of us to overrun the house.

And then…

Emily had come to stand beside him. She shifted, head rising met his gaze. “We’ll just have to ensure they don’t locate us, then.”

He saw the determination, the never-say-die expression in her eyes. Glanced at the others, saw the same resolution in theirs. He nodded. “So—we do everything humanly possible not to get noticed for the next two days.” He glanced back at Emily, caught her eyes. “We sail for Tunis at dawn three days from today.”

3rd November, 1822
Early morning
Tucked away in my room in the guesthouse
in Alexandria

Dear Diary,

I am starting to suspect Gareth has a natural tendency to gravitate to persons who appreciate a good fight. He mentioned last night that the captain of the xebec on which we will sail to Tunis expressed disappointment that the cultists—Gareth having felt it necessary to mention their possible interference—were unlikely to engage with us on this leg of our journey.

Huh! For myself, I will be inexpressibly grateful for a respite from the cult’s persistent hounding. Gareth and Watson feel certain that they—the cult—will be expecting us to take the customary diplomatic route through Athens and then overland, and that by the time they realize we’ve gone west along the coast of Africa, and then reorganize to follow, we’ll be too far ahead for them to catch. A xebec, Gareth tells me, is a fast ship, and once on it and clear of Alexandria, we are unlikely to be caught.

All of this, of course, is contingent on the cult not locating us in our bolt-hole here. They will, presumably, now know that we are going about disguised, but there are rather a lot of people in Arab clothing in Alexandria.

We shall see, but the number of times I have written the word “unlikely” above does not, to my mind, bode well.

E.

The next day, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, guarded by Mullins, Bister, and Mooktu, went to the souk for the supplies they would need on their journey to Tunis. Given they’d seen the cultists in the souk the day before, they felt it was better—potentially safer—to go that day rather than the next.

They accomplished their mission without sighting any cultists, and returned through the crowds thronging the midday streets.

They were just yards from the guesthouse when Dorcas, stepping around a hole in the road, collided with an Arab man going in the opposite direction.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Luckily both kept their feet. Regaining her balance, bobbing her burka-covered head apologetically at the man, Dorcas hurried to catch up with Emily.

Who, alerted by the words, halted and turned.

In time to see the man whirl, stare, then snarl and lunge for Dorcas.

Emily grabbed Dorcas and yanked her away from the man—a cultist! She could see the black head scarf beneath the hood of the Arab-style cloak he wore.

She also saw the knife in his hand, saw the blood—Dorcas’s blood—staining it. Saw him change his grip and draw back his arm. “Mooktu!”

The big Pashtun was already there. He closed with the man—just as two more robe-draped cultists materialized out of the crowd.

Arnia appeared by Emily’s shoulder. “Go! Take her inside. She has been cut.”

When Emily glanced back at the melee forming, with Bister and Mullins engaging the other two cultists, Arnia grabbed her and pushed her toward the guesthouse gate. “Leave this to us.” A wicked-looking knife appeared in Arnia’s fist. “Go!”

Emily turned and went, pulling Dorcas with her. Her maid was shaking, but after gulping in air, got her feet moving.

They were almost at the gate when it was wrenched open. Gareth raced out, followed by Jimmy and Watson.

Gareth saw her, paused to grasp her arm.

“We’re all right.” Emily tipped her head at the knot of wrestling bodies. “Three cultists, at least.”

Gareth nodded and went, the other two at his back.

Emily bundled Dorcas into the house, then sat her at the table in the front room.

And saw Gareth’s sword lying on the tabletop.

“Stay there,” she ordered Dorcas. “I’ll be back.”

Swiping up the sword, feeling the weight drag but determined to use it if need be, she hurried back to the gate.

Before she reached it, Arnia opened it and came quickly in, followed by Watson and Jimmy, carrying, amazingly, the supplies the other men had dropped.

Bister followed a moment later with the last bag.

He saw Emily, saw the sword in her hand. “Here—you take this and give me that.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, “He won’t want you out there, not now.”

She could see the sense in that. She took the bag and handed him the sword. “What’s happening?”

Bister met her eyes, hesitated, then said, “The three of them are dead. We have to do a cleanup, quick, before any of their friends come looking for them.” He hefted the sword. “I’ll take this just in case.” With a nod, he turned and went, closing the gate after him.

Emily stared at the gate for a moment, then turned and briskly waved the others on. “Let’s get inside, and get things sorted.”

That’s all she could do—keep on keeping on, and get the things done that needed to be done.

Gareth returned half an hour later to find Emily ministering to a very shaken, almost hysterical Dorcas.

The maid, her complexion pasty white, was seated at the table, with Emily crouched beside her, carefully dressing a long gash on the back of Dorcas’s forearm.

Entering quietly, Gareth heard Emily soothingly murmur, “Truly—you’ll see. It’ll be perfectly all right. It was just a piece of sheer bad luck that the man who bumped into you was one of the cultists—if he hadn’t been, your slip of the tongue wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s hardly your fault he wasn’t paying attention and ran into you.”

They heard his footsteps. Both turned. Emily stared up at him. “Is it all right?”

She might have been doing her best to soothe her maid, but her eyes were wide, with a species of shock in the mossy depths.

Gareth let himself down into the chair at the head of the table. “They’re dead—they won’t be reporting to anyone that we’re here.” Looking at her, knowing how close they’d come to disaster, the best he could do by way of reassurance was to explain, “We found a covered channel not far away. We hid the bodies there. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins are scouting around, keeping an eye on things. They’ll be in as soon as it gets dark.”

Emily gazed at him for a moment, then, smile brightening, she turned back to Dorcas and briskly patted her arm. “See? It’s all taken care of.”

4th November, 1822
Before dinner
My room in the guesthouse

Dear Diary,

There is little to report beyond the tension that rides us all. Alexandria may be a city of fabled antiquity, yet I have seen very little of it. Since our expedition to the souk yesterday, we have remained virtually cloistered in the guesthouse, with two guards on the roof at all times.

Only Gareth and Mooktu go out, and always they go together, patrolling the surrounding areas for any signs of cultists assembling for an attack. So far, there has been no alarm, but they have seen far too many cultists slipping through the crowds to allow any of us to relax.

In such a fraught atmosphere, further exploring the evolving connection between Gareth and myself has been impossible. I haven’t asked, but I hope a xebec is a reasonable-sized craft, one that will afford us a modicum of privacy in which to further our as yet undeclared courtship.

Until we are free of Alexandria, there is nothing I can do but wait.

E.

They left the guesthouse at dawn, and quietly made their way through silent streets to the docks. Mullins had had the bright idea to exchange their trunks—solid English trunks—for simple wooden ones, also solid but clearly Arabian, that Jemal had lying in his storeroom. They’d all seen the value in that, and had subsequently worked diligently to eradicate any hint of the English, even of the European, from their collective appearance. The party that arrived that morning at the docks, already bustling with ships preparing to leave on the morning tide, was utterly indistinguishable from the many others waiting to board.

Gareth, head swathed in the typical head scarf, which, happily, largely obscured his features, led them down the docks with a long-legged, unhurried stride. His attitude conveyed the impression that he owned a small Arab kingdom somewhere.

The rest of them followed in their customary order. When Gareth paused at the foot of a gangplank, looked up at the ship, then hailed the captain by name, Emily turned her head quickly, took in the vessel—and only just managed to stifle her groan.

A xebec was smaller than a schooner.

And piled with goods.

Where the devil were they all going to fit?

The question continued to resound in her head as the captain formally welcomed Gareth aboard, then beckoned the rest of them up onto the deck.

There, Emily’s frustrated suppositions were confirmed. The three burka-enveloped women were quickly conducted belowdecks—to a single cabin in the stern, with three hammocks strung in the small space.

Their luggage followed them in short order. Once that was set on the floor, leaving them just room enough to walk from door to hammock to small porthole, and the door had shut, Emily fought her way free of her burka, and, with unrestricted vision, looked around again. But…“There’s not even anywhere to sit!”

Men! The word, loaded with fulminating frustration, echoed in her head. Dorcas frowned, Arnia muttered. Emily didn’t even have room enough to pace.

The ship rocked. Emily caught hold of the door frame, then, realizing the vessel was definitely putting out, used the hammocks for balance to cross to the porthole. Peering out, she saw the docks receding—quickly. “At least this thing seems to go quite fast.”

She, Dorcas and Arnia were under strict orders to remain belowdecks to reduce the chance of their party being recognized by the cultists certain to be watching from the twin headlands of the large harbor.

Once the xebec gained clearer water further out in the bay, the captain must have put on more sail, for it positively leapt forward.

By the time they were passing between the headlands, the hull was all but flying over the waves. But then they met the Mediterranean proper, and the deeper swells slowed the craft.

From the porthole in the stern, Emily had an excellent view of both headlands as the xebec slipped through, finally free of the harbor’s mouth.

She had an excellent view of the cultists on each point.

A perfectly clear view of the spyglass one was holding, trained on the xebec’s deck.

She saw that cultist turn and say something to another. Saw the second cultist grab the spyglass and look through, then nod excitedly. After one more look, both turned and ran…she couldn’t see where.

But she’d swear they’d been smiling.

Once the headlands faded into the early-morning sea mist, she quit the cabin and made her way onto the deck.

She found Gareth leaning on the railing to one side. She leaned beside him. “Did you see them on the headland?”

He nodded, glanced at her, met her eyes. “It wasn’t possible for us all to get below. With the added weight, some of us needed to help the sailors.”

She looked out across the waves, toward where, a long way ahead, she imagined Europe lay. “I can’t be sure, but I think they saw us.”

After a moment, he lifted a hand, placed it over hers on the rail. Gently squeezed. “They did—I think we must assume that. But they didn’t see which direction we took. The captain stayed on an uninformative course until we were out of sight.”

Emily stayed where she was, digesting that information and its implications. Absorbing the warmth of his large hand covering hers. “So they’ll know we left, and that we’re on some xebec, but, with any luck, they’ll search for us—”

“In every direction but the one in which we’re going.”

She nodded, reassured, but stayed where she was, content enough in that moment.

In the house opposite the British consulate, Uncle paced incessantly. “This is unacceptable! We are hunting these people—how is it then that three more of your number have disappeared?” His tone demanded an answer, an answer the cowed men abased before him could not give. “Have they deserted our cause? No! How could that be when they know the vengeance the Black Cobra will take? How our revered leader will strike, and maim, and torture until they scream—”

He broke off as his new lieutenant, Akbar, came striding in.

Akbar made obeisance, then straightened and reported, “They were seen—the major and his party—on a fast vessel leaving the harbor an hour ago.”

Uncle was silent. Silent for so long those abased before him started trembling even more than when he’d been berating them. The silence stretched as Uncle hauled his formidable temper back under control. Finally he drew breath, and, fighting not to grind his teeth, quietly asked, “And where is this vessel sailing to?”

Akbar’s lashes flickered. “The men do not know. It wasn’t possible to tell which heading they took before the sea mist swallowed them.”

Uncle drew in an even longer, tighter breath. Slowly exhaling, he said, “I suggest you set inquiries in train. There are only so many ships that can have left this morning. Ask until you learn where that one was heading.”

Akbar bowed low, then turned and left.

Uncle looked down at the trembling men at his feet. “Get out.”

They tripped over themselves obeying.

Alone in the room, Uncle slowly wandered. Akbar was ambitious. He would do whatever was needed to extract the necessary information. “Not that it matters,” Uncle muttered. “We have men in every port—the Black Cobra has seen to that. The major and his woman will not escape.” His hands clenched, his lips slowly curved. “And I will personally ensure that the major suffers long and suitably for taking Muhlal from me.”

Nine

6th November, 1822
Before dinner
The cramped shared stern cabin on the xebec,
somewhere in the Mediterranean, heading for Tunis

Dear Diary,

Contrary to my hopes, a xebec is a ship designed for trade, not for passengers. There is no privacy anywhere. Indeed, we women are lucky to have a cabin to ourselves. The men of our party are sharing with the crew.

It is impossible to have a private conversation anywhere, let alone indulge in non-verbal communication. Add to that that there is nothing to see and less to do, and it is no wonder Dorcas, Arnia, and I are already bored beyond bearing. The men, on the other hand, appear to be merging with the crew—I even saw Watson getting sailing lessons. Gareth and the captain get on well. Exceptionally well. With Gareth striding about in a combination of robes and cavalry breeches and boots, his sword at his side, he, like the captain, looks like a buccaneer.

Watching him striding about the deck is one of the few distractions available to me.

E.

10th November, 1822
Before dinner
On the xebec, in the tiny cabin

Dear Diary,

I have nothing to report. We have been sailing along at a rapid clip for the last five days without incident of any kind. Gareth’s ploy to lose the cultists in our escape from Alexandria appears to have succeeded—we have remained unmolested, even at night. There seems little reason to fear further attack, at least not on this leg of our journey. Gareth still posts pickets, and Bister and Jimmy spend a good portion of each day up on the main mast, but we have all largely relaxed our vigilance. The absence of the tension to which we’ve grown accustomed is now every bit as noticeable as the tension itself was.

This should be a perfect opportunity for Gareth and myself to further explore the potential connection between us—I can hardly credit that we have not had a chance to address this burning issue since those few moments stolen between the Berbers’ tents!—but such personal interaction is utterly impossible under the interested noses of the crew.

I have even tracked the crews’ movements to see if there is any time or place in which they are routinely absent, but no. It is beyond frustrating. If I thought it would do any good, I would tear out my hair.

Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No further forward.

E.

11th November, 1822
Before dinner
Still on the blasted xebec

Dear Diary,

The captain must have heard my griping. Either that, or Gareth mentioned my threat to leap overboard if we are served fish for one more night. He—the captain—has in the last few minutes very cordially informed me that we are to make landfall—a halt for a whole day!—in Malta tomorrow. The ship must take on drinking water, and he hopes to trade some of the salt he is carrying. My spontaneous and heartfelt response was “Thank Heaven!” at which Captain Laboule grinned. Although he is a mussulman, it appears my words are nevertheless acceptable gratitude for divine intervention.

But to have a whole day ashore! I am both relieved and filled with anticipation. Surely, Gareth and I will be able to find a suitable place, and sufficient time, to advance our mutual understanding.

It strikes me that in exploring and mapping out our way forward together, we are undertaking another journey, one running parallel and superimposed upon our more physical journey to England.

I look forward to tomorrow in hope and expectation.

E.

Although founded by the Knights of Malta centuries before, Valletta was currently under British rule, a fact Gareth hadn’t forgotten and took pains to impress on the other members of his party.

Standing by the railing as the xebec slid smoothly through the waters of the Grand Harbor, the early morning sun glinting off ripples as the craft approached the quays lining the waterfront beneath the lowest bastions of the spectacularly fortified city, he glanced at the others flanking him. As per his orders, they were all in Arab dress. “We should avoid the area around the Governor’s Palace. We’ll almost certainly see plenty of soldiers in the streets, but they pose little threat—Ferrar’s influence is diplomatic, not military.”

“But we’ll need to keep our eyes peeled for cultists,” Mullins said.

Gareth nodded. “There will without doubt be cultists here, keeping watch, but it’s unlikely they’ll have yet been warned to look specifically for us—for a party of our size and composition—or that we might be disguised. As long as we do nothing to attract their attention, we should be able to slide beneath their notice.”

Dorcas resettled her burka. “At least here we won’t need to worry that speaking English might alert them.”

“Perhaps not,” Emily replied, “but it will probably be wise to wherever possible pretend to be Arab.”

Gareth was grateful she’d made the point. Then the xebec bumped against the stone quay, and they turned to where the gangplank would be pushed out.

The instant it was, they went down to the stone wharf, then in a group walked along beside the bastion wall to the street Captain Laboule had pointed out as the most direct route to the commerical district. As they climbed the paved street, Gareth looked up at the spires and cupolas of churches and cathedrals rising above them. As a soldier who’d seen a good portion of the world, the defensive walls and fortifications were impressive, the forts and defenses of the harbor awe-inspiring.

He could spend days happily walking the city, appreciating its architecture and its defenses, but with cultists lurking, his top priority was keeping Emily safe.

He was somewhat surprised by how little inner grumbling that conclusion evoked.

For once, they didn’t need to gather supplies but could indulge themselves as they wished. When they passed a cross street reeking of spices and lined with intriguing shops, Arnia declared she wanted to see what manner of herbs and condiments was available. With a nod to Gareth, Mooktu and Mullins went with her. They’d agreed to meet back at the xebec by three o’clock, in good time to make the late-afternoon tide.

“I want to see the cathedral first.” Emily glanced at Gareth as she walked alongside him. “Laboule said there are many fine buildings we can view, and a number of museums.”

Gareth nodded in ready acquiescence. Much of the history of Valletta lay in the historic palaces the Knights of Malta had left behind, and from childhood he’d been intrigued by the soldier-crusader order.

Dorcas and Watson ambled at their heels. Bister, in need of more active amusement, took Jimmy under his wing and set off to find it.

They spent the day in churches and palaces. The latter were sufficiently magnificient to hold even Gareth’s attention. Architecture, design, embellishment, and furnishings were so fabulously splendid they were every bit as awe-inspiring as the fortifications.

Despite her firm intention to make good use of the day, Emily was diverted, distracted by the sumptuous beauty of so much they found, as, eyes wide, they wandered the town.

They stopped at a quiet tavern for lunch. In order to eat, Emily and Dorcas would have to remove their burkas. As they’d detected no cultists, they all agreed the disguises were perhaps unnecessary.

“Valletta is merely a staging post—a stopover on the way to somewhere else,” Gareth said. “Ferrar would know there’s no point leaving any great force here—at the most we would spend only a day. Better simply to leave a man or two on watch, and have them report any sighting of us or the others, perhaps by diplomatic courier.”

Emily looked at him through the panel of her burka. “If you were going to leave someone to watch this place, where would you station them?”

“One of the forts. Most command excellent views of the harbor and the quays, but there are enough of them to make our locating and removing said watchers virtually impossible.”

Emily nodded. She and Dorcas removed the heavy burkas, folding them into shawls, revealing their English gowns beneath, thus instantly becoming one with the many Englishwomen in the town.

They spent the rest of their lunchtime comparing sights and exclaiming over all they’d seen. It was only when they were leaving the tavern, she and Gareth in the lead, Dorcas and Watson chatting behind them, that Emily remembered her aim for the day.

She had a bare two hours left to accomplish it.

The next palace they entered was much like those before. Leaving Dorcas and Watson studying a coat of arms over a fireplace, she walked out into the corridor, then turned into the next salon, trusting to Gareth’s protective instincts to ensure he followed her.

He did, but hung back, keeping distance between them. Halting before the windows, she looked back—mentally tapped her toe.

Hands clasped behind his back, he ambled slowly down the room, studying a long row of ceremonial swords displayed on the wall. Determined, increasingly aware of the minutes ticking by, she turned and walked back to him.

He halted, gaze locked on a bejewelled scimitar.

She reached him just as Dorcas and Watson strolled in.

Suppressing her irritation, she tried again to get far enough ahead of their shadows to at last speak privately. When they entered the long dining hall, with its massive table set for a feast, Dorcas and Watson paused to minutely examine the cutlery, china, and crystal. Seizing the moment, Emily walked directly down the long room and into a small gallery beyond. Pausing, she glanced back, waiting and willing Gareth to join her.

He walked, slowly, in her wake, making a show of studying the plate and crystal. Impatient, she waited. Gareth reached the threshold of the gallery, looked at her waiting, then turned and considered Dorcas and Watson, still only halfway up the huge room.

When he didn’t turn back, didn’t seize the moment to join her, Emily frowned. “Gareth.” She pitched her voice just above a whisper. “There are…matters we need to address.”

He turned his head. Across the gallery, he met her eyes. “This is not a suitable time or place.”

She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t disagree. “So when and where will be suitable for our particular discussion?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was even but, like hers, pitched low. After a moment, he said, “That subject might have to wait until England to be properly addressed.”

“England?” She stared at him, swiftly estimated. “It might be another month before we reach there.”

He nodded, but turned before she could respond. Stepping back, he let Dorcas precede him into the gallery.

Forcing Emily to spin on her heel and, with feigned brightness, lead the way on.

Another month?

Another month with no advance, no firmer definition, no further exploration of what lay between them?

“No,” she muttered beneath her breath. “No, and no.” On that score, he would need to think again.

Of course, now that he knew her aim, he would take evasive action. Nothing she could do—no place she could find in this palace—would be useful in cornering him, not with Dorcas and Watson dogging their steps, providing him with the perfect excuse to avoid any tête à tête.

Allowing him to believe she’d accepted defeat, accepted his decree, she calmly led the way out of the palace. On the pavement, she looked down toward the harbor—and spied the green of trees and lawns clumped on a level between their present height and the quays above the waterline.

Scanning the buildings ahead, she located what she needed. Another palace of another group of knights. Perfect.

She glanced at Dorcas. “Look—gardens.” She pointed to the massed greenery below. The other three looked. Knowing Dorcas’s weakness was for strolling and viewing scenery rather than buildings and museums, Emily smiled at her maid. “Why don’t you and Watson head down there? I want to look through just one more palace.” Halting beside the sign for the next “auberge,” she met Gareth’s eyes. “This one will do.”

Watson and Dorcas were happy to go ahead.

“We’ll wait for you there.” With a nod to them both, Watson set off, Dorcas beside him, one arm looped in his, her other hand clutching her burka-shawl about her shoulders.

Once they were out of earshot, Emily glanced at Gareth. “Come along.” Turning, she marched up the palace steps.

Gareth watched her go, hips swaying beneath her English skirts, inwardly sighed, then followed.

He knew what she wanted to “address,” but that was one topic he wanted to avoid—a subject he’d spent far too many recent hours obsessing over. But his conclusion—the real and unpalatable, but inescapable conclusion—wasn’t one he, or any man alive, would willingly discuss. Just the thought of putting his thoughts into words made him inwardly shudder.

Which meant that, for both their sakes, he had to let her play her game, but he had to win—had to ensure she won no time to “address” anything at all.

What ensued was akin to a game of chess, with her moving this way, he countering with a move that nullifed hers. She glared; he kept his face expressionless, his gaze as bland as he could make it.

And tried not to let his inner self think about how arousing playing this almost taunting, frustrating game of abstaining avoidance with her was.

He knew what he knew. There was no future in becoming aroused over her.

Emily set her lips, set her chin—and inwardly swore she wouldn’t be denied. She didn’t know why he was so intent on avoiding snatching a moment now—out of sight of the rest of their party and of any cultists—but she wasn’t about to let him win. This, she inwardly declared, was a matter of principle.

A matter of need and want and desire.

And not just hers.

Leading the way back down to the ground floor, she swung into another wing of reception rooms. The first salon showed little promise, so she quickly walked back into the corridor and on to the next.

There, she struck gold.

A door on one side wall was placed close to the junction with the outer wall. Opening the door, she went through—and found herself in a narrow corridor connecting with the next room along. The door at the other end of the corridor was shut. Smiling to herself, she went forward, then halted and stood looking out of the lead-paned windows to the harbor far below.

Gareth hesitated in the doorway.

Without looking his way, she pointed out and down. “There’s our ship.”

After an instant’s pause in which she could almost hear his resigned sigh, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door, then came to join her.

“See?” she said, as he paused beside her. Once she was sure he was following her gaze to the line of ships below, she went on, “That’s the tiny vessel we’ll be returning to in less than an hour, to spend the next several days cooped up with a score of others, unable to exchange so much as a private word.”

Turning to him, she studied his profile, all she could see of his face. “Given what we’ve already exchanged, what has already passed between us, any other gentleman would be gladly seizing the opportunity”—just so he didn’t miss the point, she flung out her arms—“this opportunity, to at the very least kiss me again.”

He glanced sideways at her, then half turned so she could see more of his face.

She narrowed her eyes on his. “So why aren’t you? Why are you suddenly avoiding me?”

Saying the words made them real. She’d known that’s what he was doing, but hadn’t—until that moment—allowed those words to form in her mind. They were too damning—and no young lady with any claim to modesty would ever voice such words aloud…she wasn’t a great believer in self-sacrificing modesty.

So she glared, folded her arms—refused to acknowledge the prick of the words, the sharp yet hollowing hurt—and waited.

Waited.

“I’m giving you time to come to your senses.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You need to realize what this—our attraction—is about. What it springs from. What drives it.”

She frowned. “I know what—”

“No. You don’t.”

She studied him through narrowing eyes, registering his rigid conviction. Slowly she raised her brows. “Indeed? So why don’t you enlighten me?”

He’d walked into that one. Gareth gritted his teeth, kept his gaze locked with hers…as the seconds ticked by and she didn’t soften, didn’t waver, didn’t back down, he accepted he had no choice. Drawing in a short breath, he plunged in. “What’s occurred between us is the result of surviving danger—the outcome, a natural and unsurprising outcome, of the dangerous episodes we’ve weathered together. It’s something everyone feels afterward, after such clashes. I’m used to it, so I recognize it, but you wouldn’t have experienced it before, and…” He felt his face harden. “Regardless of what you imagine what’s happened between us means, that, in reality, is all it means. It’s an outcome of having survived a brush with death.”

Her frown had evaporated into an expression of stunned blankness. Her gaze distant, her voice, too, seemed to come from far away. “That’s not—”

“What you think, but that is what it is.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, her face devoid of expression, her jaw a trifle slack, then she said, “You have no idea what I think. No idea why I feel what I do.”

“What you think you feel has nothing to do with it. I know what this is—know why you want me to kiss you again—and therefore I know, unquestionably, that honor dictates that as a gentleman, as the one more experienced, I should refuse and keep a proper distance.”

Enough of explanations. He swung into the attack. “You should be thanking me for not accepting your invitation to further dalliance.” He made his tone resolute, even dictatorial. “Most men in my position would take advantage, but you deserve better.”

Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze focusing more intently on him. “So…you’re saying I’m suffering from…what? Some form of danger-induced delusional desire from which you need to save me?”

He hestitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s all this is.”

“You need to save me from myself.” Emily dragged in a shaky breath. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m a great deal more experienced than you.”

“I se-ee.” Her temper erupted and made her voice quaver. Her eyes as narrow as they could get, she pinned him. Rage of a kind she’d never before felt pouring hotly through her veins, she opened her mouth—and discovered she couldn’t get a word out.

She drew breath, held it, tried again to speak, but fury clogged her throat.

You have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about!

“Arrgh!” Flinging up her hands, she swung around, stalked to the door at the end of the corridor, hauled it open, and swept out.

So much for finding a suitable place. So much for arranging a suitable time.

So much for developing a relationship with him—he didn’t even believe she genuinely wanted one!

Aggravated phrases, irritated declarations—all the things she’d love to say, to heap on his head if only she could speak, if only she could trust herself to berate him without furious tears strangling her voice—rang in her head as without pause she stalked straight out of the palace and on down the street.

Her expression must have been all suppressed fury; after one glance, everyone moved out of her way. She didn’t look back to see if Gareth was following, but she heard footfalls behind her, and knew it was him.

She reached the gate in the railing enclosing the park. Pausing, she glanced back, at his face, scorched him with a look full of fulminating fury, then she swung around, summoned a relaxed expression and plastered it on her face, settled her burka-shawl about her shoulders and, head rising, walked forward to find Dorcas and Watson and return to the xebec.

12th November, 1822
Late
Back on the xebec

Dear Diary,

I am speechless. Still. Gareth believes my interest in him is driven by danger-and-survival-induced desire—in his eyes, I am blind and deluded.

Whenever I think of what he said—what he thinks—I am reduced to quivering rage. How dare he? What the devil does he mean by telling me what I feel and why? Bad enough—but how dare he be so wrong!!

I am literally beside myself—I never knew what that phrase meant before today. His temerity clearly knows no bounds!

Mind you, there were a few sentences he uttered that I suspect I should pay more attention to.

Doubtless I will—once I’ve calmed down.

E.

Their xebec put into Tunis harbor three days later, in the afternoon. They had sighted not one cultist since Alexandria, which was just as well given the sea approach to Tunis lay via a narrow entrance into a so-called lake. The xebec had had to furl its sails and beat in under oars. Outrunning any pursuit would have been impossible.

After farewelling Captain Laboule and his crew, thanking them for their hospitality and commiserating hypocritically over the lack of fighting, Gareth led his party off the deck, onto the docks. All once again in Arab guise, confidently following Laboule’s directions, they hired a small donkey-drawn cart from the many waiting to ferry passengers, luggage, and goods over the short distance from lakeshore to city gate. With the three women perched on their luggage in the cart, Gareth trudged along the sandy road, with the other men flanking the cart.

He kept his gaze from Emily. Since their “discussion” in Valletta, she had made no further advances, offered no further invitations to kiss her.

Just as well. If she had, he wasn’t at all sure he’d have had the strength or willpower to resist.

But he’d done the right thing. Not what he wanted—he wanted her—but honor had dictated that he couldn’t take advantage of her, that he’d had to give her the chance to back away.

And she had.

She’d drawn back, thought of what he’d said, and had seen the truth in his words, his assertion. She’d accepted the opening he’d given her to step back from any further interaction—which, given what had already occurred between them, would have only ended in one place, one activity.

He’d been right, and she’d finally seen that.

Over the days since Valletta, he’d been conscious of her watching him, broodingly, as if she were studying him.

Perhaps wondering at the passionate madness that had infected her, glad he’d explained and she’d seen it for what it was.

He trudged on, and tried not to think of her.

Tried to focus on his mission, on evaluating the possible threat from cultists in this out-of-the-way city. Concentrating on Laboule’s helpful directions, he led the way through the city gate and on toward the medina.

A souk by another name, they could hear a rising cacophony of voices, smell the pungent pervasive scents of spices, long before they saw the narrowing streets and covered alleys ahead.

Just before they reached the medina itself, Gareth turned left, and found the guesthouse Laboule had recommended a hundred yards further on. A quick survey from the street was encouraging. Leaving the others in the street with the luggage, he knocked on the gate in the wall, and was admitted.

The guesthouse was well-suited to their needs, clean, large enough, but not too sprawling, with sufficient rooms and, most important, a single guarded gate to the street. He settled to haggle with the owners. Dropping Laboule’s name helped. In short order he’d hired the guesthouse, once again managing to secure it exclusively for his party.

He went with the owner and his wife to let them in.

Emily was inexpressibly glad to be able to set her burka aside, wash her face and brush out her hair—all while standing on a floor that didn’t rock. In a room that had space enough to stretch both arms out without her fingers touching anything.

The physical relief was wonderful.

“I would be quite happy never to set foot on a xebec again,” she informed Dorcas, busy shaking out her traveling gowns and hanging them up in the armoire.

Dorcas snorted. “From what I overheard, seems likely we’ll be on another of the things for our next leg to Marseilles.”

Emily grimaced. “I heard the same thing.” Laboule had given Gareth the name of another xebec captain who he’d thought would be agreeable to taking them to Marseilles. “But it does seem as if we’ll have at least a few days here, on dry land.”

“We’ll need to go to the souk for supplies.” Dorcas’s voice was muffled as she spoke from inside the armoire.

“Tomorrow, I imagine.” Emily laid aside her brush. “At least it’s close.”

She prayed that, as they all hoped, there were no cultists in Tunis.

If so, if all remained quiet, then their time there might afford her the opportunity to…redirect Gareth. To reeducate him as to the reality of her wishes.

And the real and very definite force driving her desire.

Turning, she caught Dorcas’s gaze. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can organize a pot of tea.”

She was an Englishwoman far from home—there were some things she really hated going without.

The lone, low-ranking cultist sent to Tunis to watch and report should any of the four soldier-sahibs pass through that town had known that his mission was a sop, that the chances of any of the officers the Black Cobra was chasing coming through the town was so remote as to be negligible.

But of course he hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned.

He’d dutifully come to Tunis, and every day had walked out to the docks on the lakeshore, and watched.

Today, this afternoon, he had barely been able to believe his eyes.

Indeed, at first, his senses had deceived him. The group had passed under his nose and it hadn’t even twitched. But then he’d caught a comment passed between the two men walking at the rear of the little procession.

The word cultists had fixed his attention.

He’d slipped from his perch on a stack of fishing pots and followed.

A short time later, crouched in the shadow of the donkey cart behind the one the sahib had approached, wrapped in a long robe and without his black silk head scarf, he’d listened rather than looked. What he’d heard—the accents, the commanding manner—had convinced him.

One of the sahibs had come to Tunis.

Why he was traveling with women—three of them—was beyond the watcher’s ability to guess, but that didn’t matter.

He’d trailed the small party at a distance, had bided his time and waited at the corner of the street down which they’d turned, and had been rewarded. He now knew where the sahib was staying.

Not that he could attack—not on his own. But he had plenty of coin, and knew his orders by heart.

He hurried off to the tavern in which he was staying, begged paper and pencil, and settled to write a message, a report. He knew to whom in the French embassy he should give it. And once he had, he would devote himself to carrying out his august master’s orders with the utmost diligence.

Ten

15th November, 1822
Late
My room in the guesthouse in Tunis

Dear Diary,

Since reboarding the xebec in Valletta, the restrictions of the voyage prevented me from re-engaging with Gareth—which, in retrospect, was a good thing. Not only did the enforced disengagement give me time to calm down and regain the ability to think clearly, it also gave me time to fully reevaluate my position in light of Gareth’s views.

Quite aside from confirming just how completely unattuned to the female imperatives the male brain—even a superior specimen—is, a point on which my sisters have frequently remarked, our largely one-sided discussion in Valletta, once I was able to consider it in a calmer frame of mind, was distinctly revealing.

Far from dissuading me that he is my “one,” Gareth’s arrogant but nobly motivated stance underscored the fact—as if I didn’t know it—that with him I am utterly and completely safe. Even from him.

Of course, this leaves me in the position of having to open my misguided major’s eyes as to my own true motivations and feelings, but I am confident, dear Diary, that that is well within my powers.

I have my fingers crossed that our time here in Tunis will yield the opportunity I need.

E.

The next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, all in their Arab disguises, left the guesthouse and walked down the street toward the scents and sounds of the medina.

No directions were necessary.

They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.

The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.

Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.

“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”

Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”

Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”

Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”—his gaze swept them—“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”

There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen—lead on.”

The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.

Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something—organizing, shopping—was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today—just in case.”

Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.

It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.

Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.

That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.

Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.

He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.

Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.

Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?

He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.

These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.

So their attackers had been sent, but by whom? The Black Cobra, or someone else? The bey? Someone in the palace?

Regardless, given they were locals, killing any would be unwise.

A knife flashed and nicked Gareth’s arm. Jaw clenching against the sting, he shook aside all distractions and refocused his energies on defeating the men.

A crowd started to gather in the street. Their assailants, finding no easy way to penetrate his and Mooktu’s deadly defense, called to others in the crowd. Called for help.

Most hung back, shocked and shaking their heads. But three young men came forward, eyes eager as they drew the typical short Arab blades from scabbards at their waists. Then they grinned, and pushed their way in to join the fight.

Just as the gate alongside Mooktu opened, and Bister, Mullins, and Jimmy rushed out, swords in hands.

And then the fight was truly on.

It was messy. It was confused.

Then one pair of opponents bumped into some onlookers, sending a woman sprawling, and that started a fight among some of the onlookers—and then it was impossible to tell what was going on.

Women joined the fray on the edges, thumping men over the head with basins, bundles, and baskets.

To Gareth’s horror, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia emerged from the gate. Armed with ladles, they started laying about them.

For one godforsaken instant chaos reigned, then shouts came from the rear of the crowd. Large, muscled bodies started forging their way in.

The bey’s guards.

Gareth looked at Emily, trying to catch her eye to direct her back into the guesthouse—to no avail. Giving up, he fought his way to her side, arriving there just as the captain of the guard reached her.

It was the same man who had led the detachment to fetch them earlier in the day.

His dark eyes met Gareth’s. After a moment, he said, “You must, if you please, all come with me.”

It took another ten minutes to restore calm, but the captain evenhandedly gathered all those involved—those of Gareth’s party as well as all the locals, including the women. The captain had brought a full troop with him. The miscreants were formed two-by-two into a long line and, flanked by the guards, marched to the palace.

Walking with Mooktu at the head of the procession, Gareth looked back, confirming that the five locals who had initially attacked them, plus the three who had later joined in, had had their hands tied. All the rest had been left unrestrained. The captain had spoken in Arabic to those locals who had hung back and abstained from involvement, and had clearly got the basic story straight. Gareth took that as a good sign.

Glancing at Emily and Arnia, walking directly behind him and Mooktu, he murmured, “When we get to the palace, leave the talking to me.”

Emily looked up at him through the lace panel of her burka. “I seriously doubt the bey will deign to speak with me. With us.” With her eyes, she included Arnia, then looked away, head tilting as if beneath the burka she’d put her nose in the air. “Men always think men know everything.”

Gareth thought he heard a small “humph.” He also had the feeling she wasn’t talking solely about the bey.

Facing forward, he tried to remember if there was a British consulate anywhere in Tunisia, or even in neighboring Algeria, currently Tunisia’s overlord.

When they reached the palace, they were all ushered into a large hall, then left waiting there with the guards, armed, keeping watch over them. Unlike his earlier visit, this time they did not have to wait long. A bare ten minues had passed when a door at the end of the hall opened, and the bey, an average-sized man of middle years, tending slightly portly, with a silk turban wound about his head and a wide silk sash going over one shoulder and around his waist, came striding through, his personal guards at his back.

The captain bowed low.

The bey waved him up, and demanded an explanation for the crowd in his hall.

The captain’s story was brief and to the point—and accurate, much to Gareth’s relief.

The bey ran his eye down the line of those gathered. Then he ran his gaze back and fixed it on Gareth. “Major—I believe we met briefly this afternoon.” This time the bey spoke flawless English.

Gareth bowed. “Your Excellency.”

“Am I to take it that certain of these men attacked you as you returned to your lodgings?” When Gareth inclined his head, the bey raised his brows. “Which ones?”

Gareth shifted so he could point along the line. “These five first, then when they called for support, those three joined in.”

“Very good.” The bey marched down the line until he stood directly in front of the five. “Why did you attack these people, who I had only just welcomed to our fair city?”

The five fell to their knees, then further, prostrating themselves. After uttering various obeisances, one hurriedly said, “We were hired, Excellency, by another foreigner.”

The bey frowned, and glanced back at Gareth. “Who?”

“He wore a turban like the tall one”—the attacker pointed at Mooktu—“but his had a black band.”

Gareth shared a glance with Mooktu and Mullins beyond him.

The bey noticed, and came striding back to halt before Gareth. “You know of this black-turbaned man.”

A statement, not a question. Gareth met the bey’s dark eyes. “Sadly, yes, Your Excellency. It appears we’ve been followed—or perhaps this person reached here before us—but they are acting on behalf of an Indian cult leader who wishes revenge against a lady, the Governor of Bombay’s niece, who was instrumental in gathering vital evidence against the cult leader. The cult threatens the government and the people of India.”

As Gareth had suspected, as a ruler himself the bey had no time for anyone who threatened any government.

“This cult,” the bey declared to the room at large, “is to be given no help by my people.” He paused, then returned to the five still kneeling men. “You have been foolish beyond belief in attacking one I had welcomed at the behest of a foreigner. Captain!”

The captain approached. “Yes, Excellency?”

“Take these five, and the other three as well, and have them sweep the streets about the palace and clean the palace stables for the next three months. Then perhaps they will think again before they take coin from a foreigner to attack one of this city’s guests.”

The eight men all prostrated themselves. It was a lenient sentence, but, Gareth felt, a wise one. He and his party would soon be gone, but the bey would remain and continue to rule these people.

The bey briefly interrogated, then dismissed the other onlookers who had joined the fight. As they all filed out, relieved to have been spared any punishment, the bey strode back up the hall to where Gareth and his party remained.

The bey’s gaze raked the three women, all incognito behind their burkas, then lifted to Gareth’s face. “This lady, the governor’s niece—she travels with you?”

Gareth nodded. “It is my duty to keep her safe from the cult on our journey back to England.”

“Good.” The bey clapped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Come—walk a little way with me.” He glanced back at the women. “And if it is not against your rules, as I believe it is not, perhaps your lady might join us?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Emily lifted her burka, putting it back from her face, then stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Excellency.”

The bey appeared pleased by the graceful obeisance. He bowed in return. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Gallantly he offered his arm. “This is how it is done, is it not?”

Emily smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Just so, Your Excellency.”

“Good.” Looking to Gareth, the bey waved him on. “Come—walk with me in the cloisters.”

Gareth glanced pointedly at the others of their party, standing quietly waiting.

Following his glance, the bey raised a hand. “My apologies. Your people may return to your lodgings. I will send guards to escort them, and the captain will escort you and your lady there shortly.”

Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Leaving the others filing out of the hall with the guards, Gareth walked by Emily’s side as the bey led them through a wonderfully carved archway into the tiled cloisters surrounding a courtyard.

They strolled, the bey pointing out various mosaics and sculptures, which they dutifully—and quite sincerely—admired. Once they had completed a circuit of the courtyard, the Bey ushered them into a small parlor overlooking the courtyard pool, and waved them to fat cushions. Once they’d all sat, he got down to buisness.

“I have a small favor to ask—a minor indulgence if you can see your way to granting it.” He looked from Gareth to Emily and back again. “It is my great hope to visit various European courts next year, and as it is expected and the European way, I will take my wife—my principal wife, the begum—with me. Also my closest courtiers. However, other than myself, and then only as a young man many years ago, we have little experience of European manners. No recent experience at all.” He paused, then fixed his gaze on Gareth. “I was hoping I might prevail upon you and your lady to attend a dinner here tomorrow night, and give us—myself, the begum, and those who will travel with me—instruction in how to conduct ourselves at a European table.”

Gareth blinked, then looked at Emily—read her surprise, and her curiosity, in her eyes. He looked back at the bey, formally inclined his head. “We will be delighted to oblige, Your Excellency.”

17th November, 1822
Evening
My room in the guesthouse at Tunis

Dear Diary,

I am scribbling this in between rushing about madly getting ready for what surely will be the strangest dinner of my life. The bey wishes Gareth and me to tutor his retinue in European ways. Given the bey is the absolute ruler of this city, it was impossible to refuse the invitation.

This afternoon, after spending the morning looking for the captain Laboule recommended as the most likely to get us to Marseilles safely, with as yet no luck, Gareth spent some time discussing with me what particular manners it would be wise to address. Somewhat diffidently, he suggested that the bey most likely assumes we are man and wife, as in this culture it would be highly unusual for an unmarried woman of good birth to travel with males not of her family. The long and short of our subsequent considerations is that I will wear my grandmother’s ring on the ring finger of my left hand tonight.

In the circumstances, pretending to be man and wife seemed the safest course, protecting me and also pandering to Gareth’s protective streak, although naturally he did not put matters in those terms.

So now I am bubbling with eager curiosity, not just over what dealing with the bey, the begum and their retinue will be like, but even more over how it will feel for Gareth and me to behave as one day we will be.

Practice should never be sneezed at.

E.

The bey was taking no chances. He sent the captain with three others to escort them through the narrow streets to the palace. Given that both Emily and Gareth had dressed for dinner—she in a pale green silk gown Dorcas had unearthed from her luggage, and Gareth in his red dress uniform—and they were therefore very recognizable, it was a wise precaution.

As they left the guesthouse, scanning their surroundings Gareth murmured, “Just as well it’s already dark.”

Emily nodded, and held her cloak tightly closed as they followed on the captain’s heels.

He led them to a different part of the palace complex. Seeing no reason not to, she openly stared about her, noting the intricate carving, the jewel-hued mosaics, the very Arabic beauty everywhere she looked.

Halting at one especially ornate archway, the captain formally handed them into the care of a garishly dressed individual who appeared to fill a position equivalent to butler-cum-major domo. He spoke passable English, and after bowing low, welcoming them and taking their cloaks, he preceded them down a succession of long corridors, past uncountable doors and galleries, to a large, airy colonnaded room one side of which stood open to a treed courtyard.

The room itself was stylishly magnificent, but as they paused in the doorway, it was the people Emily focused on. They were rather magnificent, too, although to her eyes rather less stylish. Indeed, their liking for gold and jewels and ostentatious ornamentation verged on the garish.

The butler caught the bey’s eye, then in stentorian tones proclaimed, “Major Hamilton and the Majoress Hamilton.”

All heads turned their way. Emily kept her smile easy and relaxed. Clearly, they did think she and Gareth were married. Just as well they’d come prepared.

Smiling expansively, the bey came forward to greet them. He offered his hand to Gareth, and shook hands heartily. Then smiling delightedly, he turned to Emily, and paused.

Sensing he was at a loss as to the acceptable manner in which to greet her, still smiling, she held out her hand. “Take my fingers in your right hand, and nod,” she murmured.

The bey’s smile deepened as he smoothly complied, and she sank into a curtsy. As she rose, he patted her hand. “Thank you.” He released her. “It has been a long time and I wasn’t sure.”

He turned and waved to the room at large. “Now come and let me introduce you to the others. All here will be accompanying me on my travels.” He glanced at the women gathered in a group at one end of the room. “Well, all the men. Of the women, only the begum will be with us.”

As the bey led them across the marble floor, her hand tucked in Gareth’s arm, Emily tried to imagine what it would be like to be a woman alone in a different culture…then realized that for all intents and purposes she was exactly that at that moment.

The bey slowed and, frowning slightly, glanced at her. “I do not recall—is it customary to introduce a wife to other male guests?”

Gareth nodded. Emily stated definitively, “Yes, it is.” The group before them was all male. She glanced at the women. “In fact, it’s usually the case that men and women intermingle and converse from now—the pre-dinner gathering in the drawing room—and through the dinner itself. At the end of the meal, the ladies leave the men at the table to drink port or spirits, and talk among themselves, but only for so long. Then the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, and all remain together until the end of the evening.”

Still frowning, the bey nodded decisively. “We must practice all this.”

Thus it was that Emily found herself cast as social directress for the evening. Under her guidance and instruction, backed by the bey’s authority and example, the men—at first rather stiffly—mingled with their wives. Luckily, the women were more amenable to indulging in broader conversation.

Getting the party to go in to dinner in the correct order of precedence was both an education and a challenge. The begum in particular, a sultry, black-haired, sloe-eyed beauty of lush and bounteous curves, many of which were barely decently screened by the gauzy draperies the bey’s female court favored, proved difficult. She seemed to have taken it into her head that as the senior lady, it was her place to choose who sat beside her, namely Gareth. Emily had to be quite stern—and invoke the bey’s authority—in disabusing her of that notion, stressing that, as hostess, she had least say in the matter. She had to have the most senior visiting male—in this case, the vizier—on her right, and the second most powerful, one of the bey’s ministers, on her left.

The begum sulked through much of the meal, but as, being visitors of no real power, Emily and Gareth ended facing each other across the middle of the table, Emily found it easy to ignore the woman’s pouts.

Although at first stilted, around the table conversation gradually bloomed, then blossomed as the men found that the women they normally ignored were, if given the chance, engaging interlocutors.

The reverse, Emily strongly suspected, was also true. These women had barely exchanged two words with most of the men in their respective husband’s circles.

She felt reasonably proud of her achievement. And indeed, from his position at the head of the table, the bey was beaming in contented delight.

Directly opposite her, Gareth caught her eye, and with a slight inclination of his head, raised his glass to her.

She smiled and inclined her head back, happiness and that sense of achievement welling and melding.

A little later, when the last dishes were being removed, she caught the begum’s disgruntled eye, and using hand signals, instructed her hostess in how to call the ladies to order and lead them back to the drawing room. The begum bestirred herself enough to be interested, and under her husband’s benevolent gaze, performed the task with aplomb.

Following her from the room, Emily decided that, strange though it was, with any luck at all, they would weather the evening well.

At the end of the evening, the bey insisted the captain see them back to the guesthouse. When they reached the gate in the wall, Gareth turned to find the captain bowing respectfully.

“The bey is pleased.” Straightening, the captain pointed to two figures lounging in the shadows, one at each end of the street. “Throughout the rest of your stay, we will keep watch.”

Gareth met his eyes, nodded. “Thank you—and our thanks to His Excellency.”

The captain almost smiled.

Opening the gate, Gareth followed Emily in, then turned. The captain saluted and walked off. Closing the gate, Gareth heard his footsteps march up the silent street.

Following Emily across the shadow-strewn courtyard, Gareth searched, and found Mullins keeping watch in one corner. Given the late hour, everyone else would long be asleep. The old soldier snapped off a salute. Raising a hand in reply, Gareth continued on into the house.

He would see Emily safely upstairs, and then, as he didn’t feel the least sleepy, perhaps spell Mullins. But first…

Halting in the gloom, he focused on Emily. “You did very well this evening.”

Of necessity he’d been forced to let her take point. He hadn’t liked it, hadn’t liked sitting back and watching her walk such a potentially dangerous diplomatic line, but she’d kept her balance, her poise, throughout.

When she turned and, wide-eyed, looked at him through the pervasive dark, he added, “You gave the bey exactly what he wanted without revealing anything he didn’t need to know.”

He saw her lips curve, caught the flash of white teeth as she smiled. “I enjoyed the challenge.” Slowly, she came toward him. “It helped that they all thought we were man and wife.”

True, but it hadn’t helped him, not when he’d had to listen to the other men comment appreciatively, and then compliment him on having secured such a prize.

She was a prize on many levels—just not his.

The recollection had distracted him. He refocused, to find her much closer—too close. His blood beat just a little harder through his veins; his attention locked on her, captured, captive. Unwilling to break free, even less willing to let go.

Halting a mere inch away, she raised a hand, closed her fingers in his lapel, then tipped her face up to his.

Her eyes caught, trapped, his. For an instant silence stretched, then she murmured, voice siren-low, lips gently curved, “Your reading of my attraction to you as being danger-induced desire…” Her gaze lowered to his lips. Her tongue came out, the tip sweeping her lower lip, then she lifted her gaze to his eyes. “Did it occur to you that you might be wrong?”

Wrong? It took a moment for his mind, distracted by other things, to make sense of what she was suggesting. Trying to see where she was heading, and why, he started to frown.

Emily mentally threw her hands in the air and gave up trying to find the words—the right words to explain just how inaccurate his reading of her motives had been. Was. She’d always believed actions spoke much louder than words. Sliding her hand from his chest over his shoulder to his nape, she stretched up as she drew his head down, and kissed him.

Pressed her lips to his, not in persuasion but in confident expectation. They’d just spent the evening playing husband and wife—effortlessly, seamlessly, convincingly. Surely, he must now see there was only one way that could be, only one reason she had performed the charade so consummately.

She kissed him, moved her lips on his, and let all she knew, all she believed, all she felt well and pour through her. To lead her, free her, and free him.

Lure him.

She parted her lips and welcomed him in, thrilled when he came, when his hands tightened about her waist and he took—took over the kiss, sank into her mouth, and gave her all she asked for. All she wanted.

Him.

In the unfettered dark, in the silence of the night.

The kiss spun out, deepening, broadening, their senses reaching, spreading, searching.

Wanting.

She tipped her head back on a gasp. Her cloak slid from her shoulders as she wound her arms about his neck. As his hands closed about her breasts. Possessively. Passionately.

He kneaded and she moaned, then struggled to mute the sounds he drew from her as he bent his head and set his lips to her throat as his hands worked their magic and she melted.

He shifted, moved, steered her back, guided her until her back met the wall beside the door. He pinned her there and let his hands roam, and she grew hotter, needier, more wanton.

She reveled in the sensations, then he murmured something dark, tugged her suddenly loosened bodice down, exposing one breast, then he bent his head and set his mouth to her flesh and she cried out.

Breathlessly.

Achingly desperately.

The evocative sound shivered through the night. It sank like so many daggers into his psyche, each tipped with need and longing.

Gareth longed. Through all the heat, the welling urgency, above all else he longed to have her. But that have was no longer a simple verb. A possessive one, yes, but it encompassed so much more.

There was so much more he wanted of her. With her.

For her, and for him.

With her supple body in his arms, her soft skin beneath his lips, the taste of her wreathing through his mind, he could think of nothing more, knew nothing beyond that want, that need, that longing.

The soft mounds of her breasts, firm and swollen under his hands, the aureolas tight and puckered, drew him. He bent his head and feasted. Devoured.

She clung, the soft sounds that fell from her lips urging him on, stirring him deeply, ever more provocatively, on a primal level only she had ever breached.

His mouth on her breast, he reached down, caught one of her knees and raised her leg, crooked it around his thigh. Lifting his head, he found her lips, covered them with his as he traced her leg upward, then through the layers of her skirts cupped her bottom.

She gasped as he gripped, then eased his hold and traced. The kiss turned greedy, hungry, then incendiary as he caressed, then kneaded.

The potent mix of hunger, desire, and passion, of escalating need, wouldn’t be denied. She clung and pressed it all upon him, until it filled him as it did her.

Releasing her bottom, he reached around and back, and found her ankle. Slid his hand upward from there, skating beneath her skirts and petticoats, skimming her stockinged calf, slipping higher still to pause and trace the frilly lace garter circling her thigh above her knee, then he reached higher.

Found and traced the outer planes of her thigh, gripped her bottom again, but this time skin to skin. Felt her tighten her arms about his neck, rise in his hold, then settle more firmly in his hand. Tipping her hips toward him, wordlessly offering.

He inwardly swore, but it was far too late to rein in his raging need.

His questing fingers slid over the locked muscle of her thigh, and slid inward. Exploring, seeking. Searching.

Finding.

Her slick swollen flesh slid like silk against his fingertips. He stroked, caressed, circled her tight entrance. Pressed lightly in.

She kissed him ferociously, then arched in his arms, helplessly begging.

He slid one finger in, slowly, reached deep, then stroked, equally slowly, equally deeply.

And she burned.

She turned all but incandescent in his arms, her body surrendered, his to pleasure as he would—

Metal clanked.

He jerked back from the kiss. Turned his head and looked.

Sensed her do the same.

The noise had come from deeper in the house. The kitchen courtyard perhaps. Stationed as he was, Mullins wouldn’t have heard it.

Gareth all but swayed as he looked back at Emily. His breathing sounded ragged and rough in his ears. She was openly panting. His heart pounded under the influence of multiple imperatives. As he met her eyes, he saw that other tension that had relinquished its hold on them both over the last minutes return.

Infusing them both.

She blinked, then mouthed, “Who?”

He shook his head. Carefully, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, from beneath her skirts. Grasping her knee, he eased her leg down, held her until she nodded that she could stand on her own.

He leaned closer. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Drawing back, he reinforced the order with a glare.

She glared back, her expression grim. But her lips remained set in a thin line, and she stayed where she was as he slowly turned, then, soft footed, crept into the corridor leading further into the house.

Of course, she was behind him when he paused by the closed kitchen door.

Rustlings, bumps, the scrape of wood on tile, and the occasional clank came from beyond the ill-fitting door.

Then he heard the snuffling.

Tension draining, he reached out and pushed the door inward.

It swung wide, revealing the intruder.

The goat looked up, and baaed.

It took them half an hour to get the goat retethered and put the kichen to rights. And by then their heated moment had definitely cooled.

Emily was only too ready to light the flame again, but after trailing her back into the front salon, rather than follow her up the stairs—and possibly to her bed—Gareth paused by the front door.

Realizing he was no longer behind her, she turned. Looked at him across the dark expanse of the unlit room.

And suddenly wasn’t sure.

Suddenly realized that although she wanted him, despite all they’d shared, she had no real reason to think he wanted her.

He desired her. If she kissed him and offered, he would take—as her sisters had described it, he was like any man in that.

But did he really want her in the same way she wanted him?

What if he didn’t?

The thought left her feeling suddenly exposed. Suddenly vulnerable in a way she’d never been before.

And as the silence lengthened, as he made no move to walk forward and join her, but just looked at her through the dark…she had to wonder if she’d got it all horribly wrong.

At last he shifted. Nodded. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat. “Aren’t you coming up?” With me?

Gareth forced himself to shake his head. “I’ll relieve Mullins. We still need to keep watch.”

She hesitated for an instant longer, then inclined her head, turned, and slowly climbed the stairs.

He watched until she passed out of sight. Then he relaxed his hands from the fists they’d curled into and stared at the door, but made no move to open it.

After a long moment, he shook his head. He still felt as if someone had hit it. Hard.

Someone had. She had.

She’d scrambled his thoughts and connected with his lustful inner self—that self that wanted nothing more desperately than to have her beneath him, naked or not. She’d lured that more passionate primitive self out and set it—him—free.

But…

He’d been saved by that damned goat.

Even now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bless the animal or wring its neck.

In the deepening dark, the questions that now haunted him stood stark and clear in his undistracted mind. Did she truly want him, or had she been swept away by passion? By a need he still believed owed more to reaction than any true, unmanipulated emotion.

He wanted her—desperately, almost beyond thought—but he wanted her to want him for the same reason.

Simply because.

Because he was the man she truly wanted. Wanted at some fundamental, visceral level that wouldn’t be denied.

He wanted her to want him.

Him. For himself.

Not him because he was the one there and she needed to lie with a man, needed to come alive in a man’s arms to balance her brushes with death.

Not him in place of a fallen comrade.

And definitely not him just to fill the void, to be a husband to whom she could play wife.

None of those alternatives would do. Not for him.

Not for her.

They both deserved better.

His problem was, if it wasn’t with her, he couldn’t imagine his better would ever come to be.

Staring at the dark door was getting him nowhere. Heaving a sigh, he straightened his shoulders, opened the door, and went out to relieve Mullins, and to seek what solace he could in the quiet stillness of the night.

Eleven

18th November, 1822
Morning
Lurking in my room in the guesthouse in Tunis

Dear Diary,

I tried. Last night I tried to open his eyes, to make him see what I feel for him, that he is my “one” and how much his I am, and truly I thought—hoped and believed—I was succeeding, but then that damned goat interrupted us and the moment was gone.

Gone.

But that was not the worst. At the end, when he elected to go on watch rather than climb the stairs with me, I was struck by the most deadening thought. What if he doesn’t—in his heart doesn’t—want me?

I know my sisters would scoff, but they are biased.

On reflection, my continuing problem is that I cannot tell to what extent his high-minded ideas of what is best for me—as distinct from what I patently want—drive him. That what I discerned as lack of real interest was, once again, him nobly stepping back to protect me from committing what he believes is a folly.

The sound I just made cannot be translated into words.

But what now?

After due consideration, I believe I should continue to view his insistence on distance as nobly driven. He is—and I know this beyond a shadow of doubt—so honest and true that if he were not attracted to me as a woman, and had no inclination to a deeper connection, I do not believe incidents such as last night would occur no matter how much I pressed my case. He is, after all, significantly physically stronger than I, and on no plane could he be described as a weak man. Nevertheless, after having my unvoiced invitation declined last night, it is only natural that I should seek some sign in confirmation of what I believe is the underlying nature of his regard for me. If he truly is my “one,” that shouldn’t be impossible, as by all rights I should then be his. His “one.”

But once I have seen that sign, that confirmation, and gained the confidence it will bring, I swear that nothing will prevent me from forging the relationship I desire with him.

I remain unsweringly determined.

E.

That afternoon, the entire party sat about the low table in the main salon, slouched among the cushions, confident that the guards stationed outside would alert them to any incursion, and celebrated Gareth’s and Bister’s success in hunting down the captain Laboule had recommended, and securing passage on his xebec to Marseilles.

They would leave the next day on the mid-morning tide.

They’d just drunk a toast in orange juice to the next leg of their journey, when a rap sounded on the courtyard gate.

A distinctly official-sounding rap.

Gareth rose, Mooktu beside him, as the gate opened to reveal the familiar figure of the captain of the guard. They’d learned he was the captain for this district, one that rarely saw dignitaries or palace-worthy residents. He was, he had assured them, grateful for the imposition of their presence—and its ramifications.

He smiled as he spotted Gareth in the open doorway of the salon.

Stepping into the courtyard, Gareth returned the smile, but his instincts were pricking.

“Major Hamilton.” The captain bowed. “I bring another invitation to you and your lady to dine at the palace this evening.”

“Thank you.” Gareth glanced around and saw that Emily had followed him to the doorway.

The captain had spoken loud enough for her to hear. Stepping out into the sunshine, she came to join them. As she neared, he read the question in her eyes, saw the slight shrug as she realized he could give only one answer.

Returning his attention to the captain, Gareth inclined his head. “We are honored.”

The captain beamed. “I will come for you as before, at the same time.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Emily smiled graciously. “We’ll be waiting.”

The captain bowed low and retreated. Once the gate had closed behind him, Gareth took Emily’s arm and turned her back to the house. “Any ideas?”

She grimaced. “All I can imagine is that the bey wants to take advantage of our presence to rehearse his courtiers and the begum in their European roles some more.”

Passing into the salon, she looked at Dorcas. “We’re to dine at the palace again—we’ll need to delve into my trunks for another gown.”

The captain led them to a different entrance again. Smaller, less grand, the doorway was tucked away down one side of the palace, and was reached through a heavily screened courtyard. The man waiting to receive them was larger, oddly flabby, his robes much less gaudy and gilded than the bey’s butler.

The man didn’t speak, merely bowed low and, after taking Emily’s cloak and handing it to an underling, gestured for them to follow him. As they were led down a series of corridors, Gareth noted that the décor was less ornate, less grand. Perhaps they were to dine with the bey en famille?

That notion strengthened when their guide halted and waved them into a relatively small but richly appointed salon giving onto a private courtyard. Following Emily in, Gareth saw the begum reclining amid the cushions set about a traditional low table, one just big enough for four.

Seeing them, the begum smiled. She inclined her head in response to Emily’s curtsy, but her eyes skated over his companion to fix on him. “Major and Majoress Hamilton, I am very glad you honor me with your presence.”

The purring tone, combined with the way the begum’s gaze rested so heavily, almost hungrily, on him, raised the hairs on Gareth’s nape.

Emily boldly walked forward, cutting off the begum’s view of Gareth. “I take it the bey will be joining us?”

She’d already noted that the table was set for three.

The begum fiddled with her rings. “My husband was called away unexpectedly—some problem to the south. I thought to surprise him by learning more of your ways.” She craned her neck to look around Emily, smiled and gestured to the places to either side of her. “Major, Majoress—please sit.”

The previous night’s dinner had been served at a European-style table with proper chairs. Emily regarded the piled cushions. She suspected the begum wasn’t interested in learning more about table manners. When Gareth’s hand touched her back, a subtle prompt, she stepped forward and sank down to the begum’s left.

Perching on the cushions in any manner that combined modesty and grace wasn’t easy. It took a few moments to rearrange her legs and skirts. She glanced at the begum to see if there was any trick to it, and very nearly gawped.

The bey’s wife had wriggled straighter, lithely sitting cross-legged amid the silk cushions, and had let the old gold silk shawl that had been draped over her shoulders fall, leaving her clad primarily in shimmering, translucent amber-bronze gauze.

Shocked, Emily looked—and detected a few inches of impenetrable bronze silk in strategic places. But really! The woman was all but bare!

The begum hadn’t noticed her reaction. She was smiling widely at Gareth, her gaze, her whole attention locked on him.

Emily half expected her to lick her lips.

She looked at Gareth. Once again in his uniform, he’d taken the third place at the table, on the begum’s right, settling cross-legged on the cushions. He was wearing one of his blandest expressions, but after all they’d been through, she’d grown adept at reading him. Tension sang in the line of his shoulders; every muscle was taut, ready to react. He was watching the begum much as he might a potentially dangerous animal he had to sit beside.

He was watching the begum’s eyes, apparently neither attracted nor interested in all else that was on show.

Emily felt a soupçon of relief. The begum was very beautiful, albeit in a sultry, rather predatory way.

Sensing her gaze, Gareth glanced fleetingly at Emily. Through the brief contact she sensed his unease. He was uncomfortable and wanted to be anywhere but there.

Recalling the purpose for which they’d ostensibly been invited, she cleared her throat, smiled somewhat condescendingly when the begum glanced her way, then leaned closer and confided, “I feel I should warn you, my dear begum, that the attire in which you are honoring us tonight would not do at any European court.”

The begum frowned, and glanced down at her translucent blouse. “These garments are considered entirely appropriate for a lady to wear to dine with guests in her husband’s house.”

“I daresy they are—here. But in Europe, appearing anywhere in such attire would cause a scandal, I do assure you. And, you will pardon me if I have this incorrect, but I assumed the bey’s reason for asking us to coach you and the others in European ways was to avoid any unnecessary incidents.”

The begum’s attention was now all Emily’s, but after a moment of frowning thought, the bey’s wife turned and appealed to Gareth. “Is it as your majoress says? That if I go clad like this”—she spread her diaphanously draped arms—“I will create a bad impression?”

Tight lipped, his eyes commendably locked on the begum’s face, Gareth nodded. “It would not be well received by society. People would disapprove, and the grandes dames would most likely”—he paused, then amended—“would absolutely not invite you to their select soirees.”

“Oh.” Arms lowering, the begum deflated. She looked back at Emily. “So.” Her eyes scanned Emily’s evening gown. “I must cover up like you?”

Emily glanced down at her pale amber silk gown with its scooped neckline and raised waist, both lightly trimmed with lace. The skirt sported a single lace flounce above the hem and a row of amber and silver buttons ran down the center front from neckline to hem. “In style, yes, but your gowns could have richer decoration.” She reached out and touched the fine gold-thread embroidery on the begum’s sleeve. “Like this. In Europe, status is denoted by quality of materials and richness of ornamentation, rather than by different styles.”

“I see.” The begum looked not so much thoughtful as calculating, but then the large butlerlike man appeared in the doorway. She glanced at him, then turned to smile at Gareth. “Our meal is now ready, so we will eat.” She looked back at the butler and issued a command in Arabic. With a deep bow, he withdrew.

A smile played about the begum’s lips. She turned to Gareth. “And then you may instruct me in what I most wish to know.”

Gareth exchanged a glance with Emily, and fervently prayed that gowns, bonnets, and social manners were all that was on the begum’s mind, and that the impression he was receiving from the woman’s glances and smiles was being scrambled in translation.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that was the case, but while the begum continued to believe he and Emily—his majoress—were married, he—they—should be safe.

The meal placed before them on intricately carved brass dishes owed nothing to European sensibilities. Luckily, he and Emily had been eating Arab fare for some time. They partook of the various dishes and numerous side dishes without hesitation. Unlike most English misses he’d encountered, Emily did not eat like a bird, and her tastes, he’d noted, were distinctly adventurous.

Soon after the meal began, Emily complimented the begum on her chef’s efforts, and from there neatly turned the conversation to the comments it was considered good taste to make over a hostess’s table.

The topic carried them through the many courses until the begum’s eunuch—Gareth had finally placed the oddness about the butlerlike individual—placed sweetmeats and jellied fruits on the table, poured thimblefuls of thick, rich coffee, then, leaving the ornate coffeepot on the table, bowed low and, at a word from the begum, withdrew.

Immediately the begum turned to Gareth, an anticipatory gleam lighting her eyes. “And now, Major, if you please, you will teach me all about dalliance. I have heard that the pastime is much indulged in at all the European courts.”

She leaned closer. Gareth had to fight not to lean back.

Her eyes locked on his, her voice once more lowering to a decadently sultry purr, the begum declared, “You will instruct me in how it is done.” Her gaze fell to his lips. The tip of her tongue appeared and slid slowly, languorously, over her lower lip. “You will demonstrate every little detail.”

She already had a good grasp of the basics. Gareth stopped the thought from converting into speech, but how was he to refuse without offending the begum—without landing him, and even more Emily, in hot Tunisian water?

Exceedingly hot given he couldn’t afford to risk asking any British official for help.

Eyes locked on the begum as she shifted still nearer, he wracked his brains for some way out. He didn’t dare look at Emily, look away from the danger.

The begum started to stretch upward, to tip her face invitingly to his.

He wanted to leap to his feet and walk away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. The offense would be too great. Desperately battling his instincts, he felt as if he’d been turned to stone.

“No!” The outraged injunction burst from Emily’s lips.

She’d been watching the begum in a sort of stupor, unable to credit that the woman would actually try to kiss Gareth in front of her—his majoress. Once the spell had been broken, she had no difficulty in continuing, “No, no, no!”

Reaching out, she caught the begum’s arm and bodily hauled the woman upright—away from Gareth and his lips.

At least his lips had been edging back, away from the begum’s, but what the devil was he thinking, to let her get so close?

Emily glared into the begum’s shocked face. “That is not the way it is done—not anywhere in Europe.”

The begum frowned—a frown that rapidly converted to a scowl. “I have heard it is common that married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands. And that the gentlemen may be married or not—that for them marriage says nothing. Is this not true?”

The words were a challenge, one Emily knew well enough to meet head-on. “Yes, but as in all things, as a foreigner you’ve missed the subtleties, the nuances.” She drew breath, shot a sharp glance at Gareth hoping he’d have the sense to remain silent, then locked her gaze once more with the begum’s. “Not all married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands, and not all married gentlemen indulge with ladies not their wives. Only a percentage, in some circles a very small percentage, of married people seek…er, entertainment with others not their spouses.”

The begum’s expression darkened, tending moody. She glanced at Gareth. “This is true?”

Before he could answer, Emily stated, “Yes, it’s true.” The instant the begum looked back at her, she continued, “And in your case, when attending a European court as the bey’s wife, you will need to maintain the strictest level of decorum, if on no other count than self-defense.”

Confusion, and a touch of concern, flared in the begum’s eyes.

Aha! Emily thought, and plowed on, “You will need to be on guard against any would-be seducers, for the only European gentlemen, married or not, who would approach the wife of a visiting potentate with a view to dalliance would have only one thing on their minds—either to discredit your husband by creating a scandal—you know how men are—or to learn more about your husband’s business through you.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “Or perhaps to blackmail you.”

She refocused on the begum. “Well, that’s more than one thing, but you can see the danger.”

Abruptly realizing her approach had been less than complimentary, she hurriedly added, “It would be totally different if you were there unofficially, not linked to your husband but just as yourself.” Pausing to draw breath, she added sincerely, “You are a very lovely woman, after all, and I’m sure you would find many gentlemen willing to dally with you, but”—she shook her head—“not this time. Not while you are traveling as the bey’s wife.”

The begum’s expression had grown increasingly despondent as Emily’s lecture had progressed. The silence lengthened as she stared at Emily, then she glanced at Gareth. “You—”

“Neither the major nor I dally with others.” Emily made the statement definite, definitive—it was true enough over recent times. She didn’t look at Gareth, but caught the begum’s eyes as she turned back to her. “I should perhaps add that in European cultures it is customary for the gentleman to make the first approach.”

“But…” The begum looked thoroughly disgusted. “What use is that? One might be waiting forever.”

“Indeed.” Emily managed not to glare at Gareth as she said it. “However, now we’ve told you—warned you—about dalliance in our societies, I believe it’s getting late, and we should thank you for your hospitality and return to our guesthouse.” She shifted to unwind her legs from their cramped position.

The begum made a distinctly unladylike sound. “So,” she grumped, “although I will walk in your ballrooms and drawing rooms, I will still be as cloistered as I am here at home.” She looked up as Emily managed to get to her feet. The begum narrowed her eyes, then pointed at Emily. “Aha! Now I understand the reason for your gowns—why you dress so, all covered up, when you go into your society. Why outside your home, you dress like a nun, rather than a wife.”

Emily bit back the information that they dressed in the same manner in the home as out of it.

With fluid grace, the begum rose in all her barely clad beauty. She waved her hands. “Let me see this gown. I have not one like it.”

Emily slowly pirouetted. She glanced at Gareth as she did. He’d risen as she had, but his face was, even to her tutored eyes, an impenetrable mask. She had no clue what he was thinking.

The begum frowned, then met Emily’s eyes as she faced her once more. “So I will need to get my seamstresses to make up gowns like this, or my husband will be displeased and made ashamed when we reach the European courts?”

Emily hesitated, misliking the calculating gleam in the begum’s dark eyes, but with no alternative, she nodded.

The begum smiled. “In that case, Majoress Hamilton, you will be doing me a great service if you will exchange gowns with me. We are much of a height and size—as a great favor to me, you will swap gowns, will you not?”

Emily tried not to look at the diaphanous creation the begum was draped in. Alongside the calculation, there was something else in the begum’s eyes—a need to take something from this meeting. Something positive she could show others…Emily had heard that the begum lived in the harem, that she was the first wife, true, but just the first among many…

Emily nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, Gareth followed Emily through the gate into the courtyard of their guesthouse. With a brusque nod, he farewelled the captain, pushed the gate shut, and latched it.

Striding after Emily as she crossed to the salon door, he picked out Mooktu in the shadows, raised a hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t slow. Not knowing how long they would be at the palace, the others had divided the watches for tonight between them. He didn’t need to concern himself with that tonight—besides, thanks to Emily, they now had the begum, traditionally the city’s ruler in her husband’s absence, firmly on their side.

Emily’s cloak fluttered as she gathered it about her and climbed the shallow steps into the salon. Embroidered silk ankle cuffs and tassels peeked from beneath the cloak, and an ankle chain glinted in the moonlight, before she released the cloak and the gloom within swallowed her.

Every muscle locked tight, Gareth grimly followed. He’d never been so grateful for a lady’s cloak in all his life. While Emily and the begum had retired to swap clothes, foreseeing the result and the danger therein, he’d hunted up the eunuch and asked for the cloak, left at the too-distant entrance, to be fetched.

Luckily the eunuch had returned with the cloak before Emily had reappeared. When she’d finally followed the begum, rendered reasonably presentable by Emily’s gown, into the room, he’d sucked in a breath, held it, and tried not to react. At all.

A superhuman feat, one he hadn’t achieved.

But Emily’s blushes had abruptly focused him on something other than his own pain. He’d shaken out the cloak and held it up. She’d all but dashed across the room, anklets tinkling, to take refuge beneath the soft woolen folds.

Once covered, her chin had risen; her confidence had returned. She’d taken her leave of the begum with genuine smiles and courtesy all around.

The subject of gowns apparently united all women.

Still holding the cloak about her, Emily started up the guesthouse stairs. She glanced back as he stepped onto the lowest tread, smiled fleetingly in the moonlight. “That ended a great deal better than I thought it would.”

No thanks to him. Gareth’s jaw tightened. A chaos of roiling emotions condensed into a hot knot inside him, then rose slowly, inexorably, up his throat. “I’ll buy you another gown.”

His tone was angry, irritated—frustrated.

Stepping into the upper corridor, Emily glanced back. “Don’t be nonsensical.” She kept her voice down in deference to the others, who would by now be asleep. She continued along the narrow corridor. “It was just a gown. I have more—more than enough.”

“Nevertheless, when we reach England I’ll arrange to replace it.”

Reaching her door, she halted and swung to face him. Even through the dimness, she could see his stubbornness in the set of his jaw, could sense the…was it disapproval? radiating from him as he halted before her. Eyes narrowing, she tipped up her chin. “I did what was necessary to get us out of there without causing ructions—ructions we can’t afford.”

A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. “If you’d just left it to me—”

“If I’d left it to you that woman would have—” Realizing her voice was rising commensurate with her temper, she uttered a muted sound of frustration, flung open her door, grabbed his jacket front in one fist and jerked, then towed him into the privacy of her room.

She couldn’t have moved him if he hadn’t obliged, but presumably he was as keen as she to continue their discussion. The walls and door were sturdy enough to permit them to indulge in the “discussion” bubbling through her. How dare he not appreciate her saving him from a fate worse than who-knew-what at the hands, and various other parts, of the begum?

Releasing him, she swung to face him, all but nose to nose in the bright moonlight pouring through the open shutters. Her temper was well flown; belligerence had taken hold.

He’d turned to send the door swinging shut. As he turned back to her, she stretched up on her toes and locked her eyes on his. “Listen, you—I got us out of there tonight without losing anything vital—more, while keeping the begum’s favor. What fault can you possibly find in that?”

His eyes, dark and narrowed, locked on hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“By whose decree?”

“Mine. It’s the way things are—everyone knows that.”

He was serious, she could see it in his face, but she wasn’t about to back down. She wanted to forge a lifelong partnership with him, and she intended to start as she meant to go on. Folding her arms, catching her cloak in them to hold it in place, she kept her eyes on his. “Regardless of any and all accepted practice, the only way we’re going to survive this—your mission and this unexpected joint journey—is to work together and protect each other. Tonight I was better placed to deal with the begum than you, so I did, and we walked away unscathed.” Eyes narrowing, she gruffly stated, “You should be grateful.”

Her tone gave Gareth pause. There was a hint of upset, of being upset because he wasn’t applauding her actions, her quick thinking in rescuing them. He let his mind skate back, reliving the moments…his too-intense reactions flared anew and crashed through him again. His face hardened to stone. “Regardless—don’t ever do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Put yourself between me and danger.” When she frowned, not understanding, he gritted his teeth and ground out, “When we first walked into the begum’s presence, you stepped between her and me. Later, you kept deflecting her attention from me to you.”

“I was protecting you!”

“I know. But—again—it’s my job to protect you.”

“Again, I wasn’t under threat. You were!”

His jaw was going to crack. “Be that as it may—”

“Arrgh!” She flung up her hands. Her cloak slid from her shoulders. “You ungrateful man!”

With a soft thump, her cloak hit the floor.

She stood in the moonlight shafting through the open window, clad in gauze so fine he could see every curve lovingly outlined by the moonlight.

Abruptly she stepped close, face tilted to his, glaring at him from mere inches away. “Or did you want to lie with her?”

“Of course not…” His words faded along with the ferocious scowl he’d intended to reinforce them. Beyond his control, his gaze had lowered, locking on her body, on the curves and mounds and tempting hollows imperfectly concealed—tantalizing revealed—by embroidered gossamer silk.

His mouth watered. His fingers curled.

His face, his features, had blanked. He couldn’t have summoned an expression to save himself.

When the begum had worn the outfit, he hadn’t had a problem. After the first glance, he’d felt voyeuristic and uncomfortable, and had had no difficulty averting his eyes.

But Emily in gossamer silk, Emily’s body…

“The only woman I want to share a bed with—”

He stopped, shocked. He’d said that aloud.

And even he could hear the lust thickening his voice.

His gaze remained locked on the pale, subtle curves of her breasts.

The silence stretched.

He had to think, but couldn’t. Lust had suborned his brain.

“Yes?” A soft, expectant—hopeful—prompt.

He dragged in a tight breath, looked up, met her eyes—saw in the mossy hazel understanding and…

Enough blatant encouragement to knock his defenses flat.

He swore, and reached for her, hauled her to him.

Bent his head, crushed her lips beneath his—and kissed her with all the pent-up fury, frustration, and sheer need inside him.

She grabbed his head and kissed him back, equally fierily, equally hungrily.

The clash of emotions made his head spin. Transmuted anger and frustration to potent passion and powerful, spiraling desire in one short heartbeat.

Made him achingly hard, every muscle turned to steel.

Releasing her arms, he set his hands deliberately to her silk-clad body, and felt his pulse leap.

He closed his hands about her waist, and sensed her heart thud.

He’d been furious not just because she’d put herself in danger, but because he would have been helpless to protect her had things gone badly. Yet he’d had to let her handle it—he hadn’t known how to, so he’d had to sit and keep silent, and let her risk…

Angling his head, he sank into her mouth, ravaged, plundered.

The countering pressure of her lips, the evocative taste of her, the hunger in the passion that rose to meet his, reassured him as nothing else could.

She’d pulled it off, and they were safe. Alive.

And both of them now wanted, each of them needed…

The other.

The rational remnant of his brain quibbled that this was a typical reaction to triumphing over danger. He shouldn’t take advantage—

He shut out that chiding voice. He didn’t understand her motives, but he couldn’t, wasn’t strong enough to, deny her. Or himself. To hold back from what they both so openly, and blatantly desperately, wanted.

Needed.

Had to have.

He flexed his fingers, felt silk shift, sliding against skin equally smooth. Beneath his palms, the material had heated. He let his hands slide, glide over her back, felt the gossamer silk shift over silken skin in evocative, provocative temptation.

Spreading his hands over the long supple planes, he pulled her to him. Stepped into her as he did.

Gathered her—all warm womanly curves encased in featherlight silk—against him, locking her to him.

And she came.

Eagerly, wantonly, Emily pushed her arms up, stretched up on her toes the better to meet his lips, the better to return the increasingly fiery kiss. Winding her arms about his neck, with an abandon born of absolute certainty, she plastered herself to him.

She—her senses—leapt, then rejoiced as his arms locked and tightened, steel bands trapping her against his hard length. Obeying the dictates of her racing heart, she sank into him.

Gave herself up to the intoxicating heat, to the swirl of her senses, the giddy thud of her pulse.

Wanted—she wanted.

Even as, high on her toes, leaning into him she yielded her mouth and knowingly taunted him to take, she desperately wanted.

More.

All.

Now.

Here in this room, bathed in moonlight, she wanted him with a certainty that blazed through her veins.

An absolute longing, one she’d never felt before, one far too vibrant, too acute to be questioned.

Her need simply was, just as she was his.

Just as he was hers.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing else held the power to break the compulsion—one she wholeheartedly embraced.

His hands slid, palms burning, over the sensitive skin of her back, the silk a tantalizing, senses-teasing barrier. It whispered of sultry nights, promised heated delights as it shifted over her skin, caressing not just where his hands pressed, but elsewhere, further, sending prickling awareness washing over her.

Sending heat sinking into her. He angled his head and plundered her mouth anew, reclaiming her attention, his tongue sliding heavily over and along hers as, with a blatancy she found impossibly arousing, he feasted.

Hot, heavy, his hands traced her hips, slid down, around, gripped.

He lifted her against him, molded her hips to his. The insubstantial silk did nothing to mute the thrilling male hardness of him, the solid rod of his erection that pressed through his breeches to impress itself against the taut softness of her belly.

With reined deliberation, he shifted against her, an evocative, provocative thrusting that made her fingers curl.

Heat streaked through her, an eruption of sweet warmth that spread beneath her skin, then slid sinuously down to pool low.

To swell. And throb.

On a gasp she broke from the kiss, desperate to breathe, and caught a glimpse of his face, of the dark fire in his eyes.

Her hands had found his hair, her fingers tangling in the soft locks. Forcing her heavy, passion-weighted lids wider, she stared, oddly aware of her lips hot and swollen, slicked from their kiss, of her harried breathing, of the tightness of her chest.

Of the giddiness of her senses, the yearning in her blood.

Of the need that beat an irresistible tattoo in her veins.

Her eyes searched his, and she saw in the dark depths the heat ease back a notch. Saw rationality and a stubborn, bone-deep honor fight to rise above the heated compulsion, to transcend it and reclaim him.

Yet she stood on the brink. Teetering. So aware…

Of the heat that rose beneath every inch of her skin. That made itself known in the throb of her lips, and even more insistently in the throb of the soft flesh between her thighs.

For the first time she knew, felt, fully experienced the telltale greedy fire that flooded her and made her yearn. That made her body soften, melt. Made it long for a completion she’d never known with a violence that made her ache.

She caught and held his gaze. “Don’t. Stop.” Her tone would have done the begum proud—command, demand, wrapped in sultry, lustful, open greed.

The heat in his eyes flared anew. His chest swelled as he fought—the damned man fought!—to contain it. To suppress it.

But he didn’t succeed.

Every muscle in his large, hard body grew hotter, harder. Forged steel, tempered and scalding, powerful and unyielding.

But if she wanted him tonight, she would have to fight, too.

Fight him—his too-noble nature.

Eyes locked on his, she drew breath—and felt the power within her rise. Sensed, felt, that intangible fire come to her call, felt it well and swell and rise about them.

She didn’t need to think, to look, to wonder. Desire and passion, lust and need—all were there in the heated compulsion that all but crackled between them, around them.

“I want this.”

He still held her against him. Deliberately, boldly, she pressed closer still.

Felt him react, helpless to resist.

Felt the fire between them surge.

Stretching up, she lifted her face and breathed against his lips, “I want you.” Eyes flicking up, at close quarters she held his gaze. “I need you inside me.”

That and only that would quench the fire they’d lit. With achingly sharp clarity she knew that, and only that, would ease the escalating ache, would feed her hunger and satisfy her craving.

That that was what she needed to realize her dreams.

And that was what he—stubborn man—needed, too.

His hands hadn’t eased their grip. The arms locked about her hadn’t loosened.

She could sense the battle raging within him. He was still fighting—but he wasn’t winning.

Inwardly smiling, she drew her hands from his hair, framed his face, held it steady as she stretched the last inch, and kissed him.

Voraciously, hungrily, demandingly.

She poured everything, every ounce of temptation, of enticement, of promise, into that kiss.

She held nothing back. She wanted him to stop thinking, desperately wanted him to cease being noble and take her to her bed.

She wanted him. Wanted this.

All. Now. Here.

Gareth heard her message loud and clear. He knew what he was doing, but he wasn’t at all sure she did. Yet what could he do?

Resistance was futile, breaking from her impossible. His arms, his hands, his body, simply would not let her go. Not now, not after she’d made her wishes so abundantly plain.

I want you. I need you inside me.

What man could refuse such a plea?

Certainly not him. Not given it was her.

He wasn’t even sure when he made up his mind—when exactly he surrendered.

Only knew that he had to be where she wanted, that he needed to be sunk deep within her as much as she needed him there.

That need, at least, was singularly clear, as genuine as the clawing demon that was eating him from inside out.

So he broke from the kiss that had become a ravenous, incandescent exchange, swept her up in his arms, and strode to the bed.

Her eyes glittered in the moonlight, her lips parting in a fleeting, satisfied smile as he laid her down.

Resisting the urge to simply follow her down, cover her, rip the flimsy silk away and sheath himself in her, resisting the driving urgency that already pounded through him, he forced himself to straighten and step back from her grasping hands. Standing, he peeled off his coat.

She watched, smiled—another of her soft, secretive, smug smiles of feminine triumph—then sat up, reaching behind her for the buttons of the barely there silk blouse that shimmered over her skin.

“No.”

Surprised by his guttural decree, she glanced up.

“Leave it on—I want to peel it from you.” Stripping off his cravat, he gestured with his chin. “Lie back and let me look at you.”

Let me plan.

Emily met his dark gaze, hesitated as something within her clenched, a primitive reaction to the clear promise skating beneath his words. But…lips lightly curving, she tipped her head his way, and slowly, langorously, relaxed back against the pillows, noting the way his gaze hungrily traveled from her shoulder, to breast, to hip, to thigh as she did.

Her heart was thudding, steady and sure. There was no chance of her cooling, not with his eyes on her.

Not with him swiftly stripping, garment by garment revealing more of the fascinating musculature of his chest and abdomen. Tossing aside his shirt, belt already gone, he unbuttoned the flap of his breeches as he turned and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, giving her the chance to study his back, the long, defined muscles bracketing his spine, the wide heaviness of his shoulders.

Mouth watering, unable to stop herself, she shifted, reached out and touched. He jerked, flung her a dark look, but said nothing. Let her stroke, let her test the incredible resilience of his skin and the steely muscles beneath.

Let her be seduced anew by his heat. He was burning.

One boot hit the floor. Seconds later its mate joined it.

She drew back her hand. Breath bated, mouth abruptly drying, she waited for him to stand and turn.

He didn’t. He rose up, slid his trousers past his hips and sat again to pull them free of his long legs.

She barely had time to register the maneuver before his trousers hit the floor and he turned, and was on her.

Sunk in the bed alongside, propped on one arm, he loomed over her.

She knew why he’d done it. He was now too close for her to see anything beyond the wide expanse of his chest. Naked and delectable though that was, she’d had further expectations.

Eyes narrowing, she opened her mouth to inform him she had three married sisters—

He kissed her. Filled her mouth with the potent taste of him, with power, passion, and promise.

Swept her away—effortlessly—on a tide of rising need, driven by an escalating, clawing sense of urgency.

His hand closed, hard, over one silk-clad breast. Possessively weighed, caressed. His thumb found her nipple and circled, stroked, teased…until she gasped through the kiss, body arching, pressing her flesh more firmly into his demanding hand.

That seemed all the encouragement he needed.

His hand roved her body, heavy, male, flagrantly demanding and commanding, drawing responses from her she’d never known she’d had it in her to give.

She’d thought she’d been heated before.

Now she burned.

Then he broke from the kiss, slid down and bent his head, licked, laved. Silk clung to her breast, to her tightly furled nipple. He drew back enough to see, then bent his head once more—and drew the turgid bud into his mouth.

And suckled.

She shrieked, fought to mute the sound. Fought to ride the wave of sensation he sent crashing through her. He continued to feast, until she was breathless, until she shifted and moaned.

Then his hand slid between her thighs and one blunt fingertip stroked her through the sodden silk covering her there.

She sobbed, clutched his head, holding him to her as she tilted her hips, wordlessly begging.

The blunt fingertip found her entrance and pressed in, just a little, the wet silk an excruciatingly frustrating barrier preventing real touch, deeper penetration.

She wanted…she knew more than enough to know exactly what she wanted.

Freeing one hand from the tangle of his dark hair, she reached down…and found him. Hotter than flesh should be, velvet over steel. Her fingertips reached just far enough to touch, to reverently trace the broad head.

He’d stilled the instant she’d made contact. Stretching, she reached further, curled her fingers and lightly stroked upward.

He shuddered, softly swore, his breath an exhalation washing over her tortured nipple.

Then he moved.

She just managed to stifle a shriek as he rolled, taking her with him so she landed atop him in a flurry of silk. One large hand palmed her head and he dragged it down, dragged her down into a kiss so rapaciously possessive it literally curled her toes.

His other hand was busy. She only realized when the night air coolly caressed her naked back, then the gauzy blouse parted at the back. His hands helped it slide down her shoulders. She lifted one hand and forearm, then the other, stripped the garment off and flung it away, uncaring of where it landed.

Caring much more about being skin to skin with him, her breasts, full and achingly swollen, brushing, then pressing against the heavy muscles of his chest, her tight nipples tantalizingly abraded by the crisp black hair that adorned it.

She’d barely absorbed that sensation when she felt the tug as the silk harem pants slid down and over her hips.

Expectation leapt; anticipation skittered through her veins.

Nerves tensed, alive to every touch. Waiting as he drew the silk steadily lower, so it no longer screened her belly from his. She held her breath as he shifted, lifting her as he drew the garment down her thighs.

Her mind racing ahead in giddy delight, she remembered the ankle cuffs.

Just as he rolled again, pinning her beneath him.

Hands clutching his arms, she gasped at the sensation of being surrounded, trapped, by hot, hard male, then he kissed her—a forceful, demanding, conquerorlike claiming that left her reeling.

Gareth seized the moment to pull back from her and deal with the cuffs at her ankles, then strip the flimsy harem pants away.

He gave himself only one brief instant to drink in the sight of her lying rumpled and aroused, her rich brown hair disarranged and flung across the pillows, her lids at half mast, her lips swollen and sheening, her body lush and ripe—and all his.

Then he stretched over her and let his body down on hers. Thrilled to the sensation of firm curves, supple skin, feminine softness cushioning him, the demon within all but slavering with delight.

Small hands braced on his chest. He found her eyes with his as she pressed, wasn’t entirely surprised when she protested, albeit weakly, “I want to see you.”

“Not now.” The reply was a categorical growl. He didn’t think he could stand the torment—not without reacting. Not while maintaining the control necessary to go slowly. He’d stake his life she was a virgin, so slowly was mandatory. Not that he’d had any experience in that precise arena—under his code virgins were not fair game—but so he’d always heard.

Despite her state, her jaw started to firm.

“Later.” Inspired, he added, “Next time.” Perhaps.

He didn’t wait to see if she agreed, but bent his head and kissed her again.

The heat between them hadn’t waned in the least—now it leapt to life, flames roaring, then escalating rapidly as hands touched and found nothing but hot dewed skin, as he shifted over her, nudging her thighs apart, as she parted them willingly and he settled between.

As she wriggled, accommodating him, then tipping her hips…

He sank into her, had pressed in the first inch even before he’d meant to.

And then there was no holding back.

She was tight. Tight enough to make him shudder. To back the breath up in his chest as he pressed in, and on. As inch by inch he filled her, and her sheath stretched to take him in.

And sure enough, the barrier was there. Every muscle clenched, locked tight under absolute control, he withdrew almost to her entrance, felt her hands clutch frantically, trying to tug him back.

He flexed his spine and thrust powerfully in, forging past the fine barrier to seat himself fully within her, to press deep, to the hilt.

And stop. Holding himself steady, every sense locked on her.

Beneath him, held trapped in the kiss, she’d made not a sound, but she’d frozen.

An instinctive reaction against a sharp pain. He waited; lips on hers, he prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly, that she—

He broke off the thought as she eased beneath him. As gradually, bit by bit, the pain-induced tension fell from her.

Beneath it, supplanting it, he sensed something in her that for all his experience he’d never previously encountered. It took him a moment to find its name.

Fascination.

She was utterly enthralled. Not just with his body, but with the sensation of their joining, of him being sunk so deeply within her.

He kissed her gently, and moved, drawing back slowly, then thrusting in again, and sensed her excitement, that fascination, flare.

Instinct, and the dance, took over.

Emily gave herself up to it, up to him, to the swirling exhilaration of their joining, wholly and completely embracing the act. Her mind couldn’t contain her joy, her delight, the inexpressible relief that as last she was here, with him, and it was all so much better than she’d ever imagined, than her sisters had ever been able to describe.

She reveled, and urged him on. Did all and everything she could to meet him, match him, and learn what pleased him, to grasp every chance to share the abundant pleasure he was lavishing on her, and return it.

Loving was a sharing—she knew that to her bones. She threw herself into it, searching for ways to use her body to pleasure him just as he was using his to pleasure her.

And if they wrestled, she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did. Their lips remained fused, but in the brief moments they parted she delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency that so patently gripped him, and her, and made them strive, body to body, heart to thudding heart.

And then they would dive back—into the kiss, into the flames, into the rising indescribable heat. Even if this was her first time, she was eager to make it count, to welcome the glory, make it hers and search for more…

Until it sizzled in her veins, streaking through her, until it whipped the flames racing over her skin to a conflagration. One that sank deep, then coalesced, that drew in and tightened, inexorably, unrelentingly focusing…

He groaned through the kiss and thrust hard and deep, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. Shattered her, shards of pleasure so sharp they glittered flying down every nerve, every vein.

Until she flew, free of the earth, wholly taken by the glory.

For two heartbeats, Gareth savored her release, teeth gritted held desperately on, but the ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, milked him, and drew him irresistibly on.

Release swept him, deeper than any he’d ever known.

Surrendering, letting his shuddering body have its way, he let go, and followed her into ecstasy.

Bliss. Emily decided there was no other word to describe the sensation.

Lying on her back in her rumpled bed, Gareth a hot heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside her, she stared at the ceiling, a smile on her face, an unusual sense of peace in her heart.

So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.

Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.

He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.

Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.

Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.

She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”

He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”

She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort—no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

If he truly loved her.

For her, nothing else would do.

Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?

To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her—he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay—and now she’d given herself to him—all but seduced him—that, to his mind, settled that.

Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

Why perhaps?

His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”—she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state—“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes—that’s how it should feel.”

And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed—a quiet vow in the fading moonlight—that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

Twelve

19th November, 1822
Early morning
Still in my bed, but now alone

Dear Diary,

WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man—the right man—is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter—the reality was better than my dreams.

Of course, there was—as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man—a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.

Yes, we will—that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”—but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.

I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.

He will need to do better than that—especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.

So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger—my ultimate goal—I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.

As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.

Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.

E.

By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way—at last—to Marseilles.

Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.

With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.

Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there—this was the Mediterranean—but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.

His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.

He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.

On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach—his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome—that he needed her as his wife—and that was enough.

Probing further…

After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.

No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.

The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.

Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.

He hoped his master would be pleased.

Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.

19th November, 1822
Evening
Once more in a shared cabin on a xebec

Dear Diary,

We left Tunis today on a fair wind, which I have been informed by Captain Dacosta is likely to remain with us all the way to Marseilles. Dacosta is much like Laboule, and thus like Gareth, too, which brings me to my point.

Men of action, like Gareth, our xebec captains, Berber chieftains, and the like, appear to share certain similarities of character, especially in a personal sense. I have been mulling over the wisdom the older Berber women—who have spent a lifetime observing such men—deigned to share. In taking guidance on the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I could do far worse.

My conclusions are that while he clearly feels something for me, and indeed, all the signs point to that something being love, it is important—in fact, critical—for our future happiness that he acknowledges that fact, and accepts that love—mutual and enduring—is the true basis of our marriage from the start.

So how do I bring that about?

As ever resolute.

E.

The attack came with the dawn.

Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.

Feet thundered past—the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.

A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.

He looked at her. “Stay here.”

His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.

Emily looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.

Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.

In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them—our attackers—from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”

Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t think she would be able to wield a knife—just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish—but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.

She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.

Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”

She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.

They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.

And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.

Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.

She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.

A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.

He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.

She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.

He slumped—unconscious, not dead.

She could manage unconscious without a qualm.

Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.

Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close—close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.

One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.

Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.

Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless.…

A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.

But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.

His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.

She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.

Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get below!”

Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close—close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley—the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship, taut in the breeze—the fair wind was still blowing—then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn—”

She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”

He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.

An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”

“Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.

Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.

He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”

He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.

Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”

“Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket—a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.

But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”

Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”

He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area—you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”—he nodded at the bottles they held—“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”

He turned to Emily. “You stay here, down here, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare—it had always worked on soldiers.

It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her—desperately wanted to taste her lips for just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.

Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.

Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.

His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.

He found Mooktu, and with a word and a glance had him shoulder to shoulder, then Mullins saw, and although not knowing why, came to join them in clearing the area around the hatch and holding all comers back.

Gareth noticed Arnia at Mooktu’s elbow, and Dorcas behind Mullins. Both women looked dishelved, but neither had wounds, and both had knives. He knew Arnia could use hers, and Dorcas’s was bloodied.

Then another wave of cultists charged their little wall, and he had other things to think about.

The first incendiary lobbed out from behind him. Bister’s direction was good, but his range less so. The burning bottle smashed on the other ship’s deck. Surprised crew quickly stamped out the ensuing fire.

But the next bottle struck the lower part of the middle lanteen sail.

The oil soaked in, then flared, and the sail caught.

As he’d expected, the sailors rushed to douse the flames, but Watson lobbed his bottles in quick succession, and fires bloomed on the rear lanteen.

With shouts and curses, the sailors on the other ship rushed to fill buckets. But before the flames were fully doused, Bister hit the middle sail again, and the very top of the rear lanteen.

The other ship started to lose speed and fall back—bringing their front lanteen into Bister’s firing range. Watson concentrated on keeping the fires going on the middle and rear sails.

One of the advantages that until then the cultists had had was that they could remain intent and focused, uncaring of what else was happening on the xebec. But with their own ship in difficulties, that changed. Distracted, they glanced across the waves, only to see their ship drifting further back and away.

The tide of the battle, until then with the cultists, swung the other way. Dacosta and his crew sensed it. They were quick to capitalize, pushing hard to lower the number of cultists they had on board.

Some cultists decided the waves were safer.

And then, quite abruptly, the fighting on the xebec’s deck reached the mopping-up stage. Bister popped up at Gareth’s elbow as he stepped back from the waning fray.

“We’re out of incendiaries”—Bister nodded at the other ship—“but looks like we had enough. Watson even managed to hit their sail locker, so they won’t be coming after us anytime soon.”

“Not unless they run out their oars.” Dacosta pushed through the others to join them in the stern. He looked at the ship sliding away in their wake, then up at his own sails, and shook his head. “No, not even then.” He glanced at Gareth. “These cultists—how likely are they to be competent oarsmen?”

“Not likely at all.” Gareth glanced at Emily as she joined them. She appeared unharmed. She grasped his arm as if for support and comfort, and something inside him calmed.

Dacosta had brought his spyglass. He trained it on the other ship. “His crew will need to get those burning sails down and ditched before they can think about the oars, and if the cultists aren’t able, there’s not enough crew to make much of a show.” He glanced back, signaled to his first mate. “We’ll keep all sail on—in these conditions, it can’t hurt.”

Gareth caught Emily’s eye. “That was an inspired idea to use the oil.”

Dacosta glanced at her, brows rising. “That was your notion, mam’zelle?”

Emily smiled weakly. “We had to do so something, so…” She suppressed the impulse to lean heavily against Gareth. Fighting was horribly draining…truth be told, it was simply horrible all around. She tried not to look as the crew checked bodies, then heaved the dead overboard. Those cultists who were able had already jumped.

But the xebec was safe again, and so were they.

Dacosta acknowledged that with a low bow. “It seems we all owe you a debt, mam’zelle. For me and my crew—and my brother who owns this ship—I thank you.”

Emily inclined her head, and kept hold of Gareth’s arm. She’d noticed his cuts. None were still bleeding, but she was conscious of a definite desire to take his hand, lead him belowdecks, and wash and tend them. She wondered if perhaps she might manage it later.

Dacosta had his spyglass to his eye again. “If you can explain to me one thing, Major. Why is it the captain there”—his fixed gaze made it clear he was speaking of the other ship’s captain—“did not run out his guns? He wanted to after we set his sails alight—I saw him try to give the order, but the cultists—those on his ship—prevented it. If not for that…” Lowering the glass, Dacosta regarded them impassively. “Given our cargo, he would have blown us to bits.”

Emily stared. “He had guns? You mean cannon?” The last word came out as a half squeak.

Dacosta nodded. “All xebec carry guns, but only small ones, and not many. But at such close quarters, he couldn’t have missed, and because of the oil, we would go”—he made a gesture—“poof.”

A rueful smile touching his lips, Gareth met her gaze briefly, then faced Dacosta. “It’s that thing I’m carrying that they want. For once, it protected us. If they’d blown up the ship, even if they’d just sunk it, they would lose what they’ve been sent to fetch—and their master wouldn’t like that.”

Dacosta nodded. “I see. This master of theirs, this Black Cobra. I take it he doesn’t forgive well?”

Gareth shook his head. “Not well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t forgive at all.”

The Black Cobra’s lack of forgiveness, more specifically the vindictiveness visited upon any of the cult who failed, ranked high among the thoughts crowding Uncle’s mind.

From the safety of the deck of a small but swift fishing sloop bobbing on the waves at some distance from the action, through a spyglass Uncle watched the engagement unfold, and cursed.

This time, he’d taken no chances. This time, he’d planned, and sent a force all had agreed would be more than enough to overrun the major’s xebec.

But no. Once again, his enemy had triumphed. Once again his quarry had escaped.

He ground his teeth, and quickly counted the black-scarf-encircled heads on the deck of the now becalmed vessel.

Of the large force he’d committed, less than a third were returning.

Since leaving India, he’d lost a lot of men. The leader wouldn’t be pleased.

A chill touched his nape, slid slowly down his spine.

He shivered, then shook off the sensation, the sense of helplessness.

He would turn the situation around. He would redeem himself by capturing both the major and his woman, and treating them to the epitome of Black Cobra vengeance.

He would avenge his son, and triumph in his master’s name.

Lowering the spyglass, he squinted over the water, quietly intoned, “Glory to the Black Cobra.”

He invested the words with the reverence of a prayer. He believed, in his heart, that it was.

As if in answer, the morning sun rose, sending a wash of pink and gold spreading across the sea.

Uncle turned and walked to where his lieutenant silently waited. “Tell the captain to make all speed for Marseilles.” He glanced across the waves at the stern of the fleeing xebec. “Our pursuit is not over yet.”

20th November, 1822
Early evening
My hammock in our tiny cabin

Dear Diary,

We are still feeling the effects of the action yesterday morning. Although we won through with our lives and with the ship intact, as I had feared, there were casualties. Captain Dacosta lost two of his crew, and two others are too injured to work. Gareth and our people are helping as best they can—Dacosta has kept on all sail, even through the night, keeping us flying over the waves to Marseilles. He wants to make the most of the fair conditions while they last. I think exposure to the cultists and their ferocity—and the loss of his two men—has also made him less inclined to close with our enemy.

Fighting of this nature isn’t sport. Indeed, whenever I recall glimpses of what occurred during the battle, I shiver. Blood and blades and violent death have never rated among my favorite things. However, it was necessary or we would have died, so it seems futile to repine too much upon the moment.

Englishwomen abroad are supposed to be resilient.

And, indeed, I am trying to be. I have just returned from keeping vigil by Jimmy’s hammock, and am writing now because at last I can report he is awake, and in reasonable possession of his senses. While the rest of our party ended the incident on our feet, albeit with injuries many of which required tending, Jimmy was, at first, nowhere to be found.

We searched in mounting horror, fearing he’d been flung overboard, but Bister finally found him under some cultists. Jimmy had a bad knife wound and had lost a lot of blood, but Gareth assured us the wound wasn’t life-threatening, and indeed it turned out Jimmy had been knocked unconscious. But he did not stir until this morning, when Arnia and Dorcas managed to get some broth down his throat. He then lapsed back into unconsciousness, and we again feared, head injuries being so difficult to predict.

But he is fully awake now, and Bister is teasing him, so while he may take some days to regain his strength, he will pull through, I hope without lasting damage. I am hugely relieved, for I would have felt considerable responsibility had he died. Jimmy is in my train—one of my people—and our involvement in Gareth’s mission and the attendant danger stems from my wish to follow him. It was my decision that brought us here. If Jimmy—or any of the others—had died, I would have felt it keenly.

I cannot imagine how much of such weighty responsibility already rests on Gareth’s broad shoulders. He has been a field commander for years, and in active service for more than a decade. I am starting to appreciate how much he, and others like him, do in our country’s cause, and how much they silently bear on their conscience for ever after. It cannot be a light burden, yet they never speak of it.

I cannot help wonder how heavily the weight of MacFarlane’s death rests on Gareth and the other three I met that long-ago day at the officers’ mess. Bad enough the death of a subordinate, but the death of a friend…

I believe it must be honor that helps them bear the load.

Once again, I am feeling the restrictions of this xebec keenly. All yesterday, and even now, I feel the need to go to Gareth, to see him, touch him, reassure myself that he is all right. I know he is, and I recognize the impulse as stemming from our recent brush with death, yet still it persists.

I did manage to commandeer a corner of the deck and tend his wounds—three slashes, none too deep, thank heaven, and a host of scratches that were already half healed. Yet what I wouldn’t give for a private room, preferably with a bed—even a narrow one would do. As it is, there is nowhere I might even kiss him—and I am perfectly certain, honor-bound as he is, he will never kiss me in public.

It seems the rest of this leg of our journey will, of necessity, be devoted to preparing ourselves for the next. Despite having fled from one battle, there is a sense that our present peace is the lull before the storm.

Like any true Englishwoman, I will gird my loins and march on.

E.

Five mornings later, Emily stood in the prow of the xebec, Gareth beside her, and watched the port of Marseilles materialize out of the low-lying sea mist.

It was going to be a clear day. By the time the xebec had negotiated the harbor entrance and angled into a mooring on the incredibly busy wharves of what was, after all, the busiest port on the Mediterranean, the sun had risen and burned off the mist, and they could see everything with crystal-clear clarity—which meant anyone watching would be able to see them.

Luckily, the level of the sea was significantly lower than the wooden wharves, so once amid the congestion of ships, unless a watcher was looking down from the wharf directly above, those on the xebec weren’t visible.

That, to Gareth’s mind, was the only point in their favor. Wolverstone’s orders had directed him to pass through Marseilles. While he understood why, and if he’d had only his own people with him, would have accepted the need without hesitation, now Emily and her people had joined his, the stakes had risen.

Specifically, what he now had at risk, now stood to lose, was significantly greater than he’d assumed would be the case.

Still, needs must when the devil drives.

The xebec bumped against the wharf. He glanced around the deck as the sailors swarmed up to lash the ship to the capstans above. Their party was already assembled, ready to climb the wooden ladder and depart the docks as quickly as they could. The others were standing by their bags. After some discussion, they’d all reverted to their customary clothes, European or Indian; there was no longer any advantage in their Arab disguises. For himself, he’d once again packed away his uniform and donned civilian attire.

Beside him, in her dark cloak worn over a blue carriage gown, Emily looked fetching and feminine. She murmured, “So as far as possible, you and I should do the talking.”

She’d spoken in fluent French. After his years of fighting on the Continent, he, too spoke idiomatic French. Reluctantly, he nodded. “But wherever possible, play the great lady and let Watson speak for you.” Watson was the only other of their party who spoke French well enough to pass. “Mullins has enough to get by with carriage drivers, stable boys, and the like, but unless there’s a real need, we—you, Watson, and I—should shield the others from having to speak. If we can pass for French provincials on our way home, we’re more likely to slip through the cult’s net.”

There would be a net, one spread over the entire city. Marseilles was the port he and any of the other three heading home by routes other than the Cape were most likely to come through. The one point in their favor was that Marseilles was large.

And bustling.

After exchanging last farewells with Dacosta and his crew, their party climbed up to the crowded wharf. They merged with the throng of other passengers disembarking or embarking on the dozens of vessels of all types and nations lining the many wharves.

Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.

It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”

Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”

They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”

Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”

“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”

“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”

Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace—that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business—as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover—a very good bolt-hole—before then.”

“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”

“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets—at least for now, that’s what we need.”

Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops—a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others—all set between residential buildings of various sorts.

The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.

It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything—literally every item her glance lit upon—was neat and clean, spic-and-span.

Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.

Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back—instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants—but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.

He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”

Mullins nodded and sat. The others settled around the table.

“We still need to think of things like that, don’t we?” Watson asked. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Far from it.” Gareth hesitated, then said, “Indeed, if anything we’re in greater danger now, and as a group will be until we reach England. Once there, colleagues will be waiting. I imagine some of you will be able to stay in a safe house while I ferry the scroll holder to its final destination.”

Her gaze on his face, Emily inwardly snorted. He’d better not be thinking of leaving her behind, tucked away in safety, while he faced danger alone.

The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen with trays bearing coffee, a pot of hot chocolate, and sumptuous pastries. They all waited while he served. Her mouth watering, Emily beamed and, with Gareth, thanked him.

Once the innkeeper had retired behind the counter at the back of the room, Gareth glanced around the table at the now familiar faces, then went on, “We have the next few hours to consider our options and make our plans. The closer we get to England, the more desperate our pursuers will grow. We need to decide how we’re going to tackle the journey from here to the Channel—how best to clear the hurdles the cult is sure to place in our path.”

He paused. All the others were listening intently. “We have two options at this point, and we need to choose which one to take.” He glanced around. “I could make the decision—as I generally do—but in this case, we all need to decide together, because whatever comes of that decision will be something we all have to face. We’re all in this together.”

No one argued. He went on, “We could flee the town now—hire the first two carriages we find and head north at a run before the cultists here in France even know we’ve landed. That’s our first option and it has a certain attraction. However, if we do that, we won’t have time to find coachmen willing and able to help us, to fight on our side if need be, nor will we be able to acquire any of the supplies we will need for the journey—we’d need to rely on stoppping in smaller towns and being able to find what we need there.” He paused, then added, “All of us with pistols are low on powder and shot, and now we’re back in Europe, we have to assume any men the cultists hire will use firearms, so from here on, we’re much more likely to need our own.”

Stirring his coffee, Watson nodded. “In addition to that, from here, there’s really only one route—one halfway fast and direct route—we can take to the Channel ports. If we’re in danger, then we can’t afford to dally, yet once on that road, we’ll be easy to track, easy to find.”

Grimly, Gareth nodded. “Precisely. Either way, whether we flee now, or seize the cover of being in a town as crowded with people of all races as Marseilles to first make proper preparations, once we’re on the road north, the cult will quickly pick up our trail.”

They discussed it—how much they could foresee, what preparations they might make before leaving Marseilles that would help them evade subsequent capture and speed their journey north. Mooktu pointed out that, while they would be easier to track once on the road, in the French countryside the cultists themselves would be much more visible.

When the coffee and cakes were gone and the discussion wound down, Gareth called a vote. To his relief, the decision was unanimous. They would remain in Marseilles until they were ready to make a dash for the Channel coast.

Thirteen

25th November, 1822
Evening
A comfortable room in a tiny inn in Marseilles

Dear Diary,

So we are settled in Marseilles for the nonce, and while I wondered what possibilities staying in one place—one that isn’t rocking and affords a suitable degree of privacy—might hold, the cultists have already intruded on our calm.

Bister took Jimmy out for a walk—we are all agreed he needs exercise and fresh air to improve—but Bister, being Bister, went scouting in the consular quarter, and spotted numerous cultists. While he and Jimmy escaped undetected, Bister reported that the cultists were, contrary to earlier in the day, actively and specifically searching. It seems news of our arrival has reached the cult members stationed here.

Gareth is concerned. He fears that, with specific descriptions in hand, the cultists—and indeed there seem quite a number—will organize a methodical search. Our out-of-the-way location will protect us for a day or so, but not forever. And it has already become apparent that finding and hiring the right sort of carriages and drivers, and reprovisioning those items we must have for our journey, will not be accomplished in a single day.

I am, as you will understand, finding all this a trifle frustrating. I am irritatingly aware that I have been unable to consolidate the significant gain I made in Tunis. Knowing Gareth, the longer I give him to think about things, the more likely he will erect another wall between us—leaving me to once again scrabble to pull it down.

I have already stated my dislike of blood and battles, but when it comes to these aggravating cultists, if I were to come upon one while holding a loaded pistol in my hand, I doubt I would hesitate to remove him from my path.

My latest personal mantra is: A pox on all cultists.

E.

The next morning, garbed as any young Frenchwoman with her cloak over her shoulders, Emily walked the short distance to the town market.

Gareth strode by her side, his expression impassive, his eyes constantly scanning. He didn’t trust anyone else with her safety, an irritating development, but one he wasn’t in any mood to resist.

If he wasn’t by her side, he’d be distracted, unable to make sound decisions, so there wasn’t any point fighting the now insistent compulsion.

Dorcas followed behind them, a basket over her arm, Mullins by her side. Recalling what he’d noticed on the xebec’s deck during the battle, Gareth suspected there was a budding romance there. Regardless, he was glad of Mullins’s company, and Bister was ambling around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind in his usual role of scout.

They had no difficulty finding the market—they followed the noise and the smells. Some were savory, others less so, but once they reached the square and merged into the loud, constantly shifting crowd, all individual aromas melted into the rich potpourri of the market.

Although they didn’t need food in the general sense, they’d agreed that once on the road they wouldn’t stop for lunch, but would eat on the run as it were. After circling the stalls selling fresh fruit, Emily bought a sack of crisp apples, a selection of other fruits and vegetables that would keep, and handfuls of various nuts in their shells.

While Dorcas tucked the packages into her basket, Emily turned to him. “Can you see where the stalls selling cured meats and cheeses are?”

Raising his head, he looked over the crowd, saw those stalls along a distant wall. He also saw two cultists strolling down the aisle toward them. The pair were still some way ahead, but they weren’t shopping.

He’d taken Emily’s arm before he’d thought. Bending close, he spoke quietly as he turned her. “Cultists ahead—we’ll backtrack, then circle around. The stalls you want are along the far wall.”

She met his eyes, nodded, then calmly gathered Dorcas and Mullins as they passed. In good order they retreated out of the cultists’ path.

While escorting Emily to the distant stalls, he kept an eye on the pair, and sent Bister scouting further to see if there were any others in the market.

Emily was negotiating the price of two nice hams when Bister returned.

“Just those two.” He frowned. “You’d think they’d leave off their turbans and those black scarves, but no.” He shrugged. “Just as well for us, I suppose.”

Gareth returned a noncommittal grunt. If the cultists left off their insignia, given the number of foreigners from every land under the sun to be found in Marseilles, he and the others would be in very big trouble. Not for the first time, he gave thanks for the cultists’ arrogance.

They spent another half hour in the crowded market, every minute on high alert. By the time they quit the main square, loaded with the hams, blocks of hard cheese, and the fruits and vegetables, and headed via a series of narrow streets back to their inn, Emily felt exhausted, emotionally wrung out.

She felt like a piano wire that had been strung too tight for too long—she wanted nothing more than to snap and sag.

To find relief…release.

Much like another sort of tension, and the blissful release she’d discovered it could lead to.

She slanted a glance at Gareth, striding close beside her. Although he was looking ahead, alert and focused, she was sure that if she took one step in the wrong direction, away from him, his entire attention would snap back to her. If she walked into a room he was in, he glanced at her immediately. Every time she left him, she felt his gaze on her back until she’d passed out of his sight.

If she was in his presence, even if he wasn’t looking at her, he knew exactly where she was.

The knowledge buoyed her, and comforted, too. If she had to walk through ever-present danger, having a possessive predator at her side was no bad thing.

But there was a counterside to that. Said ever-present danger was a very big hurdle in her path. While he remained focused on the enemy, and even more on protecting her, the chances of him initiating any intimate interlude were, she estimated, effectively nil.

Being intimate was a time when his guard was down. He wouldn’t suggest it.

He’d warned that the danger—and therefore the tension—was only going to escalate, at least until they reached England, and probably beyond that. If they were to share any more interludes between now and the end of his mission, she would have to instigate them.

But should she?

She glanced at him as they turned into the street in which their inn stood. She detected no lessening in the battle-ready tension that held him, no easing of his all-but-constant surveillance of their surroundings.

Should she distract him—not now, but tonight?

Or should she acquiesce to what she knew would be his choice, and wait until they reached England and his mission was complete before again addressing their putative relationship?

If she waited, social mores would come to his aid. Once at home, it would be difficult for her to refuse his suit, even to delay, if he pressed. She was fairly certain he would. As matters stood, their marriage was no longer in question—it was the nature of said marriage they had yet to resolve.

She glanced at him again—and caught him watching her, rather speculatively, but he immediately looked away.

Was he thinking, imagining, considering, as she was?

She couldn’t imagine the prospect of another interlude hadn’t occurred to him, yet regardless of the prompting of his instincts, she would wager her life he wouldn’t come to her bed. Not unless…

Unless she issued an invitation he couldn’t—wasn’t strong enough to—resist.

The notion tantalized her adventurous side.

So…should she use, indeed capitalize on, the tension, the danger, the stress of the journey to help press her cause? To make it harder for him to pretend that his interest in her was honor driven and nothing else? Or should she—as she was sure he would—play safe?

Reaching the inn, he opened the front door and held it for her. Passing in front of him, she looked into his face.

He was looking down the street.

Stifling a humph, she went inside.

26th November, 1822
Early evening
My room in the inn at Marseilles

Dear Diary,

Yesterday afternoon I announced my intention of taking the air, so of course Gareth came with me. I had intended to use the opportunity to address, in speech, our future, but the instant we set foot outside, the potential danger was thick in the air and his tension so palpable that it affected me. And so, far from resolving anything, I cut short our excursion, considering it dishonorable to put him so on edge, and myself as well, all for nothing.

Clearly, the direct approach is not going to work, not while he feels compelled to look everywhere at once, rather than at me.

Last night, in fairness to him, I lay in my bed and forced myself to fully evaluate the pros and cons of reestablishing an intimate connection at this time, one that will continue throughout the rest of this fraught and dangerous journey, and subsequently on into our married life. I rather rapidly reached the undeniable conclusion that if I don’t, I am unlikely ever to learn what degree of feeling he truly possesses for me. Once in England, he will retreat behind that wall of polite civility that is the hallmark of an English gentleman, and I will never be able to winkle the truth out of him—he is made of such stern stuff, I swear he is near as stubborn as I, so that route simply will not do.

If I am ever to learn what he truly feels for me, I must act, and indeed, this journey is my best chance to learn all. My best weapon is propinquity, for while we race north through France, we will necessarily be in each other’s pockets, and he will not, not for a minute, be able to overlook me.

I therefore resolved to act, however much brazenness that might entail. Faint heart never won all she wanted, and I am determined to have all—everything I dreamed might be once I found my “one.” I have waited too long to make do with half measures—a marriage based on love yet with that love unacknowledged.

Sadly, having reached this point of calm decision, I fell asleep.

So tonight will be the night, dear Diary—wish me luck!

Whatever it takes, I will not be gainsaid.

E.

By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission—on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.

He knew what he needed—two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.

He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way—for the whole journey from south to north coast—and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.

But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.

He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair—and raised his eyes to hers.

She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.

Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”

He frowned, but before he could reply she leaned closer, laying one hand atop his where his rested on the table. He quashed an impulse to turn that hand and close it about her slim fingers.

“No.” Her gaze slid past him, lingered for an instant, then returned to his face. “I was thinking, for instance, of this inn. It doesn’t have carriages for hire—well, nothing bigger than a gig—but it’s family run. And families have cousins, and uncles, and know other connections in the same business.”

She again looked past him. He realized she was looking at the innkeeper further down the room.

“Why not ask our host?” She looked back and met his eyes. “We’ve been here two days, and they’ve been very good—interested in a nice way, not pushy, and Arnia and Dorcas get on well with the innwife. She helped with a tisane for Jimmy’s headache.” Enthusiasm infused her expression. “It won’t hurt to ask.”

Looking into her face, he tried to remember caution. “We’ll have to take them into our confidence—what if, once we do, they think it too dangerous for us to remain here?”

“They won’t turn us out—not if we explain properly.” It was she who squeezed his fingers. “Come on—let’s try.”

He hesitated for a moment more, then returned the pressure of her fingers, reluctantly released her hand, and rose.

They’d dined relatively late, and the other diners—locals for the most part—had already left. Only three men remained, sharing a jug of wine. The innkeeper was amenable to joining Gareth and Emily at a small table in one corner. At Emily’s suggestion, he summoned his wife to join them. She came, curiosity in her eyes.

Gareth commenced by explaining he and most of their party were English, which came as no surprise, yet with Napoleon’s defeat only seven years past there were formalities to observe. Luckily, most Frenchmen, especially those in trade, had reverted to treating the English with their customary, occasionally arrogant, tolerance. Nevertheless, Gareth omitted to mention his part in the earlier war, saying only that he’d been serving in India until recently, and was presently on a mission coinciding with his return to England.

In the sparsest of terms, he outlined their journey, and explained the existence and the intent of the cultists.

Eyes wide, the innwife asked about the cult. Leaning forward, Emily replied. Before Gareth could reassert control, she’d taken over relating their tale.

Her descriptions were more colorful, her answers more direct, and rather more sensational than his. He wasn’t at all comfortable with her tack, let alone her openness, but one glance at the innkeeper’s and innwife’s faces and he shut his lips, and let Emily hold the stage.

And it was a performance. She seemed to know just what to say, and how to respond to the innkeeper’s many questions. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it; her attitude seeded theirs.

All he was required to do was sit back, look suitably serious and sober, and offer corroborative nods and words when appealed to.

By the time Emily reached the point of explaining their requirements, the innkeeper and his wife were their devoted supporters. Their party may be English, but the cult was heathen, and violent and vicious. The innkeeper was in no doubt as to where his duty lay.

Gareth had considered Emily’s notion that the innkeeper’s family connections would be sufficient to get them what they needed a long shot, but she’d been right. Spurred by their story—indeed, clearly thrilled to have been trusted and asked—the innkeeper summoned his sons and dispatched them hither and yon.

An hour later, numerous uncles and cousins had gathered, and the noise in the now otherwise empty front room had escalated as people exclaimed and shouted suggestions. Gareth had never seen the like before, but within a surprisingly short time, two fast traveling carriages had been organized, along with two experienced drivers who were very willing to offer their services in defeating the so-alien cult.

He shook hands with the two grizzled war veterans who had volunteered to take the reins and drive them to the north coast with all possible speed. “Thank you.” They’d discussed and settled on their payment. “There’ll be a bonus at the end, too.”

“Heh!” one said, making a very gallic gesture. “The money is one thing, but to be part of an action against a worthy enemy again—that is a better incentive.”

The other nodded emphatically. “But yes. Life has grown boring, you understand. A little excitement—this is what we seek.”

With the good wishes and enthusiastic support of the innkeeper’s family, their departure was organized for the day after the next.

“So you will have only tomorrow to get ready,” the innwife yelled. She flung out her arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “No matter—we will help.”

The gathering turned into something of a family occasion. Gareth took his lead from Emily, and they remained for some time, chatting with those who had come at the innkeeper’s summons to so readily offer them aid.

He was still somewhat stunned that they had, but they were sincere in wanting to assist him and their group against the cultists, and he was equally sincere in his gratefulness.

Eventually Emily bade the company good night and retired. Shortly afterward, he did the same, climbing the stairs to his room. The din from downstairs faded as he closed the door. Crossing to the small side table, he lit the lamp upon it, then quietly, still pondering the garrulous warmth of those downstairs, he undressed.

He’d doused the lamp and was lying on his back, stretched naked beneath the covers, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the dim ceiling, when the handle of his door turned.

He came instantly alert, but in the same instant, somehow, he knew.

Sure enough, the door opened and Emily, clad in white nightgown and cloak, whisked through, whirling to shut the door quietly behind her before turning to peer at the bed.

The room was cloaked in shadows, but she saw him, and relaxed.

Even more alert, and distinctly intrigued, he watched as she clearly debated, then elected to walk to the side of the bed further from the door.

Muscles all but imperceptibly tightening, he waited, unmoving and silent, to see what she would do, say.

She halted when she was close enough to meet his eyes. She narrowed hers fractionally in warning. “Don’t say a word.”

He wondered why she’d thought he would argue.

Letting her cloak fall, she reached for the covers, and slipped into the bed. He shifted to give her room. His greater weight bowed the bed, and with a muffled squeak, she rolled into him.

Just as he lowered his arms and closed them around her, gathered her close. Bending his head, he nuzzled her hair, breathing deep and feeling the essence that was her sink to his very bones. He found her ear with his lips, lightly traced the outer whorl. Sensed her shiver. “What now?” he breathed.

She dragged in a breath. “Now…” She lifted her head, looked into his face, one small hand rising to frame his jaw. Then she levered up on one arm, rising above him. She looked down into his eyes. “Now this.”

And she kissed him.

He kissed her back, took a long moment to savor the sweetness she so flagrantly gifted him with. Sensing she wished it, he let her keep the reins. For now.

She leaned into him, all soft, warm curves and slender, feminine lengths. Lying on his back beneath her, something within him purred. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted and shifted her more fully upon him, settling her so her taut belly lay over his abdomen, the haven between her thighs just above the head of his engorged erection—both promise and torment, temptation and salvation. He vaguely recalled he’d decided to forgo her and this for the present, while they were traveling, but he could no longer remember any pressing reason why.

No convincing reason why he should decline the heaven she was so blatantly offering—and she’d come to him, after all.

She was already his—that was beyond question—so there was no reason he shouldn’t indulge.

So he did.

Increasingly ravenously.

It gradually dawned that while she’d initiated the exchange, and had chosen the position, she didn’t know quite how to proceed.

He showed her. Urged her up so she was on her knees straddling him, reached up, stretched up, and helped her draw her nightgown off over her head.

She flung the garment to the floor. She was already heated, already breathless and panting, already aching for him to fill her. The look she flung at him—eyes blazing fire in the night—said it all.

Before she could reach for him, and make matters that much more complicated, he hauled in a breath, locked his hands about her waist, positioned her, then nudged past her slick swollen folds and eased into her.

Eyes closing, her expression one of fraught bliss, she took over and sank down. Down.

Wriggled at the last, and then, wonder of wonders, she’d enclosed him all.

He sucked in a tight breath, closed his eyes in sheer lust as experimentally, she tightened about him.

Then she settled to ride him.

By the time he’d recalled her reportedly wild and expert ride down from Poona, she’d reduced him to a state of ravening urgency almost impossible to deny.

But he wanted more.

Eyes closed tight, her entire concentration locked on where they joined, Emily felt the heat, the stoking friction, well, swell and rise, taunting and beckoning, tightening inexorably…then she felt him shift beneath her.

She cracked open her eyes as, releasing her hips, he locked both hands about her breasts.

And played until she was gasping.

Then he rose up, leaned forward, took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth—and suckled.

She only just managed to mute her shriek, but that didn’t deter him. He feasted—there was no other word for it. With lips, tongue, teeth and greedy mouth, he caressed, then blatantly possessed.

Eyes closing, she continued to rise up and slide down, increasingly intently, wanting, reaching, so tight she thought she would shatter, so hot she could feel the flames licking over her, sliding beneath her skin.

He released one breast, slid his hand down, tracing the curves of her waist, her hip, in almost languid, distinctly possessive appreciation. Then that questing hand veered inward, slid between her thighs, and touched her—there, where she was most sensitive, where suddenly her whole being seemed to reside.

With one hard fingertip he toyed, then pressed at the same time she sank fully down and he thrust in hard—and she imploded. Lost all touch with reality as searing delight and incandescant pleasure erupted and lanced through her, streaking and sparking down every nerve before melting and merging into molten streams that flowed down every vein to pool in her throbbing womb.

He held her as she savored, as if he savored, too.

Then he turned. Taking her with him, he rolled, and pinned her beneath him.

A smile on her lips, she wound her arms about his neck, then arched beneath him, head falling back on a gasp as he thrust deeply and heavily into her.

To her immense surprise he withdrew from her, pulling back onto his knees.

Before she could react beyond opening her eyes, he grasped her knees and pulled them wide.

He looked down at her, at her most private place. Even though the shadows lay heavily upon them, she blushed, but she didn’t try to close her knees, didn’t try to inhibit his view.

The blood still pounding in her veins, she waited to see what he wanted, what he would do.

He bent his head and set his lips to her there, and she very nearly screamed.

Pleasure—different, sharper, headier—streaked through her. He pressed deeper, lapping, then probed with his tongue and in desperation she whispered his name—but what she wanted she couldn’t have said. His tongue circled, then probed. She caught her breath, and clutched at his head, but her fingers, tangling in his hair, had no strength.

His exploration, his flagrant tasting of her, sent her senses soaring.

She was his—she knew it, and clearly he did, too, at least on this level.

That was undeniable as he feasted as thoroughly as he had earlier, his hot mouth a brand searing her, his experience trapping her senses, making them and her whole body—her nerves, her skin, her heart, every curve—his.

His to plunder, to savor as he wished.

Head helplessly threshing, she could barely breathe when she whispered his name, an outright plea—she couldn’t take much more of the soul-wringing pleasure.

He heard, thank God. With one long, last lap, he lifted his head, gazed at her for a moment, then unhurriedly surged over her. Fitting his erection to her entrance, he thrust in, slow and relentless, deep and sure, impressing on her every inch of his length, then he sank home, reached down and raised one of her knees, hooked that leg over his hip. Poised on his elbows above her, he looked down at her face through the darkness, his expression a mask of intent, his features locked in the grip of a passion so intense she could feel its heated wings beating against her skin. Then he withdrew, and thrust home.

Again and again, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until she sobbed his name, then, arched beneath him, fingers locked about his upper arms, nails sinking into his skin, she felt herself literally come apart.

Gareth swooped and covered her lips with his, drank her cry, her scream of pure pleasure.

Felt everything that was male within him exult.

Felt the primitive possessive being within him purr with a satisfaction that sank bone deep as he held still for an instant and savored the evocative ripples of her release, felt her sheath contract and grip.

Felt anticipation and blind need claw…

He surrendered and took, gorged, and filled his senses.

Eyes closed, he lost himself in her.

27th November, 1822
Early evening
My room in the inn at Marseilles

Dear Diary,

My actions last night met with success. Not that I expected all that much resistance, but now I must wait and see if the lure sank deeply enough.

The day went in making our final preparations. Thanks to the Juneaux, our hosts, all is as sound and complete as might be, and everything lies in readiness for us to depart tomorrow morning on our race to Boulogne. That is the port Gareth’s instructions stipulate he should use. I must admit that while I will be happy to see it, and indeed, to look upon England’s shores once more, I view this last leg as a succession of opportunities—chances to prompt Gareth into recognizing and declaring his love.

Preferably of the enduring variety.

Preferably before we see the green fields of England.

I wait on tenterhooks to see if my ploy of last night will yield the desired outcome—the first step in my campaign.

As ever, I am hopeful.

E.

His day had been a distracting round of last minute checks and solutions. Nevertheless, as he climbed the stairs that night, Gareth felt quietly sure that they’d done all they could—that, indeed, courtesy of the Juneaux and Emily’s recruiting of them, their party was better placed to succeed in their mad dash north to the Channel than he’d dared hope they would be.

Reaching the upper corridor, he was conscious of a certain tension, familiar, almost reassuring—the tension that came on the night before a battle, when the certainty of being fully prepared warred with the inevitability of having to wait until morning to act.

He was too experienced to let it trouble him. Indeed, he embraced it.

But the other tension sliding through him, coiling beneath the first, was something else entirely.

That tension was wholly due to her—to Emily, and her appearance last night in his room. More, her performance, their activities, in his bed. He would have preferred it to be otherwise, but he couldn’t deny it—couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel expectation rise as he neared his door.

That anticipation didn’t leap as he closed his hand about the knob.

Already half erect, his heart already thudding that telltale touch faster, he opened the door and went in. His gaze went directly to the bed.

It was empty.

In the dimness, his eyes scanned again, just to make sure, but he hadn’t missed any alluring body.

She hadn’t come.

Closing the door, he stood and stared at the bed.

One part of his brain had already skittered off into recriminations—last night he’d done something she didn’t like, or he’d failed to do something she’d expected. Or—

The more rational part of his mind shut out the tirade of unhelpful suggestions. The part of him that was the experienced commander recalled and coolly evaluated.

Why hadn’t she come? That was the question he needed to answer.

It took some moments before he thought back far enough to recall the particular deliberation with which she’d entered his room last night. And then to connect that with the assessing glances she’d thrown his way throughout the day, and especially that evening.

Last night, she hadn’t come to his room on a whim—she’d come with a plan. As part of a plan. And that plan was…?

He swore.

Lips setting, he walked to the window, looked out at the empty street, then shook his head and started to pace.

He shouldn’t do it—he shouldn’t give in. She knew he wanted to—intended to—marry her, and that was enough. If he went to her now, tonight…that would say a little more.

Reveal more.

All of it true, but his need of her was something he would far prefer to hide, especially from her.

While on the xebec, there’d been no question of his joining her at night, and here…it had seemed wiser to keep his distance. For him to keep their future, and her, at a distance, at least until they reached England, whereupon he would have all manner of accepted practices behind which to hide.

To conceal just how deeply his feelings for her ran.

He didn’t even know how those feelings had come to be—what they were due to, or when they’d afflicted him and sunk to his marrow—but they were there now, an obvious vulnerability, at least to him.

If he kept his distance, he could cling to the fiction that he was marrying her because they were generally compatible, and he’d weakened and seduced her, ergo marrying her was the necessary outcome, one with which he was comfortable.

He shouldn’t go to her room, shouldn’t reveal even that degree of need for her.

He could excuse not going on safety grounds—safer for them all if he wasn’t distracted by having her beside him, let alone beneath him.

Then again, one very definite, insistent part of him was quick to point out that her safety would be even better assured if she spent the nights in his arms, and he would be far less distracted by thoughts of whether she was safe or not; if she were lying beside him, he would instantly know.

Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…

He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.

To go, or not to go?

He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…

Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?

Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.

And he discovered her patience was greater than his.

With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.

Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.

She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.

As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.

He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”

Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”

He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”

Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.

Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.

For her lover—her would-be husband—to join her.

He didn’t disappoint.

Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.

Her plan had worked.

More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.

She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed, go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.

And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.

She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk—they fell asleep.

Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed—he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.

His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.

Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later—later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.

Entirely too unwise.

The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.

Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.

In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.

He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…

It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.

God knew, it satisfied him.

28th November, 1822
Early morning
Still abed, scribbling madly

Dear Diary,

My fingers are crossed, metapohorically at least. Matters appear to be progressing as I wish—my campaign to encourage Gareth to recognize and declare his feelings for me is under way, and with luck I have laid the groundwork for a continuing engagement. After last night, I am hopeful that he will be sufficiently motivated to join me in my bed at our various halts through France, and with luck, beyond.

It is no doubt quite wanton to be plotting like this, but needs must. I am committed to hearing his true feelings declared, and with every day that passes, I am more convinced than ever that in order for us to form the true partnership I have always believed marriage should be, then hearing his love acknowledged and declared is a necessity, for both of us.

I feel as if all I have ever dreamed of in marriage is hovering on our horizon, still out of reach, yet if we both are willing to reach and stretch, all—everything—could be ours.

Dorcas has just brought up my washing water, and I must rush as we are to leave Marseilles in just over an hour.

E.

The small yard behind the inn was a frenzy of activity. Gareth ran his eye over the loaded coaches, watched as Mooktu and Bister handed up pistols, powder, and shot to Mullins, who stowed it with the rifles he’d cleaned beneath first one, then the other, driver’s seat.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Around him, the cobbled yard was awash with Juneaux, young and old, come to wave their two men on their way, and to wish the English and Indian party the garrulous clan had taken under their collective wing God speed.

He went to extract Emily from a knot of Juneaux. Many were female, and looked at him with bright, assessing eyes. He had little doubt what thoughts were passing through their heads, especially when one old lady whispered loudly that they made a so-handsome couple.

He pretended not to hear.

Emily was smiling happily. She looked up as he neared, and her smile changed. Quite how he couldn’t have said, but it softened, became more personal, then she made space for him beside her.

He filled it, but only to smile generally at the others and remind her, “We must make a start.”

Or they would be there all day.

Emily heard the unvoiced phrase, and had to agree. But then his hand brushed the back of her waist and she had to work to suppress a delicious little shiver—something the women around her didn’t miss.

They beamed encouragingly.

She had to beam back, had to inwardly acknowledge how very good it felt to be the one Gareth—he of the broad shoulders and so-handsome brown-haired good looks—had come to fetch.

His hand touched again, a subtle prod. Squelching her reaction, she turned to the innwife and commenced her farewells.

Exclamations, good wishes, and effusive thanks were shared all around, then with his hand at the back of her waist, Gareth steered her inexorably to the carriages. Finally reaching the door of the first, she turned and waved one last time to the assembled throng, then she took the hand he offered, felt his fingers close strong and warm about hers, and felt that little thrill of delight—of feminine possessiveness—streak through her again. Drawing in a calming breath, she allowed him to help her into the sleek carriage.

Gareth turned to the crowd, and with a genuine but faintly strained smile, bowed and, in more formal words, thanked them. Then he turned to the carriage and climbed up, pulled up the steps and shut the door.

Bister and the coachman were already on the box waiting. Dorcas sat opposite Emily. Gareth claimed the seat beside her as a whip snapped showily, the horses leaned into the traces, and their carriage lurched, then rumbled through the mews and out onto the side street.

Cheers and farewells echoed, then faded as the houses closed around them. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, confirming that the second carriage, carrying Arnia and Mooktu, Watson and Mullins, with Jimmy currently up with the driver, was following close behind.

“I assume we’ll need to go slowly through the town.”

He glanced at Emily, and saw she was peering out of the other window. “Yes—and it might be better to stay back from the windows.”

“Oh.” She drew back immediately. “The cultists are out there somewhere, aren’t they?”

He nodded. They’d been able to forget that over the last day and a half. The Juneaux youngsters had taken positions at both ends of the street, keeping watch for cultists. Bister and Jimmy had supervised, but for the time they’d been under the Juneaux’ protection, they’d felt a great deal safer than they had in weeks.

In Gareth’s case, since leaving the Turkey Cock in Bombay, scroll holder in hand.

Emily and Dorcas played spot the monument as the two carriages preserved a decorous pace through the busy morning streets. Letting their disconcertingly normal exclamations and chatter wash over him, Gareth allowed himself to do something he hadn’t until that point—he thought of the other three, wondered where they were, how they were faring.

All four had been through thick and thin together, ridden side by side into battles uncounted. Even though the last years as commanders had seen them spend more of their time in the saddle apart, it hadn’t lessened their connection—that link that had been forged in the heat of battles in the Peninsula more than a decade before.

By choice, none of them knew what route any of the other three was taking home. He didn’t even know who was carrying the vital original of the document they had to deliver to the Duke of Wolverstone to ensure the end of the Black Cobra’s reign—he only knew it wasn’t him. His was a decoy’s mission, the parchment in his scroll holder, identical to the other three, no more than a copy.

But the Black Cobra and the cultists didn’t know that. Given what was at stake, he had fully expected the Cobra to chase him regardless. In that, he hadn’t been disappointed, which was all to the good.

Yet on this last leg before England, his orders from the man who had for years been known only as Dalziel were specific. He and his party were to do all they could to draw as many of the enemy as possible, and to reduce their numbers as much as fate permitted.

He’d interpreted those orders as indicating that whoever was carrying the vital original would also pass through the Continent on their way to England. Whichever of his three friends was running that most dangerous of gauntlets, their safety in part depended on him—on how effectively he carried out his mission.

He’d set out from India with Bister, Mooktu, and Arnia, all of whom—even Arnia—could take care of themselves in a fight. With just those three in his train, he’d been free to engage the enemy whenever and wherever he could.

But now he had Emily, Dorcas, Jimmy, Mullins, and Watson as well. Mullins could hold his own, but the other four, no matter their resourcefulness, weren’t safe in a fight. All four needed protection, Emily most of all.

Especially Emily, especially now…now she’d come to mean so much to him.

So much more than he’d imagined was possible, than he’d known could possibly be.

As the horses trudged on, he gazed, unseeing, out of the window at the passing streetscapes, and wondered how he was going to carry out his orders while keeping her, and the others who were important to her—all now in his care—safe.

They’d passed through the town center and were ambling through the northern suburbs, already on the highway that would take them to Lyon and beyond, when he became aware of Emily’s gaze on his face.

The feminine commentary had ceased. One glance revealed that Dorcas was already nodding, her eyes closed.

Turning his head, he met Emily’s bright gaze.

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 quietly, 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.

Far from reassuring us, our too-easy success outside Saint Dizier has only made us more edgy, drawing us more tightly together and making us more determined than ever to defeat these villains and gain the shores of England.

Seeing England is a goal we now all cling to.

As for my other goal, I wish I had my sisters to consult. How, precisely, does one wring a declaration from a reticent man?

E.

The following day, they reached Amiens as the light faded from the sky. It was cold and tending crisp as Gareth returned from bespeaking rooms to oversee the unloading of the carriages. Everyone lent a hand, the faster to get out of the biting wind. After spending years in India, even his blood seemed too thin.

Once all the bags were in, the Juneau cousins led the horses off to the stable, and Gareth followed the others into the warmth.

Later, he and Emily dined together. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet time alone with her, a time during which he could air his thoughts, and she would share hers.

Pouring rich custard over his pudding, he murmured, “I’m starting to think we’re being herded.”

She opened her eyes at him as she took in a portion of trifle, then lowered her spoon. “That doesn’t sound good. Herded into what? Do you think they’re planning an ambush?”

He thought, then shook his head. “I can’t see how they could. That’s the beauty of Wolverstone’s route. We could be heading to any of the Channel ports. Even after we head to Abbeville tomorrow, there are still five major ports, in varying directions, that we might make for.”

“So they won’t be able to stage an ambush because they won’t know which road we’ll be taking until we’re on it?”

He nodded. “Precisely.”

Dessert finished, Emily laid down her spoon and studied him. “So why ‘herded’? What bone are you gnawing at?”

He gave her the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a certain grimness behind. “That little foray outside Saint Dizier was all for show, just to remind us they’re there, watching us constantly. I suspect they’re hoping to string us out, to wear us down with waiting. It’s an old tactic.”

When he said nothing more, chin propped in one hand, she prompted, “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”

His gaze met hers. After an instant, he went on, “Following Wolverstone’s plan will keep the cult’s forces strung out—reaching Boulogne shouldn’t be too hard. But the weather’s worsening. I’m no expert on Channel crossings, but I spoke with Watson. Apparently, if the winds come up badly, as they’re threatening to do, the ports can be closed for days.”

“So getting into Boulogne might be simple, but getting out…?”

“We might be held up there for days.”

Days during which the Black Cobra could come at them, again and again, in force.

Gareth didn’t say the words—he didn’t need to. He could see understanding in her eyes.

Eyes he’d grown accustomed to drowning in every night when she welcomed him into her arms, into her body. Eyes he delighted in watching every morning when in the soft light of dawn she came awake as he slid into her.

Those eyes saw him; they locked on him every time he entered a room she was in.

Now those same eyes studied his face. His expression was stark and grim, but he couldn’t find it in him to laugh and lighten the mood.

Those eyes, and she, had to him grown immensely, almost unbelievably, important. He didn’t understand how that had happened, only that it had.

He couldn’t lose her. His future—something he’d had not the faintest idea about when he’d stood at the railings in Aden harbor—was now crystal clear in his mind. And she stood at the heart of it. Without her…

And, somehow, she knew. Knew she meant much more to him than a lady he felt honor bound to wed.

Yet she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed for any declaration, as other ladies might have. She’d simply been there, been herself…and let him fall in love with her. No. Let him fall more deeply in love with her.

He looked into her eyes, and saw her watching, waiting, and he knew for what, but with infinite patience, infinite understanding, and compassion.

Lifting one hand, he held it out, palm up. Waited until she placed her fingers in his. Closing his hand, feeling her delicate digits within his clasp, he said, “If my theory is correct, then we’re more or less safe until we reach Boulogne.”

Her lips curved in comprehension. Needing no further encouragement, he rose, drew her to her feet, and they went to find the others, to arrange the night watches before retiring to their room, to their bed, and the inexpressible comfort of each other’s arms.

In a deserted woodcutter’s cottage to the north of Amiens, Uncle paced the dirty floor. “There is no question about it.” He glanced around at his assembled troops, letting his confidence show. “It matters not which port they flee to, once they reach it, they will be trapped.” He waved the missive he’d received minutes before. “Our brothers already gathered on the coast have confirmed a great storm is blowing in. Let our prey run like mice for the coast—once they reach it, they will not be able to go further, to cross the water as they must.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “They will have to stop. And wait.”

Facing them all, he raised his arms. “The weather gods, my sons, have arranged for us the perfect opportunity to capture and torture the major and his lady—to the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”

Eyes shining, fists rising, the men echoed his words. “To the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”

“This time we will plan—and this time we will triumph.” Uncle sensed the power flowing, sensed he held them all, even the cynical Akbar, in his palm. “We will wait, and watch, but the instant we know to which town our prey is racing, we will race there, too. And this time we will prepare. No matter that we might follow them to this town, fate has finally thrown her lot in with ours. Have faith, my sons, for, courtesy of fate, we at last have time.”

8th December, 1822
Early morning
Our room at Amiens

Dear Diary,

I am huddled under the covers waiting for Dorcas to appear. It is still dark and, worse, sleeting outside. Gareth has already dressed and gone down. Today we set off on the penultimate leg of our mad dash for the coast—to Abbeville. From there, one more day of racing will see us at Boulogne, and the Channel. Although the expectation of being almost there is intense, I have taken Gareth’s warning to heart and, am preparing myself for the frustration of having to wait some days for a crossing.

As long as he shares my bed every night, holding me safe in his arms as I sleep, and allowing me to do the same in return, I will face all hurdles with the stoicism proper to an English lady.

E.

They departed from Amiens amid flurries of snow. Their tension had already been high, yet Gareth could feel that tension racking higher with every mile.

Yet, as he’d predicted, nothing occurred during the daylong journey. The Juneau coachmen continued to perform with outstanding skill, whipping their horses along. Bleak winter fields stretching endlessly under a louring gray sky flashed incessantly past.

Despite their relative speed, they didn’t reach Abbeville until evening. Their routine was well established. In less than half an hour, they were all inside and warm, the others sitting down to dinner in their hotel’s bar while he and Emily dined in reserved splendor in the great dining room.

Outside the wind howled, and hail rattled against the windows.

All of them retired early to their beds. Gareth, as he usually did, took the early-morning watch, between two and four o’clock. That way, he could fall asleep with Emily in his arms, and wake with her beside him, too.

She was already snuggled beneath the thick down coverlet when he reached their room, a fair-sized chamber at the end of one corridor. The fire had been built high, then banked for the night. With all the curtains drawn, the room seemed cozy.

It wasn’t warm.

He stripped quickly, and joined her between the sheets, leaving the candle on the bedside table burning.

He shivered as the cold sheets touched his skin. Relaxed again when Emily wriggled and settled, all warm, silken, and blatantly female, against him. Gathering her close, he turned to face her. “I can’t remember England being this cold.”

“It isn’t often.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she slid her hands into his hair, fingers riffling as beneath the covers she fitted herself to him, her curves cradling his heavier bones and harder frame. “But after India, this is doubtless a shock to your system.”

His system was heating up quite nicely.

He looked into her eyes. For a long moment he drank in the assurance in the mossy hazel, the quiet confidence, the calm anticipation with which she regarded him.

Her lips were lightly, gently, curved.

Slowly he lowered his head and covered them with his.

The flames rose at their calling, steady and sure. More experienced now, there was less urgency, less immediate desperation—more time to savor each moment, to string out each inexorable step on the path to completion.

Knowing they would reach it, knowing that passion, satisfaction, and the ultimate satiation would be theirs, that ecstasy was assured no matter what route they took to reach it.

No matter how long, how tortuous, and drawn out that route might be.

This time, they took a longer road. He kept the pace slow, deliberate, intent.

Focused.

Emily surrendered to the insistent drumbeat, the measured tattoo driving each heavy caress. Wonder bloomed as, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she watched his face as he paid homage to her breasts. Glancing up, he saw her watching, briefly met her eyes, then, still moving so slowly her nerves tightened, taut with anticipation, he lowered his head, and possessed.

Thoroughly, with a devotion to detail that ripped her wits away, that sent her senses spinning.

Every little touch seared like a brand. Fingers, mouth, lips, teeth, and tongue, he used them all in concert, playing, orchestrating, until her body sang, until passion and desire rose up in sweet symphony and buoyed her on their tide.

And swept her away into the heated moment, flooded her veins, flushed her skin.

She was eager and aching, filled with fiery longing when he finally parted her thighs, settled heavily between, and filled her.

Head back, she caught her breath, then sighed. Reached with her whole body, with her arms, her legs, her all, reached for him and wrapped him in her welcome.

Held him there as, head bowed, his ragged breath a song by her ear, he moved on her and in her, the long planes of his back flexing powerfully as he thrust repeatedly, giving them both what they wanted.

What they needed.

Even as his body strove for release, strove to pleasure hers and claim the ultimate prize, some part of Gareth’s mind watched and wondered—was filled with wonder, with a form of silent awe.

Things had changed since they’d left Marseilles, since at her insistence they’d begun sharing a bed every night.

Every night, the pleasure, the assurance, the wonder, grew. Intensified. Became measurably stronger, infinitely more addictive.

The simple act that before had always seemed so straightforward, so momentary and unaffecting, was now so much more. This…was heady, intoxicating. As he thrust deeper into her heated body and felt her clutch, felt her clamp and hold him, felt her arms tight about him, her legs clasping his flanks, her body cradling his…it felt as if she were feeding a part of his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone was hungry.

Yet he was hungry for this—not just the physical pleasure and the aftermath of bliss, but the connection, the togetherness, the blessed release of having someone that close, of having someone…who was his.

The reins slithered from his grasp. As they both, he and she, spiraled out of control, as the demands of their striving bodies overwhelmed their minds and took control of their senses, he raised his head, found her lips and kissed her—claimed her, honored her, thanked her.

And let go.

Gave himself to her and took her in return.

And no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

The storm took them, wracked them, shattered their senses, left their bodies boneless, floating on passion’s sea.

Left them melded, fused, joined at the heart.

Welded at the soul.

No longer alone. No longer separate.

The notions circled his mind as he drifted back to earth, to the warmth of their bed, to the haven of her arms.

Dreams made real.

She was that to him, and he would never let her go.

They left Abbeville in the dark before dawn. The cold was intense; frost lay heavy on the ground. Their breaths plumed as they bustled in the stable yard, rushing in organized chaos through the flickering shadows cast by the inn’s flares.

They were away before even a glimmer lightened the eastern horizon. Heading north at a cracking pace, they remained alert, on guard, yet Gareth felt certain they would meet with no resistance.

Sure enough, they reached Boulogne-sur-Mer without incident or delay. Courtesy of their early start, it was mid-afternoon when they rattled into the streets of the bustling town. This time, however, they did not stop in the town center.

As they passed the town hall and headed on down a hill, Emily looked inquiringly at Gareth.

“We need an inn close to the docks.” He leaned forward and looked out of the window. “The Juneaux say they know the area around there.”

The further they went, the more traffic there was. The carriages slowed to a crawl as they negotiated the streets around the marketplace, then continued along a fair-sized street until they reached yet another square. The Juneau cousins halted the carriages along one side.

The instant he opened the carriage door, then stepped down to the cobbles, the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea assaulted Gareth’s senses. It hadn’t been particularly windy above, but here the wind gusted, salty and tangy, damp with sea spray, slapping his face and tugging his hair.

Emily paused in the carriage doorway, looking out. “That’s the Channel out there, isn’t it?”

Gareth nodded. Beyond the quays and the harbor basin Napoleon had excavated in prepartion for the invasion of England that he never launched, out beyond the protective arms of the breakwaters and their lighthouses, lay a seething mass of water, waves churning a bilious gray green beneath a leaden sky.

A few gulls bravely wheeled below slate-colored clouds scudding before the wind. Behind them hung the denser, darker roiling mass of an oncoming storm.

That louring, threatening mass assured Gareth that his worst fears had come true; they’d be trapped for days. Looking at the cauldron the Channel had become, he confirmed that not a single ship had ventured out.

One glance at Emily’s face as she stepped down to the ground told him he didn’t need to explain the situation to her.

He turned as Gustav Juneau clambered down from his perch to join them.

“There is an auberge we know—this way.” Gustav pointed with his whip to a narrow street leading away from the square. “It is close to the quay, and the people who run it know us.” He glanced at Gareth. “But come and see.”

Gathering Watson, and with Emily on his arm, leaving the others with Pierre Juneau to watch over the carriages, Gareth walked beside Gustav deeper into the dockside quarter.

The auberge Gustav led them to proved perfect for their needs, not least because its guestrooms were all presently empty. Gareth immediately negotiated to hire the whole of the upper floor. In addition, the auberge was within easy reach of the docks, with a direct route to the main quay, and, situated as it was, its common room was always full of sailors.

The owner and his wife, the Perrots, were delighted to accommodate them. “This weather!” Monsieur Perrot gesticulated. “It is very bad for business.”

“True,” Gareth said, “but before you welcome us, there’s something you should know.”

At his insistence, the Perrots sat down with him, Emily, and Gustav at a table in one corner of the common room As he had in Marseilles, he commenced their tale. And as had happened in Marseilles, Emily—this time aided by Gustav—took over.

The Perrots were understandably horrified, but Emily won their sympathy, while Gustav whipped up their nationalistic fervor, until Perrot slapped the table and declared, “You and your party must come to us. We will aid you in this—and our company”—he gestured to the crowded room—“will be happy to assist in foiling this villain.”

Madame Perrot nodded, a martial light in her eye. “He and his heathens will not be able to set this inn alight—it is built of good sound stone.”

Another of its many attributes. Despite his ongoing concern, Gareth knew a moment’s relief. He couldn’t have wished for a better billet, especially given they would, it seemed, be spending several days there.

Emily and Madame went upstairs to survey the rooms. Gustav, after a word with Perrot, stumped out to look at the stables. Gareth and Perrot reached agreement on the charge. Gareth paid half then and there, the other half to be paid on the morning of their departure. As to when that might be…

Appealed to, Perrot pursed his lips, shook his head. “Three days? It may be more. If you go down to the quay later this afternoon, I can tell you who to ask.”

Smothering his frustration, Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked across the common room as Emily returned down the stairs. “We’ll go and fetch the rest of our party.”

They used the rest of the afternoon to settle in. At Gareth’s suggestion and Emily’s insistence, Pierre and Gustav would remain with them for the night, then start back on their long journey home in the morning.

After checking with Perrot, apparently a connection of a connection of the Juneaux, after lunch, Pierre and Gustav headed for the warehouses to see if there was any merchant with goods he wanted to send south.

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.

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 helped 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.

Immediately after lunch, when the crowd in the common room had grown dense with muscle, he stood and thumped an empty tankard on the bar. When he had everyone’s attention, he stated in a voice that carried through the room, “All those who want to fight the heathens gather in the side yard now. Weapons training will commence in five minutes.”

While the gaggle of men filed eagerly out of the door, he gathered Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “Knives—all sorts, but use the most basic moves. Once we see what they’re like, we’ll split them into groups.”

The others—all ex-army—nodded, and followed him out into the yard.

They put their recruits through their paces, much to the amusement of the crowd that gathered to watch and exclaim.

In short order, the activity turned into an event, with performers and an appreciative audience, many of whom were female. Initially the murmurs, giggles, and sly glances irritated Gareth, but then, passing before a knot of girls, he heard, “I must rush home and tell Hilda about this.”

After that, he watched the crowd more closely, and saw that girls were constantly coming and going. They couldn’t stay for long because they were expected home—but once at home, they would talk.

He couldn’t ask for a more certain way of spreading the news about the cultists. Once he realized that, he forgot about the crowd, and concentrated on drilling his inexperienced but enthusiastic troops.

The day ended with a flurry of ice and no cultists anywhere. Seated with the others in the common room, while they finished their dinner and Bister, Jimmy and Mullins entertained the table with tales of the new recruits and their varied skills, Gareth let the talk wash over him, and mentally ran through his preparations again.

The scroll holder—the item the cultists most wanted—was as safe as it could be. On the intial stages of their journey, Arnia had carried it, but in Alexandria, once he’d taken Watson’s measure, he’d spoken with him. Watson was steady, loyal and dependable, with a deep streak of integrity. He was also the oldest of their group, the least likely to be involved in physical heroics. From Alexandria on, Watson had carried the scroll holder—exactly where, even Gareth didn’t know.

If anything adverse were to happen to their party, Watson would take whatever survivors there were and make for England. He had money and letters of introduction and instructions from Gareth—and he had the scroll holder. No matter what, the scroll holder would reach England.

Gareth had also given Arnia money and letters of introduction. If the cult succeeded in breaking up their party, she would take Dorcas and head for England. Together, the women would manage, and the cult would ignore two women of lower caste.

The rest of them were potential targets. The cult would come for him and Emily, then, when they didn’t find the scroll holder, would go for Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. They might even consider Jimmy.

He was deep into trying to think like a cult commander, when Emily’s hand closed about his wrist and pulled him back to the present. Raising his eyes, he met hers.

She studied his face, her own expression serious. After a moment of searching his eyes, she murmured, “They’ll be plotting and planning, too, won’t they? Gathering their forces and organizing?”

The others, hearing her question, fell silent and waited for his reply. He glanced around the table, then returned his gaze to Emily’s face and nodded. “Even though Ferrar isn’t here—at least I think it highly unlikely he will be—there’ll be a commander of sorts in charge.”

He looked at the others, let his gaze rest on Bister and Jimmy. “In whatever’s coming, we shouldn’t imagine we’ll be facing any poorly disciplined group. The commander will almost certainly have brought assassins and some of the better-trained guards with him.”

His gaze moving to Mooktu and Mullins, he went on, “As for numbers, Ferrar would know that the easiest way to block our access to England would be to control the Channel ports. We’ve already heard there were watchers posted here, and Ferrar would have sent contingents of cultists to every port.”

“Now they know we’re here, they’ll draw those others in, have them join the group here.” Mullins made it a statement.

Gareth hesitated, then said, “I don’t know what route the other three couriers are taking, but unless one of the others is near—and I don’t think that’s likely—then yes, I imagine that when the fight comes, we’ll be facing a goodly number, not just ten or even twenty.”

Dorcas shivered and gathered her shawl closer.

Gareth seized the moment to marshal his words, then quietly went on, “We need to remember my orders.” In deference to all they’d been through together, he used the royal “we.” “I’m supposed to do all I can to engage and remove as many cultists as possible, especially here—and while I don’t know enough to appreciate why, we can trust absolutely that Wolverstone’s orders are sound.”

He met Bister’s eyes. “Which is why our ragtag recruits are a godsend. We need to do all we can to whip them into reasonable shape, to prepare them to engage and defeat the cultists.”

“One idea that occurs to me,” Mooktu said, “is that the cultists fight with blades only, all close quarters, hand-to-hand. Yet many of our recruits are sailors and farm workers—many have abilities with implements that strike from a greater distance.”

Mullins was nodding. “Like staffs, pitchforks, and the like—and slingshots, too.” He looked at Gareth. “Perhaps we should encourage them to work with those.”

“From what I saw, not many have any experience with swords.” Gareth considered, then nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll see what skills they do have, and work with those.”

Once again he glanced around the table. “Of one thing we can be absolutely sure. The Black Cobra will have given orders that we are to be stopped. Here, in Boulogne. So the cult will come for us, and they’ll come in force. For the cultists and their commander here, this will be their last stand.”

Huddled in his cloak, Uncle slowly turned, surveying the large chamber in the light of the lanterns two of his followers held high. Then he smiled. “This will do nicely.”

Looking at the young cultist who had come running to tell him of the tumbledown mansion hidden amid overgrown gardens not far from the town, Uncle raised his hand in blessing. “You have done well, my son.”

He looked inquringly as other cultists filed into the room.

One bowed. “We have searched, Excellency, but there is no one here. It is abandoned.”

“And big enough and sound enough for our headquarters?”

“It seems very appropriate, Uncle.”

“Excellent. Make arrangements to move all our baggage here, and summon all our fighters. This will henceforth be our headquarters.”

The men bowed.

Swift footsteps in the corridor outside had them all looking to the door.

Akbar appeared. He paused, taking in the ornate chamber—a drawing room, Uncle thought it would be called—then strode in. Pulling off his gloves, he met Uncle’s gaze, then bowed curtly.

“The men watching the inn report that the major has commenced drilling locals in the yard.”

Uncle frowned. “These are soldiers—militia?”

“No. Sailors, farmers—young men mostly, only a few older.”

Uncle’s expression turned contemptuous. “Lower orders.” He waved dismissively. “They are no threat to us. It is not in the nature of peasants to rise up against their betters.”

“But—”

“Doubtless the major thinks to distract us—to pretend he has large numbers of fighters. He does not.” Uncle met Akbar’s gaze, quietly stated, “He will not succeed in distracting us from the path we are destined to follow. That the Black Cobra has ordered us to follow.”

Akbar had no choice but to swallow his protest. Stiffly, he inclined his head and stepped back.

Uncle turned to the others. “Go and collect all that we need to make this place into suitable quarters. You must also find for me all the implements I will require to properly punish the major’s woman and, later, the major himself.” A slow smile of vindictive anticipation spread across Uncle’s face. Quietly, he crooned, “Do you know what I need?”

The cultists bowed low. The one in charge replied, “Yes, Uncle. We will fetch all the tools necessary.”

“Good.” Smile still in place, Uncle turned away.

Akbar waited for an instant, then curtly bowed to Uncle’s back, turned on his heel and left the room.

In the corridor outside, his own second was waiting. As he strode down the corridor, the man fell in at his shoulder. “Well—what did he say? Are we to act to discourage these locals from joining with the major?”

His expression stony, Akbar shook his head. “No.” After a moment, he added, “Old men and their delusions. They will bring us down yet.”

The night passed without incident, and the day following continued quiet.

Too quiet for Gareth’s liking.

The rain and hail had ceased, but the wind still blew at storm force. Luckily, the inn yard was protected by the surrounding buildings. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, he, Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister worked with their volunteers, improvising both for weapons and techniques, and drilling them to instill basic levels of command.

By late afternoon, however, many were asking when the fight would be. When no definite answer was forthcoming, it became progressively more difficult to hold their troops’ attention.

By evening, when he wandered through the common room, Gareth overheard too many comments on “the mad ideas of the English” to doubt that the excitement generated by the promised fight against the “heathens” was dissipating.

Resuming his seat beside Emily at their table, he caught his fellow trainers’ eyes. “Whoever’s commanding the cult this time is using his brains. There’s been no sighting of a cultist since we arrived. The locals are starting to believe they don’t really exist—that they’ve moved on, or were from the first a figment of our imaginations.”

Mullins nodded glumly. “I’ll wager that tomorrow we’ll have less than half our numbers today.”

Bister grimaced. “Nothing much we can do until the axe falls, is there?”

Gareth shook his head. “All we can do is hope that, when the attack comes, we’ll have a reasonable enough force to hold off the first wave, so the doubters have time to come running.”

Watson suggested they find a nearby bell, or something similar they could use as a summons.

While the others discussed that, Gareth leaned closer to Emily. Laying a hand over one of hers, he caught her eye when she looked his way. “You mustn’t forget that from the first—in Aden—the cult had you in their sights. They must know of your role in getting the letter to us—you are a target as much as I am.”

She raised her brows. “But I’m not the one carrying the scroll holder. If this is their last chance of stopping it from reaching England, then they’ll be focused on that, not”—she waved her other hand—“side issues.”

He held her gaze. “They won’t see you as a side issue. Taking hostages is a common ploy for them.” He hesitated, then went on, “And I suspect they know that I’ll give anything to save you.”

She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”

They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.

While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him—the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.

Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.

In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons—the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”

Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.

“Tomorrow, we will triumph—we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place—into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”

Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action—from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze—Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”

Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”

12th December, 1822
Morning
My room at the Perrots’ auberge

Dear Diary,

I do not know how it is that quietness and calmness and nothing happening can feel so threatening. But so it is. There is a sense of some great disaster hanging over us, just waiting to crash down on our heads.

But if the locals are right, we have only this last day to weather. The captain who agreed to take us to Dover spoke with Gareth last night, and confirmed he expects to be able to put out of the harbor tomorrow. If so, we will be away, and no matter that there may be cultists waiting in England, just being home will buoy us all.

Meanwhile I will spend the day as I have the last two, seeking ways to support Gareth’s efforts. Even if it transpires that we do not need our ragtag army, putting all possible defenses in place just in case is unquestionably wise. The right decision for an experienced commander, and Gareth is nothing if not that. Even if all I do is provide encouragement, that is nevertheless a contribution.

I cannot recall feeling so personally committed to someone else’s goal as I do with Gareth’s mission. It is as if his goal is somehow now mine—as if my love for him demands I embrace every aspect of his life, even this. While ferrying MacFarlane’s letter to Bombay gave me an interest in seeing justice done, my commitment to seeing the scroll holder to the right hands in England is now predominantly driven by a need to help Gareth succeed, rather than to appease my own feelings.

Love, I am learning, has broad repercussions.

Gareth—loving me—is concerned for my safety, yet his concern is nothing to the concern I feel for him. I know what sort of man, what sort of soldier, he is. No less than MacFarlane, he will lead his troops into battle, at their head even be they a ragtag rabble of sailors and farmhands armed with pitchforks and rakes.

If any attack comes here in Boulogne, Gareth will meet it face-to-face.

Love, I am learning, can result in fear. I have far more reason to fear for him than he has to fear for me.

E.

The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.

He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.

As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group—ten youthful lads plus Jimmy—into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.

After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.

He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.

She glanced over the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”

“It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”

“Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”

Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.

When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”

Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.

Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers—mostly old men and young girls—lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.

Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.

The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like—and almost walked into a man.

With an “Oh!” she looked up.

Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.

The man on her left—black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin—leered as he pressed close—and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife—with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.

Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man—unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others—glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.

The third man nodded. The man on her left urged her forward. “Walk quietly. Make no sound and we will let you live. Pray none of your friends notice—if they do, we will have to kill them.”

She had no choice. Even if she swooned they would simply drag her along. But once they reached the street, someone would see, would notice…

Her hopes died as they rounded the far corner of the auberge and she saw a dogcart waiting. They half lifted, half pushed her onto the front bench. The man with the knife followed and sat beside her. The third man took the reins and climbed up to sit on her other side, while the other man climbed on behind.

Wedged between the cultists, the horrendously sharp knife still pressed threateningly to her side, she had to sit silently and be driven out of the lane, into the square, and away.

Gareth was thinking of calling a halt for luncheon when Dorcas came into the side yard. She looked around. A frown formed on her face.

When her gaze returned to him, he raised his brows.

She walked across to him. “Have you seen Miss Emily?”

“Not recently. She was out here about an hour ago, but went inside again.”

Dorcas shook her head, looking toward the street. “We can’t find her. No one’s seen her, not since…well, it must be since she spoke with you.”

A chill coursed through his veins, but Gareth told himself not to leap to conclusions. “If she’s not in her room…is there anywhere else she might go to fill in time?”

“Not that I can think of. And…well, I don’t want to cause a fuss that might be unnecessary.” Dorcas met his eyes. “There haven’t been any sightings of cultists for days—no one’s come into the common room to say otherwise.”

“We haven’t seen or heard of anyone lurking around, either.”

“So there’s no reason to suppose anything dreadful has occurred.” Dorcas looked across the yard, then drew in a breath and rushed on, “But to go off somewhere without telling you, or me, especially now, when we’re all so on edge…that’s very unlike Miss Emily. Still, perhaps—”

“No.” Grim, Gareth caught her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re right. She wouldn’t vanish of her own accord. Which means—” He cut off the thought, instead said, “We search. Find whoever you can, and search thoroughly upstairs. I’ll get Bister and our recruits to check outside, while Mooktu and I will talk to the Perrots and search the ground floor. We’ll meet in the common room as soon as we’re done.”

Eyes wide, Dorcas nodded and hurried back to the auberge.

Grim-faced, Gareth turned to the men in the yard.

The search didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, Gareth strode into the common room to find Dorcas already there, the normally stoic maid wringing her hands, a worried Arnia standing beside her.

“She is not upstairs,” Arnia said.

Gareth turned as Perrot, who had gone himself to check his basement while his sons checked the stables and outbuildings, joined them.

The auberge keeper spread his hands. “There is no sign.”

“All our carriages and horses are still here,” one of the sons added.

Mooktu arrived from the kitchens and storerooms. Grimly, he shook his head.

Watson and Mullins rose from the table where they’d been waiting.

The front door crashed open and Bister barreled in, Jimmy on his heels. “She’s been taken by three men in a cart. They headed south.”

Gareth strode toward them. “Who saw them—and when?”

Bister was nearly out of breath. “Two old geezers outside. About an hour ago. And yes, they’re sure—they noticed because they thought it odd that in this weather she had just a shawl on over her gown—no cloak—while the three men in the cart were well wrapped up. Hoods drawn an’ all, so no one saw their faces.” Bister looked at Dorcas. “They said she was wearing a pink gown and had a purple shawl. Brown hair up.”

Dorcas paled. “It was a lavender gown.”

Bister nodded. “Like they said—pink.” He looked at Gareth. “It was her.”

Tight lipped, Gareth nodded. “Any advance on ‘south’?”

“Bister and I ran to the end of the street,” Jimmy put in. “There were lads at the corner, lounging about—they remembered and showed us the road the cart took. It’s not a main road—seems it goes south along the coast a ways.”

An angry rumble had been growing from the locals. Shock was quickly giving way to outrage. Now someone called out, “That’s the Virgejoie road.”

Gareth glanced at Perrot.

The auberge owner clarified, “It is the road that leads to one of the old aristo-family homes—a chateau.”

“Who lives there now?”

Perrot spread his hands. “No one. It has been deserted since the family fled during the Terror.”

“What condition is the chateau in—is it liveable?”

Numerous local men pulled faces, tilted their heads, then one vouchsafed, “The outbuildings and barn are derelict, but the main house still has walls, shutters and doors, and most of its roof.”

“Fireplaces, too,” another put in. “One could shelter there even in this weather. Gypsies sometimes do.”

Gareth exchanged a glance with Mooktu as the exclamations and rumblings rose anew. “That’s where they’ll be.”

Mooktu nodded. “They’ve taken her so you will come for her—they will wait until you do.”

He meant “wait before they do anything drastic” the cult was well known for forcing men to watch as they tortured their loved ones. His heart like lead, Gareth nodded—tried to push his reactions, his emotions down enough to think.

He had to think or he’d lose her.

He wasn’t going to lose her.

Perrot tugged his sleeve. “You have to let us help.” The auberge owner gestured to the crowd thronging the common room as the locals who’d come in for lunch were joined by a steady stream of others, alerted by yet others who’d gone out to spread the news. “This cult—they have played us for fools. They have attacked and carried off the lady while she was here, under my roof, and we scoffed and thought you were safe.” Like an aging bantam, Perrot stuck out his chest. “You must let us expunge this stain on our honor by letting us help you get her back.”

Many locals, young and old, cheered and clamored in Perrot’s support.

Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, waiting, ready for action, to one side, then he raised his hands and waved to quiet the crowd. Into the ensuing silence he said, “Everyone who wishes to assist—we’ll gladly accept your help. But”—he spoke strongly over the swelling cheers, silencing them once more—“we must do nothing that puts Miss Ensworth’s life at risk. So.” He paused, felt the familiar yoke of command settle on his shoulders, combined with a sharply threatening imperative. His mind raced. After a moment, he knew. “Here’s what we have to do.”

He sent Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins to circle past the cult’s pickets. “They’ll have more than one or two along the road into the estate, close enough to town to have time to race back and warn those at the chateau of our approach. Take positions between them and the chateau, as close to the chateau as possible without being seen from the building, and stop any messenger, any warning, getting through. We’ll meet you there once we’ve gathered our forces.”

The three nodded and went.

Dorcas and Arnia followed, dispatched to find the priest and get his church bell tolling.

Gareth looked at Watson, met the older man’s eye. “You need to stay here—you know what to do.”

Watson nodded. “I do. I will.”

Turning back to the gathering rabble—older locals as well as an increasing number of sailors and others who had days before formed part of their impromptu militia—Gareth waved at the door. “Let’s take this outside. Form up, and I’ll tell you exactly what we must do.”

Must do. Exactly. He needed these men, but if he didn’t control them, neither Emily nor he would see England again.

Sixteen

Tied securely to a once-elegant chair in the middle of a dusty half-derelict drawing room, Emily stared wide-eyed at the old Indian man her captors had delivered her to. Garbed in traditional Indian dress of dun-colored trousers and tunic, with a colorful woven vest, hat, and a shawl in deference to the cold, he appeared almost kindly, until one looked into his eyes and saw the fanatical light gleaming in the darkness.

She wasn’t sure he was entirely sane.

He was, however, indisputably in charge. The three who had brought her there, the knife pricking her side all the way, had bowed and scraped and looked thrilled to receive just a word in reward.

The old man—Uncle, they’d called him—was the commander Gareth had suspected existed, the one charged with halting Gareth’s mission.

As she’d been marched through the chateau, she’d seen many cultists, ready, battle-primed, some sharpening their knives. They’d glanced at her as she’d passed, but their dark gazes had slid away—they were already thinking of other things. Of killing.

Killing Gareth and the others—she knew he, and all the rest, too, would come after her.

That, it seemed, was the old man’s plan.

What horrified her, held her stupefied with terror, was how he apparently planned to fill in the time.

His back to her, he was tending a collection of implements, perfectly ordinary implements from kitchen, smithy, and barn, the sight of which caused not the slightest alarm—not until they lay heating on a bed of red-hot coals in a brazier set before a crumbling hearth.

If that weren’t bad enough, to one side a once-superb gaming table displayed an array of knives. Not ordinary, run-of-the-mill knives. Many she’d seen only rarely, on docks, at the fishmonger’s or the butcher’s. Filleting knives. Flaying knives.

Her blood had run cold long ago. She looked at the knives and felt sick.

She didn’t know what to do. With her feet tied and her arms lashed at elbow and wrist to the chair arms with old curtain cords, she was helpless to move, but she wasn’t going to simply sit and be burned and cut.

It took effort to force her mind to work—to think of what might distract this man—Uncle—from his grizzly entertainment, at least long enough for Gareth to reach her.

She couldn’t think beyond that point. She didn’t need to. Once Gareth reached her, nothing would stop them. Together they would win through.

But what could she do to gain time?

Was there any way she could make it easier for him to find her, so he could reach her more quickly?

She recalled the chateau as she’d seen it from the drive. Most of the windows were shuttered, except for this room. Because of the fumes from the smoking fire in the hearth and the brazier, they’d opened the shutters and set the windows ajar. As with all the front rooms on the ground floor, those windows opened to a paved terrace that ran the length of the house.

Talking seemed her best option.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

He glanced around, arrested, as if surprised she could talk.

Her expression innocent, she raised her brows. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

He frowned, straightened, a pair of hot pincers in one hand. “I”—he set his other fist, closed, to his chest—“am a representative of the great and mighty Black Cobra. You are here on my master’s orders, and soon you will die a most painful death—to the great glory of the Black Cobra!”

She fought to ignore the vision his words conjured, to ignore the heated pincers he held. She forced a confused frown. “You’ll pardon me if I seem a trifle obtuse, but…I’ve never met this Black Cobra person. Why would my death mean anything to him?”

Uncle blinked at her. “But…” Then he drew himself up. “You were instrumental in delivering the letter a Captain MacFarlane stole in Poona to a Colonel Delborough in Bombay.”

She opened her eyes wide. “That letter? Was it important? I had no idea. I thought it was a personal message from the captain to his commanding officer.” She did her best to look intrigued. “What’s in it?”

Uncle hesitated, then said, “I do not know.”

She frowned harder. “You mean you’ll kill me—and presumably many others—and you don’t even know why?”

He bridled; his dark eyes lit. “It is my master’s orders.”

“So he gives orders and you obey—even though you don’t have any idea why?”

He looked down his nose at her. “That is the way of the cult. It is how cults are.”

She had no difficulty looking unimpressed. “Regardless, I don’t see how killing me will in any way help your master. I don’t know anything about the letter, and I certainly don’t have it—I gave it to Colonel Delborough months ago.”

“You may not have it—but Major Hamilton might!”

“Gareth? Are you sure?” She looked unconvinced. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

“He has it—or a copy. This is why I have been sent.”

“To find the copy?”

“Yes.”

“Was that you all along—back in Aden and on the Red Sea?”

He answered, and she knew she was safe for just a little while—as long as relating their journey and the cult’s many actions would take. Like many such men, Uncle was vain enough to want to claim any and all victories he could. She was careful to preserve a suitably innocent mein, encouraging him to impress her with tales of his guile and standing.

He spoke in ringing tones, declaiming and making grand statements.

She asked her questions as loudly as she could.

All the while she listened, strained to hear any activity outside.

Any sign that rescue had arrived.

Inwardly, she prayed.

If the cultists in the chateau saw Gareth’s impromptu army marching up the drive, the first thing they would do was slit Emily’s throat.

Gareth knew that for an absolute fact. He was consequently unbending in imposing absolute authority over his ragtag forces.

He’d collected those who knew the chateau’s grounds, and kept them with him at the head of the ranks as they marched in good order out of the town. He halted them all at the bottom of the chateau’s long drive, and impressed on everyone the need for absolute silence from then on.

With quite remarkable stealth, they crept further up the drive. Those familiar with the place told him how far they could go without being seen from the chateau windows, or even from the roof.

Seated on a flat rock by the drive’s edge, Mullins was waiting at that very spot. He stood and saluted Gareth. “We caught two of the blighters hurrying back to warn their friends.”

Mullins whistled—a bird call. An instant later, Bister appeared from one side, then Mooktu came out of the bushes on the opposite side of the drive.

Gareth nodded. Now came the trickiest part of his plan. He’d spent the march to the chateau juggling options, seeing if any fitted the situation better, but…he glanced at the five “lieutenants” he’d appointed, each leading a group of men. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He assigned each of the five groups their positions—two groups to circle the chateau and attack from the rear, another two to cover the sides and the front, the last to spread out and block any attack from cultists who might still be closer to town and inclined to fall on them from behind. “But before anyone makes so much as a sound, I and my men will go in, and find and rescue Miss Ensworth.”

“One set of windows in the front are unshuttered,” Bister reported. “Otherwise, all activity’s at the rear.”

Gareth nodded, and returned his attention to the assembled men. “Three of us will go in and liberate Miss Ensworth.” Knowing the cult’s ways, he felt certain she would still be alive. He prayed she was also unharmed. “Once we have her safe, Bister will signal to Mullins here.” Gareth tipped his head to the grizzled veteran. “Mullins will then give the signal to attack. Once you receive that signal, you can overrun the place. You do not need to hold back—I assure you they won’t. They will fight to the death, because that’s their way. Don’t expect them to fight by our rules—they have their own rules, and they worship death.”

He swept his gaze over the eager faces, read the determination and resolution beneath. He nodded. “Good luck.”

Many murmured the same words to him as he turned to the chateau. He glanced at Mooktu. The big Pashtun nodded and joined him.

Bister was shifting from foot to foot. “We ready?”

Gareth nodded and waved. “Lead on.”

Bister turned and went, sliding through the shadows beneath the old trees, leading them up and over the slight ridge that hid the dip where their army was gathered from the chateau beyond.

The building was a typical rectangular structure in stone. What had once been a wide parterre was overgrown and choked with weeds. Bister led them to the left corner of the building. A raised, paved terrace ran all along the front. With the windows mostly shuttered, they could approach and climb up with little risk of being seen.

Gaining the terrace, Gareth caught Bister’s shoulder, leaned close to whisper, “No guards?”

Bister shook his head. “Seems they’re relying on the pickets. We found six strung out, but only two reported back.”

Gareth nodded. He studied the open terrace for a moment, listening…a faint murmur of voices reached him. Someone was in the room with the open windows. The faint tang of smoke teased his nose.

Drawing the primed pistol from his belt, he cocked it, then, holding the weapon ready in one hand, he walked silently, step by step, along the chateau wall toward those open windows.

There was rubble on the terrace. He was careful to avoid it. He didn’t need to check to see if Mooktu and Bister did the same, or even if they were following. They’d fought together for so long, in situations like this they acted as one.

Halting two feet from the slightly open window, more accurately a French door, for which he gave thanks, he listened again. Getting into the room would be easy, but he needed to know if Emily was there, and how many men there were.

An older male voice reached him, the cadences distinctly Indian. “So we knew the major and his party would be trapped on the coast…and so, here you are.”

A pause ensued, filled with burgeoning malevolence. The hair on Gareth’s nape rose. Was it Emily the unknown man was talking to?

The voice went on, now cloyingly crooning, “And soon—very soon—the major will arrive, and then you will learn why you are here.”

“You think to use me—to torture me—to make him give you the letter?”

Emily, and her voice was strong.

“Why, yes, dear lady. Don’t you think that will work?”

Gareth signaled to Mooktu and Bister, then, pistol raised, stepped across the French door, kicked it wide, and went through.

Emily, at first glance unharmed, was tied to a chair. An older, black-bearded man—the cult commander Gareth had seen in Aden—was standing, stunned, beside a brazier before the hearth.

Gareth scanned the room, pistol tracking as he searched for guards, and found none. Halting between Emily and the old man, he lowered the pistol. Behind him, Bister and Mooktu worked to cut through the cords binding Emily.

Slack-jawed, the old man glanced from him to the window. “Where are my men?”

Emily abruptly stood, massaging her wrists, stamping her feet free of the cords. The old man looked back at them, at Gareth. Realization washed over his face.

He did something none of them had imagined he would—he shrieked. Not a scream, but a sound of pure rage, one that pierced the walls and echoed down corridors.

Gareth jerked up his pistol and fired.

But the man had lunged at the weapons in the brazier; the shot struck him in the shoulder and spun him away. He stumbled back and abruptly sat down before the hearth.

Just as the door burst open and six cultists stormed in.

Gareth swore and drew his sword. Mooktu already had his scimitar flashing. Behind them, Bister leapt for the window. Hands to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle, then ducked a slash from a cultist and raced back to Gareth’s flank, drawing his own sword as he swung to face the enemy.

Trapped behind the three men, Emily gritted her teeth. More blood and knives and wretched cultists. They were more or less in the center of the room. She sensed her men trying to back, being forced back as they strove to prevent any cultist getting behind them. She grabbed the chair to which she’d been tied, went to shove it aside, saw a cultist trying to come around Bister—she heaved and sent the chair crashing into the cultist, knocking him back.

Bister shifted postion to cover that angle. Both Gareth and Mooktu stepped back.

Emily couldn’t see much past their shoulders, but she’d fought cultists with these three before—this fighting was different.

These cultists were stronger, better trained. She remembered Gareth saying the leader would most likely have some of the cult’s feared assassins with him. Mooktu and Gareth shifted. She managed to peek between them, and realized matters were even worse. More cultists were pouring through the door.

She glanced around wildly, searching for some weapon.

But there was nothing. Nothing….

Except for an old, mildewed curtain.

Two steps took her to it. The windows were tall. She grabbed the curtain with both hands and yanked. The material parted from its anchors and fell, covering her in dust and musty, disintegrating silk, but the cotton lining, although thin, was intact.

Intact enough. She flung out the curtain, then, arms stretched to her sides, swiftly gathered the fabric in both hands as she hurried up behind Gareth. As she prayed….

She halted immediately behind him. “Gareth—duck!”

She waited only to see him start to move, then with all her might she flung the curtain up and out.

Mooktu leaned away to let the material whip past him. The curtain fell on the three assassins facing Gareth and Mooktu, trapping their blades, enveloping them in its folds.

Three seconds later, there were three less cultists.

Four more pushed in, but were hampered by the tangle of bodies.

Behind the four, another cultist leapt into the air and flung a dagger—at Emily. She yelped and ducked—felt the blade sheer through her sleeve and graze her upper arm, but only shallowly. “I’m all right, I’m all right!”

Gareth halted his instinctive turning to her. Teeth gritted, he met the cultists before him with renewed ferocity.

Never had he fought with such unfettered recklessness. Never had fear and fury so controlled him.

He slashed, countered, and inwardly swore. Bister had risked his life to give the signal. Where the hell were his troops?

Almost on the thought, he sensed the change—the turning of the tide. Cultists to the rear of the pack pulled back, listened, then rushed for the door.

Grim determination gripped him. With Mooktu at his shoulder, Bister close on his left, he redoubled his efforts, beating back the assassins.

He and Mooktu simultaneously felled the pair before them, then looked up, and realized all the others were at the door, rushing out. The last in line was the old man, moving surprisingly swiftly.

In the doorway he turned, features contorted, dark eyes blazing.

He raised a hand and threw a knife. Not at Gareth. Past him.

Gareth flung himself back and to the side, connecting with Emily and taking her to the floor.

He felt the impact of the knife. A second passed, one of sheer horror and desperation, before pain bloomed and he realized the blade was embedded in his shoulder, not in her.

He sagged. “Thank God.” Head hanging, he almost wept with relief.

She was wriggling, exclaiming, pushing at him.

Slowly, he eased back from her, then sat up.

“My God! The bastard hit you!” She sounded as if she wanted to tear the old man limb from limb. She looked up at Mooktu and Bister. “What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

Mooktu and Bister were only too ready to rush after the assassins.

“No!” Gareth’s firm order had them halting on their way to the door. His left arm held tight against him, he propped himself up on his right. “We don’t know if there are any others lurking. We need to remain here, and let the others finish it. Let them do what they came to do, what they’ve trained to do. What they need to do to salvage the honor of their town.” He paused to breathe in through the pain. Managed to keep his voice steady to say, “We’ll wait here until they’re done.”

Mooktu and Bister understood. They turned and came back.

Emily glared at him, then, lips tight, looked up at Mooktu. “In that case, you can help me get this out.”

By the time the sounds of battle finally died away, Gareth was sitting on a wobbly chair Bister had found in another room, the wound in his upper arm tightly bound. Mooktu had jerked out the dagger—a long, fine krislike blade that, luckily, hadn’t struck anything vital. His arm still worked.

Before he’d allowed anyone to tend to him, he’d insisted on looking at Emily’s wound. Impatient, she’d jigged while he’d widened the tear in her sleeve, but the skin beneath it, although scratched, wasn’t broken.

Of course, his wound had bled. Emily had cursed and, using strips torn from her petticoat’s flounce, had bound it tightly. “We need to get that cleaned as soon as possible.” Standing beside the chair, she’d scowled down at him. “As we’re doing nothing here, can’t we leave?”

He’d looked up at her, smiled, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you. But not yet.”

She’d humphed, but had left her hand in his.

They were still like that, she standing beside him, her hand in his, when the door opened wide and Mullins strode in. The grin on his face told them all they needed to know, but he snapped off a salute, and reported as the others—the Perrots, father and sons, the various seamen, farmhands, and most of their ragtag group—crowded in behind him.

Many were sporting injuries, some more than minor, but all looked thoroughly delighted. Victorious.

The gist of Mullins’s report was that, as expected, most of the cultists had fought to the death. There were only three survivors—two young men who were clearly very low on the cult tree, and the old man.

“They called him Uncle,” Emily said. “He was their leader.”

Perrot asked, “Should we bring him in?”

Gareth thought, then rose to his feet. “No. Better we interrogate him in town.”

At his suggestion, Perrot and the other elders organized a detail to bury the dead, and another to escort the three prisoners to town. That done, and with the more critically wounded sent ahead, the rest of them trailed back down the drive and onto the road.

With Emily beside him, her arm twined with his, her hand beneath his on his sleeve, her fingers gripping, Gareth discovered that no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop smiling.

Around them, excited tales of cultists defeated and dispatched, of acts of derring-do, circled, but in that moment only one fact had any purchase in his mind.

She was with him. Alive, well, and unharmed.

And he was still alive to rejoice over that.

To him, at that point, nothing else mattered.

Smiling, he ambled by her side down the road.

The light was fading and evening was closing in when, back at the inn, with Gareth’s arm washed and rebound, with all explanations made and exclamations done, a court of the interested crowded the auberge common room to hear him interrogate their prisoners.

As he’d expected, the younger two were little more than terrified boys. They knew nothing, so had nothing to tell. At Perrot’s suggestion, they were escorted away to be handed over to the gendarmes for attacking various locals.

The cult commander, Uncle, was an entirely different subject. Gareth elected to sit back and let Mooktu question him.

Defeated, the wound in his shoulder roughly bound, Uncle was cowed, confused, and clearly unable to believe he and his men hadn’t triumphed, yet malevolence rolled off him, and something that struck the gathered listeners as the distillation of pure evil ran beneath his answers.

Mooktu led him to describe his mission, and all that he’d done in following Gareth’s party. Uncle readily related what he saw as his clevernesses, yet revealed nothing they didn’t already know, or hadn’t already surmised. With every word out of his mouth, Uncle drew the noose tighter; he didn’t seem to understand that his listeners didn’t share his opinion of his greatness, much less his belief in his right to do whatever he chose in the Black Cobra’s name.

Often the crowd shifted uneasily, exchanging glances.

Convinced that Uncle had no information of any value to them, Gareth turned his mind to what to do with the man.

When Mooktu reached the end of his questions, Gareth turned to the crowd. “Did this man attack anyone here?”

As he’d expected, the answer was no.

He looked at Perrot. “Uncle attacked me, and he ordered the kidnapping of Miss Ensworth and threatened her life, and, as you’ve heard, he’s ordered much worse while pursuing us. However, with luck, my party will cross the Channel tomorrow.” He looked inquiringly at Captain Lavalle, who had offered days before to take them.

Lavalle nodded. “The wind has turned. Tomorrow we can sail.”

Gareth looked back at Perrot. “So we can’t hand this man to the gendarmes, for there will be no one here to press charges against him.”

A dark murmur passed around the room. Before dissatisfaction could bloom, Gareth stated, “However, once we sail for England”—he looked at Uncle—“his mission will have failed. And his master, and the cult, have a long-standing practice of punishing failure with death.”

Gareth didn’t need to ask Uncle for confirmation—awakening terror etched his face, there for all to see. “I suggest,” Gareth said, “that the best way of dealing with this fiend is to hold him here, in the basement of the inn, until tomorrow. Then when my party is safely away, on our way to England, release him, and drive him out of town.” Gareth glanced around the crowd. “There are cultists still roaming the countryside. They’ll find him—and mete out the same punishment he would have dealt to any other of his kind who failed.”

Looking again at Uncle, he continued, “There’s no need for us—any of us—to sully our hands dealing with this sort of man.”

Murmurs rose up, some calling for blood, yet there were enough wise heads among the crowd to ensure agreement. Realizing what they planned, what would happen…Uncle seemed to crumple before their eyes.

When Perrot, having consulted with his neighbors, turned back, slapped the table, and declared, “We will do it—just as you say,” Uncle cowered.

Gareth noted it. With a nod to Perrot, he straightened, was about to rise when, quick as a striking snake, Uncle shot out his hand and clutched Gareth’s wrist.

Gareth’s skin crawled. He froze.

“Please…” Uncle whined.

Seated beside Gareth, Emily seized a wooden platter and thumped it down on Uncle’s wrist.

He snatched back his hand, cradling it to his chest, shot her a look more frightened and shocked than scarifying, but then he turned to Gareth as Gareth pushed to his feet, pulling Emily up with him.

“No! Please…” Uncle held out his other hand beseechingly. “You do not understand. Give me up to the Cobra, I deserve nothing less—but please…tell me—where is my son? Where is his body?”

Gareth frowned. “Your son?”

“He led the party who came against you with the Berbers in the desert.”

Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and the others. “Any ideas?”

Mullins looked at Uncle. “He was the leader of that lot—the cultists with the other group of Berbers?”

Uncle nodded. “Please tell me—where lies his body?”

Mullins snorted. “God only knows.” He looked at Gareth. “I think he was taken with the rest of them.”

“Taken?” Uncle looked from one to the other. “He lives?”

Gareth looked at the hope in the man’s eyes. “Did you send him to lead that raid?”

“It was his chance to gain glory—it is the way of the cult.”

“In that case, you and your cult have delivered your son into slavery. He’d promised the Berbers they could have us to sell—the Berbers took him and his men instead.”

Uncle’s face blanked. After a moment, he whispered, “My son…is a slave?” To him, it was unthinkable.

“No.” Slowly Uncle shook his head. “No, no, no-ooh!” Wrapping his arms around himself, he started to rock, softly keening.

The others stood, Perrot with them. “We will take him down and lock him up.”

Lavalle came forward. “The tide will be favorable tomorrow morning at ten.”

Gareth sighed, glanced at Emily beside him. “This isn’t over yet.” He looked at Uncle, being led off to the basement by the Perrots’ strapping sons. “There are cultists still out there. He knows there are.” Turning, he arched a brow at Bister, who grimly nodded. “And we know there are. There were some we didn’t pick up keeping watch along the road.” Gareth met the captain’s eyes. “We’ll need to make arrangements to ensure we get safely aboard.”

The captain grinned and clapped him on the back. “You have given us much excitement in a time of boredom. Come, sit, and we will drink to your health—all of your healths. And then we will make our plans.”

Hours later, mellowed by good cognac and the sweet taste of triumph, however temporary, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs to their chamber.

Their plans for tomorrow organized, the others had retired some time ago. The common room had largely emptied, the stories all told.

Tomorrow they would leave. The unknown, most unpredictable, unquestionably most dangerous part of their journey was behind them, weathered and survived. Tomorrow they would start a new leg, hopefully with less threatening challenges.

Tonight, however, was a time for…

Thankfulness. Gratefulness. Rejoicing.

Emily heard him shut the door, shut out the world. She paused by the bed, waited for him to draw near, then turned directly into his arms.

He smiled. His hands fastening about her waist, he bent his head to kiss her—

She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, wait. There’s something I have to say.”

He studied her eyes, arched his brows.

Her palms on his chest, she held his gaze. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

His lips curved.

“However,” she went on, increasingly stern, “while I most sincerely appreciate being saved, next time, do you think you could manage not to get hurt yourself?”

Curling her fingers in his lapels, she went up on her toes the better to say, “I don’t like you being hurt. When you get hurt, it hurts more than if I’m hurt—just in a different way. I panic when you’re hurt—and I don’t panic. I’m an indomitable Englishwoman and I’ve traveled the world, but you being hurt is something I can’t bear.” From close quarters, she stared into his eyes, one, then the other, then categorically stated, “I love you—do you understand that? I love you—so you mustn’t get hurt. Not anymore.”

She held his gaze for an instant more, then pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck, stretched the last inch and pressed her lips to his. “But thank you.” She kissed him.

“Thank you.” Another kiss.

“Thank you.” She whispered the last thank you over his lips, then met them in a kiss that this time didn’t end, but lengthened, strengthened, deepened as he took over, took charge, took her mouth, and she gave.

Surrendered.

Murmured, when his lips left hers to skate down the arching column of her throat, “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not.” His breath feathered over the sensitive skin where shoulder met neck. “I’m…cowed.”

She laughed, a short burst of disbelief that ended in a hiss as his hands closed about her breasts. After that, conversation was on neither of their agendas. Only one thing was.

One need, one want.

One passion, one desire.

One overwhelming craving.

Gareth had expected that—the age-old need to crown death’s defeat with a celebration of life, of the pinnacle of living.

Loving.

Loving her—and having her love him. The knowledge invested his every touch, made every caress she gifted him with one of precious delight.

Clothes drifted to the floor. Incoherent murmurs rose and fell as they uncovered, discovered, and feasted. As they fell on the bed and skin met skin, and passion rose and desire sparked, arced and drew them in.

Into the familiar whirlpool of sensation, into the hungry, greedy joy.

Into the delight, the pleasure, the giving.

That night they loved.

Loved in a way they hadn’t before, at a deeper, more concerted, more attuned level, one where the sharing was richer, more vibrant, more vivid, and every moment resonated with a more powerful meaning.

Alive, wondrously so, naked they wrestled, taking, giving, wanting, yearning, gasping, and surrendering.

She took him in and rode him, wild and abandoned, her pearly skin kissed by the silvery moonlight, her breasts full and peaked as she rose and slid down, concentration etching her features as she pleasured him, pleasured him.

Loved him, loved him…

On a groan, he rose up and tipped her, rolled with her, sinking again into her welcoming warmth as her arms closed about him and he returned the pleasure.

The loving.

The love.

Until their bodies were filled, full and cresting, until passion was spent and desire razed and their blood pounded and their senses imploded and ecstacy rushed in, seized them, took them, shattered them.

Wracked them.

Bound them together with silken strands and slowly lowered them back to earth, back to the rumpled sheets, and the haven of each other’s arms.

They lay there, tangled, unable to move, unwilling to part, even just an inch. Hearts thundering, skin damp, breathing labored, they clung and quietly, carefully, held tight.

The moment was too precious, too new, too revealing to risk shifting and ending it just yet.

Yet time ticked on and the night closed around them. Muscles relaxed; satiation slipped in and soothed them, reassured them. Eventually she sighed, and he reached down and drew the covers up and over them both, tucking her against his side—where she now slept, where she now belonged.

Where he needed her to be from now on.

One arm bent behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, the other arm holding her close. After a moment of comfortable silence, he ventured, “So…does that mean: Yes, you’ll marry me?”

He felt her lips curve against his chest. “Perhaps. My answer is still perhaps.”

He didn’t want to ask, but…“Why perhaps?”

“Because…I want something more.”

He didn’t ask what more she wanted—he knew. I love you. He hadn’t given her the same, or even equivalent words. He’d answered her truly—he’d felt cowed. Awed by her confidence in uttering them—those infinitely powerful three little words. He’d heard women were like that—strong in such things, confident in their feelings.

Men—especially men like him…

Even now he had to quell a shudder at the thought of letting those words pass his lips. It was bad enough that he knew they were real. That his inner self, his heart—it seemed his very soul—had already accepted that reality.

Yet all he’d ever need to make him shy from saying those words was to remember how he’d felt earlier that day. When he’d heard she’d been taken, he’d felt…eviscerated. As if someone had reached into his chest and stolen his heart—literally. He’d felt empty there, hollow, as if he’d lost something so vital he’d never know warmth or happiness again.

The feeling had been profound, absolute, unshakable.

If anything could make him wary of love—of admitting it out aloud—it was that. He’d barely been able to function as he’d needed to, to take command as he’d had to, to get her back.

He’d been a soldier all his adult life. Never before had he felt vulnerable. Today, instead of the habitual invincibility essential to all good commanders, that sense of being protected by impenetrable armor even though one knew that wasn’t true, he’d felt…as if someone had carved a hole in his armor directly over his heart.

That vulnerable feeling hadn’t left him, not until he’d had her in his arms, not until he’d known that all danger to her had passed.

Even then…

She’d fallen asleep. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing, marveled at how soothing he found it. How reassuring the soft sound was, how he recognized it, knew it, at some level he couldn’t explain.

He was on the cusp of sleep himself when a stray truth wafted through his mind.

Today, she had been first and foremost in his thoughts—he hadn’t thought of the scroll holder and its safety. Hadn’t really thought of his mission per se.

For days—weeks—she’d been highest in his mind. She, her safety, and even more, her happiness.

He was a man of duty—he lived by that code, and always had.

Yet he put her above his duty—to his comrades, to his country, to his king. And he always would.

And that, he thought, as sleep dragged him down, said it all.

“We must strike tomorrow—we will get no other chance.” Akbar sat amid the ruins of the kitchen of the old mansion and looked at his second, then at the other two cultists who had been watching the road and had escaped with them.

“What about Uncle?” one of the pair asked. “Surely we should free him?”

“It was Uncle who led us to our terrible defeat.” Akbar flung out his arms. “How many comrades have we lost—has he lost—in this campaign?”

After a moment, he folded his arms and went on, “We should remember that the Black Cobra demands absolute obedience—and our orders do not include rescuing Uncle. He deserves nothing but our master’s punishment, but that is not for us to deliver, not tomorrow—not while the major is still on this side of the water, yet to board his ship.”

His second nodded. “Our orders are clear. They always have been.”

Akbar nodded. “We must stop the major and retrieve the scroll holder he carries, whatever the cost.”

The other two nodded. “You are right. So how will we do this?”

They discussed, and discussed, until the truth became clear.

“We cannot do both,” his second stated. “We can stop the major, or get the scroll holder, but with only four of us…we cannot do both.”

Akbar hated to choose, but…he nodded. “If we kill the major and his woman, the Black Cobra will be pleased, and those waiting in England will have a better chance of retrieving the scroll holder.”

Seventeen

13th December, 1822
Morning
Our room in the Perrots’ auberge

Dear Diary,

I am almost there. I can almost taste the ultimate victory—the joy I will feel when Gareth finally, finally, tells me he loves me. In words. Out loud.

He told me the truth last night, not in words, but in actions. Actions that spoke far too loudly for me to mistake his message.

So yes, he is now and forever my “one,” and yes, we will marry. While he is pondering how to give me that “more” that I require before agreeing to the inevitable, I find myself wondering what our union will be like, how it will work. Not in the specific but in general terms. What manner of marriage do I want? What form will be right for us?

Four months ago, I hadn’t even known such questions might be asked.

It’s really quite exciting, this new life unfolding before me.

E.

The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into an event. News had spread, and by nine-thirty that morning, when Gareth’s party needed to leave the auberge and board their ship, the narrow streets were lined with well-wishers, all smiling and clapping and cheering them on.

The sheer numbers of locals ensured no cultist would be likely to get close.

Gareth sent the baggage, then the others in twos and threes ahead. Their route lay straight down the street opposite the auberge, which led to the main quay, then to the left a short way, and out along one of the lesser wharves. Captain Lavalle’s ship was berthed midway along.

The skies were gray, but neither sleet, snow, rain, nor gales threatened. The streets were damp, if not dry, and the breeze was blowing offshore.

At the last, after much touching of cheeks, slapping of backs and shaking of hands, he and Emily took their leave of the Perrots, and emerged from the inn.

Smiling, nodding to those in the crowd they recognized, they walked briskly down the street, onto the quay, and out along the wharf.

They were within a hundred feet of Lavalle’s ship, had paused to farewell a group of sailors, and were just moving on, when Gareth heard a telltale shi-ing.

He grabbed Emily, pushed her back and down, covering her body with his—but not before that first arrow sliced across her forearm. The next arrow thudded into the wharf beside her.

Two more found their mark in his back, but too weakly to do more than pierce his skin.

Pandemonium erupted all along the wharf. More arrows rained down, one slicing across his arm, but the archers had misjudged their range; the force behind the arrows was enough to wound, but only by sheer luck could they kill. Realizing that, some sailors seized craypot lids and other makeshift shields, and formed a protective wall between Gareth and Emily and their ship. Other sailors swarmed aboard the two ships from whose crow’s nests the archers were shooting.

Hauling Emily to her feet, Gareth rushed her to the gangplank and up it. Gaining the deck, he looked around and saw one cultist-archer dive from one crow’s nest into the harbor, while the other had been subdued and was being manhandled down the mast.

Captain Lavalle came striding up. The gangplank was already aboard. “We’re away. You’ll be glad to see the last of these attackers—”

Steel clanged on steel. Lavalle whirled. Looking past him, Gareth saw two cultists in the bow, wet and dripping, swords viciously slashing at sailors armed only with knives.

He thrust Emily at Arnia and Mooktu. “Tend her wound.”

With an oath, Lavalle ran for the action. Drawing his sword, Gareth followed, grimly pleased to have a release for the emotions roiling within him, evoked by having Emily hurt, especially while he’d been standing beside her.

He’d been helpless to protect her more than he had, but he wasn’t helpless now, and one of the cultists paid. Lavalle dispatched the other.

Duty done, violent feelings appeased, Gareth stepped back, and the sailors moved in. Once the ship cleared the harbor, the bodies would be tipped over the side.

Gareth turned—and found Emily there. She looked into his eyes, a frown in hers, then, lips tight, locked her fingers in the sleeve of his uninjured arm and tugged. “Come and let me tend those wounds.”

He frowned. “What about your arm?” She’d obviously ignored the wound; he could see a thin line of blood on the edge of her slashed sleeve.

“That’s just a scratch.” Jaw firming ominously, she tugged harder. “Come on. Don’t argue.”

He consented to let her drag him along. “Mine is just a scratch, too.”

“Mine is a real scratch—it hardly bled at all.”

He halted. “That’s worse than mine. You—”

She turned on him, rising up on her toes to, quietly, shriek in his face, “You have two arrows in your shoulder! Don’t talk to me about scratches—you weren’t supposed to get hurt again, remember?”

He’d forgotten about the arrows. Reaching over his shoulder, he found them, yanked them free of the thick weave of his coat, then brought them around to show her the arrowheads. “See—hardly any blood. They barely broke the skin.”

She studied them, humphed. “Perhaps. Regardless, you will come below now and let me tend your wounds.”

Looking into her face, registering her tone—determined and one level away from shrill—he nodded, and when she turned and led the way, meekly followed her to the stern companionway.

Half an hour later, Gareth checked with Lavalle, then, seeing Emily standing at the stern watching Boulogne sink below the horizon, went to join her.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look his way, just lifted her face to the breeze, then sighed. “They were nice people—the Perrots and all the others—even if they were French.”

He smiled. “True.” After a moment, smile fading, he murmured, “However, I doubt I’ll be rushing to return, not in the foreseeable future.”

“Hmm.”

A long moment passed, then he quietly said, “I’ve had enough of traveling.” He glanced at her. “How about you?”

She turned her head, looked into his eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too.” She looked over the water. “I’ve had enough of adventure, of being in danger. Especially now that I’ve found what I was searching for.”

They both thought of what that was. Of what it would lead to.

The seas grew choppier and he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her from the worst of the snapping breeze as they watched Boulogne disappear and their past fall behind them, sliding away in the wake of the ship, and consciously let their minds look ahead. To the lives they would lead, and the future they would share.

13th December, 1822
Afternoon
Aboard Lavalle’s ship bobbing in the Channel

Dear Diary,

He still hasn’t said he loves me, but I would be foolish indeed to doubt it. Even more than his actions, his motivations, his reasons, his reactions, all of which have remained unwavering for some weeks, speak of his true feelings.

I can no longer doubt him on that score, so my question now is how much more—what else—should I seek from him in order that our marriage is based from the first on the very best foundation possible?

Once again, I feel in dire need of my sisters’ advice.

Regardless, I will persevere.

E.

The light was fading as the white cliffs of Dover rose up out of the sea to greet them. With Emily beside him, Gareth stood in the prow and watched the white line expand and draw nearer. The rest of their party were belowdecks, sharing stories of home and hopes for the future.

For him…the future was not yet.

Emily, thank heaven, understood. Sliding her arm in his, she leaned against his shoulder. “We’ll be dodging cultists again shortly, won’t we?”

He nodded. “This is my first sight of England in seven years and…” When she said nothing, just waited, he dragged in a breath and said, “I can’t help thinking how lucky I am, cultists and all. MacFarlane won’t see home again—and I don’t know where the others are, if they’ll make it home, too.”

Her hand slid into his, and she gripped. “You know what they’re like, those three friends of yours. I saw them, remember? They’re as determined as you. They’ll fight, and win through. They always have, haven’t they?”

His lips quirked. He inclined his head.

Eyes on the still distant land, he forced his mind to the immediate future. “The Black Cobra is going to know we’re here soon after we land. Once he does, he’ll come at us with even greater—even more deadly—force. He’ll do everything he can to stop us—to stop the letter I’m carrying getting into Wolverstone’s hands.” He paused, then went on, “Even after that, we—none of us in our party—will be safe. Not until the Black Cobra himself is brought down.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “We will win. We’ll see this through, and after that…”

Perhaps. His jaw firmed. “When this is all over, we’ll talk about…what’s next.”

About their marriage. He now knew beyond question that he would do whatever he needed to to ensure she said yes. To ensure she remained his—his lover, his wife, and more.

Coming home with her by his side was both a joy and a burden. That he had found her, the only woman he’d ever considered marrying, that she was with him, and one way or another would remain, was all he could ever have dreamed of by way of joyous homecomings. Yet the potential danger she would face setting foot on English soil by his side muted that joy, placed a heavy weight on his shoulders and set a vise about his heart.

Returning the pressure of her fingers, shifting his to close his hand around hers, he silently vowed that no matter the threat, he would keep her safe. If he wanted a future, he’d have to—without her, he wouldn’t have one.

They stepped off the gangplank and onto the docks, shrouded in gray drizzle with night rapidly closing in. With heavy coats and thick cloaks wrapped about them, they followed their baggage, loaded on a small cart, out of the harbor and into the town.

Bister appeared at Gareth’s shoulder. “Cultist on the far corner to the left. He’s seen us.”

Gareth glanced through the damp veil and saw a shocked brown face staring in their direction. “They didn’t expect us to get through their blockade, which means there’ll be no huge welcome waiting for us around the corner.”

Bister shivered artistically. “Just as well. We need to get out of this wet before the cold gets into our bones.”

They’d all forgotten England’s dampness.

Wolverstone had stipulated they put up at the Waterman’s Inn in Castle Street. They reached it without incident. Giving his name at the counter, Gareth discovered that rooms had already been arranged—the entire first floor of one of the inn’s wings.

“Arranged by a gen’leman who’s waiting in the tap, sir.” The innkeeper nodded to a doorway to the right. “Him or his friend’s been in every day for a week, now. Would you like me to fetch him, or…?”

“No need.” Gareth turned, glanced at Emily by his side. “Wolverstone’s guards, I imagine.”

Rejoining the others, they sorted out rooms. As the others trudged upstairs, overseeing the lads ferrying up the trunks and bags, Gareth arched a brow at Emily. “Do you want to go up and change, or”—he tipped his head toward the tap—“shall we go and see?”

In answer she turned toward the tap. Together they walked through the open doorway.

There was a goodly crowd dotted about small tables and booths, couples and friends sharing a drink at the end of a winter’s day. A cheery fire burned in the hearth. Pausing on the threshold, Gareth scanned those present. His gaze halted on a brown-haired man seated in a booth along the side wall, trying to read a news-sheet in the light shed by a wall sconce.

Even as he looked, the man glanced their way—an idle glance that immediately grew more focused, more intent.

Lips curving, Gareth steered Emily toward the booth.

As they neared, the man stood, slowly uncoiling to his six-foot-plus height. Brown brows remained level over shrewd hazel eyes. “Major Hamilton.”

It was a statement, uttered with the same assurance Gareth felt in approaching the man. Like recognized like. This man had been in the Guards, too, and there wasn’t any other in the tap who could possibly have been one of Dalziel’s ex-operatives.

Gareth smiled and held out his hand. “Gareth. Wolverstone didn’t convey any names.”

“He never does.” Their new guard shook hands. He had a ready smile, one he shared equally between Gareth and Emily. “I’m Jack Warnefleet, here to make sure you remain hale and whole throughout the rest of your journey.”

Gareth introduced Emily. Jack shook hands, then waved them into the booth. While they settled he asked, and went to fetch drinks—mulled wine for Emily, ale for Gareth and him.

When he returned with their glasses and passed them around, Gareth sipped, smiled. He glanced at Emily, then looked across the table. “Speaking of our onward journey…”

“Indeed, but first, is all to your liking here? How many do you have with you?”

Gareth told him.

Jack nodded. “We’ve bespoken enough rooms. Before we look forward, tell me how you’ve fared.” Jack’s gaze included Emily.

And Gareth recalled no one knew she was with him. “I’m unsure how much you know of the beginning of this venture, but Miss Ensworth was instrumental in ferrying the vital letter from MacFarlane to us in Bombay.”

Jack looked at Emily with growing respect. “I was told some lady had.” He smiled charmingly. “It’s an even greater pleasure to meet you, Miss Ensworth.”

“As it transpired, Emily left Bombay at the same time I did, and our paths crossed at Aden—luckily, as it happened, for cultists were stalking her, too. From there…” Gareth condensed their travels to the minimum, including only the operational information.

Jack’s expression grew satisfied as he absorbed the details of their recent encounters at Boulogne. “As usual, I don’t know what Royce—Wolverstone—is planning, but I suspect he’ll view the number you’ve managed to draw and eliminate around Boulogne as something of a victory. You’re one of the decoys, so drawing the enemy and reducing numbers was precisely what you were supposed to do.”

“Have you heard anything of the other couriers?” Gareth asked.

“Delborough’s here—he came in two days ago through Southampton. I gather his route will be via London and then on into Cambridge, to Somersham Place. I haven’t heard anything yet about the other two.”

“So what’s our onward route?”

Jack grinned. “Your first stop is Mallingham Manor. That’s Trentham’s—your other guard’s—family estate. It’s in Surrey, not far away. Once we have you safe there, we’re to await further orders.” He straightened. “It’s late, and you’ll want some dinner and a good night’s rest. As you saw, there are cultists in town, not many, but we need them to let their master know you’re here. If you have enough men to stand watch through the night…?”

Gareth nodded. “We’re used to it.”

“Good. In that case, I’ll take the news of your arrival back to the manor, and we’ll send off a messenger hotfoot to Royce. Then, tomorrow morning, Trentham and I will join you for breakfast here, and we’ll make our plans.” He glanced at Emily, then back at Gareth. “If you think you’ll be ready to go on?”

Gareth nodded decisively, from the corner of his eye saw Emily do the same. “We will be.”

“Excellent.” Jack stood, and they did, too. They shook hands again, then he saluted them. “Until tomorrow.”

He strode out, leaving the tap by the street door. With Emily on his arm, Gareth headed for their room.

Uncle trudged along a road—he didn’t even know where it led. Darkness had fallen; he needed to find shelter of some kind to see out the freezing night.

The villagers of Boulogne had chased him out of their town. He was still stunned that they had dared to lay hands on his august person. He’d gone to the chateau expecting to find men, weapons, and the coin cache hidden there. But the chateau had been deserted. Someone had found the coins and taken them.

Mindlessly, he’d turned south. He refused to let himself think of his son. The major had lied—he must have. His jailers had told him some cultists had attacked the major’s party on the docks, but again had been defeated. The attackers had been killed. Was there no one left?

On the thought, a shadow separated from the trees just ahead. Uncle reached for a knife, but he no longer had one. Then he recognized the man beneath the cloak. Uncle brightened. “Akbar!”

Uncle made his legs go faster, already making plans. “How many others have we?”

Akbar didn’t move, didn’t reply, not until Uncle halted before him and peered into his face.

“None,” Akbar said.

“All gone?” Uncle couldn’t credit such failure. Facing forward, he narrowed his eyes. “We will have to cross the Channel and join—”

“No.”

He blinked, focused on Akbar’s face again. “What do you mean, no?”

Akbar’s eyes, flat and cold, held his. “I mean…”

Uncle felt steel slice through skin, through flesh, slide between his ribs…

Akbar’s lips curled cruelly. “I’ve been waiting for you, old man, just so I could tell you that this”—he thrust the knife in to the hilt—“is the last deed I will do in the Black Cobra’s name.”

Jerking the blade out, Akbar stepped back, watched as Uncle crumpled to the ground. “To the glory and delight of the Black Cobra.”

For Gareth and Emily, the evening passed with myriad adjustments, small points of recognition and relaxation as they slipped once more into English ways. Custom once again forced them to dine apart from the others, in a private parlor. Reacquainting themselves with English fare was an adjustment they found amusing.

Later, with the watches set and everyone irrepressibly relieved to be once more within a society in which they felt at home, they retired.

Much later, in the small hours of the morning, Gareth slid from beneath the covers, silently dressed, and went to take his turn on watch.

Half an hour had passed, and he was sitting on the landing, his feet on the stairs, shadows thick around him, when a sound had him glancing along their corridor. Emily had just closed their bedchamber door. She came toward him, her cloak over her nightgown, slippers on her feet.

Without a word, she sat on the top step beside him, then snuggled close. He put his arm around her, gathered her in; she rested her head against him and they simply sat.

The night was silent about them. No sense of danger hovered.

“I went to India to find a different sort of gentleman.” She spoke softly, her words just above a whisper, her gaze on the darkness of the hall below. “I’m twenty-four. I’d been looking for a husband, as young ladies of my station are expected to do, for years, but I’d never found a single man capable of capturing my attention—a man I thought of after he’d passed out of my sight.”

He didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I was labeled picky—rightly so. But my family understood, so when my uncle was sent to India, my parents suggested I visit, so that I might meet a wider range of men. Perhaps a style of gentleman I hadn’t met before.” She tipped her head toward their room. “I was just thinking, recalling, what my vision was on my way out to Bombay. What I thought of as my goal—what I was searching for. I had it all clear in my mind—I was looking for a gentleman with whom I could share a life. Not my life, not his life, but a life that would be ours. That we, together, would create for us both.”

She paused, then went on, “Once I remembered, I realized nothing has changed. That’s still what I want.” She turned her head and met his eyes. “That’s what I want with you.”

The darkness made her eyes impossible to read, yet still he held her gaze. And sensed, within him, words lining up, waiting to be said—a response he hadn’t thought of, hadn’t censored, that just came. Just was. “My home…well, I don’t have one, none I can claim. My family wasn’t like yours—I have no fond memories, no experience of having brothers and sisters, all that comes of a large brood. I was alone. Until recently, until you, I always have been. When I resigned and turned my sights once more on England, I couldn’t see beyond the end of my mission. I could see no future—had a blank space in my mind where a vision of my future should have been. No framework, no ideas—not even a skeleton of a concept. Until recently, until you, my future was a blank slate.”

And now?

Her gaze hadn’t wavered, steady on his face. She didn’t say the words, but they both heard them.

He drew breath, and plunged in. “Where would you prefer to live? Near your family home, or in town?” Before she could ask, he added, “I don’t care where I live.” As long as it’s with you.

She nodded slowly, as if she’d heard the words he hadn’t said. “Not in town. Near my parents’ house, but not too close. In the surrounding shires, close enough to easily visit.”

He nodded. “Village or country town?”

Her lips curved. “Village. But with a town with a market square nearby.”

“Manor house or mansion?”

Emily opened her eyes wide. “I have a choice?”

He held her gaze; she felt trapped in his dark eyes. “You can choose anything, or everything. Whatever your heart desires. This is our future—we get to choose, and as my slate is blank…”

She’d stopped breathing, had to drag in a tight breath. “Manor house, then, with the sort of rambling, rolling gardens children love to run in.”

“Children?”

She nodded. “Lots.”

That stopped him. For a long moment he stared at her through the dark, then he nodded. “All right.”

He didn’t say more, ask more, just gathered her close, and rested his chin on her head.

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the inn slumbering around them. Then he murmured, “That’s a start. You’ve started painting in my blank slate. When we get to the end of this…”

“When we get to the end of this”—shifting in his arms, she looked into his face—“we’ll finish the painting together.”

She touched her lips to his, then settled back into his embrace.

And saw out his watch by his side.

14th December, 1822
Morning
Our chamber at the Waterman’s Inn, Dover

Dear Diary,

If Gareth had asked me to marry him last night, I would have said yes, regardless. Quite clearly, his vision of the future is mine—literally. What more could any woman ask?

I know that he loves me—he’s shown me he does more times than I can count, and continues to do so—and while I still would like to hear the words, a declaration of his heart, I am no longer so certain that matters. At least, not as much as it did.

When I consider what, to me, is most vitally important in marriage, then knowing I am his, and he is mine, must top any list.

And that, dear Diary, I already know, to the bottom of my soul.

Whatever happens in the days to come, Gareth Hamilton, my “one,” will not be slipping through my fingers.

E.

“Royce wants us to draw and eliminate as many cultists as possible, but primarily in a specific area.” Tristan Wemyss, Earl of Trentham, met Gareth’s gaze over the breakfast dishes. “Specifically the swath between Chelmsford and his residence at Elveden, north of Bury St. Edmonds.”

Gareth nodded. “So we’re to act as hares to our fox—in this case, the cult.”

“And”—Jack held up a finger—“possibly the Black Cobra himself. Ferrar knows the area—his father has a house in Norfolk.”

Jack had returned that morning as promised, Tristan in tow. After the introductions, they’d sat down to a large and varied breakfast. The men were doing the inn’s cook proud.

Emily glanced from Jack, to Tristan, to Gareth, and inwardly shook her head. Aside from the obvious physical similarities consequent on all being ex-Guardsmen, all three shared a distinctly robust attitude toward the cult, as if they couldn’t wait to engage.

“Sadly,” Tristan continued, “Royce doesn’t want us to come north just yet. In the interim, he wants us to make you disappear, make you invisible to the cult.”

Gareth raised his brows. “How?”

“We’re to transfer you and your entire party to Mallingham Manor.” Jack smiled predatorially. “Without the cult tracking you there.”

Gareth grimaced. “While they’re not always well trained as fighters, they are distressingly good at tracking and locating.”

Tristan smiled, a gesture very like Jack’s. He tipped his head at his friend. “So are we. And once we locate, we eliminate.”

Gareth’s brows rose. “I see.” He popped the last of his gravy-soaked bread into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then nodded. “All right. So how are we going to do that?”

14th December, 1822
Early evening
Our chamber at the inn in Dover

Dear Diary,

I need to dress for dinner—for the first time in forever—but am seizing these moments to note the salient personal points arising from our plan to remove to Mallingham Manor.

First and foremost, we are clearly no longer alone in our battle against the fiend and his forces. Both Trentham and Warnefleet are undeniably able men, very much like Gareth. The addition of two such warriors to our party makes us, I judge, well-nigh invincible. Which is an enormous relief.

Even more heartening, I have learned from Trentham that there are ladies at his manor—not just his wife and Jack’s wife, but many others, too—his great-aunts and various cousins and dependents. From all I could glean, for the first time since leaving Aunt Selma in Poona, I will have ladies of my ilk with whom to converse—and from whom I might gain further insight into living with, and being married to, males of Gareth’s ilk. That will be a boon I will be glad to seize. One should never close one’s ears to advice from the experienced.

More, I am conscious of a buoying of my spirits, a greater certainty that Gareth’s mission, complicated by being that of a decoy, will indeed end successfully enough to satisfy him, which will allow him to, once it is over, turn his back on the recent past and focus with all his heart on shaping our joint future. I know his feelings over MacFarlane’s death run deep, and a successful outcome to this mission is essential to permit him to lay those feelings to rest—to leave that last part of his past behind him.

I have just heaved another relieved and happy sigh. After being trepidatious and tense for more days than I can count, in looking forward to tomorrow, it is amazing to feel only eager and intrigued interest.

My only quibble in all this is a nebulous niggle that somehow, in some way, Gareth is yet uncertain. Not of me, or our future, but of something between us. I cannot put my finger on what it is, but I will.

But now I must hurry and dress!

E.

Their move to Mallingham Manor was accomplished in three stages through a morning that was gloomy and gray, cold, but not raining. At ten o’clock, Mullins, Dorcas, and Watson set off in the inn’s gig as if to visit some house in the countryside to the west. Twenty minutes later, Mooktu, Arnia, and Jimmy set out in a cart laden with all the bags and trunks, and headed north. Half an hour later, Gareth, Emily, and Bister departed in another gig, and took to the London Road.

The cultists in Dover, already scrambling to reorganize in light of their unexpected arrival, had to scramble again, but two cultists succeeded in trailing the first gig, another followed the cart, and one settled to shadow the gig Gareth was driving.

Tristan and Jack watched, noted, then acted. Those handling the reins—Mullins, Mooktu, and Gareth—had instructions not to drive too fast, but to eventually head north and west into Surrey. Ultimately, after halting for lunch along the way, all would climb a certain hill not far from the Manor.

Mounted on good horses, Tristan and Jack removed the cultists, then raced across country to that hill. In mid-afternoon, when Mullins tooled his gig up the long, open rise, Jack and Tristan were in position, watching from the hilltop, from where they could see spread before them all the surrounding land.

When an hour later Gareth finally drew rein on the crest of the hill, Tristan and Jack walked their horses out of the trees, satisfaction writ large on their faces.

“Ahead and take the first turn right.” Tristan pointed to where a collection of old and massive trees blotted out the horizon. “The Manor’s in there—it can’t be seen from anywhere, so once among the trees, you won’t be spotted. The others are ahead of you. Jack and I will wait here, just to make sure, then follow.”

Gareth nodded, met Jack’s eyes. “How many?”

“I got two.” Jack glanced at Tristan. “He got two more. Enough to whet our appetites, but I don’t think there are more, so we’ll be on your heels.”

Gareth nodded, flicked the reins, and sent the gig rolling on.

True to Jack’s word, they’d only just reached the stable yard behind the manor—only just stepped down into a circus of grooms, footmen, and a bevy of ladies, most old, two not so old, all talking and exclaiming—when Tristan and Jack rode up.

While they dismounted and handed their horses to the grooms, one of the younger ladies, a confident matron with dark hair, swept up to Gareth and Emily. “Welcome—I’m Leonora, Tristan’s wife.” Smiling delightedly, she shook hands with Gareth, then squeezed Emily’s fingers. “We’re very glad to see you, not least because those two”—she tipped her head to Jack and Tristan—“have been on tenterhooks for the last week, awaiting your arrival.”

“Indeed.” The second matron, taller and rather stately with dark mahogany hair and an openly commanding manner, joined them and offered her hand. “I’m Clarice, Jack’s wife. I gather you’ve had adventures untold—you must come in and tell us all about them.”

Those words proved prophetic. Before Emily could do more than give her name and touch fingers, she and Gareth were swept up by a wave of older ladies, led by Tristan’s great-aunts, Lady Hermione Wemyss and Lady Hortense Wemyss, carried into the big house and deposited in a large, long family parlor that was clearly the older ladies’ domain.

“I’m afraid”—Leonora angled her head close to Emily’s as they settled side by side on one of the many chaises—“that it’s best—easiest, certainly—to humor them. They mean well. If any of their questions disturb you, just look to me or Clarice, and we’ll rescue you.” She glanced at Gareth and smiled. “You, too, Major—feel free to call on us for aid.”

Gareth met her eye, inclined his head. “Please call me Gareth.”

Once all the ladies had subsided, he sat in the armchair next to the chaise. Emily looked around. “Jack and Tristan?”

“Have escaped.” Clarice smiled from an armchair opposite.

“We don’t need them.” Lady Hortense dismissed her great-nephew and his friend with an arrogant wave. Her eyes, old but bright, fixed on Emily and Gareth. “It’s you two we want to know about—and we’re a great deal too old to waste time being delicate. So, how did you come to be in India in the first place?”

The old ladies were dogged, determined, and quite shockingly direct, but there was no doubt of their sincere interest, or of their shrewdness. There were fourteen in all, an Ethelreda, a Millie, and a Flora among them. All had questions, and with so many minds focused on the task, each and every little detail was winkled from them, and examined and commented upon.

Which should have put them out, put their backs up, but instead the kindness and understanding the old ladies exuded made their interrogation feel more like a confession and absolution.

Almost an exorcism.

Emily found herself responding to their inquisition with increasing freedom. She suspected Gareth, too, revealed more than he’d expected to—possibly more than he was comfortable with in response to their encouraging probing. Certainly, when after half an hour Jack and Tristan looked in, using the diversion of the tea trolley for cover, Gareth seized the chance to escape.

Clarice caught Emily’s eye, and arched a brow.

Emily smiled, all but imperceptibly shook her head. Accepting a cup of real English tea and a plate with real scones, plum jam, and fresh cream, she relaxed on the chaise, and turned to answer Ethelreda’s next question.

The day closed in outside the parlor windows. The curtains were drawn, the fire built up, and eventually the questions died.

“Well,” Hermione declared, “you and your major have certainly lived through thick and thin, up hill and dale. So when will we be hearing wedding bells?”

“Aunt!” Leonora attempted to frown down her outrageous relative-by-marriage.

Who pooh-poohed and waved her objection aside. “Plain as a pikestaff which way they’re headed—and see?” She waved at Emily. “She’s not denying it, is she?” Hermione leaned closer and peered. “Indeed, she’s not even blushing.”

Emily realized she wasn’t. In fact, she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced at Leonora. “It’s quite all right.” She looked back at Hermione and the other old ladies, all eagerly waiting. “We haven’t yet set a date. We’re still discussing all the little things I expect people do.”

“Good gel!” Hortense nodded approvingly. “Get the basics agreed to before you set your hand in his.”

A loud bo-oo-oo-ong rolled through the house.

“Time to dress for dinner,” Leonora announced.

The old ladies sat up, gathering their trailing shawls and handkerchiefs, grasping the heads of their numerous canes and pulling themselves out of their chairs.

Leonora rose beside Emily. “Just in time,” she murmured, “or they would be giving you advice on how to manage your wedding night.”

Clarice chuckled as she joined them. “I’m rather curious as to what they might say.”

So was Emily.

The three of them followed the older ladies up the stairs, lending a hand when needed. When they reached the first floor, and their elders had stumped off to their rooms, Clarice following, distantly supervising, Leonora conducted Emily to a lovely room overlooking the park to one side of the manor. Dorcas was already there, laying out one of Emily’s few evening gowns, and—bliss—a bath stood by the fireplace, steam wreathing above its sides.

Leonora glanced at Emily’s rapt expression and laughed. “Take your time—we won’t be starting dinner without you.” She met Emily’s eyes. “And if there’s anything you need, anything at all, please ask.”

Emily heard the subtle message, saw confirmation in Leonora’s very blue eyes of the sincerity and universality of her words, and felt a connection she’d never felt with any but her sisters stir. “Thank you.” She smiled, and stated equally sincerely, “I will.”

Leonora’s smile blazed. She squeezed her hand. “Good. Now I’ll leave you to it.”

Dinner with the fourteen old ladies and the other two couples proved a warm and relaxing affair. Emily could feel her tension—so consistent and persistent over the last weeks that she’d forgotten it was there—evaporating.

Despite being less used to such rousing—not to say ribald—female-dominated discussions, or the warmth and clear support that flowed so freely through the room, Gareth, too, found himself lowering his guard—he had to remind himself the cultists were still in the country, that they had to assume their pursuers might still find them.

When he realized that the ladies didn’t intend to leave the three gentlemen to the port and brandy, instead joining them in partaking of those liquers, he grasped a moment to quietly mention to Tristan the need to set watches through the night.

Lady Hermione, seated between them, overheard. “Oh, you don’t need to trouble yourself—or your people—with that. We would be happy to stand the watch.”

Before Gareth could blink, the other ladies had taken up the cause. Seconds later they were dividing up the hours of the night.

Stunned, he looked at Tristan, who grinned. “Don’t worry—they’ll do it, and woe betide any cultist who tries to sneak in.”

Lady Hortense, seated opposite, saw his reluctance. “Trentham’s right—we don’t sleep much anyway, not at our age, and we’ll have Henrietta and Clitheroe to back us up, and raise the alarm if need be.”

Gareth’s gaze slid to Clitheroe, the aging butler.

Clitheroe bowed to Lady Hortense. “As you say, my lady.”

“Henrietta,” Jack called down the table, “is Leonora’s wolfhound. She’s already been introduced to your people, but you haven’t yet met her.”

“She has the run of the house at night,” Leonora put in. “She’s very protective.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Tristan said, “she’ll savage anyone who tries to break in.”

Later, after the company had adjourned to the drawing room, Henrietta was called in and introduced to Gareth and Emily. At that point, Gareth dropped all objection to the older ladies’ arrangements. When he sat, Henrietta’s shaggy head, and her highly impressive jaws, were level with his head.

Later, when he climbed the stairs with Tristan and Jack, having ensured the ground floor was secure and that Ethelreda, Edith, and Flora, taking first watch, were happily ensconced by the fire in the central hall—with Henrietta a shaggy rug at their feet—Gareth admitted, “It’s been so long since I’ve felt our party is not under threat…it takes a little getting used to.”

Jack humphed. “It took over a year before I stopped checking everyone in every room I entered—such is the legacy of having been a spy.”

Tristan nodded. “At least a year. Some part of you thinks you have to still be watching. It takes time for that to fade.”

“Especially with ladies about.” Jack grinned. With a jaunty salute, he headed down one corridor.

Parting from Tristan with a smile, Gareth went through the gallery and on to his room. Emily’s room was the next one along and, very helpfully, there was a connecting door.

Ten minutes later, wearing only his robe, he tried the door, discovered it unlocked, and padded through to find her already abed, but not asleep. She’d left the windows uncurtained; shadows dappled the room and moonbeams danced as the wind stirred bare branches outside.

Laying aside his robe, he slipped between the covers, heard the giggle she stifled as, as usual, the bed dipped and she rolled toward him. He caught her, drew her close, settled her within his arms. “What were you thinking about?” Lying here in the dark.

She nestled her head on his shoulder. “This house—the household, all the old ladies. It’s so very English, and so comfortable. Now I’m home again, it’s as if I have to relearn—remind myself—what it is I most like, what I most value about things here, in this land.”

“Oh?”

There was enough wariness in the syllable to make Emily struggle up on one elbow to look into his face. “I was thinking about houses and households, and combinations of people. About families and atmosphere and comfort.”

“I see.” Through the dimness he tried to study her eyes. “So you’re not revising what it is you like about gentlemen?”

“No.” She smiled. “Although…” Lowering her lips until they almost met his, she murmured, “Perhaps I should revisit all the things about you that I like—just to make sure they’re still up to the mark now we’re here.”

His chest quaked beneath her as he laughed. Still smiling, she kissed him.

And set about compiling a thorough inventory, one that fully satisfied her, and him.

In the private parlor of a small inn two miles away, Roderick Ferrar stopped cursing, and took a large mouthful of the French brandy the innkeeper had managed to unearth. Swallowing, he looked at the amber liquid left in the glass. “This is the only good news we’ve had today.”

Roderick slumped back in one of the two chairs drawn up at the round table in the center of the room.

Lounging in the other chair, Daniel Thurgood shrugged. “It could have been worse. We might not know Hamilton’s exact whereabouts, but we do know he’s gone to ground in this area, and, as Alex pointed out, it’s likely the couriers are making for somewhere in Norfolk. Our watchers on the roads between here and there will pick up Hamilton and his party as soon as they move. We’ve more than enough men to leave a sizable group ready to close in behind them the instant they cross the Thames.”

Daniel watched Roderick frown into his glass, and waited.

The three of them—he, Roderick and Alex—all scions of the noble house of Shrewton, all children of the current earl, had found one another some years ago. Their shared paternity led them to like, value, lust after the same things—primarily money and power. Power over others, power that could be wielded as cruelly as they wished, as their whims dictated.

When Roderick had taken a position in Bombay, Daniel and Alex had followed him, and the three of them had found the opportunities the subcontintent presented very much to their taste.

They’d created the Black Cobra cult, and had lived in luxurious and vicious splendor.

Until a stray letter, written in the Black Cobra’s name and signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark, and by unlucky circumstance sealed by Roderick with the family seal ring that reposed immovably on his little finger, had fallen into the hands of a group of officers sent to identify and expose the Black Cobra.

Those four officers and their friends now knew Roderick was the Black Cobra. What they didn’t know—what no one outside the cult’s inner circles knew—was that Roderick was only one of three. But to preserve the power the Black Cobra had amassed, Daniel and Alex needed Roderick.

Unfortunately, they’d heard of the letter and the threat it might pose too late to stop the four officers leaving Bombay for England. To successfully arraign Roderick, favorite son of the Earl of Shrewton, canny aristocratic politician and indispensable ally of Prinny himself, nothing less than the original letter with its telltale seal would do.

One of the four officers was carrying the threat. The other three were decoys. But which was which, and who in England had accepted the challenge of receiving the letter and taking it before the courts and the Lords, was what the Black Cobra didn’t know.

So they’d set cultists and assassins on the four officers’ trails, and come home to England, scrambling to assemble a formidable force of fanatical followers. Fate had smiled, the winds had blown fair, and they’d managed to get ahead of the four officers, and now they and their forces lay in wait to pick each off, one after the other as they arrived in England, until the threat of exposure was no more.

Colonel Derek Delborough, the senior of the four officers, had landed in Southampton four days ago. An immediate assassination attempt had, by ill luck, been foiled, and the colonel had reached London. He hadn’t, however, passed on his letter, but still had it—copy or original—in his possession. They’d managed to install a thief within the colonel’s party. By hook or by crook, the colonel’s letter would soon be theirs.

With the colonel’s letter, at least, all but taken care of, Daniel and Roderick had ridden for Dover as soon as the news that Hamilton had landed had reached them. Their original plan had been to stop Hamilton from crossing the Channel, but clearly the senior man in charge of his pursuit had failed.

But by the time Daniel and Roderick had reached Dover, Hamilton’s party had split up and left. The senior cultist in Dover had set trackers on the trail of each of the three groups, but all four trackers had disappeared. Luckily, Indians with black head scarves were a notable sight on country roads in England. It hadn’t been hard to trace the trackers, but the three trails mysteriously ended not all that far from the inn he and Roderick now graced.

Roderick was turning his glass in his hands, broodingly staring at the brandy. “If we sit and wait for Hamilton to show his face, we might be sitting here for days. That might be what they want—us to focus on him, and miss the other two as they come in.”

“Very likely.” Daniel drained his own glass. “We have enough men down here, stationed all along the roads, to be certain that we’ll hear as soon as Hamilton breaks cover and heads north—or anywhere else, for that matter. If we leave now, we can ride through the night and catch up with Alex. See whether Creighton has found us a new base in Bury.”

That morning, through Larkins, Roderick’s gentlemen’s gentleman and right-hand man, they’d learned that Delborough was heading into Cambridgeshire, close to the Norfolk houses where many of the most wealthy and powerful spent Christmas. Alex, the shrewdest tactician of the three of them, had decreed they should move their base from Shrewton House in London to somewhere better placed to intercept the couriers.

Creighton, Daniel’s man, had suggested hunting for a place in Bury St. Edmunds. Alex had agreed. While Roderick and Daniel had ridden south to deal with Hamilton, Creighton had gone to Bury, and Alex had stayed in London to organize their move.

Roderick drained his glass. “I need to check on Larkins, too—I want to be there when his little thief hands over Delborough’s letter.” Roderick caught Daniel’s eye. “Given we’ve heard nothing of the other two yet, then Delborough is where the action is.”

Rising, Daniel went to the window. Drawing aside the curtain, he looked out. “There’s snow coming. If we stay here, tomorrow we might not be able to leave—and Alex’s messengers might not be able to reach us.”

Chair scraping, Roderick stood. “Time to go.”

Dropping the curtain, Daniel nodded. “Hamilton won’t risk traveling through a snowstorm. That gives us time to go north, deal with Delborough first, then be in position when Hamilton heads north. Let him come to us, onto a field where we’ll have more men to deal with him. That will leave us in prime position to deal with Monteith and Carstairs, too, when they arrive.” He met Roderick’s gaze, nodded. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they were on the road, riding hard for London.

Eighteen

16th December, 1822
Morning
My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

Dear Diary,

Fate has been kind. Today is shaping up to be a perfect opportunity to examine the ins and outs of what might well be the perfect sort of marriage for Gareth and me.

It took mere minutes of conversation with Leonora and Clarice to realize that they have similar views of life, and gentlemen, as I do. And from what I observed last night, their marriages, at least on the surface, appear to hold all the elements, and offer all the comforts, that I would wish of mine. Consequently, I plan to devote today to learning all I can from them.

Apropos of my aim, it has snowed heavily. We could not continue on, even had that been our plan, and we will all be spending today indoors.

In my case, subtly inquiring.

E.

By late afternoon, when she, Leonora, and Clarice slipped into the smaller parlor and, laughing, collapsed on the sofas, Emily had learned all she wished and more.

“Your children are delightful.” Lifting her head, she beamed at Clarice and Leonora. “Even the tiny ones are perfect.”

Leonora smiled fondly. “You’ll get no argument from us, but we’re biased, of course. Still, I’m glad they behaved.”

Clarice waved a languid hand. “All you needed to enchant them was to speak of monkeys. Caleb and Robert are already planning how to persuade Jack to let them have one.” She frowned. “I must remember to mention to my other half that I have no wish to have a monkey in our house.”

“No, indeed!” Leonora agreed. “But then I already have three.” She glanced at Emily. “Have you and Gareth spoken of children—of how many you might like?”

Emily nodded. “I said lots—I come from a big family.” Then she frowned. “However, Gareth doesn’t. He was very much an only child.”

“That means little,” Leonora said. “Tristan was an only child, too, but his attitude is that we should have as many as possible—I think to fill the void as the old ladies pass on. He’d be lost if any of his houses were quiet.”

Clarice was nodding. “I have three brothers, and I did wonder how Jack would manage with the unaccustomed noise, but he seems to thrive on it—apparently, if it’s his offspring making it, it’s music to his ears.”

They laughed and continued to talk of this and that, sharing experiences, inquiring as to Emily and Gareth’s relationship, and touching on what she expected of their marriage. This was exactly the type of feminine discussion she’d wanted and needed.

By the time the first gong sounded, and the three of them climbed the stairs and parted to go to their rooms to dress for dinner, she had a much firmer grasp of the dynamics of married life—specifically the sort of married life she wanted. With the help of the other two, she’d defined her holy grail—the vital elements that, if they were present between her and Gareth, would guarantee the type of future she wanted.

Gentlemen, as her hours with Leonora and Clarice had confirmed, could not be expected to achieve this shining goal alone, by themselves. They needed help in emotional matters, guidance. She would need to steer and prod and nudge, but she was sure that Gareth would, indeed, want the same style of marriage she had set her heart upon.

Entering her room, she found Dorcas laying out her other evening gown. While she dressed, they chatted of household matters. When she sat on the dressing stool and Dorcas brushed, then started pinning up her hair, they fell silent, and her mind returned to its principal preoccupation.

Perhaps that was what she sensed Gareth was still uncertain over—the specific style of marriage she wanted. Especially for a man like him, a warrior who had spent so many years out of society, he would be feeling his way. Given his background, he would have far less experience of marriages of any sort than she.

They would need to sit and talk—but when?

They might have another day here, in relative safety, yet his mission still hung over his head—and hers, too. She retained a personal interest in seeing poor MacFarlane avenged. And once they set out again…the last thing she would want was to distract Gareth, or herself, with thoughts of something so deeply absorbing as marriage.

That issue deserved, indeed demanded, their full and undivided attention.

So…not yet. She would use the time to better define her ideas and visions, and find the best words with which to describe all she now longed for, all she believed they could have.

“There.” Dorcas tapped the top of her topknot and stepped back. “You look just as you ought.” She met Emily’s gaze in the mirror. “But I warn you, if we stay here much longer, you’re going to run out of evening gowns.”

Later that night, as she climbed into her bed, Emily envisioned the reaction if she appeared clad in the begum of Tunis’s version of an evening gown.

The thought made her smile; even now she could barely believe she’d had the courage to don the scandalous outfit.

When Gareth arrived to join her, he found her in a pensive mood. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said as he climbed into the bed beside her.

She let herself roll into his arms, an action she delighted in every night—mostly because he caught her so readily, settling her against him as if she belonged there. “I was just thinking…while on our travels I did things I would never imagine doing—would never have the courage to do here, in England.” Wriggling around, leaning an elbow on his chest and rising up, she regarded him through the shadows. “Have I lost my courage, now I’m home?”

His smile was slow and infinitely warming. “No—never. Your courage is a part of you—you can’t lose it. And adjusting to social reality, knowing and understanding what you can and can’t do without risking ostracism—that’s a strength, not a weakness.”

After a moment, she smiled back. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

Gareth looked into her eyes, too cloaked in the night’s shadows for him to read. This pensive mood was new to him, but only intrigued him all the more—yet another aspect of the mystery that was her. She was a many-faceted diamond, infinitely alluring. Every day, he learned something new about her—and about himself.

Like what sort of marriage he longed for, and the trials, tribulations, and difficulties inherent in attaining that. He still wasn’t sure he could manage it, much less that it was the sort of marriage—a “more”—she would accept.

Yet he thought it would suit her—a marriage like Jack’s and Clarice’s, like Tristan’s and Leonora’s. He had no real idea of the modern institution, but what he’d seen of their relationships…that would suit him, too; he doubted it would be easy, but the benefits would be great.

More, he could see himself with Emily in a relationship like that, but he didn’t know—truly had no clue—how to make it happen, what such a union was based on. What agreements were necessary to underlie the whole.

“I…” What? What could he say? I want what Jack and Clarice have?

They weren’t Jack and Clarice.

And he wasn’t sure she loved him enough. He seemed to be rushing forward, tripping over his feet in his haste to secure her, to discover the “more” he could entice her with in lieu of those three little words, but he needed to go slowly, surely, step by step.

Sliding his hand into the silken fall of her hair, he drew her down.

Arm braced on his chest, she held back. “What were you going to say?”

He shook his head. “Later.” Once he’d worked it out, once he’d found the words.

She opened her mouth, but before she could probe further, he kissed her.

Caught her and waltzed her into the passion, into the fires that rose so readily, into the latent whirlpool of their desires.

Here, on this plane, all was straightforward, all within his ken. Here, he knew just what made her gasp, what made her moan—what she liked.

What she wanted.

He set himself to give her that—and more. Committed himself to the task of showing her what he’d yet to find the words to convey.

Palming her head, holding her steady above him, he took his time savoring her mouth, languidly reclaiming the sweet hollows, the succulent softness she’d so readily yielded. He stroked his tongue alongside hers and felt her bones melt. Felt desire rise.

He took his time. Running his hands over her shoulders, down the supple feminine planes of her back screened by her fine nightgown, sculpting her body as it rested over his, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her taut thighs, her rounded derriere, relearning her curves, her valleys and contours, reclaiming them, too, making them his.

The first step of many.

She grew restless, wordlessly demanding. He rolled, taking her with him and settling her beneath him in the billows of the bed. His lips held hers, held her awareness; he fed and supped with lips and tongue while between them his fingers slipped buttons undone.

Until he could push aside her nightgown’s bodice enough to bare her breasts. Enough to close his hands about the firm peaks, and caress. Possess. He kneaded until she arched, until beneath his lips she moaned and surrendered.

The first of many such moments.

He drew back from the kiss, through the shadows surveyed the bounty that filled his hands, then he bent his head and set his mouth to the furled peaks, and feasted. Her hands fisted in his hair, clutched as her body arched, as, breathless, she accepted and asked for more.

Begged, her body subtly surging beneath his, primitively taunting, urging him on.

Still he took his time, thoroughly laving the swollen mounds before divesting her of her nightgown inch by slow inch, and claiming each inch of skin revealed by touch, by taste.

By right.

Branding her inch by inch, nerve by nerve.

Layering fire beneath her skin until she burned.

Emily writhed beneath him and rejoiced, even as her wits spun and her senses reeled and sensation crashed through her in swelling waves. The previous night, she’d taken the lead, pressing her quest. Tonight, he held the reins, and wielded them.

Drove her, consistent and insistent, scaling the familiar peak via a long, tortuous and novel path, while he assessed, weighed, worshipped.

Under his hands she felt precious. Every drift of his fingers over her skin screamed with primal possessiveness, while every brush of his lips, every subtle caress, was laden with reverence.

She felt like a goddess as he stripped her bare, as he drew back, parted her thighs, bent his head and kissed her there—as he used lips, tongue, teeth and his hot, demanding mouth to drive her wild. To, steady and sure, push her ever higher, until she gripped his hair, body bowing as a silent scream ripped from her throat and a cataclysmic climax shattered her.

He lapped, fed, continued to taste her until she eased back to the bed.

Then his hard palms smoothed over her fevered skin—a primitive claiming and a promise of more—as in the night he rose above her, pressed her thighs even wider, and the broad head of his erection found her entrance and he pressed in.

Slowly, deeply, completely.

The feel of him there, solid and hard, hot velvet over steel stretching her sheath, swamped her mind. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he filled her, that he banished the hot, aching, restless emptiness within her, that he completed her and fulfilled her and he was hers as she was his.

He withdrew and thrust in again, deeper still, demanding.

Hands sliding blind, splayed, over and around his chest, arms locking, she embraced him, rose to his rhythm, to the driving beat, meeting him and matching him in the compulsive dance, clinging as it whirled them high.

Worshipped him with her body as much as he worshipped her. Tipped her head back, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Engaged him in a duel as heated as the communion of their straining bodies. Nerves flayed by the indescribable friction of tautly encased, hair-dusted muscle, heated and hard, moving constantly, repetitively, over her satin skin, abrading the excruciatingly sensitized peaks of her breasts, by the rhythmic thrusting of his body into hers, the way he rocked her, by the echoes that found expression through the flagrant mating of their mouths, she joined with him and climbed, nails sinking, scoring as they reached the peak and her nerves snapped, unraveled.

He thrust in one last time, hard, deep, and she came apart.

And fell. Plummeted from the peak. Fractured and broke.

Disintegrated as ecstasy swept in, as it claimed her, filled her, buoyed her.

Joy followed, sweeping inexorably in as, over the pounding of her heart, she heard his ragged groan. As he went rigid in her arms, holding deep within her as his seed flooded her womb.

As at the last, muscle by muscle yielding to the inevitable, he collapsed, crushing her beneath him.

A smile curved her lips as she hugged him close, as satiation slid in and claimed them both.

17th December, 1822
Early evening
My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

Dear Diary,

I have a little time before I need to dress for dinner. Today has been a day for consolidation and waiting. As usual, Gareth was gone when I awoke this morning, continuing his recent habit of exhausting me before slipping away with the dawn. Yet the events of the night confirmed my thoughts—the connection between us runs so deep neither he nor I can hold back from it. Indeed, when we come together, it is increasingly in mutual fascination and devotion. Together, we accept, embrace, and worship. On that front, at least, our way forward is clear.

I did not write this morning as, on the wider question of our marriage, I was still formulating my thoughts. And with the snows, although melting, still confining us to the house, in this place of relative safety where danger and its distractions are held at bay, I have indeed been able to make progress—at last.

Speaking with the old ladies—they truly are dears—and through further observing Leonora and Tristan, and Jack and Clarice, I have defined and confirmed what the principal elements necessary to underpin a successful marriage between Gareth and myself are.

Trust. Partnership. An appreciation and acceptance of each other’s strengths, and a willingness to allow for the other’s weaknesses. A sharing freely given and readily accepted in all areas of our lives, allowing the other to share the burdens, to help meet the challenges, and share fully in the triumphs.

Those are the elements I need to explain to Gareth, to make him see and understand how vital they are, and how wonderful our marriage and our future will be if we can work together to embrace them.

I do not imagine that will be simple and easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is.

So now, dear Diary, I am clearheaded and resolved, and waiting—here is the waiting—on only one thing. The end of Gareth’s mission. The end of the Black Cobra. In my view, that cannot come soon enough.

My resolution and clearheadedness have given birth to a certain eagerness. I feel I am standing on the cusp, not just of great happiness, but of an exciting journey that will fill the rest of my life—but I cannot take the first step until that wretched Black Cobra is caught and put down.

We are hoping to hear from Wolverstone soon.

Pray that it is so.

E.

A messenger from Wolverstone rode in late that evening.

The greatcoated rider handed his packet to Tristan in the front hall. “Would have been here earlier, m’lords, but the drifts are still thick through Suffolk. Howsoever, I was to tell you that as per those orders”—he nodded at the packet—“you shouldn’t have any trouble getting through, seeing as you’ll be in carriages and there’s no more snow coming down.”

“Thank you.” Tristan handed the man over to Clitheroe, then followed the others back into the drawing room, where they’d been sitting and chatting by the roaring fire.

They resumed their seats and waited expectantly as Tristan opened the packet. Frowning, he pulled out two folded sheets, then handed one to Leonora. “From Minerva.” He glanced at Gareth and Emily. “Royce’s duchess.”

Opening the second missive, Tristan scanned the lines within, then glanced up with an anticipatory smile. “Tomorrow we’re to travel via Gravesend to Chelmsford, seeing what cultists we can draw along the way, especially north of the Thames. After spending the night at the Castle Arms in Chelmsford, we’re to head to Sudbury, stop for lunch at an inn, then continue through Bury St. Edmunds to Elveden.” He offered the letter to Gareth. “Delborough is expected to be at Elveden to greet us.”

Gareth took the letter. “That’s excellent news.” He glanced over the instructions, then looked at Jack and Tristan. “So—how will we handle the travel?”

They discussed various options, the ladies contributing as much as the gentlemen, the missive to Leonora having contained an invitation from Minerva for Leonora and Clarice to visit Elveden with their families. Jack and Tristan exchanged a glance, but didn’t argue, clearly deeming Elveden to be safe enough, especially as they would soon be there.

In the end, it was decided that Leonora and Clarice would travel with their children in their own carriages, with their customary retinue of coachmen, grooms, and guards, taking Dorcas, Arnia, Watson and Jimmy with them. They would go via London directly up the Great North Road, then across via Cambridge and Newmarket to Elveden.

Gareth and Emily would go in another carriage, with Mullins driving and Bister and Mooktu as guards. They would follow Wolverstone’s stipulated route, shadowed by Jack and Tristan on horseback.

“The better to eliminate any cultists we find,” as Jack put it.

The two family carriages would leave three hours after Gareth and Emily’s, but as their route lay along major highways, it was likely the families would reach Elveden first.

With a glance at the clock, then at Clarice and Emily, Leonora rose. “It’s late, and we’ll need to leave as early as possible.” She looked at the men. “We’ll leave you to organize the carriages, coachmen and horses while we organize the people.”

The men nodded, and returned to their planning.

Rising with Clarice, Emily followed Leonora into the hall. Leonora rang for Clitheroe.

Emily had the simplest task. She explained to Watson what had been arranged, knowing she could rely on him to alert the others and have everyone ready in good time in the morning. Leaving Leonora deep in discussion with her housekeeper, and Clarice issuing instructions to her senior nursemaid, Emily climbed the stairs and headed for her room.

By the time she reached it, excitement had taken hold. Entering, she found herself smiling.

One last push from Mallingham Manor to Elveden, and their journey would be over. Two more days, and she and Gareth could turn their attention to their future—their marriage—to planning both.

She was in her nightgown, but, too excited to sit let alone lie still, she was pacing before the fire with a shawl about her shoulders, imagining, when the door opened and Gareth came in. She halted, eagerness lighting her face.

Closing the door, he met her eyes, read her expression, and smiled. But as he closed the distance between them, he sobered. Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. “Two more days.” He hesitated, then, to her surprise, he reached for her hands, enclosing them in his.

As his eyes searched her face, she remained silent. Wondering.

Eventually he drew a curiously tight breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything, not until this was all over. But…I can’t let us go on, into the next two days, without saying at least this much. Downstairs just now, we made plans, all straightforward and direct—we do this, go by this road, and we reach Elveden and it’s over.” His eyes held hers. “But it won’t be that easy. We know the Black Cobra will be marshaling his forces between us and Elveden, that he’ll have his best troops—his elite—waiting to intercept us. He will be, should be, desperate to seize the scroll holder. That’s what we’re counting on—that he’ll be desperate enough to commit his forces so we can reduce them, and that at some point he’ll make a mistake that will paint him even more definitively as the Black Cobra than the letter one of us is carrying does of itself.

“And all of that,” he went on, “assumes action and real danger. A real threat of death looming along our apparently simple road.”

Gareth paused. His gaze locked with hers, he searched for the right words, the words he had to say. “I haven’t yet asked you to marry me.” His grip on her hands tightened; he felt the delicate bones beneath his much stronger fingers and gentled his touch. “Not properly. I want to—I intend to—but I might yet be killed, or badly injured, and if I was, I wouldn’t want you tied to me.” She frowned, opened her mouth, but he spoke over her. “I wouldn’t want you to stay by me if I didn’t have a life to offer you. But…”

This was the difficult part, and at least she’d remained silent and was listening as intently as he could wish. Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he drew strength and steadiness from her moss-green eyes. “I want to marry you, and I want a marriage like Jack and Clarice’s, like Tristan and Leonora’s. I don’t know if that’s possible—if I can do what’s needed to have that sort of marriage—but I think I can, and I want to try. With you. Because I want us to have that, even though I can’t describe what ‘that’ is.”

Understanding shone in her eyes, her expression transformed to one of glowing happiness. The hard knot of trepidation in his chest eased.

She stepped closer. Freeing one hand from his, she laid her palm along his jaw. “I can describe it. I’ve spent the last days thinking of nothing else—looking and studying to learn what made marriages like Jack and Clarice’s, Tristan and Leonora’s, what they are—what makes them work. I know what we need to do—that we need to trust each other, value each other, and share everything in our lives—and yes, I want that, too.”

She smiled, and in that shimmering moment he could see her heart in her eyes. “There is nothing I want more in life than to have a marriage like that, with you.”

His heart cartwheeled, but he raised his hand and placed a finger across her lips. “Don’t say anything more.”

Eyes widening, she tilted her head, looked her question.

“It’s an old…I suppose you’d call it a superstition. A soldier’s superstition, yet there’s logic behind it. In going into battle, any battle, you try to ensure that you, personally, have the least possible to lose. It’s tempting fate to go into an engagement knowing you have something worth more than life itself at stake. More, it’s dangerous, because going on the offensive inevitably clashes with defensive instincts—and you’ll be caught, torn, at the worst possible moment. Facing an enemy knowing you have something of immense and staggering worth to lose gives you a weakness that the enemy doesn’t have. It’s a distraction, a handicap.

“And that is why I want you to know what I want with you, but I don’t want us to speak of it—to make any declarations or decisions now.” He searched her eyes. “Do you understand?”

Her smile only grew more confident. She moved into him, molding her body to his. His hands slid around her, his arms instinctively closing about her. She raised her other hand to join the first, framing his face. “I understand—no declarations, no details, no mutual decrees. But you need to understand something, too—we’re already there. Words are necessary, but actions speak louder, and our actions have been declaring our truth for weeks, even if we haven’t been paying attention. What we need to have the marriage we both want—trusting, valuing, sharing all aspects of our lives, a partnership on all levels—we’ve been working on that, are well on our way to achieving that, and if we continue to grant each other those things, we will win through to the end. To the end we both want. We have to have faith in us—in what we are and can be together. And if we do, nothing—not even the Black Cobra—can deny us.”

Emily smiled into his eyes, her confidence, her faith, her unfettered joy all openly on show. “Together we’re stronger. Together we’ll weather this—whatever comes in the next two days—and then—”

“We’ll speak of our future. Of everything we want our future to be.”

Her eagerness was spiraling out of control. “How we want to shape it, and what it will hold.”

He bent his head. “How we want ‘us’ to be.”

Her lips were deeply curved when he covered them with his. She kissed him back with unrestrained passion, with elation and abandon. Her joy, her welling happiness, were so profound, so powerful, she couldn’t contain them—had to allow both expression.

Had to, was compelled to, reward him. This man—her man, her one and only “one”—was no more blind than she. Thank heaven. To have had to prod and nudge and work to make him see what would be best…she’d been prepared to do it, but to her soul she appreciated his courage in facing and embracing their truth.

This was what they were. What, for them both, their marriage needed to be. Breaking from the kiss on a laughing gasp, she steered him back toward the bed, along the way helped him out of his coat, out of his waistcoat while he dealt with his cravat. His legs hit the end of the mattress and he halted. Mouth watering, she opened his shirt, pushed the halves wide. Savored with hands and eyes while he muttered and reached around her to undo his cuffs.

Then she slid her hands down, palms to his warm, resilient skin, skating over muscles that tensed beneath her touch, to the waistband of his trousers. Two quick flicks and the buttons there were free. But before she could open the placket and reach within, he uttered a breathless laugh. “Shoes first.”

His voice sounded strained.

Eyes dark with desire, he stepped aside and toed off his shoes, stepped out of them, and reached for her. She flung her shawl aside as she went into his arms, needing his heat, rejoicing as it enveloped her.

She lifted her face, wordlessly offered her mouth. He bent his head and took, claimed, filled. She responded, letting the familiar sensations—the welling desire, the burgeoning taste of passion, rising urgency and hungry need—fascinate and absorb them.

While she plotted, planned.

He’d let her explore before, but the pleasure she experienced when he worshipped her with his mouth made her wonder if this wasn’t the time for turn and turnabout. For her to pleasure him.

She thought it would work, but knew of only one way to know for certain. Without breaking from their kiss, from the increasingly heated exchange, she slid her hands down, around, and sent his trousers sliding down his legs to the floor.

He was busy with the buttons closing the front of her nightgown. She only did them up so she would have the small pleasure of having him undo them, the hunger in his touch fueling her own, racking their desire one notch tighter.

While he was engaged, she reached between them, found the rigid rod of his erection, closed her hand boldly and stroked. Sensed the sudden hitch in his breathing, the momentary deflection of his attention.

But then he swung it back to her with renewed intent, renewed urgency.

Even greater hunger.

He wrenched the halves of the nightgown’s bodice wide, baring her breasts, but instead of bending his head to feast, he slid an arm around her upper thighs, lifted her off her feet.

She blinked, and was on her back in the middle of the bed, with him leaning over her, his hot gaze on her breasts, one heavy thigh pinning her legs.

One hard hand closed over one of her breasts, took possession. Her lids fell; she moaned with sheer pleasure as he worked her swollen flesh, tortured the tight bud…

In less than a minute, she would lose all chance to take charge.

Her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. She slid them down, flattened her palms on his upper chest and pushed.

“Later,” he murmured.

She knew by his tone he meant much later. “No—now.” She shoved. “Roll over.”

He made a guttural sound of frustration, but obliged, rolling onto his back, taking her with him so she ended atop him.

Her eyes met his. “Good.” Before he could use his hands, still on her breasts, and distract her again, she swooped down and kissed him—voraciously, hungrily, greedily. She poured every ounce of heated passion she could summon into the rapacious kiss—and succeeded in dragging his attention to it, succeeded in snaring his awareness and holding it there, deep in the kiss. Succeeded in sliding one hand down his chest, down his side and in, and closing that hand possessively around his erection.

He stilled, and she pulled back from the kiss.

“Just wait,” she murmured, sliding lower in the bed as her fingers caressed, stroked, promised.

While her hand played, she dipped her head and placed kisses—hot damp kisses—across his collarbone. Then she searched the mat of crinkly dark hair and found the flat disc of his nipple, kissed, licked, then nipped.

He shifted beneath her. One hand rose, sliding beneath the fall of her hair to glide over her nape, then lightly grip her skull.

His breathing quickened as she shifted lower still, trailing kisses with abandon, the fingers of one hand lightly razing her path while her other hand remained wholly devoted to pleasuring his turgid member.

When she shifted lower yet, and her kisses reached his navel, Gareth sucked in a breath and couldn’t release it. Couldn’t breathe.

From wanting. From hoping.

Anticipation dug her claws deep, locked him in place—held him helplessly immobile for her.

Expectation was a rising tide within him, urgent and greedy.

Needy.

It had been a very long time since any woman had pandered to him as she was—as she was promising to do. But what held him in thrall, hers to tease and please as she wished—however and for however long she wished—was the simple fact that this was she—Emily, the woman he wanted as his wife—that it was she who was intent on pleasuring him.

Wonder and so much more held him ensnared. Held him captive as she slid lower yet and her lips finally—finally!—grazed the aching head of his erection.

Instinctively his hand tightened on her skull, fingers clenching in the silk of her hair as he fought to remain still, to keep his hips from jerking upward in greedy eagerness.

Head back, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, wondering just what she would do—willing her, hoping, praying…then he felt the wet stroke of her tongue sliding slowly, sinuously upward from the base of his shaft to the sensitive head.

His lids fell. He locked his jaw. But then with the tip of her tongue she traced the excruciatingly sensitive rim, and his lungs seized.

Her breath, soft and sultry, washed over his damp flesh. Every nerve, every particle of awareness he possessed was locked on her, on what next she would do.

The sensation of her soft lips and luscious mouth sliding over him, taking him in, drawing him deep into that slick heat ripped a groan from him.

Which was all the encouragement she needed. She set to work with the devotion, the abandon, that characterized everything she did. She might have been a novice, yet in short order she reduced him to a state of clamoring need. Both hands sunk in her hair, his breathing increasingly ragged, his heart pounding, blood surging, he clung to sanity—to some semblance of control—while she sent wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him.

While she shredded his reins and stripped away all pretense and left raw need and primal passion blazing through him.

Emily sensed the change—the escalation of tension, of that passion-driven strength that invested the muscled body on which she lay.

Gloried in it. This was even better than she’d imagined. She hadn’t realized pleasuring him would bring her so much joy.

Bring her so much satisfaction, a very feminine triumph in knowing it was she who had done this to him—that she held the power to drive him wild.

And wilder. He groaned again as, experimenting, exercising her newfound power, she curled her tongue about his length and slowly stroked upward, then took him in again and settled to suck, something he seemed to especially enjoy.

How far could she take him? She put her heart and soul into finding out.

Only to have him gutturally declare, “Enough!”

He eased a finger between her lips, withdrawing from her mouth and then grasping her shoulders, lifting her and rising in one smooth movement. She expected him to tumble her onto the bed and follow her down. Instead, he set her back on her knees; coming up on his, he seized the folds of her nightgown and lifted it off, over her head.

She drew her arms from the long sleeves. Her hair tumbled over her face; she brushed back the long strands so she could see.

The bed rocked around her. She nearly tipped over, but a steely arm around her waist caught her, held her up—she saw her nightgown drifting to the floor beyond the bed, and nothing else—and realized he’d come up on his knees behind her.

His arm about her waist held her steady as he shifted nearer, closer, until, head rising, spine straightening, she could feel his heat like a flame from her shoulders all the way down her back, all the way down the backs of her thighs.

His head dipped; his lips cruised her ear. “You can be my houri any day, any night.”

There was a promise in his words that sent a shiver of expectation dancing down her spine. His warm breath washed over the side of her throat. His lips followed. Eyes closing, she felt the familiar heat rise.

Felt the insistent prodding of his erection, hot as a brand, against her bottom as he pressed near. One hard hand clamped over her hip. His arm about her eased, shifted, that hand drifting lower to splay over her belly. Then he raised his head, murmured close by her ear, “And like any good master, I’ll enjoy my slave.”

Her breath hitched. One of her hands had come to rest on the arm he’d wound around her. Her grip tightened, nails sinking in as he held her against him and the hand over her belly slid lower, fingers seeking.

Finding. Stroking. Probing.

Pressing in and possessing.

Until she was arching against him, sobbing and panting, wanting so much more.

Holding her hips against his, he pressed her shoulders down until on a gasp she braced herself on her arms.

And he slid into her from behind.

Her eyes opened wide, unseeing, her senses trapped, wholly focused on where they joined, on the feeling of fullness as his shaft stretched her sheath, as he thrust in and filled her to the hilt.

She heard a shuddering gasp, followed by a low moan as he slowly withdrew. But then he thrust in again and she nearly sobbed.

The friction was acute, the sensations of him filling her, taking her, claiming and possessing her, all so much more primitively, passionately real…her reality spun away into a furnace of primal heat, her wits suborned by the overwhelming need to mate, by a tattoo pounding through her blood, driving her—and him.

His hips thrusting steadily, repetitively, Gareth leaned forward and filled his hands with her breasts. Kneaded, found the tight peaks and squeezed.

Her head threshed alongside his. She was so close, almost there.

He felt his own release inexorably rising. Reached down with one hand, found the throbbing nub of flesh between her thighs and stroked, pressed.

With a barely muted scream, she fractured, her body molten fire in his arms—her sheath clamping scalding hot about him, her womb a beckoning furnace…with a long-drawn groan he thrust deep and let go. Let release have him, wash through him, hips bucking hard against her bottom as he spilled his seed deep within her.

She collapsed and took him with her. He sprawled over her, unable to move, his heart thundering, his mind an utter blank, his senses purring.

His more primitive self slumped, sated to its toes, satisfied beyond imagining.

With an effort, he disengaged and slumped on his side beside her. She turned her head his way. Moss-green eyes glinted beneath her lashes.

Then she smiled. “I rather think I like being your houri.”

Nineteen

19th December, 1822
Very early morning
My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

Dear Diary,

I am huddling under the covers scribbling madly before Dorcas arrives with my washing water. Gareth has just left—and what a night, and a morning, we made of it. But the essential news I have to impart is that we are in accord—utterly and completely!—over our future life.

He saw the possibilities, too, and wants that type of married life as much as I do.

All my hopes have come true—all my dreams are hovering, about to become reality. Admittedly, he hasn’t yet declared he loves me in words, out loud, but after all I have learned from the Berber women, and from Clarice and Leonora, about how to interpret the actions of men like him, the truth could not be clearer.

We know what we must do, how we need to go on to secure everything we want our joint life to be.

All that stands in our way is that wretched Black Cobra, but after tomorrow…after that, we will be free to pursue our shared dreams.

I am eager beyond bearing.

E.

They left at first light, as the dark skies turned a paler gray and a chill east wind whipped snow from the lingering drifts bordering the roads.

Inside the carriage, tucked beneath traveling rugs and with two warm bricks beneath her boots, Emily watched the winter landscape slip past, watching for any hint of cultists. Gareth, seated beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, looked out the other way. They were all on edge, on the one hand ready to repel any attack, but on the other believing that while they might be followed, the cultists were unlikely to engage until they crossed the Thames.

“Aside from all else,” Tristan had pointed out as they were preparing to start out, “the forests north of the river provide much better cover, and places ideal for an ambush.”

He and Jack were on horseback, somewhere out in the wintry chill.

They’d been traveling for hours and, according to signposts, Gravesend was close, when Emily leaned nearer the window and peered out. “I haven’t seen Jack or Tristan at all.”

“You won’t. I suspect they’re old hands at this sort of thing. They want to spot any cultists trailing us, but don’t want to be seen themselves. You might catch a glimpse when they pass us at Gravesend.”

As arranged, they halted the coach at the Lord Nelson, a large coaching inn, and went inside to take refreshments. They wasted a tense half hour over a teapot and scones, allowing Tristan and Jack to go ahead to the jetty north of the town.

When, once more in the carriage, they reached the jetty, Jack and Tristan were nowhere to be seen, but a ferryman was waiting with his ferry to take them across to Tilbury, on the north bank. He confirmed that the gentleman who bespoke his services and his companion had already crossed on another barge.

The crossing was short, but difficult, the flat-topped ferry rocking perilously, but the ferryman and his crew took the choppy, rushing river in their stride. They reached the Tilbury jetty, not far from the richly decorated watergate of Tilbury Fort, without incident.

With the coach once more on dry land, Gareth helped Emily back inside, then, shutting the door, went to help Mooktu calm the restive horses. Mullins was already on the box, checking the pistols stowed under the seat while he held the reins.

Bister had gone scouting ahead. He came pelting back as Mooktu climbed up to his position beside Mullins. Gareth paused by the carriage door.

Snapping a salute, Bister went past, grabbing the straps at the back of the carriage and swiftly climbing to the roof. “Spotted three of ’em—there might be more. They’re watching from a rise outside the town—lots of forest behind them.”

Brows rising, Gareth opened the carriage door and climbed in.

Given that news, they dallied over luncheon in Tilbury’s main inn, giving Tristan and Jack plenty of time to ease their appetites and, mounted once more, get into position behind the cultists.

After another hour had passed, Gareth, tapping the scroll holder he’d reclaimed from Watson that morning and now carried in his greatcoat pocket, followed Emily back into the carriage, and they set off.

This was the leg on which they thought an attack might come. The road wended through marshes north of Tilbury, then climbed to higher ground.

Gareth snorted as the road leveled off. “That was a perfect spot for an ambush—just as we crested that rise.”

“They might not want to be seen by others.” Emily gestured to a carriage going the other way.

“True. The further north we go, empty stretches of road will become more frequent. Maybe that’s why they haven’t yet attacked.”

However, as they traveled unhurriedly through the afternoon, often along stretches where the forest closed in on both sides of the road and other conveyances grew few and far between, still no attack eventuated. At one point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.

Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”

“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”

It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.

Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party—a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn—Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.

The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure—another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.

After settling into the room she and Gareth would share, Emily went downstairs and found Mullins waiting in the private parlor set aside for their party. Gareth appeared before she could inquire as to his whereabouts. A tea tray arrived on his heels, then Mooktu and Bister joined them, and they settled to wait for Jack and Tristan.

It was full dark, nearly dinnertime, before the door opened and Jack walked in. He smiled rather wearily in greeting, and nodded when Gareth raised the bottle of wine he’d broached.

While Gareth poured him a glass, Jack drew out a chair at the table, fell into it, and groaned. “It’s been years since I’ve spent an entire day in the saddle.”

Tristan came in, blowing on his hands. “It’s not just the hours in the saddle, it’s that damned wind.”

He, too, accepted a glass of wine. Gareth waited until both were seated and had taken a revivifying swallow, then asked, “So where the devil are the cultists?”

“Out there.” Jack pointed south. “And yes, they’re definitely there, and in surprisingly high numbers.”

“To start at the beginning,” Tristan said, “one picked up the carriage not far from Mallingham, then two more fell in once you hit the main roads. Those three followed all the way to Gravesend, then one went ahead, crossing to Tilbury. He didn’t return. We don’t think the other two crossed the Thames, but turned back after you’d got on the ferry.”

Gareth nodded. “Probably returning to keep watch on the coast.”

Jack inclined his head. “We found the cultist who crossed the river with a group of eight others—he’d carried the news to them. We were just in time to see that group send another messenger north. Which is a point to ponder, given Wolverstone’s to the north, and our route takes us north. If the Black Cobra is also in that direction…”

“It seemed those following didn’t want to intercept us,” Gareth said. “They passed up any number of excellent opportunities to ambush us.”

Tristan nodded. “They have eight—nine if their messenger returns. The coach has three outside, one inside. You’d think the odds would appeal.”

“They must have orders to follow and send word forward, but not to engage—meaning not yet.” Jack smiled wolfishly. “I do believe this is getting interesting.”

Emily frowned. “Interesting how?”

Gareth replied, “Because it seems we’re being herded again. As long as we move forward, those behind will hang back and simply follow—because there’s some force ahead of us that’s bigger, and more certain of capturing us.”

“It appears the Black Cobra isn’t taking any chances,” Jack said. “Odds are he’s planning a trap for the coach to drive into somewhere along the road tomorrow, a trap you won’t be able to escape. Or so he thinks.”

“Indeed.” Tristan’s eyes gleamed. “And would anyone care to wager that’s exactly what Royce designed his scheme to achieve? The news that the Black Cobra is lurking between us and him—in Essex or Suffolk—is going to make him very happy.”

Jack waved his glass. “No bet. That’s precisely what he would have set out to achieve.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “You and yours chose exceedingly well in appointing Wolverstone your guardian angel.”

“He’s certainly a stickler for detail.” Gareth outlined his observations from their earlier reconnaissance. “In a defensive sense, this place is ideal.”

A tap on the door heralded the innkeeper with their dinner. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins went out to the tap for theirs.

Once those in the parlor had finished their meal and the innkeeper had cleared the table, Gareth went out and invited the other three back.

They’d just settled when the innkeeper looked in. “Messenger for Lord Warnefleet.”

Jack beckoned and the innkeeper drew back to allow a middle-aged groom to enter. The man bowed, then drew a sealed missive from his pocket and presented it to Jack. Jack broke the seal and opened the sheet, scanned it.

The groom cleared his throat. “I’m to inquire, my lords, as to your situation here.”

Tristan replied in a few succinct phrases conveying their observations and their belief that they were being herded into an ambush ahead.

The groom repeated the salient points. Tristan nodded his approval.

Jack handed Wolverstone’s missive to Gareth, then looked at the groom. “You can also report that we’ll do as your master requests, and make a copy of the letter in question.”

The groom bowed. “If there’s nothing else, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”

Tristan dismissed him. The groom turned and left.

Emily had been reading the duke’s letter over Gareth’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch paper and ink, and make a clean copy.” Rising, she glanced at Jack. “Why does he want it?”

“Details,” Jack replied. “Given Delborough’s sacrificed his copy and gained something from it, then we might decide to sacrifice ours in the same way, which leaves Royce with nothing to study. He’ll want to confirm that there’s no other clue hidden in the wording. A code, even—it’s the sort of thing he would think of and know better than anyone to look for.”

“Which he can’t do”—Tristan accepted the duke’s communique from Gareth—“unless he has the letter, a good copy at least, in front of him.”

Nodding her understanding, Emily left.

“I’m just glad Delborough’s through and safe, and that Monteith’s in England, too.” Gareth fell silent.

Jack asked, “Who’s your fourth?”

“Carstairs.” Gareth glanced at Jack. “Captain Rafe Carstairs, otherwise known as Reckless.”

Tristan raised his brows. “If he’s the last one home…”

If Rafe was the last to reach England, he was almost certainly the one carrying the original letter. They all thought it, but no one said it aloud. Gareth merely nodded. “What about the watches? We’ll need to remain vigilant.”

Emily returned, bearing a ladies’ traveling writing desk with an ornate mother-of-pearl lid. She set it down on the table, opened it, and drew the lamp near. “The letter?”

Gareth drew the scroll holder from inside his coat, and under the fascinated gazes of all there, undid the complicated locking mechanism. Opening the holder, he drew out the sheet it contained, and handed it to Emily.

Smoothing the single sheet, she sat, dipped her nib, and started to transcribe.

“May I see that?” Jack nodded at the scroll holder.

Gareth smiled and handed it over.

While the others played, opening and closing the holder, and Tristan and Jack asked questions about such oriental devices, Emily kept her head down and her mind on her task.

She’d seized the chance to contribute something to Gareth’s mission—to do something, however minor, that would materially assist in bringing down the Black Cobra. Hers and Gareth’s impending happiness had made her sorrow over MacFarlane’s death more acute; she now had a better appreciation of all he’d had taken from him—by the Black Cobra.

Whatever she could do to bring the fiend to justice, she would do.

By the time she’d duplicated the Black Cobra’s mark as best she could, and had blotted off her copy, the men had decided the order of the watches. She handed his copy back to Gareth. He rolled it and slid it into the holder, then closed the holder and tucked it inside his coat. Now she knew where it rested, she could see the bulge, but it wasn’t that obvious; its presence was less obvious still when he carried it in his greatcoat pocket.

With the time for their departure on the morrow agreed upon, they all rose and retired. Mullins took the first watch. They left him sitting in a chair at the end of their corridor, looking back toward the stairs.

The first alarm came at midnight. Bister was suddenly knocking on their door. Gareth reached it first. Emily grabbed her cloak and slung it over her nightgown as she rushed to join him.

He glanced at her. “Someone’s trying to break into the parlor downstairs. Bister and I will go down—wait here.”

“Not on your life.” She grabbed the doorknob. “You two go ahead, I’ll follow.”

Gareth hesitated, but in truth he’d rather she wasn’t far from him. The cult might mount a two-pronged attack, one downstairs, the other above. Curtly, he nodded. “Just stay back.”

He pretended not to see her roll her eyes.

Jack, Tristan, Mullins, and Mooktu were already in the corridor. Jack held a finger across his lips, then mimed that he and Tristan would go down the back stairs and circle outside. Mooktu and Mullins would remain by the bedchambers in case of an unexpected incursion there.

Gareth nodded, and they silently parted.

Bister followed Gareth down the stairs. Emily followed on Bister’s heels, treading close by the wall so the stairs wouldn’t creak. Halfway down, Bister found her hand in the dark and pressed the handle of a knife into her palm. Emily gripped, nodded in thanks when he glanced back.

She clutched the knife and felt a trifle less vulnerable, but her primary concern was Gareth, slipping through the darkness of the inn’s ground floor to the parlor door. She and Bister obeyed Gareth’s signal and hung back. He cracked the door open a fraction, listened, then slowly opened it wider.

Then he disappeared into the blackness beyond.

Bister just beat her to the door. She followed him in, and through the gloom saw Gareth, a large dense shadow, waiting, apparently listening, by the window.

The substantial wooden shutters were closed and fastened on the inside. The window casement was also closed and locked, but it seemed inconceivable that the cultists could even get through the shutters.

Drawing closer to the window, straining her ears, she heard whispers, the cadences distinguishing the speakers as Indian.

Suddenly the whispering rose, then stopped altogether.

“Damn!” Gareth reached for the window latch, pulled the window open, unfastened the shutters, and pushed them wide.

In the faint moonlight, across the inn yard they saw two shocked faces turned their way—then the cultists took to their heels and fled.

Seconds later, Jack and Tristan appeared before the window, looking toward the trees through which the cultists had vanished. “What happened?” Tristan asked.

“They gave up.” Disgust rang in Gareth’s voice.

The others grunted. Hands on hips, they stared at the forest, then shook their heads, waved, and trudged back around the inn.

Gareth leaned out, caught the shutters, resecured them, then closed the window. Bister took back his knife before Gareth turned and waved Emily and Bister up the stairs.

They climbed back to bed rather less quietly than they’d come down.

Emily woke some hours later. Uncertain what had drawn her from her dreams, she lay still—then abruptly sat bolt upright.

The movement woke Gareth. He looked at her. “What is it?”

She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Smoke—and yes, I’m sure.”

Gareth was already rolling from the bed.

Scrambling into her cloak, Emily joined him at the door, but then frowned and turned back. “It isn’t so noticeable over here.”

Her side of the bed was nearer the window.

Gareth had gone into the corridor. Mooktu was on watch, sitting closer to the stairs the better to hear any sounds from below. But neither he nor Gareth could smell any smoke in the corridor or the stairwell.

The inn roof was slate—no danger there. Puzzled, Gareth returned to their room—to find Emily at the window, working the latch free.

He was on her in a heartbeat, grasping her shoulders and pulling her away from the glass. “Be careful! Your nightgown’s white—they’ll be able to see you.”

“Yes, but—”

“I know.” The scent of smoke was more definite near the window. “Let me.”

Releasing her, he closed his coat to his throat, then stepped to the window, tugged the latch free and eased the pane open.

A gust of wind blew the acrid smell of woodsmoke into the room.

He pushed the window wider, using the glass pane as a shield of sorts, until he could look down and along the inn. He could see smoke trailing from somewhere toward the rear. Following it back…through the deep gloom he could just make out three figures in heavy frieze standing staring at a pile of wood stacked against the inn wall.

They’d tried to set the wood alight, tried to train the flames back onto the wooden shutters, but it was December in England; the wood was damp. They’d managed to light a tiny blaze at the base of the stack. One crouched and blew—just as a rain squall struck, sweeping down, pelting the men and quenching the nascent fire, creating yet more smoke.

Coughing, hands waving, the three men stepped back. They muttered amongst themselves, then turned and walked away into the trees.

From above, Gareth watched them go.

“What’s going on?” Emily hissed.

The rain intensified. Gareth glanced at the now sodden stack of wood, then closed the window.

“They’re gone.” He faced Emily and Mooktu. “They tried to set the inn alight, but they didn’t try very hard.”

“You get those damned letters back—every copy, every last one!” Ice-cold fury vibrated in Alex’s voice.

In the drawing room of the house they’d commandeered in Bury St. Edmunds, Daniel looked at Roderick, waited for his response.

He and Alex had just received a nasty shock. It appeared the letter Roderick had brought them there to intercept held a far greater threat than any of them had realized. Roderick—the idiot—had absentmindedly included Daniel’s and Alex’s real names. While no one else reading the letter would recognize the connection, if the letter—even a copy—found its way into the Earl of Shrewton’s hands, their father would certainly recognize his bastards. Roderick was his favorite legitimate son. As Alex had pointed out moments earlier, if push came to shove over the Black Cobra, the earl would unhesitatingly offer up his bastards as sacrificial lambs to save Roderick—nothing was more certain.

But Roderick couldn’t function as the Black Cobra without Daniel and Alex. And he knew it.

Eyes narrowed to ice-blue shards, his face like stone, Roderick curtly nodded. “All right. I will.”

“How?” Eyes of an even more wintry, unforgiving ice blue, Alex took up a position before the fireplace. “Tell us how, brother mine.”

Roderick glanced at the copy of the letter Delborough had been carrying, which Roderick had been forced to kill his own man, Larkins, to secure. “Hamilton’s at Chelmsford. I sent eight men to follow and harry their party, to keep them in sight. Tomorrow, I’ll take a force of our elite, and join the eight. We’ll have overwhelming numbers—there’s only four men counting Hamilton, and he has the woman to protect as well. We’ll stop him, seize him and the woman, and bring them here.”

Roderick shot a venomous look at Alex. “I’ll have to leave them to your tender mercies—I’ve just got word Monteith’s in the country. And he, too, is heading this way, but from the direction of Bath, with two guards, as Delborough had, and a pirate captain in train. I’ll have to go west to keep him out of Cambridgeshire.”

“This is rapidly degenerating into the worst possible scenario,” Daniel said. “The four couriers are landing at widely distant ports. Our watchers on the coast are stretched thin. Although we’ve already lost men, admittedly we have more, but knowing where to send them in time—”

“It’s just as well,” Alex said, tone dripping superiority, “that our four pigeons are making for a single roost, and that whoever this puppetmaster they’re reporting to is, he’s nearby.” Alex cast a lethal look at Roderick. “Which is why I suggested we move up here. I’ll hold the fort—man our inner rampart—here, with M’wallah and my guard, but you two will have to take command in the field.”

Alex’s gaze shifted to Daniel. Silently, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Neither he nor Alex trusted Roderick any more than they trusted his—their—sire.

Unaware of the interplay, Roderick nodded curtly. “I’ll take Hamilton tomorrow. We’ve already got a force quartered on the other side of Cambridge—enough to deal with Monteith.” Roderick looked at Daniel. “You could—”

“No. Leave Monteith for the moment,” Alex said. “He’s not close enough to demand immediate action—we can wait for better details of his position before making our plans. As you say, we already have men in the area. Have we heard anything of Carstairs?”

“Not since he left Budapest.” Roderick ran a hand through his hair. “He’s still somewhere on the Continent, and hasn’t yet reached the coast.”

“As far as we know,” Alex dryly replied.

Daniel uncoiled his long legs and stood. “In that case, I’ll assist with Hamilton.”

Roderick inclined his head, accepting what he saw as an offer of help. “We’ll leave at first light and ride toward Chelmsford. A messenger will come north to meet us and confirm their route. With any luck, it’ll be toward us, along the road through Sudbury. Once we locate the carriage and gather our eight following it, we can pick our spot.”

Roderick glanced at Alex. “Given those riding with us tomorrow will be from our elite, I can’t see how we can fail to seize Hamilton, meddling Miss Ensworth, and the letter.”

Alex’s features had eased to their customary elegant serenity. “That sounds excellent.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes, lightly smiled. “I’ll look forward to celebrating your success.”

20th December, 1822
Still night
Our room at the inn in Chelmsford

Dear Diary,

This is it—our final day on the road. And I have never felt so torn in my life. I want so much to reach Elveden with Gareth and the others all safe and well, if I could just wish us there now…but that would mean we miss what will be our last and possibly best chance to engage with the enemy and reduce the cult’s numbers, especially in this area, which is apparently the crux of Wolverstone’s plan.

As Tristan and Jack, and even Gareth, clearly hold Wolverstone in high esteem, I have to believe his plan is both sound and worthwhile. That as the three of them believe it is important and incumbent on them to engage and eliminate cultists, then it truly is.

I have to believe—and in my heart I do believe—that striking a blow against the cult today will be worth whatever risk it entails.

Whatever eventuates, as an indomitable Englishwoman who has traveled widely and survived innumerable attacks in recent weeks, I intend to play my part. I almost hope something happens so that I can, so that I can make a real contribution to avenging poor MacFarlane.

His face is with me still. His bravery will always be with me.

I have absolutely no intention of letting Gareth die at the hands of the Black Cobra.

E.

While they breakfasted by lamplight, Gareth told the others of the attempt to set fire to the inn. “Standard practice for cultists, but to no purpose here.”

Later, while Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister readied the carriage, Gareth showed Jack and Tristan the evidence of the abortive attempt. They found three different spots where fires had been lit.

“Determined beggars, aren’t they?” Tristan spread the ashy remains of one fire with his boot. “But perhaps they achieved what they intended.”

Gareth grunted. “That occurred to me. No one could have imagined a fire would take hold long enough to do any real damage. They just wanted to keep prodding us.”

Jack gazed at the charred logs. “Anyone care to wager we’ll see action today?”

“No bet,” Tristan returned. “Given this, today is the day.”

A hoy brought them back to the front yard. For the benefit of the cultists they were sure would be watching, Jack and Tristan shook hands with Gareth, then mounted and, with cheery waves, trotted off south through the town, as if parting ways.

In reality they would circle around and fall in behind the band of cultists following the carriage, as they had the day before.

Emily was already in the carriage, snuggled up beneath a mound of rugs. His breath fogging in the sharply cold air, Gareth glanced at Bister on the roof, at Mooktu and Mullins on the box. “Be ready. Somewhere on our road today, they’ll strike.”

The expressions on the three faces turned his way mirrored his own feelings. At last!

He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and they were off.

They rolled sedately out of the town, heading north on the road to Sudbury and Bury St. Edmunds. Once they’d left the last cottages behind, Mullins flicked the reins and the horses lengthened their stride.

His hand locked around one of Emily’s, Gareth watched the winter-brown fields flash past—and waited.

He was still waiting—they all were—when the carriage rolled into the village of Sudbury. He recognized the tactic, one cult commanders often employed—make the target wait and wait and wait until, inevitably, they relaxed, then pounce—but he still felt the effects. When? was the question occupying all their minds.

After rattling across a bridge over the River Stour, Mullins drove into the market square, paused to ask directions, then headed on a short way and turned into the yard of the Anchor Inn.

Climbing down to the cobbles, Gareth took one look at the ancient inn Wolverstone had directed them to, and felt expectation leap. The inn was so old it was a hodgepodge, a conglomeration of additions made over the centuries with wings here, there, and entrances everywhere—perfect if one wanted men to slip unobtrusively inside.

Leaving Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to watch over the carriage and arrange for fresh horses, he ushered Emily through the front door.

The innkeeper popped up before them. “Major Hamilton?” When Gareth nodded, the man beamed. “Please—come this way. You’re expected.”

Both he and Emily eagerly followed the man down a narrow corridor. The innkeeper halted, tapped, then opened a wooden door that, from its solidity, dated from Elizabethan times, and bowed them in.

Emily led the way, wondering who was expecting them. The answer had her eyes growing wide.

The room was full of large gentlemen, and it wasn’t a small parlor, but one of the inn’s main reception rooms. A quick head count said ten; she was surrounded by ten men—ex-Guardsmen by the look of them—but it was the man at the center of the group, the one she found herself somehow facing, who captured and held her attention.

He was dark haired, but so were many of the others. He was by no means the tallest of the group, yet he was the most powerful.

Emily knew that without question.

His face was austere, the planes hard edged, but his mobile lips curved as she instinctively curtsied. “Wolverstone, Miss Ensworth—it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “I understand you played a key role in getting the Black Cobra’s letter to Delborough here.”

Emily glanced at the man beside the great Wolverstone, then beamed. “Colonel Delborough—I’m delighted to see you again.”

“And I you, Miss Ensworth.” Delborough bowed. As he straightened, his gaze went past Emily, and his face lit. “Gareth!”

Emily stepped aside, delighted indeed as she watched Gareth shake Delborough’s hand and share a heartfelt embrace.

As he stepped back, Gareth asked, “Logan and Rafe?”

“Logan landed at Plymouth and is heading this way. He should reach us tomorrow. Rafe…” Delborough grimaced. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know Rafe. He’s just as likely to turn up on Wolverstone’s doorstep unheralded, with smiling apologies for having inadvertently missed touching the bases he was supposed to.”

“Just as long as he makes it.” Gareth held out his hand to Wolverstone. “I’m honored to meet you, Your Grace.”

Clasping his hand, Wolverstone smiled. “Just Royce in this company. Aside from all else”—he cocked a dark brow at the man to his right—“I’m not the only ‘Grace’ here.”

“Devil!” Gareth shook hands, clapped backs, then remembered to introduce Emily. “Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives.”

Emily found herself taken on a round of introductions, as Gareth eagerly renewed acquaintance with a host of Cynsters and an earl called Gyles, and Delborough introduced them both to two men Gareth didn’t know, who proved to be ex-colleagues of Jack and Tristan, all ex-operatives of Dalziel—Royce by another name.

Her head was whirling by the time the door opened to admit the innkeeper with a small tribe of helpers laden with platters. And on their heels, Jack and Tristan strolled in, to a general and hearty welcome.

The innkeeper and his team withdrew, and their group—now numbering fourteen—settled about the table, Royce at the head, St. Ives at the foot. Royce sat Emily on his right. Somewhat to her relief, Gareth sat beside her. She’d heard enough from Jack, Tristan, and Gareth to expect Wolverstone to impress, but the reality exceeded her imagination by a significant degree.

They all passed the platters. Emily found herself pressed to try this and that, but then all attention focused on their plates. Silence descended for two minutes, then Gareth glanced at Delborough, seated opposite. “We heard that you sacrificed your letter—what happened?”

Delborough nodded, and took up the conversational reins, relating how the confusion arising from combining his party with that of a lady he’d unknowingly been elected to escort north had allowed the Black Cobra to insinuate a thief—a young and very much coerced Indian boy—into their combined households. While he, the lady, and their combined guards had defeated the Cobra’s forces and won through to their destination of St. Ives’s country home, the boy, Sangay, had stolen the scroll holder, but had then been trapped at St. Ives’s house by the recent heavy snowfall.

“We could see from the snow that no one had entered or left the house, so we searched, and eventually found him. Once we convinced him we could keep him and his mother safe, he helped us to set a trap for the Black Cobra.” Delborough snorted. “In, of all places, Ely Cathedral.”

Delborough went on to describe how the trap had been sprung, but the Black Cobra, Ferrar, had presumably struck, killing his own man to escape unseen with the scroll holder.

“However, it contained only a decoy copy.” Wolverstone looked at Gareth. “Which is why we’re here—because he’ll know that by now, and having tried for Delborough’s and succeeded, he’ll try for the holder you’re carrying, too. Nothing is more certain.”

Wolverstone let his gaze travel around the table. “Which is exactly what we want, because we need to reduce the cult’s forces, especially in this area. My scheme is designed to have Ferrar racing back and forth across these counties, losing men at every turn. Delborough accounted for fourteen. I hope we can take out a similar number today, and Monteith and those with him, more again tomorrow.”

Gareth murmured, “So Rafe…?”

But Royce only smiled.

“You don’t need to know what you don’t need to know.” Jack caught Gareth’s eye. “That’s the way it always goes.”

“Indeed.” Royce pushed aside his empty plate. “So let’s see what we can accomplish today.” He looked inquiringly at Tristan and Jack. “What’s our situation?”

“They’re here, and in force.” Jack straightened in his chair. “We’ve been following a group of eight who’ve been tracking the carriage since Tilbury. Today they were joined by a larger force, another ten, just north of Braintree. That lot rode down from the north, by the way. And of special interest to us all, two of the ten aren’t Indian, but English. I don’t know Ferrar, so can’t say for certain, but I assume one is him. The other’s of similar build, darker hair.”

“They’re friends, not mere acquaintances,” Tristan put in. “And the other isn’t any servant, but an equal. You could tell from the way they interacted.”

Royce’s brows had risen. “That’s news. So we have another potential…lieutenant, let us say. And he’s English. If any chance offers, we need to catch him.” He looked at Tristan and Jack. “So by Braintree they were eighteen against a carriage with four men. What happened? Braintree is what? Twelve or more miles from here?”

“About that,” Jack said. “I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversations, but my best guess is that the dark-haired one wanted to attack, but Ferrar refused and had the whole lot of them shadowing the carriage, more or less flanking it all the way to Sudbury.”

“Once the carriage crossed the bridge into Sudbury, they peeled away and skirted the town.” Tristan tipped his head to the north. “We left them waiting on a rise from where they can watch the Bury and the Lavenham roads.”

Royce nodded. “They’ve guessed from Delborough’s destination that the carriage will head north, but they don’t know exactly to where. So they’re in position to pick up the carriage when it leaves here.” He glanced down the table. “Any guesses as to why they put off an attack?”

All eyes turned to Demon Cynster. “My guess is that Ferrar, having some familarity with the area, knows that the stretch from Sudbury to Bury, or Sudbury to Lavenham, is better for mounting an attack.”

“Did someone bring a map?” Royce asked.

Vane Cynster had. He drew it from his pocket and unfolded the large map, which showed most of the Eastern Counties. Various hands helped smooth it out and anchor it in front of Royce and Gareth.

Demon leaned forward to point. “Here’s Sudbury. This”—he pointed to a position just to the north—“is where Ferrar’s waiting.”

Royce studied the map. “If you were he, where would you choose to ambush the carriage?”

Without hesitation Demon placed a finger on the map. “Here—just a little way past the lane that leads to Glemsford and Clare. There’s also a country lane that leads up to Bury, just a little way along that lane. In terms of position, that spot is close to perfect.”

“Remember Ferrar and the cult tend to rely on overwhelming force.” Del looked at Demon. “Can he attack with all his men from there?”

Demon nodded. “There’s plenty of cover in stands of trees back from the road, but just there the usual hedges fall back and the road has wide, shallow ditches, open and clear, excellent for approaching a halted coach. All he’ll need to do is send men across the road to halt the coach, and then it’s trapped and at his mercy.”

“So we let him do that, commit his force against the coach, then we fall on them from the rear and wipe them out.” Devil Cynster smiled. “Easy.”

There were sounds of eager agreement all around.

“Yes, but is that the best we can do?” Royce murmured.

All talk ceased.

Devil looked up the table at him. “What now, o ye of devious mind?”

There were grins all around, including from Royce, but then he sobered. “The truth, as many of you have guessed, is that this entire scheme is designed not just to get the original copy of the Black Cobra’s letter into my hands, but if at all possible to provide further proof—more direct and damning proof—of Ferrar’s guilt. Ideally, I’d like to catch him with a scroll holder literally in his hand—have more than one of us see him so there’ll be multiple witnesses. If I have to accuse him with only the letter as proof, I will, but I’d far rather have something more—something less easy to destroy—as evidence.”

A moment of general cogitation followed, then Del waved at the map. “Do you think there’s a chance we could wrest that sort of proof from today’s situation?”

Staring at the map, Royce slowly nodded. “I think it’s possible, if we can only figure out how.” He looked at Gareth. “Where is your scroll holder?”

Gareth reached into the pocket of the greatcoat he’d draped over his chair and pulled out the holder. He stood it on the map, just south of Sudbury.

“All right.” Royce nodded. “So we have Ferrar here—the first thing we need. We have the scroll holder—the thing we want in his hand. If we go forward into the attack he has planned, Ferrar won’t show his face, he’ll sit back and watch the action. When we triumph over his forces, he’ll turn and ride away. Even if we’ve witnessed him sending the cultists to attack the carriage…” Royce shook his head. “That’s far too easy to explain away. He’ll deny all connection to the cult, and without the letter—even with the letter—it’s possible he, or more likely his father, will prevail, and he’ll go free. So doing the obvious—merrily going forward and letting them attack—will let us reduce cult numbers, but will not gain us the greater prize.”

When Royce fell silent, Devil prompted, “The alternative being…?”

Royce frowned. “We have to get the scroll holder into Ferrar’s hands. If we can somehow convince the cultists to take it in some way that won’t make them or Ferrar suspicious, they’ll take it back to him—and then we’ll have him.” He looked at the scroll holder. “But how do we innocently give the damn thing up after Hamilton and his men have fought so hard to get it here?”

That undoubtedly was the question.

The men leaned forward, making suggestions, expressing opinions, evaluating options.

After a moment, Emily eased back her chair—easing herself out of the ensuing discussion. She had an idea, but she needed quiet to think it through, enough to hear her own thoughts.

Gareth glanced at her the instant she moved, smiled vaguely, and drew back her chair.

She thanked him and retreated to the window seat across the room. Sitting in the alcove, she looked out at the view beyond and methodically worked through her notion.

The men had reached the point of considering ways to lose the holder “accidentally,” when she rose and headed back to the table.

The Cynster called Gabriel shook his head. “Accidentally losing it won’t work. The instant you try that, they’ll know it’s a decoy, and therefore of no worth—otherwise you’d never lose it, not after all this time—and also, ergo, that it’s bait. And bait means a trap, so they might well turn tail altogether, and then we’ll lose even the chance of reducing numbers.”

Royce grimaced. “If we can’t make the loss appear believable—”

“I could do it.” Emily halted behind the chair she’d occupied.

All the men looked at her, then Gareth asked, “Do what?”

She looked at him. “I could leave the scroll holder in a hedge for the cultists to take in such a way that it would appear unthreatening, unsuspicious.” She glanced at Jack and Tristan, then looked back at Gareth. “As if you, and Jack and Tristan, too, if they know about them, don’t know I’ve left it.”

It was Royce who asked, “How?”

Emily drew in a breath, reached out and picked up the scroll holder, then, still standing, lightly tapping it in her hand, she talked them, walked them, through her plan.

None of them liked it, of course, but…all had to admit that it was so unexpected, it just might work.

“And you’ll all be there, within hailing range at least,” she pointed out with exemplary patience. “Not that anything is likely to go wrong. There’s no reason to imagine I’ll be in any real danger.”

Many still looked like they wanted to grumble, but then Royce looked at the map. “Assuming we do this, where, exactly, would we stage this charade?”

“We need hedges,” Demon said, “so that means before the point where the attack is most likely—which is just as well.”

Gareth rose from his chair, caught Emily’s sleeve. When she arched her brows, he took her elbow and steered her across to the window seat.

He halted facing the window, his back to the room, with her beside him. His face felt like stone. “You can’t do this.” He kept his voice low, but even he could hear the tension in his tone. “It’s too dangerous.”

Head tilting, she regarded him for a moment, then quietly said, “Yes, there’s an element of danger involved, but only because we can’t predict everything. On balance…this is our best way forward, and you know it.”

“I may know it, but that’s not the point.” He shifted restlessly. “You know what we discussed—our future. You know how much you mean to me—”

Emily cut him off with a hand on his arm, even though the words were music to her ears. “I know what we discussed. Trust. Partnership. Sharing in all things.” She waited until he glanced her way, caught his gaze and held it. “I have to do this, Gareth, for myself as well as to help you and the others, and you have to let me do it. This time you have to support, not lead. You have to support me so I can do what only I can.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I told you—our life together has already began. We’ve already started a life partnership, and, in this, you have to honor it.” She gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel the muscles beneath the fabric all steel. “Honor is the guiding principle you live by, and today, in this, honor dictates you let me knowingly take a calculated risk.”

“I don’t like being forced into…some kind of test.”

She inclined her head. “No more do I. This situation isn’t by my choice, but the Black Cobra and his machinations have brought us to this. All our travels, all the attacks, all the fighting and escapes—they’ll mean little if we don’t see it through to the end, and wring everything we can from the final hand we’ve been dealt.”

His eyes searched hers; she sensed his resistance wavering.

Letting her lips curve in wry affection, she leaned closer. Eyes still locked with his, she murmured, “You’re strong enough to do this, and so am I—and we’ll never forgive ourselves if we don’t try.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed. Lips still tight, he nodded. “All right.”

They returned to the table to find the point for her excursion had been settled as just beyond the turnoff to Glemsford and Clare, just before the stretch Demon had described as perfect for an attack. “It’s likely,” Demon said, “that they’ll be in a stand of trees just here, and so be able to see you clearly.”

Emily looked at the map, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Then she looked at the faces around the table. “Time is passing, gentlemen—shall we get on?”

Twenty

They drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister and Mooktu had stared at Gareth as if he’d lost his mind, but Mullins—who knew her best—had nodded. “Worth a try,” he’d said, then clambered up to his seat.

Emily wished the others had rather more faith in her histrionic abilities, but as the carriage rolled steadily north toward Bury St. Edmunds, she put their faint hearts firmly from her mind and concentrated on what she had to do.

The impression she had to convey, not with words, but in actions.

If she succeeded, she would make a major contribution to the success of Gareth’s mission. She would be instrumental in bringing the fiend to justice—and for MacFarlane most of all, she was determined to do her best. To give her all.

She spied the signpost for the Glemsford turnoff just ahead. “Almost there. Stop the coach.”

Gareth reached up; as the lane flashed by on their left, he rapped on the carriage roof. Immediately, the horses slowed.

When the carriage rocked to a halt, she glanced out, and mentally blessed Demon Cynster—the road just there was lined with high, thick hawthorn hedges, brown and leafless now, but still dense enough for her purpose. And a few steps back there was a stile.

She glanced at Gareth, squeezed his hand, felt his fingers return the pressure, then he reluctantly released her. “Wish me luck.”

His eyes darkened. “Just come back soon, and put me out of my misery.”

She had to fight to banish her smile as she swung the door open and climbed out onto the step, then clambered down to the road. Clutching her muff, into which the scroll holder had just fitted—thank goodness it was winter—she marched the few paces back down the road to the stile. Nearing it, she turned, looked, and made imperious “turn around” gestures at Mooktu and Bister, who as per their orders had turned to stare back at her.

Once they’d grudgingly complied, frowning, lips compressed, she strode to the stile and climbed over—as if intending to answer a call of nature.

But as soon as her feet hit the ground on the other side, and she was out of sight of the carriage, she let her demeanor change. Gone was all confidence. She bit her lip, glanced around furtively. Then she dragged in a breath, and scurried a little way along the hedge, further from the carriage.

Then she stopped. Halted, raised her head, then she let her shoulders slump again, and started pacing. Back and forth, one hand gesticulating—clearly arguing with herself. Desperately, as if at her wits’ end and unsure which of two equally bad options to choose.

Again she halted. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, then pulled the scroll holder from her muff and, without even glancing at it properly, raised it above her head, flourished it about—clearly so anyone watching would see—then thrust it deep into the hedge.

Grabbing up her skirts, she hurried back to the stile. She climbed over. Resuming her imperious, nose-in-the-air demeanor, she marched back to the carriage.

Inside the carriage, Gareth was waiting, his hand clamped around the door handle, tensed and ready to act, counting the minutes—waiting to hear her scream. His mind had thrown up all manner of horrible scenes. The cultists had bows and let fly at her. A number rode up, sabers flashing…he blanked out the resulting image, cursed. Yet when dealing with the Black Cobra, anything was possible.

He was literally quivering with the effort to remain still, to not open the door and rush out to see where she was, when he heard her footsteps returning.

The relief that swept him nearly brought him to his knees.

Then the door handle turned, tugged. Releasing it, he pushed back on the seat.

The door swung open and she was there, staring at him, a question in her eyes. He didn’t know what was in his face, but he managed to lift a hand and beckon her inside.

She climbed up onto the step, leaned back to order, “Drive on!” then she ducked into the carriage, slammed the door behind her, and fell onto the seat opposite.

The smile that wreathed her face was nothing short of radiant.

The coach jerked, then rolled on, picking up speed.

He cleared his throat. “All right?”

She bounced upright and beamed at him. “I think I just gave the performance of my life.”

He devoured her with his gaze, but forced himself to wait until the carriage rounded the next bend—having passed the long stretch deemed perfect for an attack without even sighting a cultist—then he leaned forward, seized her about her waist, lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.

On a hill to the southwest of the scroll holder’s new location, Royce, Del, Devil, and all the others, saving only Jack and Tristan, who were still in their roles of guards and shadowing the carriage on the other side of the road, waited and watched.

Spyglasses trained on the spot, they’d viewed Emily’s performance with critical detachment.

When the carriage door closed behind her and the carriage rumbled on, eventually passing through the field of likely attack and out of sight without challenge, Royce lowered his spyglass. “If I didn’t know better, I might just believe she’d lost her nerve entirely, and jettisoned what she sees as the cause of all their trouble.”

“The Black Cobra has a penchant for breaking people, men and women—of using fear to terrorize until whoever it is does what he wants—so her ploy stands a better-than-might-be-expected chance of succeeding.” Del kept his glass trained on the scroll holder in the hedge. “Ferrar is used to people giving him what he wants.”

“There go Jack and Tristan.” Lucifer Cynster pointed to where the two guards were fleetingly visible as they passed over a rise, heading north in the wake of the carriage.

“Wherever he is, Ferrar shouldn’t have missed seeing them,” Devil said.

“No, he shouldn’t.” Royce raised his glass again, focusing on the relevant section of hedge. “So as far as he knows, the scroll holder is just sitting there, waiting for him to send someone to fetch it. Even if he only half believes, I can’t see him leaving it. The need to have it—to know if it’s a copy or the original—will surely be too great for a man of his ilk to resist.”

Del snorted. “He’s never been denied anything in his life. He won’t resist. All we need to do is wait.”

In a dense stand of trees on a rise overlooking the stretch of road Roderick had decreed was the perfect place to attack the carriage, Roderick and Daniel stood with spyglasses to their eyes, staring at the scroll holder jammed in the hedge.

The body of cultists behind them, mounted and eager, just waiting for the order to attack, grew restive. Harness jingled; horses stamped. Eventually the leader, greatly daring, asked, “Sahib—the carriage…?”

Roderick didn’t draw his gaze from the hedge. “Leave it for the moment.” Distantly he added, “There’s still plenty of road between here and Bury.” To Daniel, he murmured, “What do you think?”

Daniel snorted, lowered his glass. “It’s a trap, of course. That damned woman rode like the devil to bring the letter down from Poona, then delivered it to Delborough. And then she attached herself to Hamilton, no doubt intending to avenge MacFarlane. So why would she suddenly give up—give the letter up—now?”

“Because she’s reached the end of her tether.” Roderick’s tone was one of utmost reasonableness. “We’ve seen it often enough. We attack and attack and keep the attacks coming, and eventually it all just gets too much. They’re nearly at the end of their journey, nearly through to safety. And it was she who left it behind. If it had been Hamilton or one of his men, I’d be much less likely to credit it—and the two guards have gone on, too.” Lowering his spyglass, Roderick smiled at Daniel. “So if it is a trap, who’s left to spring it?”

Daniel wasn’t convinced. “What about those others who trapped Larkins in the cathedral?”

“They’re from near Cambridge.” Roderick waved to the northwest. “If they’d thundered down here, we would have seen them.”

Daniel wasn’t so sure, but as the minutes ticked by and the scroll holder just sat there, in the pale light of the winter afternoon, he knew leaving it there wasn’t an option. “So what do you propose?”

“I’ll send one of the men to pick it up while the rest of us watch from up here. If there’s no sign of a trap, he’ll bring the holder to me, I’ll take whatever it contains, and ride for Bury.” Roderick glanced at Daniel. “By the lane—not the road. If they’re waiting ahead for me to come prancing by, the letter in my hand, they’ll be disappointed.”

That was Daniel’s greatest fear. Roderick seemed to have covered the weakness, but…Daniel’s thumbs were still pricking. “All right.” Snapping his spyglass shut, Daniel moved to his horse’s side, stuffed the glass in the saddlebag. “I’ll ride ahead and tell Alex of your unexpected success—how you retrieved the letter without losing more men.”

“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex should be impressed.”

Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.

Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an appropriate welcome. I said I’d get us out of this—and I am. Alex—and sadly, sometimes you, too, Daniel—would do well to remember who among us is Shrewton’s legitimate son.”

Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed—if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.

But now Daniel merely nodded, his expression saying nothing of such complex thoughts. “Alex and I will be waiting in Bury.” About to spur off, he paused to add, “Remember to come in the back way.”

Roderick waved him off, his attention returning to the holder in the hedge. “Don’t fret—I’ll come via the ruins.”

Daniel stared at him for a second, sensing again the shift in dynamic that had occurred since the three of them had stepped onto English soil. Then he turned his horse and made for the small lane that led north to Bury.

A cultist came out of a stand of trees to the north, from the position Demon had suggested any attack on the carriage along that most amenable stretch would come.

Unhurriedly, his eyes scanning the empty fields and the nearer copses, the cultist rode to where the scroll holder was jammed, leaned from his saddle and pulled it free.

He tucked it into the frieze coat he wore, sitting tall, surveying all about him.

“They’ve changed their turbans for hats,” Del murmured.

“But they’ve clung to their black silk scarves.” Gabriel was studying the man closely. “I can see quite a few weapons, too, and they look to be well cared for.”

“While most of the cultists we’ve stumbled on are foot soldiers, not well trained with arms, the men with Ferrar will be his closest guards—his elite. They’re cavalry trained, good with sabers, but they fight like we do—you won’t run into any surprises with them. The assassins are another matter—they fight with half swords and shorter knives. If you find yourself facing one of them, expect the unexpected. They fight to win whatever the cost.”

“There’s definitely other riders in the trees he came out from,” Demon reported. “Exactly how many, I can’t be sure, but a goodly number.”

“We’re looking for eighteen,” Royce said. “Could there be that many hidden there?”

Demon nodded. “Easily.”

Gervase was suddenly there. He’d gone down to the fields to get a different line of sight. “One of the gentlemen just left, riding hard up the lane over there.” He pointed to the west of Ferrar’s assumed position.

“That leads to Bury,” Royce said.

“Here we go,” Devil said. They all watched, sharing six spyglasses among them, as the cultist carried the holder openly back across the fields, and up the treed rise to his master.

“I can see Ferrar from over here,” Lucifer called. The others all shifted, refocused.

Just in time to witness Ferrar receive the scroll holder from his man. In short order, he opened it. Those with the glasses quietly relayed what they saw.

“He’s pulling the letter out, unrolling it.” Royce smiled. “It’s a decoy, so the instant he realizes…”

His voice trailed away. Those without glasses shifted restlessly.

“What’s happening?” Gabriel Cynster asked.

“He’s smiling. Delightedly.” Devil handed his glass to Gabriel, looked at Royce. “If it’s a decoy, why is he so thrilled to have it?”

Frowning, Royce lowered his glass, then gave it to Gervase. “If he’s keen to retrieve the copies as well as the original, that suggests there’s something else in the letter that’s a threat to him, something in the words we’ve missed. Just as well Hamilton made another copy.”

“It has to be that.” Del handed his spyglass on. “Just look at his face.”

Royce’s eyes narrowed. “There’s definitely something we’re missing in this. Something more going on.”

“He’s leaving,” Gabriel reported. “He’s tossed aside the scroll holder and put the letter in his inside pocket. Now he’s riding off up that lane to Bury.” A second later he reported, “He’s taking only eight cultists with him—the others are heading south.”

“Probably returning to the north bank of the Thames,” Del said.

They watched the eight cultists, totally assured, ride past their position.

“Let them go.” Royce looked north, at the eight elite guards and assassins riding easily in Ferrar’s wake. “We need to reduce their numbers in this area, not further south.”

Devil glanced at his cousins, at Gyles. “There’s six Cynsters, one Rawlings—seven. We volunteer.”

“Do we need to take prisoners?” Lucifer asked.

“No—no use.” Royce hesitated, then said, “I have oversight of the magistrates in the area, so I’m charging you seven, ex-Guardsmen and peers, with the task of removing those eight cultists. We know they’ve committed atrocities in India, and if we had the time to spare, we could catch them, try them, and hang them—but that will cost our country time and money. These men have cost England enough—quietly removing them seems our best option.”

Devil grinned. “You’ve twisted our arms.”

They all turned to their horses. “One thing.” Royce’s words stopped them. He met Devil’s eyes. “Delborough, Gervase, Tony, and I will follow Ferrar into Bury and onward, with luck to his lair. We’ll meet you at Elveden to share what we find. However…” He looked at the eight cultists riding unhurriedly up the lane to Bury. “Ferrar has gone ahead. We’ll circle around and catch up with him, but given the distance between him and his men, I want you to remove them without alerting him.”

Devil looked at the cultists heading north. They could still see Ferrar merrily riding ahead. “You do like to be difficult.”

“The request shouldn’t be outside your scope.” Royce glanced at Demon. “You both know the country well—they don’t, or they wouldn’t be hanging so far back, not if they’re his guards.”

Demon glanced at Devil. “The bend before the windmill?”

Devil nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Less than a minute later, they were all mounted, streaming down the rise to circle to the west, to follow and overtake the band of cultists, and separate his guards from Ferrar.

Jack and Tristan caught up with the carriage a little way out of Bury St. Edmunds.

“Not a cultist in sight,” Jack reported. “They must have taken the bait, which means they should be coming up the road behind us.”

“I don’t know about you”—with his glance, Tristan included Mullins, Mooktu, and Bister—“but after all this, I’d like to be in at the end.”

“Me, too,” Jack said. “So we vote to stop at an inn in Bury, get the carriage off the road, and watch Ferrar and his flunkies go past. Then we can join the others on their trail.”

No one argued. They found the perfect inn in Westgate Street, and hired the front parlor, from which they could see back down the road up which they’d come, as well as see some distance left and right. Whichever route Ferrar took, he was likely to pass their position; they settled to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, Ferrar, alone, came jauntily riding along Westgate Street, smiling as he tacked this way and that through the late-afternoon traffic. He passed the inn window right to left. Emily seized Gareth’s sleeve. “He didn’t come the way we did.”

Jack and Tristan crowded the window, peering at Ferrar’s back. “He must have taken that minor lane to Bury.” Tristan stared the other way, in the direction from which Ferrar had come. “Where are the others?”

For a full minute, they looked back and forth, at Ferrar’s back, then the other way, hoping to spot their comrades, who should have been on his trail.

“Damn!” Jack said. “He must have lost them.”

He and Tristan were out of the door on the words. Gareth rushed after them; Emily rushed after him. Jack’s and Tristan’s horses were still saddled. They swung up to their backs and rode out of the inn yard.

Using his major’s voice, Gareth commandeered a carriage horse. It had no saddle, but the long reins were still there. Grabbing the horse’s mane, he swung up to its back.

“Gareth!”

He looked down into Emily’s eyes.

“You can’t leave me here!”

He could. But…teeth gritted, he beckoned her closer, bent, gripped and hoisted her up to the horse’s back before him. “Hold on. But if we need to ride hard, I’ll have to set you down.”

“No, you won’t.” Locking her hands in the horse’s mane, she stated, “I have it on excellent authority that I’m a devilish good rider.”

Be that as it may…he guided the horse, a steady beast, into the traffic thronging Westgate Street. Bury was a market town; from what they’d seen, today was market day. Which was helpful—the crowds in the street kept Ferrar to a slow walk, and gave them excellent cover as they followed him. “Not that he seems at all supicious,” Gareth said. “He hasn’t looked around once.”

“Overconfident,” Emily stated. He had to agree.

He tacked around a curricle, only to have a big gray horse fall into position alongside.

Even before his eyes had reached the rider’s face, Wolverstone drawled, “I might have known.” His gaze was resting on Emily.

Gareth shot him a look that stated very clearly: Yes, he might.

Emily ignored him. “We thought you’d lost him.” She wriggled and tried to look back. “Where are the others?”

Wolverstone regarded her for a moment, then decided not to take issue with her first statement. “Delborough, Gervase, and Tony are behind me. The Cynsters and Chillingworth remained to engage the cultists. Sadly, only eight stayed to play.”

Emily looked into his eyes, and got the impression she was treading very close to some edge. She looked ahead, nodded forward. “Jack and Tristan are closer. Do you have any idea where he might be going?”

“No.” On the word, Ferrar turned into a commercial stable. Royce angled his horse across Gareth and Emily’s, steering them to the curb. “We’ll wait here and see what he’s up to.”

Up ahead, Jack and Tristan had similarly halted by the opposite curb. They were chatting as if they were neighbors.

Royce looked at Emily, then Gareth. “If Ferrar comes out, try to keep your heads down—we don’t want him to recognize you. Although I have to admit he’s been singularly unwatchful thus far.”

Emily was too keyed up to even pretend to chat. Then Ferrar came striding out of the stable and crossed the street. He passed within yards of Tristan and Jack. They shifted to keep their faces from him, but he didn’t even glance their way.

Looking at Royce, Emily saw that his head was up, that with a glance he was collecting his men.

Ferrar strode on, oblivious, heading away from the center of the town, then without breaking stride, he turned through a wide gateway set in the thick stone wall bordering the other side of the street.

Royce frowned. “The abbey ruins are through there.”

As soon as Ferrar passed through the gateway and out of sight, they all hurried across the road, closing in on Tristan, who stood waiting in the gateway’s shadows. Jack had already slipped through.

Delborough, Gervase, and Tony joined them as they halted by Tristan’s side.

Jack reappeared. He looked faintly surprised. “He’s…wandering. Aimlessly ambling as if he had not a care in the world—as if he’s out for a stroll among the ruins, as, incidentally, quite a few others are.” He glanced back through the gateway. “I had no idea ruins in winter twilight were so much in vogue.”

Emily frowned at him. “You should read the Ladies’ Gazette.”

To a man, they stared at her, then Royce said, “Is he early for a meeting? Or…is he a student of ruins?”

“He stabled his horse, so his lair must be near,” Delborough pointed out. “Within walking distance.”

“Which covers the whole town.” Royce walked through the gateway, rapidly scanned the area, then came back. “Here’s how we’ll handle this.”

He directed Emily and Gareth to stroll through the gateway, then along the stone wall to where they could observe the grassy promenade that ran across the backs of the buildings built into the west side of the ruins—houses filling the arches of the old abbey, as well as the town’s cathedral built out of the old abbey’s main gate. “You’ll be able to keep your distance, but still see if he goes into one of the houses, or even into the cathedral. From there he can reach the rest of the town.” Royce looked at the others, his expression predatory. “He might have seen all of your faces, but he hasn’t seen mine. I’ll follow him directly—or as directly as I can without alerting him—while you five take the flanks. If he’s meeting someone, I want to know who.”

Everyone nodded and set off, quickly disappearing amid the huge stone blocks littering what proved to be a very large expanse, eyes scanning the deepening shadows for a glimpse of Ferrar.

“That misbegotten idiot!” From the top of the cathedral’s Norman tower—the tower that had once housed the abbey’s main gate and now afforded an unrivaled view of the abbey ruins far below—Alex stared down at Roderick—and the men who were fanning out ominously in his wake. “Just look how many followers he’s managed to collect!”

Daniel stared in disbelief. “He doesn’t even seem to know they’re there.”

Horror-struck, they watched from above, as Roderick paused, leaned back against a large fallen stone, reached into his coat, and drew out a rolled white paper.

“He’s got it—copy or original, it matters not.” With one last deadly look over the parapet, Alex whirled and strode for the stairs. “Come on!”

As they clattered as fast as they could down the dark stone stairs, Alex thought furiously.

When they reached the bottom and stepped out into the cathedral foyer, Alex seized Daniel’s arm. After one quick glance around to make sure no one had seen them, with head lowered Alex steered them quickly out of the cathedral and along the narrow passage down the side, then leaned close and hissed, “Roderick’s gone. Nothing we can do will save him. He has the letter, and those following him know it. Did you see the men hunting him? See how they moved—see their faces?”

When Daniel returned a puzzled look, Alex shook his arm. “Aristocratic faces—the faces of men of power, of the ton, who will be listened to.”

They emerged onto the promenade at the back of the cathedral and swiftly crossed into the ruins. Alex’s eyes scanned the deepening shadows, the fallen stones.

Alex’s voice lowered even more. “They’re going to catch Roderick, and this time, he won’t be able to talk his way out of it—not even our sire will be able to explain why he’s got that letter in his hand. Any second, and they’ll have him.” Halting, Alex looked into Daniel’s dark eyes. “No one knows of our involvement. We can just walk away. But Roderick can’t. Not this time.”

Alex paused, then asked, tone colder than the descending wintry chill, “Do you think, once caught, he’ll let you and me slip away?”

Lips tight, Daniel shook his head.

“Nor do I. And I’m not about to let all we’ve worked to create with the Black Cobra be wiped out by Roderick’s insufferable belief in his own superiority.” Turning, Alex led the way deeper into the ruins. “Come on. We have one chance—only one—to escape.”

Daniel might have inquired as to how, but Alex had always thought faster than he. Much faster than Roderick. And there was Roderick ahead of them. He was ambling along, the letter—their vital missive—in one hand, tapping it nonchalantly on his other palm. He saw them, waved the letter.

Alex halted in the center of an archway, three steps above the broken floor Roderick was traversing. Daniel halted one step behind.

Roderick smiled, a smile of overweening superiority, and came on. As he neared, he said, “O ye of little faith. You have no idea how easy this was.”

He looked down as he climbed the steps.

Alex stepped forward as Roderick reached the last step. He looked up.

Just as the bells summoning the faithful to evensong started carolling.

Just as, aided by Roderick’s momentum, Alex slid a dagger past Roderick’s ribs, directly into his heart.

Daniel’s breath seized at the look of utter, astounded disbelief that washed over Roderick’s face.

Alex leaned in, thrust the knife deeper. “You fool!” Alex’s hand pivoted, twisting the knife. “They were on your heels, and you didn’t even know.”

Death started to leach all expression from Roderick’s face.

Alex stepped back, filched the letter from Roderick’s grasp, left the knife where it was. Hesitated, then leaned close to viciously whisper, “You were the rabbit leading the hounds straight to us—no escape for you this time.”

Whirling, Alex blew out a breath, grabbed Daniel’s sleeve and hauled him around. Head close, Alex murmured, “We walk slowly, sedately. We’re just another pair of worshippers heading to the cathedral for evening service.”

Daniel glanced back, saw Roderick, ice-blue eyes wide, slump to the ground.

Roderick’s eyes glazed—and the Earl of Shrewton’s favorite son was gone.

The cathedral bells were peeling and the light was fading fast. Emily tugged Gareth’s sleeve. “Come on—we need to get closer or he could slip past us in this gloom.”

Gareth surrendered, and strolled with her along the promenade behind the buildings, searching the ruins, what they could see of them in the failing light.

Abruptly, Emily halted. “What’s that?”

He followed her gaze diagonally into the ruins, and saw…dark material spread over pale stone steps. “It’s a body.”

They rushed down the avenue, but before they reached the spot, Royce materialized. He stepped past the slumped form, up through the archway beyond, then crouched.

Delborough, Tristan, Jack, Gervase, and Tony reached the archway as they did. Royce looked up, his face unreadable. “This just happened. Did any of you see anyone fleeing?”

They all shook their heads.

Royce’s lips tightened. He rose. “Search!”

They did, until the light was gone, but found nothing. They returned to the body, all wondering, rethinking.

Hands on hips, Royce stood looking down at the body, now barely visible. He glanced at Delborough. “The dagger—it looks to be the same sort as the one used on Larkins.”

Crouching, Del inspected the ivory handle, nodded as he rose. “It’s a type the cult assassins use.”

“The letter?” Jack asked.

“Gone.” Royce glanced around at the circle of faces. “No one even vaguely suspicious?”

They all shook their heads. “There were couples leaving, and numerous worshippers heading for evening service,” Tristan said, “but no one was rushing, hurrying, trying to get away. No one glancing around.”

Royce grimaced. They all stared down at the body of Roderick Ferrar. “So,” Royce said, accents clipped, “we have the man we were certain was the Black Cobra, but he’s been eliminated. Leaving us with two very big questions: Who killed him? And why?”

Twenty-one

20th December, 1822
Late afternoon
My room at Elveden Grange

Dear Diary,

I have come up to wash off the dust of travel before rejoining the others downstairs. What a day! We are at the end of our adventure, Gareth’s mission is complete, but Ferrar has turned up dead and no one is clear what that means.

Yet even more excitingly, the exigencies of the day put Gareth’s commitment to our partnership to the test—and the dear man came through with flying colors! He let me out of his sight, let me walk into potential danger to do what I alone could in leaving the scroll holder for Ferrar to take, even though, as was later made clear to me in emphatic fashion, the moment cost him dearly. Yet he did not leave me behind at the inn, either, but allowed me to remain by his side as we hunted Ferrar.

After today, I could not possibly doubt the strength of his commitment to our future—a future I cannot wait to address! My heart feels like it’s bubbling, so full of effervescent happiness am I.

But first we have to deal with the unexpected conclusion of Gareth’s mission, and I must rush downstairs to play my part.

E.

So we’re left with the questions of who killed Ferrar, and why.” Standing before the hearth in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, Royce glanced up as Emily returned. He’d just concluded relating the events of the day for the benefit of the assembled ladies—Deliah Duncannon, who had arrived with Delborough, Alicia, Tony’s wife, Madeline, Gervase’s wife, Leonora and Clarice, Kit, Jack Hendon’s wife, Letitia, Christian Allardyce’s marchioness, and his own duchess, Minerva, who had, he’d discovered, invited all the families of his ex-colleagues to join their family here for Christmas.

When he’d stared at her, dumbfounded, she’d smiled and patted his chest. “Your timetable runs too close to Christmas—the men can’t be sure of getting home in time, and you all have young families.”

He knew better than to argue. There were battles he could win, and ones he wouldn’t. Such, he’d learned, was the nature of married life.

Those of his ex-colleagues already there and seated about the room had no doubt learned the same. Christian and Jack Hendon were there, ready to, in a few days, play the roles assigned them. The Cynsters and Chillingworth had rejoined them, looking thoroughly pleased. They’d fulfilled their mission, and despite a number of cuts and slashes, none was seriously injured.

“I believe,” Royce said, as Emily settled on the end of the chaise beside the chair Gareth occupied, “that we have to revise our assessment of who the Black Cobra is.”

Delborough nodded. “The Black Cobra is either not Ferrar, or Ferrar was part of a larger whole.”

“I agree.” Gareth frowned. “If the Black Cobra is not Ferrar, then presumably the Black Cobra killed him, or ordered the killing—so that still means the Black Cobra is here, in England.”

“Here in Suffolk, or close by,” Tony said.

After a moment, Delborough shook his head. “Ferrar had to be very high in the cult’s organization. He was vital to the cult’s success through his role in the governor’s office, and given his nature, I can’t see him taking any subordinate position while knowing he was the lynchpin for the cult’s fortunes.” Delborough met Royce’s eyes. “We saw Ferrar giving orders, and the elite guards, including the assassins, obeyed. I’d suggest that all we know favors the notion that the Black Cobra is a group—two, three, or more, we can’t say—but Ferrar was one. Presumably the other Englishman we saw was another.”

Royce nodded. “And that other Englishman, who appeared to be Ferrar’s equal, might have been the one who killed Ferrar, or had him killed.”

“If we accept that the Black Cobra is a multiheaded beast,” Gyles Rawlings said, “then it’s most likely the other members are known acquaintances of Ferrar.”

Royce met Gyles’s eyes, then nodded and glanced at the window, at the dark beyond. “It’s nearly evening, but I believe it’s time we paid the Earl of Shrewton a visit. If we leave now, we’ll be at Wymondham before he sits down to dine.”

They’d brought Ferrar’s body to Elveden in a dray, ready to deliver to his father at Shrewton Hall.

“What about Larkins?” Devil asked. “Did Ferrar kill him, or was it someone else?”

“From what you told me,” Royce said, “it was most likely Ferrar—it was someone Larkins trusted implicitly, so unlikely to be merely one of Ferrar’s friends. However, now that Ferrar’s dead, that’s neither here nor there, but we’ll certainly take Larkins’s body with Ferrar’s—it might help convince the earl that he needs to do whatever he can to assist us.”

There were a number of volunteers eager to help convince the earl, but Royce kept the group to four—Christian, the other most senior peer, and Delborough and Gareth, both of whom could with authority bear witness to Ferrar’s deeds, and those of the Black Cobra, in India.

When Devil tried to insist that he, too, should go, Minerva narrowed her eyes at him. “You”—she waved an imperious finger indicating all the Cynsters and Gyles Chillingworth—“will ride back to Somersham Place immediately. None of you might be seriously incapacitated, but I can see cuts—great heavens! I can see blood—and your wives would never forgive me if I didn’t send you home to be tended. Now.”

Seven large men stared back at her. Minerva didn’t budge, didn’t bat an eyelash.

Nor did the ladies gathered around her, who, as the silence stretched, brought their gazes, too, to bear on the recalcitrant males…until they broke.

With one last dark look, Devil inclined his head. “Very well.” He glanced at Royce, who’d been studying the ceiling. “We’ll see you tomorrow, no doubt.”

“I’ll send word later tonight, once we’ve learned what we can from Shrewton and—I hope—heard from Monteith’s party. They should be at Bedford tonight.”

Devil raised a hand in salute, and led the others out.

Royce followed with Delborough, Gareth, and Christian, bound for Shrewton Hall.

The other members of the Bastion Club and Jack Hendon exchanged glances, excused themselves, and retreated to the billiard room, no doubt to mull over the happenings of the day while knocking balls about the table.

Minerva and the other ladies watched the male retreat with approval. As the door closed behind the last pair of broad shoulders, as one they turned to Emily.

“We’d love to hear of your travels,” Minerva said.

Letitia sank into the chair Gareth had vacated. “Tell all,” she advised. “Start at the beginning—when did you go to India?—and more importantly, why?”

Emily looked from eager face to interested eyes, and saw no reason not to comply.

In a cold stone room off the laundry of Shrewton Hall, near Wymondham, the Earl of Shrewton stood staring down at the body of his favorite son.

Roderick Ferrar’s body lay on its back on one of the room’s benches. The earl’s servants had laid Larkins’s body on another bench nearby, yet the earl had given no sign of even noticing Larkins. From the moment he’d led them—Royce, Christian, Delborough, Gareth, and the earl’s elder son, Viscount Kilworth—into the room, the earl’s attention had fixed on his son’s remains.

The shock on the earl’s face was there for all to read.

Kilworth, too, was visibly shaken. “We didn’t even know he was in the country.”

“Who did this?” The earl swung to face Royce. “Who killed my son?”

“A friend of his known as the Black Cobra.” Succinctly, Royce explained their interest in the Black Cobra cult and its leaders. “We were following your son because he’d fetched and was carrying a copy of a letter from the Black Cobra that the Black Cobra wants back. The original of that letter is signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark, and sealed with your family seal.” Royce indicated the seal ring on Ferrar’s finger.

Head lowering so they could no longer see his eyes, the earl said nothing.

Royce swung to the other body. “The day before, Larkins—your son’s man—seized another copy of the letter, and he, too, was killed.”

The earl made a dismissive gesture. “I want to know who killed my son.”

“They were killed with identical daggers,” Royce said, “of a type used by the Black Cobra cult’s assassins. The Black Cobra killed your son, or ordered him to be killed. So we have a common goal in that both you and I want to know who the Black Cobra is.”

Royce paused, then, including Kilworth with a glance, asked, “Do you know who the Black Cobra is?”

The earl snorted. “Of course not—I have no interest in any foreign mumbo jumbo.”

“There’s not much of that about the Black Cobra cult—they’re solely interested in acquiring money and power, and are very willing to use terror and vile deeds to gain both.” Royce kept his gaze fixed on the earl. “Do you or Kilworth know the names of any of Roderick’s friends in Bombay? Has he mentioned anyone as associate or friend, who might be involved, or might know more?”

The earl stiffened and lifted his head. “I know nothing about any cult—it’s ridiculous to even suggest my son was involved with such people.”

“Your son’s seal is on the letter,” Royce coolly reminded him. “There’s no doubt of his involvement at some level. The original of that letter, with Roderick’s seal, will be delivered to me shortly, and given the interest at the highest levels that the depredations of the Black Cobra cult has engendered, that letter will, sooner or later, find its way into the public domain. Any assistance your family can provide in identifying the Black Cobra—the man who killed your son—will, naturally, mitigate any adverse implications.”

Gareth glanced at Delborough, and Christian beside him, and saw they, too, were suppressing satisfied smiles. There was steel beneath Royce’s smooth tones, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind what would happen if the family did not assist. Yet no threat had actually been uttered.

Well versed in such subtleties, the earl heard the warning. His face mottled as he glared. “This is nonsense! My son has been killed, that’s all there is to it.” Swinging on his heel, he pushed past Christian and stalked out.

Leaving Kilworth, who even physically was very unlike his sire, a tallish, slender gentleman with dark eyes—not the pale cold blue of his father and brother—to try to smooth over the moment.

“He’s in shock,” Kilworth said, as if in exculpation, then added, “Well, so am I.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But Roderick was his favorite, you see.” His tone made it clear that if it had been he lying dead on the bench, he doubted his father would be half as exercised. He gestured to the door. “Come. I’ll see you to your horses.”

As he walked beside Royce down the long corridors, Kilworth kept talking—he was the sort of man who did. The rest of them were happy to listen.

“We knew nothing, you see—last we heard he was off to India to make his fortune. He wasn’t one for writing letters. Well, we had no idea he’d even come home.” He glanced at Royce. “Did he just arrive?”

“He landed in Southampton on the sixth of this month,” Delborough said.

“Oh.” Kilworth’s expressive face fell, then he grimaced. “As you can see, we aren’t close—weren’t. Roderick and me. But still…I’m surprised he didn’t contact the old man.”

“You’re sure he didn’t?” Christian asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Kilworth saw their doubts, and smiled. “The servants never liked Roderick, but they like me, so they always tell me…things like that. None of us here knew Roderick was in England, of that I am completely sure.”

They’d reached their horses, held by grooms in a side courtyard.

Kilworth halted, waited while they mounted, then he looked up at Royce. “I doubt you’ll get anything from the old man, and the harder you push, the more he’ll dig in his heels and bluster. But…I’ll contact those of Roderick’s friends I know of here, in England, and ask if any of them have heard what he was up to in India, and if he mentioned who were his closest friends there.”

“Thank you.” Royce inclined his head. “You’ll find me at Elveden Grange until this is over.”

Kilworth frowned. “It isn’t over?”

Royce shook his head as he turned his horse. “Not by a very long chalk.”

They returned to Elveden Grange to discover that the ladies had held dinner back for them. The instant they walked into the drawing room, Minerva rose and directed the whole company to the dining room. Over a relaxing meal they reported on the earl’s recalcitrance, and the possibility that Kilworth might manage to learn more.

“The countess is long dead, and his sisters are older and have been married and living in their own households for years,” Minerva said. “I doubt they would know anything.”

“Roderick was his father’s favorite for a very good reason—father and son were cut from the same cloth.” Letitia sat back in her chair. “Whatever viciousness you detected in Ferrar, he learned at his father’s knee. Kilworth, on the other hand, is a much more gentle, rather scholarly soul. He took after the countess, much to Shrewton’s unveiled disgust. Shrewton tolerates him only because he is his heir.”

“And now his only surviving son.” Minerva rose. All the ladies followed suit.

Royce glanced at the men, saw his inclination mirrored in their faces. He pushed back his chair. “We’ll join you in the drawing room. There’s much still to be discussed.”

While the men followed the ladies down the hall, Royce’s butler approached him with a missive on a salver. Royce took it, opened it, and read the message within, then slid it into his pocket, and went on, following the other men into the drawing room.

Once they were settled in the comfortable chairs and chaises, Royce began, “When we first commenced this mission”—he nodded to Del and Gareth—“when you contacted me, and then left Bombay with the four scroll holders, we would have said that Ferrar’s death would mark mission’s end. Instead, we have Ferrar dead, and the Black Cobra still out there. This feels more like the end of Act One in a drama that still has some way to run.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Gareth said, “that with Ferrar’s death, the threat of the seal on the original letter exposing his involvement has evaporated. He can no longer reveal who the real Black Cobra is. Yet you say Ferrar was thrilled to have retrieved a copy, suggesting there’s more in the letter than we’ve yet discerned. Regardless, if after this evening the Black Cobra doesn’t call off the cultists harrying Monteith, then we can be certain there’s something else about the letter that threatens the real Black Cobra.”

“Indeed.” Royce nodded decisively, and looked at Emily. “Do you have your copy?”

She’d been carrying it in her pocket in anticipation of that request. Pulling it out, she unfolded the sheet, and handed it across.

Royce took it, read it aloud, then passed the sheet around.

Del regarded him. “You’re more used to evaluating covert communications than anyone else here. So what do you think?”

Royce considered the sheet, by then doing the rounds of the ladies. “I can comprehend the purpose behind the second half of the letter, where the Black Cobra is making overt advances. But why bother with the first half—the social chitchat?”

The copy had reached Minerva’s hands. She studied it as she said, “Some might say it’s simply camouflage for the rest, but…” Head rising, she looked at Royce. “Not you.”

He smiled. “No, not me.” Transferring his gaze to the others, he went on, “It’s almost certainly the case that the first half has a purpose, but it’s hidden.”

Gareth frowned. “It’s common for princelings—and Govind Holkar, to whom the letter is addressed, is an epitome of the type—to crave acceptance into the upper echelons of local English society. I”—he glanced at Del—“all of us interpreted the first half of the letter in that light. As a social inducement, if you like.”

“That may be so,” Christian said, retaking the letter, “but that suggests that this Govind Holkar would be specifically interested in knowing that at least one of these ten people named would be visiting Poona. Given he was negotiating with the Black Cobra, who we now know to be more than one person, what are the odds that at least one of these people is part of our multiheaded beast?”

“If the attacks on Monteith continue, then those odds increase.” Royce looked at Del. “I take it Poona is a hill-station?”

“In effect,” Del replied, “it’s the monsoon capital for Bombay. All those English who can, including the governor and his staff, relocate there for the season. All the wives and families usually remain there throughout the monsoon period, although their menfolk often go back and forth. But Poona was once the Maratha capital, and many of their princelings, like Govind Holkar, live there much of the time. That’s why, when we thought the Black Cobra was Ferrar alone, we took the first half of the letter to be…well, merely information the writer, Ferrar, knew Holkar would be pleased to know.”

Gareth grimaced. “If we’d known those names might have greater significance, we could easily have learned more before we left.”

“Spilt milk,” Royce said. “Now we know, how can we learn more?”

Gareth looked at Emily. “Do you know any of those named?”

Christian handed her the letter. She took it, scanned the names she’d transcribed the day before. “I was only in India for six months, but then again, I was in the governor’s household.” She paused, her eyes on the page, then she grimaced. “It’s as I remembered. All these people are members of what is popularly known as the Government House set—which I assure you has nothing to do with the governor. They’re a group of younger people who are rather wild, and Ferrar was a major figure within the group.”

“So he would know all ten personally?” Royce asked.

Emily pulled a face. “I really can’t say. He would certainly have known all socially, but how well he knew any one of them…I had little to nothing to do with that group. In my aunt’s words, they’re ‘rather fast,’ and she is a master of understatement.”

“Which,” Clarice said, brows high, “makes that section of the letter even more believable as a social bribe.”

Royce took back the copy, folded it. “Regardless, we’ll know the truth very soon—by tomorrow at the latest.” He looked at the others. “I’ve received confirmation that Monteith reached Oxford yesterday. He should be at Bedford tonight. With luck, he and his escort will be joining us tomorrow.”

“His escort?” Gareth inquired.

“Two more of my ex-operatives,” Royce said. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, and Deverell, Viscount Paignton.”

“Ah.” Minerva rose and crossed to tug the bellpull. “That means Penny and her brood, and Phoebe and hers, will arrive tomorrow—I must organize their rooms.”

Royce looked at her, but made no comment while she quickly spoke to the butler who’d appeared.

However, as the butler retreated and Minerva returned to sit alongside him, Royce continued, “Apparently, Monteith has a lady with him, too.”

“A lady?” Del frowned. “Where did she come from?”

“Guernsey, apparently. For some reason, the major ended up there, and then…” Royce frowned. “I’m not clear about the details—St. Austell was his usual oblique self—but I gather she was instrumental in facilitating Monteith’s journey to Plymouth, and consequently, he felt it necessary to keep her with him, safe from the cultists.”

Gareth and Del exchanged glances. They knew all about keeping those who helped them out of the cultists’ hands. Especially women.

“So,” Royce continued, “if Monteith strikes no further opposition, we’ll know that the exposure of Ferrar as part of the Black Cobra was the only thing about the letter that the Black Cobra feared. Conversely, if the cultists keep attacking, trying to seize the copy Monteith’s carrying, then clearly there is indeed something in the words—and it would have to be the names—that the remaining parts of the Black Cobra have reason to fear us learning.”

Emily blinked at him. “But we already have a copy of the letter—we already know the names.”

Royce met her gaze and smiled. “True, but the Black Cobra doesn’t know that. Indeed, why would we bother making an extra copy if it’s the seal that to us is the key?” He held her gaze, his own growing distant, then he looked at the others. “But that raises a valid point. We already have the text of the letter, yet those names mean nothing to anyone here. From what Emily says, those names are unlikely to be recognized by many in England, not in terms of what those people have been getting up to in India.”

He paused, then went on, “There has to be someone the Black Cobra fears us showing the letter to. Someone for whom those names, some of them at least, will mean something—enough to identify one or more as Ferrar’s closest associates.”

“Family would be the obvious candidates,” Christian said, “but I don’t think Shrewton was lying, much less Kilworth. They have no idea who Ferrar was consorting with in India.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t in India,” Emily said. “Perhaps it was here, in England, before Ferrar left. If he was close to people here, and the same people turned up there—surely they would be his closest friends.”

“Closest, and most likely to have worked with him to set up the Black Cobra cult.” Gareth glanced at Del. “Because the cult’s genesis occurred a little after Ferrar’s arrival in Bombay, we were certain that he was involved in its birth, but that doesn’t mean friends who joined him soon after couldn’t have lent a hand.”

“No, indeed. They might even have been the instigators.” Del nodded. “Emily’s right. We need to learn who Ferrar’s closest friends were in England, and then check if any of them feature in the letter.”

“And that,” Royce says, “makes Kilworth our best bet.” He considered, then grimaced. “Let’s see what happens with Monteith tomorrow, but if the Cobra keeps striking, then we should certainly put more effort into learning who were Roderick Ferrar’s erstwhile friends.”

An hour later, Emily preceded Gareth into the bedchamber she’d been given. He had his own room down the hall, much smaller, more a place to leave his bags than anything else.

No one in this household bothered with pretense.

All but dancing, she whirled, fetching up before the fireplace in which a lovely fire crackled and burned. Outside it was freezing, but inside…she’d never felt so relaxed, so triumphant, in her life.

Arms spread, she swung to smile at Gareth. He’d closed the door and had followed close behind her. “We’re here!” Bringing her hands in, she locked them about his lapels and drew him close; smiling, he came. She beamed up at him. “I can barely believe it. After all those miles, all those attacks, all those horribly dangerous times—here we are, hale and whole.” She met his eyes, let herself fall into the tawny hazel. “And we’re together.”

Hands closing about her waist, then sliding further to hold her in a loose embrace, he nodded. “We are. But I have a confession to make.”

Taken aback, she searched his eyes but saw nothing beyond the warmth she’d grown so accustomed to shining back at her. Reassured, she made her tone encouraging. “What?”

“Yes, well, that’s the thing.” His lips curved, rueful yet still relaxed. “I was determined never to let the words cross my lips, had sworn I would never utter them, but after today, after sitting in that carriage, blind, out of sight of you, not knowing if you were in danger, if some terrible fate was threatening you…” His expression changed, all warmth falling away, leaving an emotion far more stark and powerful etched over the chiseled lines of his face.

Her heart thudded as, amazed, she recognized what that emotion was.

“I nearly broke. Nearly overthrew all caution, all sense, nearly flung open the carriage door and came after you.”

Locked in his dark gaze, she released one lapel, placed that hand on his chest, over his heart. “But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t. It was a close run thing—but I didn’t.” He nodded, lips firming, his eyes on hers. “So yes, Emily Ensworth, we’re going to have a life partnership—we’re going to have the trust, the sharing of all life’s challenges. Before, when we spoke of this, I wasn’t sure how far I could go—how much of what you wanted I could give you—but now I know. Today showed me. Not that you were up to the task—that I never doubted, not from the instant I met you in Bombay after you’d ridden in with the letter from James. I was so proud of you—I admired you, your strength and character, from then. I knew long before today that you could handle anything, including the challenge of sharing your life with me. But today I discovered that I was up to the task, too—that I could, if pushed, trust your strength and put my faith in your abilities as you, so often on our travels, put your faith in mine.”

He drew a huge breath, his chest swelling beneath her hand. She didn’t say a word, too enthralled, too eager to hear what next he would say.

Gareth looked into her shining eyes, the moss-green bright, shimmering with encouragement and a love he’d never thought to find. “Having you go into danger without me at your side is never going to be something I will willingly countenance, but today I learned that I could live through the vulnerabilty, so there’s no longer any point in not saying the words I’d sworn I never would.”

“What words?” She all but quivered in his arms, so alive, so vibrant, and all his.

He smiled, and let the words fall freely, let them come of their own accord and simply be, testament to his reality. “I love you. You are the sun, the moon, and the stars to me—I can’t imagine a life without you at its center. Yes, I want to marry you—quite desperately want to marry you—but that want owes nothing to anything but my need.

“I need you—I need your love. I need you to be my future. We started, before, to paint in my blank slate, but I can’t finish the picture of my future without you at its center.”

She pressed closer, pushed her hands up over his shoulders, winding her arms about his neck. Sheer happiness bubbled in her voice as she said, “I was so proud of you today—when you let me do what I could do. I was never so much as vaguely attracted to MacFarlane, but women can have honor, too, and I wanted to—needed to—do something, something real, to help catch the Black Cobra. And now I have, I can leave it to you and all the other men here to catch the fiend, whoever he is, and bring him to justice.

“Now”—she stretched up on her toes, bringing her lips to within a whisker of his—“I can turn my attention—all my attention and energy—to us. To our partnership, our future—our marriage.”

Her eyes all but glowed, shimmering with emotion as she stared into his. “You are my one—the one I’ve been waiting to find for so long, the one I went to India to seek, the one I love with all my heart. Now I’ve found you, I will never let you go.”

He felt his lips curve. “Good.”

He kissed her—or she kissed him. Between true partners, it didn’t matter which it was. All that mattered was the heat that instantly sprang to life, that flared and curled comfortingly all around them.

That drew them in and seduced them.

Then flamed.

Clothes scattered, discarded with abandon.

They barely made it to the bed.

And then there was nothing beyond the flames and the passion, the desire and the need to be one.

Together.

Linked, twining, merging.

Giving and taking and striving for more.

Possessing, then surrendering.

She had a saying she was fond of, that actions always spoke louder than mere words. If he’d doubted the veracity of that claim, she would have convinced him that night.

She took him in with a joy that eclipsed all he’d ever known, embraced him and gave him more than he could fathom.

She was his all, his everything, then and evermore.

Emily could imagine no greater joy than when she shattered beneath him and, looking up through awestruck, love-struck eyes, saw his face in that instant when he lost himself in her.

Saw all he’d until then tried to shield.

Saw vulnerability acknowledged, accepted, and held close.

Saw love and abject devotion in his eyes.

Finally saw him, all he was, clearly—her warrior with an unshielded heart.

They slumped together, arms tight, possessive even in aftermath, waiting for their thundering hearts to slow, waiting for reality to reclaim them.

When he finally eased from her arms, withdrew from her and slumped on his stomach beside her, she was already planning. “We’ll wait here.” Turning her head, she caught his eye. “I’m happy to wait here until the other two—Monteith and Carstairs—arrive. Until they’re safe.” Sliding around, down into the bed beside him, she raised a hand and traced one heavy shoulder. “You won’t be able to concentrate on our future until then—and in truth, neither will I.”

The one eye she could see held hers, then he humphed and turned his head fully her way. “They’ll be here soon. Logan tomorrow, and although Royce has said nothing about when Rafe is due, I’m sure it’ll be no more than two days.”

She smiled, a slow smile of anticipation. “Good.”

She continued to smile, but her gaze grew distant. Her hand continued to stroke Gareth’s bare shoulder. After a minute had ticked by, curious, he asked, “What are you thinking of?”

She refocused on him, and her smile deepened. “I was just thinking: If only my family could see me now.”

He looked at her in mock horror, then lifted his head and dropped it back into the pillow. “Thank God they can’t.”

“You do understand that he had to die, don’t you?” In the drawing room of the house they’d made their headquarters in Bury St. Edmunds, Alex topped up Daniel’s glass from the decanter of fine brandy Roderick had liberated from the locked sideboard.

How very apt, Daniel thought, as he took a healthy swallow. As usual, Alex was abstemious, but tonight he was also sipping from a glass.

“Poor Roderick.” With a shake of the head, Alex replaced the decanter on the sideboard. “So…sadly ineffectual.”

“Indeed.” Daniel took another swallow. He was still a trifle shocked—not by Roderick’s death itself—that had, he suspected, been coming for some time; it was his idiot half brother’s lack of thought for consequences that had landed the three of them in this mire after all. Still, he hadn’t seen it coming—hadn’t seen Death in Alex’s eyes until the dagger had slid home.

But Alex had been right. Roderick had had to die, then and there, in that moment. Thanks to Alex’s quick thinking, the pair of them had got clean away.

Daniel raised his glass, locked eyes with Alex, now seated on the sofa nearby. “To Roderick—the idiot—who was convinced to the last that our sire would always save him. He was a fool, but he was our brother.” He drank.

Alex sipped. “Half brother.” Alex’s lips curved. “Sadly, he missed the better half—the cleverer half.”

Daniel tipped his glass in acknowledgment, but said nothing. He and Alex shared a father, but their mothers had been different, so the cleverer half Alex alluded to he had missed as well. He looked at his glass, and decided he’d better stop drinking.

“But Roderick no longer matters, my dear. We do.” Alex’s voice was low but clear, as always compelling. “And we need to take steps to ensure our necks remain free of the hangman’s noose.”

“Indubitably.” Setting down his glass, Daniel met Alex’s eyes. “As ever, I’m yours to command, but I suspect I’d better go and check on Monteith. We need his copy of the letter.”

Alex nodded. “While you’re doing that, I’ll organize another move. Sadly, here, we’re too close to where Roderick met his end. Our opponents might think to search. I’ll have somewhere else organized—not too far away—by the time you get back with Monteith’s letter.”

“And then we’ll need to get a welcome in place for Carstairs.”

“Indeed.” Alex’s eyes glittered. “I’ll start work on that tomorrow, too. Now we know he’s coming down the Rhine, and at speed, then it’s all but certain he’ll pass through Rotterdam. I’ve already sent orders to all those on the other side of the Channel to ensure he runs into a very warm reception. But given that the other three have all come this way, what are the odds, do you think, that he’s making for either Felix-stowe or Harwich? They are, after all, the closest and most convenient ports to this part of the country.”

“He’ll be carrying the original, won’t he?”

Alex nodded. “Just the fact he’s coming in on the most direct route…our puppetmaster isn’t trying to draw out cultists with him, but to give him the shortest and safest road, the best possible chance of reaching the puppetmaster. That’s why he’s the last, and also why Monteith is coming in from the opposite direction.”

“So Carstairs won’t be long.”

“No, but what I have planned in Rotterdam will at least slow him down, which is all we need.” Alex looked at Daniel. “You take care of Monteith, and leave me to put our welcome for Carstairs in place. By the time you get back with Monteith’s letter, all will be set.” Alex smiled, viciously intent. “Whoever our puppetmaster is, I guarantee Carstairs will never reach him.”

Daniel nodded and stood. “I’d better get going if I’m to join the men tonight.”

“Where exactly are they?”

“In a deserted barn outside a village called Eynesbury. I left them with strict orders to keep watch for Monteith and make sure he doesn’t reach Cambridge. They’ll know where he’s spending the night.” Daniel smiled, envisioning carnage. “I believe I’ll pay Major Monteith a midnight visit.”

Alex understood what he was planning. “Very good. And who knows what possibilities tomorrow might bring? Take care, my dear—I’ll see you later tomorrow, once you have Monteith’s copy.”

Daniel saluted. “Until then.”

He turned away and strode for the door, and so didn’t see the way Alex watched him.

Didn’t feel the cold, piercing weight of those ice-blue eyes.

After he’d passed through the open doorway and disappeared, Alex sat staring at the vacant space.

Debating.

Several minutes ticked past.

Then Alex turned and looked toward the doorway at the far end of the room. “M’wallah!”

When the fanatical head of Alex’s personal guard appeared, Alex coldly said, “Have someone saddle my horse, and lay out my riding breeches, jacket, and my heavy cloak. I expect to be out all night.”

The Brazen Bride

STEPHANIE
LAURENS

The
Brazen
Bride
THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET

He was startlingly,
heartbreakingly,
breathtakingly beautiful.

His face, all clean, angular lines and sculpted planes, embodied the very essence of masculine beauty—there was not a soft note anywhere. Combined with the muscled hardness of his body, that face promised virility, passion—and direct, unadorned, unadulterated sin.

Such a face did not belong to a man given to sweetness but to action, command, and demand.

Chiseled lips, firm and fine, sent a seductive shiver down her spine. The line of his jaw made her fingertips throb. He had winged black brows, a wide forehead, and lashes so black and thick and long she was instantly jealous.

As usual her instincts had been right. This man was—would be—dangerous. To her peace of mind, if nothing else.

Men like this—who looked like he did, who had bodies like his—led women into sin.

And into stupidity.

One

December 10, 1822
One o’clock in the morning
On the deck of the Heloise Leger, the English Channel

Hell hath no greater fury than the cataclysmic storms that raked the English Channel in winter. With elemental tempest raging about him, Major Logan Monteith leapt back from the slashing blade of a Black Cobra cult assassin. Raising his saber to counter the second assassin’s strike, using his dirk, clutched in his left fist, to fend off the first attacker’s probing knife, Logan suspected he’d be learning about the afterlife all too soon.

Winds howled; waves crashed. Water sluiced across the deck in a hissing spate.

The night was blacker than Hades, the driving rain a blurring veil. Falling back a step, Logan swiped water from his eyes.

As one, the assassins surged, beating him back toward the prow. Blades met, steel ringing on steel, sparks flaring, pinpricks of brightness in the engulfing dark. Abruptly, the deck canted—all three combatants desperately fought for balance.

The ship, a Portuguese merchantman bound for Portsmouth, was in trouble. Logan had been forced to join its crew five days before, when, on reaching Lisbon, he’d discovered the town crawling with cultists. Battered by pounding waves, buffetted and tossed on the storm-wracked sea, as the deck leveled, the ship wallowed and swung, no longer held into the wind. Whether the rudder had broken or the captain had abandoned the wheel, Logan couldn’t tell. He couldn’t spare the time to squint through the rain-drenched dark at the bridge.

Instinct and experience kept his eyes locked on the men facing him. There’d been a third, but Logan had accounted for him in the first rush. The body was gone, claimed by the ravening waves.

Saber swinging, Logan struck, but immediately was forced to block and counter, then retreat yet another step into the narrowing prow. Further confining his movements, reducing his options. Didn’t matter; two against one in the icy, pelting rain, with his grips on his dirk and his saber cramping, leather-soled boots slipping and sliding—the assassins were barefoot, giving them even that advantage—he couldn’t effectively go on the offensive.

He wasn’t going to survive.

As he met and deflected another vicious blow, he acknowledged that, yet even as he did his innate stubbornness rose. He’d been a cavalry officer for more than a decade, fought in wars over half the globe, been through hell more than once, and survived.

He’d faced assassins before, and lived.

Miracles happened.

He told himself that even as, teeth gritted, he angled his saber up to block a slash at his head—and his feet went from under him, pitching him back against the railing.

The wooden scroll-holder strapped to his back slammed into his spine.

From the corner of his eye, he saw white teeth flash in a dark face—a feral grin as the second assassin swung and slashed. Logan hissed as the blade sliced down his left side, cutting through coat and shirt into muscle, grazing bone, before angling across his stomach to disembowel him. Instinct had him flattening against the railing; the blade cut, but not deep enough.

Not that that would save him.

Lightning cracked, a jagged tear of brilliant white splitting the black sky. In the instant’s illumination, Logan saw the two assassins, dark eyes fanatically gleaming, triumph in their faces, gather themselves to spring and bring him down.

He was bleeding, badly.

He saw Death, felt it—tasted ashes as icy fingers pierced his body, reaching for his soul.

He dragged in a last gasp, braced himself. Given his mission, given his occupation for the last several years, Saint Peter ought at least consider letting him into Heaven.

A long-forgotten prayer formed on his lips.

The assassins sprang.

Crack!!

Impact—sudden, sharp, catastrophic—flung him and the assassins overboard. The plunge into turbulent depths, into the churning fury of the sea, separated them.

Tumbling in the icy dark, instinct took hold; righting himself, Logan struck upward. His dirk was still in his left fist; he’d released his saber, but it was tied to his belt by its lanyard—he felt the reassuring tap of the hilt against his leg.

He was a strong swimmer. The assassins almost certainly weren’t—it would be a wonder if they could swim at all. Dismissing them—he had more pressing concerns—he broke the surface and hauled in a huge breath. He shook his head, then peered through the water weighing down his lashes.

The storm was at its height, the seas mountainous. He couldn’t see beyond the next towering wave, while with elemental rage the wind whipped and strafed, shrieking worse than a thousand banshees.

The ship had been in open water in the middle of the Channel when the storm had hit, but he had no idea how far, the tempest had tossed them, nor any clear idea of direction. No idea if land was close, or …

He’d been losing blood when he’d hit the water. How long he would last in the cauldron of icy waves, how soon his already depleted strength would fail—

His hand struck something—wood, a plank. No, even better, a section of planking. Desperate, Logan grabbed it, grimly hung on as the next wave tried to slap him away, then, gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and onto the makeshift raft.

The cold had numbed his flesh, yet the cut down his side sent burning pain lancing through his entire body.

For a long moment, he lay prone on the planks, gasping, then, gathering his ebbing strength, steeling himself, he inched and edged further onto the planks until he could lock his right hand over the ragged front edge. His feet still dangled in the water, but his body was supported to his knees; it was the best he could do.

The waves surged. His raft pitched, but rode the swell.

Beneath the lashing roar of the storm, waves crashed. Cheek to the wet wood, he listened, concentrating, and confirmed that the waves were smashing against something nearby.

The ship was, he thought, wallowing in the unrelieved blackness to his right. Breaking up. Sinking. Given how he and the assassins had been flung, the impact must have been midship. Whipping up his failing strength, he lifted his head, searched, saw debris but no bodies—no other survivors—but only he and the assassins had been so far forward in the prow.

Lightning cracked again, and showed him the ship’s bare masts silhouetted against the inky sky.

As the simultaneous clap of thunder faded, he heard a sucking, rushing sound. Recognizing the portent, he peered at the ship.

The listing, tipping, capsizing ship.

Out of the night, the main mast came swinging down.…

He didn’t even have time to swear before the top of the mast thumped down across him and the world went black.

“Linnet! Linnet! Come quickly! Come see!”

Linnet Trevission looked up from the old flagstones of the path that ran from the stable to the kitchen door. She’d left the stable and was nearing the kichen garden; directly ahead, the solid bulk of her home, Mon Coeur, sat snug and serene, anchored within the protective embrace of stands of elm and fir bent and twisted into outlandish shapes by the incessant sea winds.

At present, however, in the aftermath of the storm that had raged for half the night, the winds were mild, coyly coquettish, the winter sun casting a honey glow over the house’s pale stone.

“Linnet! Linnet!”

She smiled as Chester, one of her wards—a tow-headed scamp of just seven—came pelting around the side of the house, heading for the back door. “Chester! I’m here.”

The boy looked up, then veered onto the stable path.

“You have to come!” Skidding to a halt, he grabbed her hand and tugged. “There’s been a wreck!” His face alight, excitement and tension straining his voice, he looked up into her eyes. “There are bodies! And Will says one of the men is alive! You have to come!”

Linnet’s smile fell from her face. “Yes, of course.” Swiping up her skirts—wishing she’d worn her breeches instead—she strode quickly toward the back door, inwardly reviewing the necessary tasks, tasks she’d dealt with often before.

On the southwest tip of Guernsey, dealing with shipwrecks was an inescapable part of life.

Chester trotted at her side, his hand gripping hers—too tightly, but then his father had been lost at sea three years ago. As they neared the kitchen door, it opened to reveal Linnet’s aunt, Muriel.

“Did I hear aright? A wreck?”

Linnet nodded. “Will sent Chester—there’s at least one, survivor. I’ll go straightaway—can you find Edgar and the others? Tell them to bring the old gate, and the pack of bandages and splints.”

“Yes, of course. But where?”

Linnet looked at Chester. “Which cove?”

“West one.”

Grimacing, Linnet met Muriel’s eyes. Of course it would be that one—the rockiest and most dangerous. Especially for whoever had been washed up. “Broken bones, almost certainly.”

Nodding briskly, Muriel waved her off. “Go. I’ll have everything ready here when you get back.”

Linnet met Chester’s eyes. “Let’s race.”

Chester flashed a grin, let go of her hand, turned and ran back around the house.

Both hands now free, Linnet gathered her skirts and set out in pursuit; with her longer legs, she was soon on Chester’s heels. The path cut through the surrounding trees, then out across the rocky expanse that bordered the edge of the low cliffs.

“Hold up!” Linnet called as they rounded the southern headland of the long northwestern side of the island and the west cove opened up below them.

Chester halted at the top of the path—little more than a goat track—that led down to a strip of coarse sand. Beyond the sand lay rocks, exposed now that the tide was mostly out, a tumbled jumble of granite from fist-sized to small boulders that formed the floor of the cove. The cove wasn’t all that wide; two promontories of larger, jagged rocks enclosed it, marching out into the lashing gray waves.

Looking down, Linnet saw three bodies, two flung as if carelessly discarded on the rocks. Those two were dead—had to be, given the contortions of limbs, heads, and spines. The third she could only catch glimpses of; Will and Brandon—another two of her wards—were crouched over the man.

Aware of Chester’s pleading look, Linnet nodded. “All right—let’s go.”

He was off like a hare. Linnet kilted her skirts, then followed, leaping down the familiar path with an abandon almost Chester’s equal. As she descended, she scanned the cove again, noting the flotsam thrown up by the storm; to her educated eyes the evidence suggested that a good-sized merchantman had broken up on the razor-sharp rocks that lurked beneath the waves out to the northwest.

Reaching the sand, Chester bounded toward Will and Brandon. Suppressing the urge to follow, Linnet carefully made her way out onto the rocks and confirmed that the other two men were indeed dead, beyond her help. Two sailors, by the look of them, both swarthy. Spanish?

Leaving them where they lay, she picked her way through the rocks back onto the sand, then walked to where the third body lay close to the cliff.

His back to her, Will looked up and around as she neared, his fifteen-year-old face unusually sober. “He was on the planking, so we lifted it and carried him here.”

Halting, she dropped a hand on Will’s shoulder and answered the question he hadn’t asked. “It was safe to move him if he was already on the planks.”

Shifting her gaze from Will’s face, she got her first look at their survivor. He was lying on his stomach on the section of planking, a wet tangle of black hair screening his face.

He was large. Big. Not a giant, but in any company he would rank as impressive. Broad shoulders, long, heavy limbs. Running her gaze down his spine, she frowned at the bulge distorting his sodden coat. Bending, she reached out and touched it, felt the hardness, traced the odd shape.

“It’s a wooden cylinder in oilskins,” Will told her. “It’s slung in a leather holder with a loop around his belt. We think his arms must go through other loops to hold it in place.”

Linnet nodded. “Curious.” Had he been carrying the cylinder secretly? With it nestled between the muscles bracketing his spine, if he’d been upright, the fall of his coat would have concealed it.

Straightening, she ran her gaze down his legs, but saw no evidence of breaks or wounds. He was wearing breeches and a loose coat, the sort many sailors wore. His right arm was extended, the fingers of his large hand curled around the front edge of a plank. His other hand, however, lay level with his face, fingers locked in a death grip about the hilt of a dagger.

That seemed a trifle odd for a shipwreck.

Conscious of her pulse thudding—the run to the cliffs shouldn’t have made her heart beat so rapidly—she bent to look at the dagger. Not just a dagger, she realized—a dirk. The fine scrollwork on the blade was exquisite, the hilt larger than that of most knives, with a rounded stone set in the crosspiece. Reaching down, she pried long, hard, ice-cold fingers away from the hilt, then handed the dirk to Will. “Hold that for me.”

The man hadn’t stirred; not a single muscle had so much as tensed. Linnet drew back, aware of her instincts twitching, flickering in definite warning, yet for the life of her she couldn’t make sense of the message.

The stranger was all but dead—indeed, she wasn’t sure he wasn’t—so how could he be dangerous?

From his position kneeling on the other side of the planking, Brandon said, “He’s got a sword, too. On this side.”

Linnet circled the man, looked where Brandon pointed, then crouched and unhooked the lanyard that attached the weapon to the man’s belt. Drawing the blade carefully from under the man’s leg, she straightened, studied it. “It’s a saber—a cavalry sword.” She’d seen enough of them during the war, but the war was long over, the cavalry largely disbanded. Perhaps this man had been a trooper, and after the war had turned to sailing?

“We think he’s alive,” Brandon said, “but we can’t find any pulse, and he’s not breathing—well, not so you can tell.”

Leaving the saber with Brandon, Linnet returned to Will’s side. The man’s head lay turned that way.

“He must be alive because he’s bleeding,” Will said. “See?”

He lifted the clothes along the man’s side, and a rent parted, exposing pale flesh and a long, nasty cut. A recent cut.

Crouching beside Will, Linnet looked, and recognized a sword slash. That explained the dirk and saber. While Will held the clothes, she leaned closer, examining the wound, following it up—to the side of the man’s breast. Thick muscle had been sliced through. Tracing the wound down, she sucked in a breath when she saw bone—a rib. But that was lower, where there wasn’t so much muscle between taut skin and rib cage.

“He’s bleeding,” Will insisted. “See there?”

Linnet had noted the pale pinkish liquid seeping from the cut. She nodded, not yet ready to explain that that might simply be seawater oozing back out of the wound, tinged with blood that had bled out before. Before the man had died.

Yet it was possible he still lived. The sea had all but frozen his flesh; any bleeding would be extremely slow, even were he alive.

Continuing to trace the wound, she discovered that it curved inward, angling down and across the man’s stomach. She couldn’t see further than the side of his waist, but a gut wound … if he had one, he was almost certainly dead, whether he’d already died or not.

Lying as he was, the pressure of his body combined with the effects of the icy sea might have held the wound closed, inhibited the usual bleeding.

She glanced at Brandon’s face, then at Will, alongside her. Chester was hovering at her shoulder. “I need to check the wound across his stomach. I need you to help me ease this side of him up—enough for me to look.”

The boys eagerly reached for the man’s left shoulder, his side. Settling on her knees, Linnet placed Brandon’s hands on the man’s shoulder, positioned Will’s hands beneath the left hip, set Chester ready to help support the shoulder Brandon would lift. “All together, then.” Linnet licked her lips, said a little prayer. She was too experienced in matters of life, death, and the sea to allow herself to become invested, in a stranger’s survival; she told herself it was for the boys’ sake that she hoped this stranger lived. “Now.”

The boys heaved, pushed, propped. As soon as they had the man angled up and steady, Linnet ducked down, close to the heavy body, peered beneath to trace and follow the wound—then exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d held. Easing back, she nodded. “Let him down.”

“Will he be all right?” Chester asked.

She couldn’t yet promise. “The wound is less deep over his stomach—no real danger. He was lucky.” A scenario was taking shape in her mind—a picture of how the man had received such a wound. It should have been a killing, or at least incapacitating, slash. He’d escaped death by less than an inch, just before his ship had wrecked.

“But he’s still not really breathing,” Brandon said.

And she still wasn’t sure if he was alive. Linnet checked for a pulse in the man’s wrist, then in his strong throat. There was none she could detect, nor any discernible rise and fall of his chest, but all that could be due to being close to frozen. There was no help for it; shuffling nearer, with one hand she brushed back the fall of black hair hiding his face, bent close, focused—and stopped breathing.

He was startlingly, heartbreakingly, breathtakingly beautiful. His face, all clean, angular lines and sculpted planes, embodied the very essence of masculine beauty—there was not a soft note anywhere. Combined with the muscled hardness of his body, that face promised virility, passion, and direct, unadorned, unadulterated sin.

Such a face did not belong to a man given to sweetness, but to action, command, and demand.

Chiseled lips, firm and fine, sent a seductive shiver down her spine. The line of his jaw made her fingertips throb. He had winged black brows, a wide forehead, and lashes so black and thick and long she was instantly jealous.

She’d frozen.

The boys shifted uneasily, watching, waiting for her verdict. As usual her instincts had been right. This man was—would be—dangerous. To her peace of mind, if nothing else.

Men like this—who looked like he did, who had bodies like his—led women into sin.

And into stupidity.

Dragging in a breath, she forced her eyes to stop drinking him in, forced her mind to stop mentally swooning. She hesitated, needing to get nearer—and too rattled to lightly risk it.

Maintaining her current, already too-close distance, she held her fingers beneath his nose. And felt nothing.

Turning her hand, she held the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist close, but could detect not the smallest waft of air.

Lips thinning, mentally muttering an imprecation against fallen angels, she leaned down, close, in—angled her cheek so that it was a whisker away from his lips …

And felt the merest brush of air, a breath, an exhalation.

She eased back, straightening on her knees, and stared at the man’s face. Then she turned to the wound in his side, checked again. And yes, that was blood, not just seepage. “He’s alive.”

Chester whooped. The other two grinned.

She didn’t. Getting back to her feet, she looked down at trouble. “We need to get him up to the house.”

“Oof! He’s so damned heavy!” Easing the stranger’s shoulders down—resisting the urge to just drop him—Linnet settled him against her pillows. Of course, he had to have her bed; it was the only one in the house long enough, big enough, and, very likely, strong enough to be sure of supporting him.

Stepping back, she planted her hands on her hips and all but glared at him, unconscious though he was.

Muriel tucked the covers in on the bed’s other side. “Now to thaw him out. I’ll send the children up with the hot bricks.”

Linnet nodded, her gaze locked on the comatose figure in her bed. She heard Muriel go out, the door shutting behind her. Folding her arms, Linnet swapped her glare for a scowl, as she battled to wrench her mind and her senses from their preoccupation with the body in her bed—with the idea of all that muscle, naked, washed, dried, and with his wound stitched, salved, and well-bound, denting her mattress.

She’d seen more naked men, of all descriptions, than she could count—inevitable given a childhood spent largely on her father’s ship. It certainly wasn’t any degree of novelty, nor attack of missish sensibility, that had left her nerves fluttering, jittery, her breathing tight and shallow, her stomach feeling peculiarly hollow. She would have said, and been certain of it, that seeing another naked male would barely register—would have no effect on her, make no real impression.

Instead … there was a naked fallen angel in her bed, and her pulse was still hammering.

Of course, after Edgar, John, and the other men had arrived on the beach and carried the stranger up to the house, to her bedroom, then heaved him onto her bed, she’d had to help Muriel tend him. Had to help her aunt peel off his clothes, uncovering all that solid, muscled flesh. Had to help bathe and dry him, then stitch and bind his wound. It was hardly surprising if she still felt hot after all that exertion.

She hoped her aunt put the uncharacteristic flush in her cheeks down to that.

Between them, she and Muriel had stitched and bandaged thoroughly. As he thawed and his blood started to flow normally, he’d bleed as usual; his immersion in icy water had been an advantage in that respect. They hadn’t been able to put a nightshirt on him; not even one of her father’s would fit, and the difficulty in manhandling the stranger’s heavy arms and body … Muriel had fetched extra blankets instead.

“Here’s the bricks.” Will pushed the door open with his shoulder and came in, bearing two flannel-wrapped bricks that had been heated on the kitchen hearth.

The others—Brandon, at thirteen nearly as tall as Will, Jennifer, twelve, Gillyflower, eight, and Chester—followed Will in, each carrying at least one brick.

Lifting the down-filled quilt, Linnet took each brick and, nestled it on the sheet covering the stranger’s body, working her way around so that eventually he lay cradled in a heated horseshoe that ran from his chest down and around his very large feet. Once the last brick had been set in place, she tucked the quilt in.

Stepping back, she looked down at their patient. “That’s the best we can do. Now we wait.”

The children stayed for a little while, but when the man showed no hint of stirring, they drifted out. Linnet remained.

Restless, wary, strangely on her guard, she had no idea what it was about the man that kept her pacing the floor, her eyes, almost always, trained on his fallen angel face while inwardly, silently, she willed him to live.

Every now and then, she would pause beside the bed and lay a hand across his brow.

It remained icy cold.

Deathly cold.

Despite all they’d done, it was entirely possible he would never wake, much less recover.

Why, in this instance, a stranger’s life mattered so much she couldn’t fathom, but she wanted him to live. Actively and continually willed him to live.

To have a fallen angel fall into her life only to die before she even learned the color of his eyes was simply unacceptable. Fallen angels did not fall from the sky—or get washed up in her cove—every day; she’d never laid eyes on a man like him, awake or comatose, in all her twenty-six years, and she wanted, yearned, to learn more.

A dangerous want, perhaps, but when had she ever shied away from danger?

The afternoon waned, but brought no change in her patient. As evening closed in, she sighed. The children came up with another set of warmed bricks. She helped them switch the hot bricks for the cool, then, with the children clattering down the stairs, eager for their dinner, she drew the curtains over the window, checked the man one more time, and headed for the door.

Her gaze fell on the objects she’d left on the tallboy by the door. She paused, glanced back at the figure so still in her bed, then picked up the three items—the only things other than his clothes he’d been carrying.

The dirk—a fine piece, far finer than one would expect a sailor to own.

The saber—definitely a cavalryman’s sword, well used and lovingly honed.

She’d get the boys to polish both blades. The saber’s scabbard might yet be salvageable.

The third object, the wooden cylinder, was the most curious. As Will had guessed, the man had been carrying it wrapped in oilskins in a leather sling; with him unable to shrug the sling off, they’d had to cut the shoulder straps to remove it. The wood was foreign; she thought it was rosewood. The brass fittings that held the wooden strips together, and locked one end closed, smacked of somewhere far away, some alien shore.

Gathering all three items, Linnet glanced back at her bed, at the dark head on her pillows, silent and still, then she turned, went out of the door, and closed it quietly behind her.

Logan woke to a dark room. To a soft bed, and the scent of woman. That he recognized instantly. All the rest, however … Where the devil was he?

Very carefully, he opened his eyes and looked around. His head hurt—throbbed, ached. So badly he could barely squint through the pain. Doing so, he located a hearth across the room, the fire within it a pile of glowing coals.

Where in all hell was he?

He tried to think, but couldn’t. The pain intensified when he tried, when he frowned. Shifting fractionally, he realized there was no bandage about his head, but there was one—a large and long one—winding about his torso.

So he’d been wounded.

How? Where? Why?

The questions lined up in his brain, but no answers came.

Then he heard voices—from a distance, through walls and doors, but his hearing seemed as acute as usual.…

Children. The voices belonged to children. Youthful, too high-pitched to be anything but.

He couldn’t recall anything about children.

Disturbed, uncertain, he moved his arms, then his legs. All his limbs were functioning, under his control. It was only his head that ached so fiercely. Gingerly, pushing aside lumps he recognized as wrapped bricks, he eased to the side of the bed.

Some primal memory kept insisting there were enemies about, even though he couldn’t remember anything specific. Had he been captured? Was he in some enemy camp?

Very carefully, he pulled himself up in the bed, then swung his legs over the side and sat up. The room swam sickeningly, but then steadied.

Encouraged, he stood.

The blood rushed from his head.

He collapsed.

Hit the floor with a hideous thump, almost cried out—might have cried out—when his head hit the floorboards. He groaned, then, hearing footsteps pounding up some stairs, he slowly tried to push himself up.

The door swung open.

Propped on one elbow, he turned his head and looked, knowing he was too weak and helpless to defend himself, but it wasn’t any enemy who came charging in.

It was an angel with red-gold hair, bright and fiery as a flame, who scanned the room, saw him, then came racing to his side.

Perhaps he’d died and gone to Heaven?

“You dolt! What the devil are you doing trying to get up? You’re wounded, you imbecile!”

Not an angel, then. Not Heaven, either. She continued to berate him, increasingly irate as she checked his bandages, then small hands, surprisingly strong, gripped his arm and, she braced to haul him up—an impossibility, he knew—but then two strapping lads who had followed her in came around his other side. The not-an-angel snapped orders, and one lad ducked under his other arm, the second coming to help her as on a count of three they hoisted him up—

It hurt.

Everywhere.

He groaned as they turned him and, surprisingly gently, angled him back onto the bed, setting him down on his left side, then rolling him carefully onto his back.

The not-an-angel fussed, drawing down the tangled covers, removing bricks, then lifting and shaking. Logan watched her lips form words—a string of increasingly pointed epithets; as the worst of the violent pain receded, he felt himself smiling.

She saw, glared, then flicked the covers over him. He continued to smile, probably foolishly; he was still in so much pain that he couldn’t really tell. But he had noticed one thing—he was naked. Stripped-to-the-skin, not-a-stitch-except-his-bandage naked—and his not-an-angel hadn’t turned a hair.

And although most of his body had wilted, one part hadn’t—and she had to have noticed; she couldn’t have missed it as she’d looked down when she’d steered him to the bed, then laid him down, stretched him out.

Which surely meant he and she were lovers. What else could it mean?

He couldn’t remember her, not even her name—couldn’t remember sinking his hands in all that rich, warm hair, pressing his mouth to her sinful lips … lips he could imagine doing wicked things … none of which he could remember, but then he couldn’t remember anything through the crushing pain.

An older lady came in, spoke, and frowned at him. She came to the bed as his lover tried to shift him further into the center of the wide mattress. Thinking he should help, he rolled to his right—

Pain erupted. His world turned black.

Linnet winced at the gasp that exploded from the stranger’s lips—saw his body go lax, boneless, and knew he was unconscious again.

“Damn! I didn’t get a chance to ask who he was.” Leaning against the side of the mattress, she peered into his face. “But what caused that?”

Muriel, too, was frowning. “Did you check for head wounds?”

“There weren’t any … well, not to see.” Linnet knelt beside him and reached for his head. “But his hair is so thick, perhaps …” Infinitely gently, she took his skull between her hands. Fingers spread, she searched, felt.… “Oh, my God! There’s a huge contusion.” Drawing back her hand, she studied her fingertips. “Blood, so the skin’s broken.”

The observation led to another round of careful tending, of warm water in basins, towels, salves, and eventually stacks of bandages as between them she and Muriel cleansed, then dried, padded and bandaged the wound. “Looks like he was hit over the head with a spar.”

In order to properly pad the area so that, once bandaged, their patient would be able to turn on the pillows without excruciating pain, they had to get Edgar and John to come and hold him upright, taking extra care not to dislodge the bandages around his chest and abdomen.

Examining the wound, Edgar opined, “Hard head, he must have, to have survived that.”

John nodded. “Lucky beggar all around, what with that slash and the shipwreck and storm. Charmed life, you might say.”

Linnet thanked them and let them go back to their dinners. Muriel, too; after closing the door behind her aunt, Linnet turned back into the room. Folding her arms, gripping her elbows, she halted by the bed and stared down at her patient.

He’d been a fighting man—in one or other of the services at one time was her guess. He had numerous scars—small and old, most of them—scattered over his body. A charmed, life? Not in the literal sense. But she really, really wanted to know who he was.

Given her position in this corner of the world, she needed to know who he was.

Retreating to the armchair by the window, she sat and watched him for a while. When he showed no signs of stirring, let alone waking and doing something stupid like trying to get up, she rose and went downstairs. To finish her dinner and organize another round of hot bricks.

Three hours later, Linnet stood once more by her bed, arms folded, and frowned at her comatose fallen angel. By the dim light thrown by the lamp she’d left on the small table nearby, she studied his face and struggled to tamp down her concern.

His color wasn’t bad, but his face was tanned, so that might be misleading. His breathing, however, was deep and even, and his pulse, when she’d checked it mere minutes ago, had been steady and strong.

Yet he showed no signs of waking.

After his ill-advised excursion, he’d lapsed back into unconsciousness, if anything deeper than before. Bad enough, but what was truly worrying was his still chilled flesh. Even the spots that should by now have warmed remained icy cold.

At least she now knew his eyes were dark blue. So dark she’d originally thought they were black, but then he’d looked directly into her eyes and she’d seen the blue flames in the darkness.

So he was a fallen angel with black hair and midnight eyes—and despite the four changes of hot bricks they’d applied, he was still too damned cold for her comfort. Too unresponsive, too close to death. And she couldn’t shake the absolute conviction that it was, somehow, vitally important that he lived. That, somehow, it was up to her to ensure he did.

It was ridiculous, but it felt as if this were some God-sent, test. She rescued people all the time—it was what she did, a part of her role. So could she rescue a fallen angel?

She paced, scowled, and paced some more while about her the house, her house, her home, slid into comfortable slumber. Edgar and John both helped about the manor house; after dinner, after the usual sitting and chatting in the parlor—tonight mostly speculating about the wreck and their survivor—the pair had retired to the cottage they shared with Vincent, the head stableman, and Bright, the gardener. Mrs. Pennyweather, the cook, and Molly and Prue, the two maids-of-all-work, would by now be snug in their beds in the staff quarters on the ground floor.

Muriel and Buttons—Miss Lillian Buttons, the children’s governess—had rooms on the first floor, in the opposite wing to Linnet’s large bedchamber. The children had rooms in the extensive attic, on either side of the playroom and schoolroom.

As the manor house of the estate encompassing the southwestern tip of Guernsey, Mon Coeur was a small community in its own right, with Linnet, Miss Trevission, its unquestioned leader. Indeed, she was more a liege lord, a hereditary ruler; that was certainly how her people saw her.

Perhaps noblesse oblige, that sense of responsibility for those in her care, was what so drove her to ensure the stranger lived.

Halting by the bed, Linnet looked down at his face. Willed his lashes to flutter, willed him to open his eyes and look at her again. She wanted to see his lips curve again; they had before, in a wholly seductive way, but she suspected he’d been delirious at the time.

Of course, he just lay there. Placing a hand on his brow, then sliding it down to the curve of his throat, she confirmed he was still far too cold. He was literally comatose, and nothing they’d yet done had succeeded in warming him sufficiently.

Drawing back her hand, she huffed out a breath. She’d intended to sleep on the daybed before the windows, but … her bed, the manor’s master’s bed, was wide—designed for a couple where the man was large. Of course, if she was going to warm him up, she’d need to sleep close, rather than apart.

Swinging away, she crossed to her chest and hunted out her thickest flannel nightgown. One eye on the bed, she stripped out of her warm gown, her woollen shift and fine chemise, then pulled the nightgown over her head.

Her patient hadn’t stirred, hadn’t cracked an eyelid.

Quickly letting down her hair, she slid her splayed fingers through the mass, shaking the long tresses loose. Lifting her woollen robe from its hook on the side of her armoire, she donned and belted it—another layer of armor against any attack, however feeble, on her modesty.

Approaching the bed, she inwardly scoffed. No matter who he proved to be, she’d been managing men all her life; she harbored no doubt whatsoever that she could and would manage him. Just like the others, he would learn. She ordered, they obeyed. That was, and always would be, the way of her world.

Lifting the covers, she checked the bricks and, as she’d suspected, found them already cooled. She removed them, stacked them by the door, then returned to the bed.

Calmly lifting the covers, she slid into the familiar softness, to the left of her fallen angel. Laying her hands along his bandaged side, she gently pushed, persevered until he rolled over on his undamaged right side. Quickly shifting nearer, she spooned around him, using her body to prop his in that position.

Reaching over and under him, she wrapped her arms about as much of him as she could. Then, because his back was there and convenient, she laid her cheek against the smooth, cool skin. She doubted she would sleep, but she closed her eyes.

She woke to a sensation of floating. Her wits were slow, reluctant to surface from the pleasurable sea in which they, were submerged. A curious warmth suffused her, tempting her to simply relax and let the tide of tactile sensation sweep her on.…

It took many long minutes before her mind assembled enough coherency to sound any alarm, and even then some part of her questioned, unable to believe, unable to perceive any danger—not in this.

Not in the long, rolling swells of pleasure that something, some being, sent smoothly sliding through her.

But then a hard palm and long, hard fingers closed about her bare breast—and she came awake on a shocked gasp of sensual delight.

Wits reeling, waltzing to a tune she had never before encountered, she had to open her eyes to orient herself. To convince herself that yes, somehow their positions had changed, that both she and her fallen angel had turned, and now he was spooned about her, his chest to her back.

His hands on her body.

His erection nudging between her thighs.

She knew perfectly well she should leap from the bed—now, right now, before his wandering hand and the pleasure his touch wrought laid seige to her wits again.

But … his hand, his fingers, stroked and caressed, played and teased, and she closed her eyes on a sigh.

Damn—he knew what he was doing. Knew better than any other man she’d ever met how to do this. She bit her lip on a moan as his questing hand shifted and closed again, then settled to pay homage to her other breast.

He was clearly experienced, and she was no wilting virgin, no paragon of missish modesty, yet …

She couldn’t allow this.

She’d be disgusted with herself in the morning if she did. Not least because, as she well knew, letting her fallen angel have her so easily, without even having exchanged one word, would give him too much power over her.

Or at least lead him to think he had power over her, and that would lead to unnecessary battles. She was queen in, this realm, and such things happened at her command—only at her command.

Accepting she would have to end this now, she sighed, opened her eyes, and took stock—which only resulted in sending a wholly unfamiliar shiver down her spine.

Her robe was undone, the halves spread wide. Her nightgown was rucked up, above her breasts in the front, to the middle of her back behind her, which was why she could feel …

She had to end this now, but she was too wise to try to wriggle away, even leap away. Either move left it up to him to let her go. And he might not. Not readily. He might try to make her plead.

Used to playing power games, chess of a sort, with men, she mentally girded her loins—dragged her senses in and shackled them—then stretched her arms up over her head, sinuously straightening her long body and turning within his hold to face him.

It didn’t go as she’d planned.

Instead of finding him smiling at her in lazy masculine triumph, ready to accept her surrender, she barely had time to register that his eyes were shut, his expression still blank—that even if she’d woken, he had not—before one hard hand slid into her unbound hair, palming her skull, and his bandaged head shifted and his lips closed on hers.

Ravenously.

Greedily.

As if he were a man starved and she all his succor.

Heat hit her in a crashing wave, passion and hunger and want and need all churning in that burning kiss. An instant conflagration erupted between them. She felt like she was melting, muscles taut yet turning passive, fluid and giving, emptiness—a hollow ache—burgeoning at her core, yearning to be filled.

Primal. Urgent. Demanding.

He was all that—and he made her feel the same.

Her hands skimmed his shoulders. Even as she battled to regain her mental feet, she registered the warmth spreading beneath his still cool skin.

If nothing else, the exchange was heating him up.

If he’d been awake, her turning would have made him pause long enough for her to douse his flame. Instead, his unconscious, his dream-mind, had read that sinuous slide to face him as encouragement and agreement. As surrender.

By the time she’d realized that, he’d laid claim to her mouth and every one of her senses with a primitive passion that curled her toes.

He plundered, his tongue mating with hers, and her body came alive as it never had before. Yet he was … dreaming?

Even as she wrestled with that conclusion—tried to think what it meant, what she should do—he tore his lips from hers, ducked his head, and set his mouth to her breasts.

Took a furled nipple into his mouth and suckled.

Hard.

Her body bowed; she fought to stifle a scream—the first of pure pleasure she’d ever uttered. He pushed her onto her back and loomed over her in the dark. She gripped his shoulders, gasps tangling in her throat as, head bowed, he continued to feast, to lave and suckle her breasts.

Even asleep, he knew exactly how to make her body come quickly, rapidly, roaringly alive. Make it sing, make it burn.

She’d had three lovers—had “made love” precisely three times, once with each. Those experiences had convinced her that the activity was not for her, not something she was suited for.

As she was never going to marry, she’d seen no reason to learn more.

Now she faced a choice she hadn’t expected. Even as pleasure lanced through her again and her body arched beneath him, evocatively into him, she knew she could stop him, her fallen angel, but she’d have to wake him up to do it. Even wounded and weakened, he was too damned strong for her, to simply push him back and soothe him deeper into sleep. Yet her reasons for not indulging with him didn’t apply if he remained asleep. If he didn’t know—wouldn’t recall when he awoke …

His lips drifted down, his hands firmed about her sides, and her body thrummed—enthrallingly alive, hungry and needy. His hands, hard and callused, sculpted, shaped her curves, slid down and around to cradle the globes of her bottom, long fingers kneading, stroking, caressing.

For the first time in her life, she felt … overwhelmed. Just a touch helpless. Not truly so—not frighteningly so—but the strength of him surrounded her, managed her, controlled her … as far as she allowed.

And then he moved over her, fully atop her, his hard, muscled thighs spreading hers wide so he could settle his hips between.

Her breath hitched. She had to decide now. The heavy length of his erection brushed her inner thigh, sensation and promise, evoking a flaring curiosity, splintering and fracturing her earlier resolution.

Would it be different with a fallen angel?

Every nerve, every inch of her, wanted to know.

But would he wake? Was it possible for him to reach the inevitable end without breaking free of Morpheus’s hold?

Finding out … what a risk! But all her life she’d thrived on challenge—on taking calculated risks and winning.

He lifted his head, body surging over hers, and locked his lips on hers.

Invaded her mouth, reclaimed, reconquered—and she raised her hands, closed them about his bandaged head and kissed him back.

Deliberately plunging into the heat, into the fray, seizing the moment, taking the risk.

She kissed him as ravenously as he’d kissed her—as she’d never kissed any other man. No man before had dared to devour her, nor invited her to devour him.

For heated, frantic moments they dueled, then he shifted, his spine flexed, all reined power, and she felt the marble-hard head of his erection part her folds. He pressed inexorably in, through the slickness of an instinctive welcome.

He hadn’t even touched her there, yet she was ready—ready, willing, and wantonly eager to feel the length of him, to experience the strength of him, the sheer power and weight of him as he forged steadily into her, then, at the last, thrust deep to her core.

Stretching her, filling her as she never had been before. She’d never felt so invaded, so utterly posssessed.

So complete.

Then he moved, deep, sure thrusts that rocked her beneath him … within seconds, she’d never felt so taken, never felt taken before at all, yet he unquestionably took, took all she would give, could scramble to give, and give she did—he gave her no choice.

Then somehow the scales tipped, and it was she who sank her fingertips into his buttocks, gripped and clung, urgent and demanding. And he who gave, unstintingly lavishing all his power, his passion, driving sensation into her, through her, building the glory higher, and yet higher—forcefully riding deep within her until she shattered.

Until the glory imploded and sensation fractured into glimmering shards and she broke apart on a muted scream.

Logan heard it, that inexpressibly evocative sound of female completion, and let his reins fall. Let the dream sweep him on into the familiar heat and fire, surrendering to the primitive driving urge, jettisoning all hope of lingering to further savor the heated clasp of his lover’s slick sheath, the ripples of her release barely fading as he drove harder and harder into her body—his dream lover who clearly knew him so well.

Who had let him ride her, then ridden him. Who had met his demands, and matched them, countered them.

Who had led him to this—the pinnacle of erotic dreams.

He sensed release nearing, felt it catch him, sweep up and over him. With one last thrust, he sank deep within her, and surrendered. Let it take him.

Rake him.

Until, at the last, he shuddered, and sleep thickened and closed about him again, and pulled him down into a deeper realm, one where satisfaction and content blended and soothed, cradling him in earthly bliss.

Linnet lay beneath her fallen angel, his dead weight an odd comfort as she struggled, battled, to regain the use of anything—wits or limbs. Even her senses seemed frazzled beyond recall, as if she’d drawn too close to some flame and they’d singed.

Oh. My. God was her first coherent thought, the only one she could manage for several long minutes. Finally, when she’d regained sufficient control of her limbs and sufficient mental acuity, she gently nudged, eased, prodded, and managed to stir him into shifting enough to let her slide from beneath him.

He slumped, heavy and boneless, beside her, but she no longer feared waking him up. If their recent exertions hadn’t, nothing would, not soon. And he hadn’t woken, of that she was sure. She’d seized the moment, taken the risk—and it had paid off.

Magnificently.

At last able to fill her lungs, she drew in a huge breath, let it out long and slow.

Staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, “Damn—that was good.”

Then she glanced sideways at the man—her fallen angel—lying facedown in the bed beside her. “I might have to rethink my policy on men.”

Two

December 11, 1822
Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

Linnet woke when she usually did, which in December meant an hour before dawn. Oddly relaxed, unusually refreshed, she stretched, savoring the unexpected inner glow, then raised her lids—and found herself staring at a stranger’s throat.

Tanned. Male. Incipient alarm was drowned by wariness as full memory of the previous day, and the night, flooded her mind.

She jerked her gaze upward.

To a pair of midnight blue eyes.

Propped on one elbow, he was looking down at her, his regard shrewd, assessing, and curious.

“Where am I?”

His voice matched the rest of him—disturbing and deep. Just a little gravelly, with the hint of an underlying burr.

“More importantly,” he went on, “what are you doing in my bed?”

She struggled to sit up, thanking her stars that before she’d fallen asleep the second time, she’d had the sense to pull down her nightgown, tie her robe tight, and stuff the extra, blanket down between them, a barrier between his body and hers. “Actually, you’re in my bed.”

When his winged black brows flew high, she hurriedly added, a touch waspishly, “You were injured, unconscious, and it’s the only bed in this house long enough, and judged sturdy enough, to accommodate you.”

For a moment, he said nothing, then murmured, “So there are other beds?”

She was tempted to lie, but instead nodded curtly. “I was worried by your continuing chill, and decided it was wisest to … do what I could to keep you warm through the night.”

Flicking the covers aside, she slid out of the bed, tugging her robe and gown firmly down as she stood.

He watched her like a predator watched prey. “In that case, I suppose I should thank you.”

“Yes, you should.” And she should go down on her knees and thank him—not that she ever would. Cutting off the distracting memories, she glanced at the bandage around his skull. “How’s your head?”

He frowned, as if her question had reminded him. “Throbbing … but not, I think, incapacitating.”

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” Crossing to her armoire, she opened it and looked in, ignoring the weight of his steady blue gaze. He hadn’t remembered—she felt sure he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort of man to hold back if he had.

As she pulled out a gown, he said, “You haven’t yet told me where I am.”

“Guernsey.” She glanced back at him. “The southwestern tip—Parish of Torteval, if that means anything to you.”

His frown darkened. “It doesn’t.” His gaze drifted from her.

Shutting the armoire, she opened a drawer and drew out a fresh shift. Turned back to him. “What’s your name?”

“Logan.” He looked at her, after the barest hesitation asked, “Yours?”

“Linnet Trevission. This house is Mon Coeur.” Turning back to her chest of drawers, she added stockings and chemise to the pile in her arms, then crossed to where she’d, left her half boots. Picking them up, she glanced at the bed. “So—Logan who?”

He looked at her, looked at her, then he softly swore. Swinging his legs from beneath the covers, he sat up on the edge of the bed.

Well-shaped feet, long, muscled calves dusted with black hair, broad knees, taut, heavily muscled thighs. Linnet gave thanks for the corner of the sheet that draped across his lap. Unconscious, with half his torso hidden by bandages, he’d been an impressive sight; awake and active, his impact was mind-scrambling.

She needed to get out of the room, but … she frowned as he dropped his head into his hands, fingers gripping tight.

“I can’t remember.” The words were ground out. Then he looked down, at the bandages about his chest and abdomen. Lowered a hand to trace them.

“You were on a ship—most likely a merchantman. There was a storm the night before last, a bad one, and the ship wrecked on the reefs not far from here.” Linnet caught his dark eyes as they rose, as if in hope, to her face. “Do you remember the name of your ship?”

Logan tried—tried to dredge some glimmer of a memory up from the void in his brain, but nothing came. Nothing at all. “I don’t even remember being on a ship.”

Even he heard the panic in his tone.

“Don’t worry.” His gorgeous erstwhile bedmate—and wasn’t that a terrible fate, to have slept like a log with all those mouthwatering curves within easy reach, and not have known?—studied him through pale emerald eyes. “You’ve a nasty head wound—most likely from a falling spar. You were incredibly lucky to have got onto a broken-off section of the ship’s side before you lost consciousness. You had a firm grip on the planks—that’s what got you to shore and into the cove, and stopped you getting smashed up on the rocks. More smashed up.” She nodded at his bandaged head. “The blow to your skull would have rattled your brains. Most likely your memory will come back in a day or two.”

“A day or two?” He watched her cross to a dressing table against the far wall and pick up a brush and comb. His gaze shifted to the rippling fall of her red-gold hair. Even in the dim light of predawn, it looked like fire; his fingers and palms tingled, as if recalling the silky warmth. He frowned. “‘Most likely’? What if I don’t remember?” The thought horrified him.

“You will. Almost certainly.” She headed for the door but paused, glanced at him, then detoured back to the large armoire. “But you shouldn’t try to bludgeon your brain into remembering. Best to just let it be, let your memory slide back of its own accord.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re a doctor?”

She arched brown brows at him, gaze distinctly haughty, then turned to look into the armoire. “No, but I’ve been around enough men who’ve had their heads thumped to know. If you’re alive, and can walk, your memories will return.”

Logan frowned at her. Not even a healer, but she’d been around enough men.… “Miss Linnet Trevission of Mon Couer—who’s she?”

Closing the armoire, taking a few steps his way, she flung a quilted woollen robe at him. He caught it. She nodded at it. “That was my father’s—my late father’s.” She met his gaze. “So among other things, I’m your hostess.”

Before he could respond, she swung to the door. “There’s a water closet at the end of the corridor.” She pointed left. “There’s a bathing chamber next to it. I’ll have shaving gear sent up for you, and whatever clothes we can find—my aunt is seeing what she can salvage of your things, but until then, some of my father’s might fit.”

Linnet paused with her hand on the door and looked back. Grasped an instant to drink in the sight of the gorgeous naked male sitting on her bed. “You can rest here as long as you wish, then when you feel up to it, you can join us downstairs.”

Opening the door, she went through, then reached back, and drew the door shut behind her. She paused, staring at the panels but seeing him … feeling him …

Exasperated, she shook free of the recollection, blew a strand of hair from her face, then continued down the corridor.

She’d been right. He was going to be trouble.

More than an hour later, Logan made his way down a long oak staircase, looking around as he slowly descended. Mon Coeur. What kind of man named his house “my heart”?

Regardless, Linnet Trevission’s father had been no puny weakling; his clothes fitted Logan well enough to get by. The shirt and coat were a trifle tight across his shoulders, and he’d had to button the breeches one button wider at the waist, but the length of sleeve and leg were almost right. Linnet herself was tall for a female, so it was no great surprise her father had been tall.

He’d found the clothes waiting in a neat pile on the bed when he’d returned from shaving. After using the water closet—its existence an indication that Mon Coeur wasn’t some small farmhouse—he’d looked into the bathing chamber and found a shaving kit neatly laid out. He’d availed himself of it. He’d been halfway through removing several days’ growth before he’d realized he knew what he was doing.

He’d lathered chin and cheeks, then picked up the sharp razor and applied it as he had countless times before, in a pattern he’d worked out a presently unknown number of years ago.

His panic over not being able to remember things—lots of things—had receded as the fact that he remembered lots of other things, like what Mon Coeur meant, as well as things he did by rote, had sunk in.

When Linnet had informed him he was on Guernsey, he’d known instantly what that was—had known it was an island in the Gulf of St. Malo, that it enjoyed special privileges as a property of the English Crown. He didn’t think he’d been there before, even elsewhere on the island. As he recalled—and he savored the fact he could—Guernsey wasn’t large.

All of which he took as a sign that his memory lapse would indeed prove temporary.

He knew how to dress himself; he knew how to shave. He knew he—whoever he was—hadn’t entirely appreciated his hostess’s haughty superiority.

But he didn’t yet know who he was. Didn’t know what sort of man he was, or what he’d been doing on the ship.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and having seen enough to confirm that the Trevissions were, at the least, the Guernsey equivalent of landed gentry, he made his way down a corridor toward the sound of voices.

Children’s voices. The sound tweaked a memory, but the instant he halted and tried to bring it into focus, it slid away, back into the void. Suppressing a grimace, he continued on—to a long, comfortable parlor running down one side of the house. Although a fire was burning in the hearth, there was no one in the parlor, but on walking in, he saw a pair of open double doors in the rear wall and a bright, airy dining room beyond.

The chatter filling his ears was coming from there. It sounded as if half a small army was gathered about the long table.

He paused on the threshold. Seated at the head of the table, Linnet looked up, saw him, and beckoned. “Good. You’re on your feet.” Her gaze passed, critically assessing, over his face. “Come and sit down, and have some breakfast.”

She waved to an empty chair beside her. He moved forward, scanning the other occupants. Children, as he’d thought—two lasses, three lads—and a middle-aged gentlewoman, plus an older lady seated at the table’s foot. Recalling Linnet mentioning an aunt, he inclined his head politely. “Ma’am.”

The older lady smiled. “I’m Muriel Barclay, Linnet’s father’s sister. Do sit down and break your fast, Mr.…?”

Closing his hand on the back of the chair beside Linnet’s, Logan smiled, a touch tightly. “Just Logan at the moment, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t remember the rest.”

Drawing out the chair, he glanced at Linnet. Her lips had thinned a fraction, but clearly she hadn’t informed her household of his lack of recall.

“Don’t you know all your name?”

The question, in a loud, childish voice, drew Logan’s gaze down to the small girlchild seated to his other side. Wide cornflower blue eyes looked up at him. Subsiding into his chair, he let his smile soften. “Not at the moment, poppet.”

“Not to worry.” Mrs. Barclay’s brisk tone was a more moderate, less autocratic version of her niece’s. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you shortly. Now I expect you’d like some ham and eggs, and perhaps a few sausages?”

Logan nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Pennyweather know you’re here.” Mrs. Barclay rose and headed out of another door.

Now that he noticed it, Logan heard, distantly, the clang of pans and other kitchen sounds. Manor house, his mind decided. Which presumably made his hostess the lady of the manor.

He glanced at her to find her waiting to catch his eye. Having done so, she directed it around the table. “This is Will, and that’s Brandon beside him.” The two older lads bobbed their heads and smiled. “They found you yesterday morning, and Chester”—she indicated the youngest of the three boys—”came running here to fetch me.”

Logan nodded to all three boys. “Thank you—I’m grateful.”

“And beside Chester,” Linnet continued, “is Miss Buttons—Buttons to us all. She endeavors to teach this horde their letters and numbers.”

Logan inclined his head to the middle-aged woman, who smiled back. “Welcome to Mon Coeur, sir,” she said, “although I daresay you would have preferred to arrive in a less painful way.” She nodded at his head. “Does it hurt very much?”

“Not as much as it did.”

“It’ll fade through the day.” Mrs. Barclay returned in the wake of a little maid, who smiled shyly as she set a plate piled high with succulent eggs, bacon, sausages, and ham before Logan.

He thanked her and shook out the napkin he found beside his plate.

“Jen—please pass Logan the toast rack.” Linnet waved at the last two at the table. “These two young ladies are Jennifer and Gillyflower—Gilly.”

Logan smiled and thanked them both as they passed him the toast. There was a curious dearth of men about the table, but there were four plates already used before four vacant chairs. Will, the oldest boy, looked to be about fifteen years old. As the others all returned to their meals, Logan buttered a slice of toast, crunched, and realized he was ravenous.

Picking up his knife and fork, he cut a piece of thick ham, chewed, and almost groaned in appreciation. Opening his eyes, he glanced across the table.

Will caught his eye. “We searched all yesterday, up and down the coves, but we didn’t find any other survivors.”

“Just the two dead bodies we found near you,” Chester added.

“Two dead?” Logan glanced at Linnet.

“The bodies are here, in the icehouse. Two sailors. The boys will take you to view them later, in case you know them.”

If he remembered them. She didn’t say it, but he saw the thought in her eyes. He merely nodded and attacked the ham. It tasted like the food of the gods.

The boys chattered on. Apparently no one had yet gleaned any clue as to the name of the ship, where she’d been from, or whither she’d been bound.

Jennifer started talking to Buttons. Linnet spoke to Gilly about some chicks. Conversation rose around Logan, gradually returning to its earlier pitch, with many conversations running all at once, voices interweaving, an underlying, warmth blossoming in a laugh here, a smile and a teasing comment there.

This wasn’t a standard family, yet a family it was—Logan recognized the dynamics, felt inexpressibly comfortable, comforted, within its warm embrace. As he set down his knife and fork and reached for the cup of coffee Linnet had—without asking—poured for him, he wondered what this pervasive sense of feeling so much at home here said of his life, of the life he was used to.

The boys had finished their meals and were eagerly waiting on him. He drained his mug, then nodded to them. “All right. Let’s go.”

They grinned; poised to leap to their feet, they glanced at Linnet.

She nodded, but said, “After showing Logan to the icehouse, I want you back to do your chores.”

With promises of obedience, Will and Brandon leapt up. Chester had already been reminded he had a lesson with Buttons. He’d pulled a disappointed face, but, Logan noticed, didn’t argue, or even grouse.

Linnet looked up at him as he rose. “I left a heavy cloak for you by the back door.” She studied his face. “Nothing more’s returned?”

He met her green eyes, shook his head. “Not yet.”

Will and Brandon led Logan past the kitchen. He looked in to thank and compliment Mrs. Pennyweather, a bright-eyed, flushed, but jovial woman, then followed the boys to a short hall by the back door. While the boys donned coats, Logan found the cloak Linnet had left and swung it about his shoulders, then they stepped out into the winter morning. The air was chill, crisp; their breaths fogged as they followed a path through what he assumed was the kitchen garden. The neat beds lay largely fallow under a white lacing of frost, with berry and currant canes cut back and tied.

Beyond the garden, a stand of trees screened what proved to be a large stable, with a barn flanking it, a cottage to the, side, and numerous outbuildings arranged around a sizeable yard. Beside the boys, Logan walked into the yard and was immediately hailed.

Halting, he waited as a heavily built man of middle years and average height came forward. His gaze shrewdly assessing, carefully measuring, the man offered his hand.

“Edgar Johnson—estate foreman.”

Logan gripped, shook. “Logan—I’m not sure of the rest yet.”

“Aye, well, you took a nasty knock, and you’ve that gash, too. How’s it healing?”

“As long as I don’t reach too far with my left arm, the gash isn’t a great problem. The head’s still throbbing, but I have it on good authority that that will fade.” Logan smiled easily as three other men and two older lads, who had emerged from various buildings, came to join them.

Edgar made the introductions. The men shook Logan’s hand or nodded deferentially. All made appropriate noises when he mentioned his lack of memory. John, a tall, weedy, lugubrious soul, was, Logan learned, the man-of-all-work about the house, while Vincent, a grizzled veteran, was the head stableman. Bright, not as old as the other three, was the gardener. The two lads—Matt and Young Henry—worked under Vincent, caring for various horses and carts; they were about to depart for the nearest village with cabbages for the market.

Logan asked the two lads to keep their ears open for any word about the wrecked ship. Touching their caps, they vowed they would, then they crossed the yard, clambered up into the cart, and sent the heavy horses lumbering out, onto a track that wended away across a relatively flat plateau.

From the moment Logan had walked into the yard, the older men had been measuring, weighing, and assessing him, a fact of which he was well aware. Now, as if agreeing, for the moment at least, to accept him as they found him, they all nodded and returned to their chores, leaving Will and Brandon to lead him on.

“It’s not far.” Brandon pointed to a narrow path leading away from the main yard.

Flanked by the boys, Logan trudged along, juggling impressions against what he thought should have been, what he thought he should have encountered from the older men.

Mostly buried under a mound of piled earth, in this season the icehouse was empty, yet decidedly chilly. Later in winter, the stocks of ice would be replenished, but for now there was plenty of space for the two bodies laid out on old farm gates balanced on trestles.

The bodies proved uninformative; Logan had no recollection of either man.

The boys had halted in the doorway. They shifted, perhaps uncomfortable with the taint of death.

It was a smell Logan realized he knew well.

What that meant … he couldn’t tell.

Glancing back at the boys, he let his lips curve. “Why don’t you two head back to your chores. I know the way back.”

Brandon flashed him a grin. “You could hardly miss it.”

Smile widening, Logan inclined his head. Both boys raised their hands in waves … salutes? Logan didn’t frown until they’d disappeared, but, again, the instant he tried to pin the memory down, it fled.

Turning back to the dead sailors, he studied their faces, their clothes, but felt not the smallest stirring of recognition. “Poor souls,” he eventually murmured. “What happens to you next, I wonder?”

“I can answer that.”

Logan swung to see a man—a gentleman from his dress—silhouetted in the doorway. As the man stepped inside, Logan saw the white collar around his neck.

“Hello.” Brown-haired, brown-eyed, and of medium height, the man smiled and offered his hand. “You must be our survivor.”

Logan gripped the man’s hand firmly. “Logan. I’m afraid I can’t remember more at present.” He indicated his bandaged, head. “I took a crack over the head, but I’ve been assured my memories will eventually return.”

“Oh, I see.” Behind his overt cheeriness, the vicar, as Edgar and company before him, was measuring Logan. “Geoffrey Montrose, Vicar of Torteval Parish.”

Logan shifted his gaze to the dead men. “So these are now yours.”

“Sadly, yes. I came to say what prayers I can for them.” He looked more closely at the men, then grimaced. “Although I suspect my prayers will be the wrong sort.”

“I’m not sure they’re Spanish—they could be Portuguese, in which case your prayers might be appropriate.” How he knew that, Logan had no idea, but he knew it was so.

Apparently Montrose knew it, too, for he nodded. “True—very true.” He glanced at Logan. “Do you know who they are?”

Logan shook his head. “I don’t know that I ever knew.”

Montrose drew his vicar’s embroidered scarf from his pocket and draped it about his neck. He looked at Logan. “Will you stay?”

Logan considered the men. “They were on the same ship. They died, I didn’t. The least I can do is be here to note their passing.”

Montrose nodded. In a solemn, cultured voice, he commenced a prayer.

Head bowed, Logan followed the words, but although they were familiar, the cadences more so, they stirred no major memories.

After Montrose had performed the rites he thought fitting, Logan followed him back into the weak sunshine.

“Are you heading back to the house?” Montrose asked.

“Yes.” Falling into step beside the vicar, Logan added, “I’m not sure I’m allowed further afield yet.” Lips twisting, he continued, “Truth be told, I’m not sure I wouldn’t lose my way—no telling how damaged my memory is.”

“Well, you’ve fallen into the right hands if you need to heal and convalesce.” Montrose shot him a sharp glance.

“Linnet—Miss Trevission—is famous for taking in strays and … I suppose you could say nurturing them back to full health.”

Logan wasn’t sure he hadn’t been insulted, albeit subtlely, but let the comment slide. He was fairly certain he had a thick skin, and besides, he’d wanted to ask, “The children?”

“And the men, too. And then there’s the animals.”

Logan’s lips twitched, but he held to his purpose. “I had thought the children might be relatives.” Not all of them, but Gilly had similar coloring to Linnet … it was possible.

Montrose blushed faintly, clearly understanding what sort of relationship Logan had imagined. “No—not at all. They’re orphans whose fathers died in the family’s employ. Linnet—Miss Trevission—insists on taking all such in and raising them at Mon Coeur.”

Logan’s brows rose in sincere surprise. “A laudable undertaking.” As they emerged from the trees, he looked at the house. Definitely of manor house proportions, solid and well-tended. “Especially with no husband.”

“Indeed.” The single word was sharp. An instant later, Montrose sought to soften it. “We all help as we can. In such a small community, the children would otherwise have to move away, possibly even leave Guernsey.”

Logan merely nodded. His most urgent questions answered, he paced beside Montrose up the garden path. And continued to dwell on the connundrum posed by Linnet—Miss Trevission. The strangeness of her household derived from her; the entire household was centered on her, anchored by her. Possibly, he was starting to suspect, governed by her.

From all he’d thus far gleaned, thus far seen, she was a highly eligible, apparently reasonably wealthy, extraordinarily attractive gently bred lady in her midtwenties, and yet, for all that, she remained unwed.

More, Montrose was a passably handsome gentleman and was, Logan judged, of similar age to the lovely Miss Trevission. The good vicar surely must harbor some hopes in her direction. The population of Guernsey, especially this, remote corner, wouldn’t be large, the eligible females few and far between. Yet although he’d detected a similar degree of male protectiveness in Montrose as he had in the other men—the ones old enough to consider him a potential threat to Miss Trevission’s virtue—from neither Montrose nor the others had he picked up any suggestion that they had any intention of broaching the matter with either Miss Trevission or him.

Which, in his admittedly possibly erroneous view, seemed odd. Men like Montrose and the others were usually more vocal about who the females they cared about allowed to reside under their roof. Usually more challenging. Indeed, he wouldn’t have been surprised to have received a subtle, or even an unsubtle, warning. Yet although they’d assessed him, not one had made any direct comment—not even Montrose.

Neither Edgar nor any of the other men slept in the manor house itself, a telling point. At present, he, a complete stranger, was the only adult male in residence at night—and he was occupying Miss Trevission’s bed.

While that point appeared to be common knowledge—apparently Edgar and John had helped tend him—Logan seriously doubted the associated fact—that Miss Trevission had shared her bed with him—was similarly widely known.

As they neared the back door, he glanced at Montrose, and wondered what the vicar would say if he knew.

But that reminded him.…

Waving Montrose ahead, he followed the vicar past the kitchen and dining room, and into the parlor. Mrs. Barclay was there; she welcomed the vicar warmly. They settled to chat about the local church services leading to Christmas. The children, presently with Miss Buttons in the schoolroom, were, Logan gathered, a significant part of the choir.

He sat quietly in an armchair letting the comments flow over him—they didn’t stir any memories, didn’t seem to connect with him at all. He suspected he was no churchgoer. Given the subject occupying his mind, he was content to, have the vicar distracted while he wrestled with his recollections.

His problem was that he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, whether his recollection of the previous night was a memory or a dream. When he’d woken that morning, he’d assumed he’d had an amazing, richly detailed, highly erotically charged dream, with predictable consequences. He hadn’t had such a dream in decades; the question of why now had at first puzzled him. But then he’d found Linnet asleep beside him and hadn’t known what to think. To imagine. Yet she’d been covered and trussed like a nun, with a bolster of blanket between them. He’d concluded his first thought had been correct—all he recalled had been a dream.

But then she’d woken. Opened her eyes, looked at him, spoken. From that moment on, he hadn’t been so sure. And the more he learned of her, her strange household, her unusual status, only further made him question whether his increasingly clear recollections were truly a dream, or …

He was still in two minds when Linnet walked into the room.

Although Logan didn’t move a muscle, his attention sharpened as his gaze locked on her. Linnet knew it. She didn’t so much as glance his way, yet she felt the weight, the piercing quality of his dark blue gaze.

Had he remembered? Did he know?

She’d imagined that, with her usual high-handed authority, she would have no trouble carrying off the pretense that nothing had occurred between them, but to her irritation, her very real chagrin, she discovered herself caught on the horns of a totally unforeseen dilemma.

If he thought it all a dream, and remained convinced of that, then nothing more would happen. There would be no further interludes, and he and she would part as mere acquaintances once he remembered who he was.

And she would never again experience what she had last night.

Therein lay the rub.

But if he remembered, if he realized that all those heated moments had been real … she could have more. Lots more, for however many nights remained before he recalled who he was, and where he was supposed to be.

Yet she didn’t want to go down that road, either. It had taken no more than a few exchanges to realize he was a sort of man who didn’t “manage” well. When faced with her natural flair for command, most men fell into line easily enough—but he wouldn’t. The vision of him sitting, mostly naked, on the side of her bed was blazoned on her brain. Easily led he wasn’t, and would never be.

To hint him toward realizing, or not? That was her dilemma. And while her wise and sensible self voted strongly not to risk tangling with him again, her wild side wanted to embrace the chance, risk or not. As far as her wild side was concerned, risks were for taking—which was what had led her to this point.

Even as she smiled and gave Geoffrey her hands, she knew Logan was watching, noting, assessing, considering—and she felt the temptation to give him some sign. Quashing it, she asked Geoffrey, “How is Mrs. Corbett? Have you seen her recently?”

Geoffrey nodded. “She’s improving, but she’s determined to stay in her cottage, and who can blame her? It’s been her home since … before I can remember.”

“She was there when we were children, but her husband was alive then, and her sons were there, too.” Linnet paused, then said, “I’ll keep an eye on her—I ride past often enough.”

She sat and continued to talk with Geoffrey about local affairs, about the people on the Trevission estate and matters further afield. Logan listened closely, but said nothing, asked no questions. For such a large, vigorous man, he could sit very still, could make one forget he was there.

Keeping her gaze locked on Geoffrey, she ignored Logan entirely. Geoffrey noticed, was puzzled by it, but she didn’t want to engage with Logan, not even in outwardly innocent exchanges; she didn’t trust that nothing of the tension, between them would show. And while Geoffrey might not understand it, or recognize it for what it was, he would see enough to grow concerned, and she didn’t need that.

Especially not if she opted to take a risk—a further risk—with Logan.

By the time she rose to walk Geoffrey to the stable, she was increasingly inclined to take that risk. Talking to Geoffrey had underscored the reality of her life. Geoffrey was a childhood friend. During her earlier years, those she’d spent mostly on the island, he and she had run wild. She loved him—like a brother.

Yet he was the only eligible male around. If she traveled to the island’s capital, she might find one or two others, but what use was that to her? Locally, there was no male with whom she could indulge, and while until last night she hadn’t realized what she’d been missing, now she knew.

Now she wanted more—at least a little more.

Logan could give her that.

In front of the stable, Geoffrey turned to her while Vincent went to fetch his horse. “Your latest stray—you will be careful, won’t you? I know he seems perfectly gentlemanly, but he’s … well, you only have to look at him to know he’s …”

Linnet let her lips curve. “Dangerous?”

“Well, not necessarily that … I was thinking more of him not being meek and mild. I have to say it’s difficult to judge a man when he doesn’t know who he is, but, well, you know what I mean.”

“I do, Geoffrey dear, and you know better than to worry.”

“You could send him to St. Peter Port, to the castle.”

“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”

Geoffrey sighed. “I know you won’t worry over what others may think, or say—how it will look that he’s staying in the house, but—”

“Geoffrey, answer me this—who is there to see? Who will ever know where he slept?”

Geoffrey frowned at her. “What you mean is that no one anywhere around here will argue with whatever you decree.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, Linnet stretched up and bussed his cheek. “Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you next time I get to church.”

Vincent appeared with Geoffrey’s mount. Linnet stepped back as, capitulating, Geoffrey swung up to the saddle. After waving him off, she remained in the yard, watching him ride away.

Then she turned and strolled back to the house. Clearing the line of screening trees, she paused and looked up. And saw Logan in the window of her bedroom looking down at her.

Brazenly, she gazed back at him, drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, his height, the sense of innate virility in his powerful frame, then, unhurriedly, she resumed her journey to the house.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, send Logan on his way—not until he remembered who he was. And if that gave her time to experience more of the singular pleasure he could show her … so be it.

After luncheon, she suggested he should rest. Logan thought otherwise. “I’ll come with you and the girls.” He held her gaze. “Montrose mentioned you tended animals, but he didn’t say what sort.”

“All sorts!” Gaily, Gilly grabbed his hand. “Lots of sorts. You can help us—we’ll show you how.”

Getting to his feet, Logan smiled—as innocently as he could—at Linnet.

She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue further. They donned coats and cloaks, then, with Jen, she followed him and Gilly from the house.

“The pens are this way.” Turning left from the back door, Gilly towed him along a path running along the back of the house and on toward another line of trees. Glancing around, Logan noted that the house was more or less encircled by trees, all old and gnarled, but affording excellent protection from the prevailing winds. The path led them through an, archway formed by living branches, out onto a wider, more open expanse—pastures and enclosures protected by more trees.

“We have to feed the babies.” Gilly tugged him to a large wooden bin with a slanting wooden lid. Releasing his hand, she looked up at him expectantly. “You have to open it.”

He smiled and did, remembering at the last minute to push up with his right arm and not lift his left.

“Careful of your stitches.” Linnet was suddenly beside him, helping to set back the lid. When he raised his brows at her, faintly amused, she waspishly informed him, “Muriel and I spent more than an hour sewing you up—I don’t want our handiwork damaged.”

“Ah.” He continued to smile, continued to be tickled by her irritation; he’d noticed that none of the others dared bait her temper.

Then again, she had red hair.

And gorgeous green eyes, which she narrowed at him, then she reached into the bin, lifted a sack, and thrust it at him. “You and Gilly can feed the baby goats.”

Taking the sack, he turned to find Gilly jigging with impatience. With a grin, she whirled and dashed off. He followed her to one of the further enclosures and consented to be instructed in how to feed young goats.

By the time they’d done the rounds of all the pens, feeding calves, donkeys, fawns, even a few foals as well as the rambunctious kids, he’d realized what the vicar had meant about Linnet’s strays. Strays, orphans—those without family. She took them all in, and did her best to care for them.

With daylight waning before what looked to be a storm blowing in, they returned the sacks of grains, carrots, and turnips to the bin, then between them, he and Linnet lowered the lid and secured it. They’d exchanged barely a word since beginning the feeding. Falling into step alongside her, behind Jen and Gilly, who skipped ahead comparing notes on their favorite “pets,” he glanced at Linnet’s face, smiled, and looked ahead.

Deciding she was unlikely to do more than wither him for his presumption, he murmured, “You’re not exactly the usual run of gently bred female.”

He felt the green glance she sent him.

“Do you know so many gently bred females, then?”

He considered the question. “I suppose I must, given my comment.”

She made a scoffing sound. “If you can’t remember details, how can you know what gently bred females are like—what the limits of behavior are?”

“I know they wouldn’t share a bed with a stranger—not under any circumstances.” He caught her eyes—her wide green eyes—as she glanced at him. “I remember that much.”

How much did he remember?

He could see the question in her eyes—and could think of only one reason it would be there. His pulse leapt, but before he could press further and wring an admission from her, she looked forward and said, “Thank you for helping—you’re very good with children. Perhaps you’ve spent time with others at some point—can you remember? Perhaps you have some of your own?”

The idea rocked him. But … “No—I don’t think so.” But he couldn’t be sure. The notion left him with a hollow feeling; the idea he might have children and had forgotten them, however temporarily, chilled him—and in some stirring corner of his brain, he knew there was a reason for the feeling.

When he continued silent, keeping pace beside her, cloak pushed back, his hands in his breeches pockets, head bent, a frown tangling his black brows, Linnet tried to congratulate herself on having so successfully deflected him, but his continued silence nagged at her. Almost as if she’d landed a low blow.

She suspected she had.

She’d noticed how well he interacted with the boys; they’d only known him a day, yet they’d instantly taken to him. That wasn’t, perhaps, surprising; even bandaged, he cut a, dashing figure with his peculiar aura of danger hanging about him almost as tangibly as her father’s old cloak. But the girls were usually much more reserved, yet even quiet Jen had smiled and chatted to him as if she’d known him for months, if not years.

He’d been attentive, responsive, engaged, yet utterly dictatorial. He’d stopped Gilly from climbing too high on a fence with the simple words, “No—get down.”

The order had been utterly absolute; he’d expected to be obeyed—and he had been.

That moment, above all, had bothered her; she knew all there was to know about command, and she liked, indeed insisted on, being the one who wielded it.

Logan—whoever he was—was a born leader; now she’d started looking, she could see the telltale signs. And all her instincts were telling her it wasn’t his size or his strength she should be wary of. In personality and character they were very much alike. Giving him any reason to consider her one of those it was his duty, indeed, his right, to protect—and to therefore issue orders to, ones he would expect to be obeyed—would only result in battles, battles he wouldn’t win, but she didn’t need those sort of clashes in her life.

She didn’t need, didn’t want, a man who expected to control her, to bend her to his will, anywhere near.

Especially not if he might succeed.

Her saner side had come to the fore. Despite her brazen self still wanting to spend as many nights as possible in his arms, self-protection trumped her newfound desire for sexual satisfaction.

Which had resulted in her instinctive, and it seemed perfectly gauged, deflection.

She glanced at him, saw him still brooding, and inwardly grimaced. Felt a touch guilty.

But at least she’d had time to slow her heartbeat. He’d evoked a moment of uncharacteristic panic, but she was over that now. No matter how much he might suspect, no matter how much he might hint, he couldn’t actually know—not, for certain. Unless she told him, or in some way gave herself away, he couldn’t be sure he truly had made her sob and moan last night.

They entered the house in the girls’ wake. When they paused to hang up their cloaks in the hall, she glanced at him again.

He was still looking inward, his expression shuttered.

She grasped the moment to look—to study him again, and let her senses inform her mind of all they could detect.

What she saw made her shiver.

Abruptly turning, she led the way to the parlor.

He, whoever he was, was too much—too large, too strong, too powerful, too virile, altogether too commanding. And while there was, undeniably, a challenge in the prospect of engaging in a wild liaison with such a man, a wise woman would keep her distance.

She could, when so moved, be very, very wise.

Three

With the exception of the other men, who were continuing with their duties about the estate, the household gathered about the dining table for afternoon tea—for scones, raspberrry jam, and clotted cream.

“I know I like scones and jam,” Logan said in reply to Muriel’s query, “but for some reason …” After a moment, he grimaced. “I don’t think I’ve had any for a considerable time.”

“Well, have another.” Buttons passed him the tray. “There’s plenty.”

Linnet watched as he helped himself to two more, yet while the children chatted and Buttons and Muriel swapped local gossip, once again, although physically present, Logan became so still that he seemed no longer there.

He was wrestling with his memory again. She longed to tell him that no good would come of it, that bludgeoning his brain wasn’t going to help.

She hadn’t helped with her comment about children.

She studied his face. His color was good, his eyes clear. She would have liked to check the wound in his side, but didn’t want to lift the dressings yet—tomorrow, maybe. Meanwhile … his physical condition had improved considerably, and he’d shown no sign of developing a fever. Perhaps it was time to risk prodding his memory.

Rising, she went into the parlor, to the drawer in the sideboard where she’d placed the three items he’d had on him when they’d found him. Her hand hovered over the saber, but in the end she picked up the dirk and carried it back to the table.

Logan blinked back to the world when Linnet appeared by his side and placed a dirk on the white cloth before him.

“You had this when we found you—you were clutching it so tightly I had to pry your fingers from the hilt. Presumably it’s important to you.”

She said nothing more, simply slipped into her chair at the head of the table to his left.

He picked up the dirk.

He knew it was a dirk. Knew it was his. Holding it in his left hand, he stroked the fingers of his right over the ornately wrought hilt, over the polished stone embedded in it.…

And remembered.

He closed his eyes as the years flooded back.

His childhood. Glenluce. The little cottage above the town. His mother, sweet-faced and gentle. His uncle, her brother, who had raised him, taught him, counseled him so wisely. His father … oh, yes, his father.

“Monteith.” Opening his eyes, he met Linnet’s. “My name is Logan Monteith.” The chatter about the table ceased. Into the ensuing silence, he recited the bare facts—that he’d been born and raised in Glenluce, in Galloway, a small country town on the river, The Water of Luce, just above where it ran into Luce Bay.

He remembered much more—the light slanting off the water, the wind in his hair. His first pony, the first time he’d gone with his uncle sailing and fishing in Luce Bay. The scent of heather on the moors, the smell of fish by the wharves. The cries of the gulls wheeling high above.

And his father—above all, his father.

He glossed over the fact that his father hadn’t lived with, his mother, had appeared only irregularly in that little cottage above the town. Omitted to mention that his father hadn’t married his mother, and even on her deathbed, his mother hadn’t cared. But he, Logan, had.

Even when he’d been young, too young to truly comprehend the situation, he’d cared enough for them both.

“Later, I went to Hexham Grammar School.” Those memories were vivid—the chill of the stone buildings, the small fires, the echoes of dozens of feet pounding along corridors. The shouts of boys, the roughhousing, the camaraderie. The masters in their black gowns. “I remember my years there. I was a passable student.” Scholastically, he’d done well enough, a sharp eye, native wit, and a ready tongue enough to get him over all the hurdles. “I remember it all, to the last year. When I returned home, I …”

Abruptly, the memories ended. He frowned. Try as he might, he couldn’t see further, couldn’t push further; it was as if he’d reached a black stone wall. He stared unseeing across the table. “I can’t remember anything more.”

Linnet exchanged a swift look with Muriel. “Don’t worry—the fog will clear if you give it time.” She glanced at the dirk, still in his large hands. “Who gave you the dagger?”

He looked down, turned it in his hands. “My father.” After a moment, he went on, “It’s been in his family for centuries.”

“An heirloom, then,” Muriel said.

Slowly, his gaze still on the blade, Logan nodded.

Gently, Linnet asked, “Your mother, your father. Are they alive?”

Logan lifted his head, met her eyes. “Waiting for me to come home?” When she nodded, he stared at her, then frowned. “I don’t think—feel—that they are, but …” After a moment, he shook his head. “I can’t be sure. I can’t remember. They were alive, both of them, when I finished at Hexham.”

Linnet resisted the impulse to tell him to let the matter rest, let his mind rest after the sudden influx of memories, let, it catch its breath, at it were. “Now you’ve started remembering, the rest will surely come.”

“Indeed.” Muriel briskly nodded. “It often comes back like that—in fits and starts.”

The children had been commendably silent, listening and watching, but Brandon couldn’t hold back any longer. “What sort of boat did you sail with your uncle?”

The question pulled Logan from his absorption. Linnet mentally blessed Brandon as Logan, clearly thinking back, answered.

That was the signal for the others to put their questions, peppering him with queries on pets—numerous, siblings—none, and for details of Glenluce and Scottish ways.

The distraction gave Linnet a chance to refine her view of Logan in light of what he’d recalled. Even in Guernsey, they knew of Hexham Grammar School. As Winchester Grammar School was to the south of England, Hexham was to the far north. The boys who attended were gentry, overwhelmingly of the higher orders—the aristocracy and even the nobility. Many noble houses of the Border regions sent their sons to Hexham.

Logan’s ingrained manners, his air of command, and his protectiveness toward those he considered weaker, combined with his having attended such a school, painted a picture of a gentleman very much Linnet’s equal—born to good family, gentry at least, brought up in the country, by the sea.

The children’s questions faded. Logan fell silent, a frown once again knitting his black brows.

Finally, he let the dirk he still held between his hands fall the few inches to the table. Folding his hands atop it, he looked at Linnet. Lips thin, he shook his head. “I still can’t remember anything more.” Frustration etched his face, darkened his eyes. “What did I do next? What did I become?”

She dropped her gaze to his hands, then on impulse reached out and took them in hers.

Memory of a different sort struck.

She nearly jerked at the jolt of remembered sensation.

Of excitement—pure, unadulterated, lancing-sharp—that flashed across her senses. Heat, sensual and potent, unfurled in its wake … mentally gritting her teeth, locking her gaze on his fingers, his palms, she ignored it. Ignored the unprecedented thump-thump of her heart, and focused.

Examined.

Managed to draw enough breath to say, in a level, passably unaffected tone, “You don’t have the right calluses to be a sailor.” She released his hands, resisting the urge to run her fingertips over the calluses that were there.

To her relief, when she glanced up, he was staring at his hands. “I do have calluses, though.”

“Yes, but you didn’t get them sailing.”

He nodded, accepting. “Something else repetitive. Reins?” He looked at her. “Perhaps I was a driver?”

“Or a rider.” She thought of the saber in the sideboard drawer.

She was about to rise and fetch it when he dropped his head in his hands, for an instant gripped, held still, then started massaging his temples. Linnet hesitated, then looked down the table at Muriel.

Concern in her eyes, Muriel shook her head.

Looking back at Logan just as he scrubbed his hands over his face, then rubbed the back of his neck, Linnet had to agree. He might be physically strong, but he looked mentally exhausted. Pushing too hard all at once might not help.

Turning to Will, she asked, “Which way did you go on your ride?”

Later, after dinner, Logan followed the children into the parlor and, sprawling with them on the floor before the fire, taught them a card game he’d remembered from his childhood.

The children were quickly enthralled, calling out, laughing, and crowing triumphantly as they swapped cards and won tricks.

It was a game he could play without thinking—he’d, spent many long winters’ evenings playing with his mother and uncle. The activity gave him time and mental space to review all he’d recalled. His own childhood, the memories he hadn’t shared.

He understood, now, why he felt so much at home here, amid the warmth and joy of a house full of children, a large house of comfort, of quiet, unadorned elegance, and a vital, almost tangible, sense of family. This was the antithesis of his own childhood—one of a lone child, the bastard son of a distant earl living quietly estranged from all family with his unwed mother on the earl’s pension. His uncle had been his only anchor, the only member of his mother’s well-connected English family who had not cut all ties.

With an easy smile fixed on his lips, he watched the children play, helped little Gilly select her cards, and inwardly acknowledged that the reason he felt so wonderfully at peace here at Mon Coeur was not because it was in any way like his home but because this large house encapsulated and embodied the childhood home of his dreams.

This was all he’d ever wanted—even better than, as child or man, he’d been able to imagine. Mon Coeur had it all, everything a lonely soul could want: lots of children, adult women of both the necessary generations—mother and grandmother—needed for complete care, for that all-embracing feminine nurturing. It even had older men to provide the essential male influence; Edgar and John had joined the household about the table, then followed them into the parlor. The two sat in what was clearly their usual armchairs, set in one corner back from the hearth, and quietly chatted about this and that. Male talk, discussions Will and Brandon, and even sometimes Chester, paused to listen to and take in.

Mentally sitting back, seeing it all, absorbing it, Logan was tempted to tell Will, Brandon, Chester, Jen, and Gilly just how lucky they were. But they wouldn’t understand—wouldn’t be able to see as he could, through eyes that had always, until now, looked on this world from the outside.

It was human nature not to value what one had until one no longer had it. He hoped for their sakes it would never come to that, not for them.

He glanced at Linnet, felt oddly reassured. She would never allow any of them to lose this, to lose Mon Coeur.

Mon Coeur. A name he now understood.

“Logan!” Gilly tugged his sleeve. “Pay ‘tention. Which card should I put down?”

He focused on the five cards she held tightly in both hands. Pointed. “That one.”

“All right.”

He watched as she whipped it out and laid it down.

The others looked, and groaned.

“Did I win?”

Logan laughed, lightly tousled her bright head. “Yes, poppet. You did.”

From the other side of the parlor, Muriel watched Gilly beam and bounce on her knees, watched Logan gather the cards and reshuffle them. Saw the interest in the other children’s eyes, the boys’ eyes especially, as they watched and learned.

Much of her earlier wariness toward Linnet’s latest stray had dissipated. Yet looking at Linnet as she sat in an armchair and watched the group before the fire, Muriel wondered if her niece had ever before looked at any man as she was looking at Logan Monteith. Certainly not that Muriel knew.

There was interest, clear as day, in Linnet’s green eyes—not a calculating interest, but a fascinated one. An intrigued attraction.

Then Linnet stirred. Uncrossing her legs, she rose. “That’ll have to be the last game tonight.”

The children and Logan looked up; the children all waited—looking hopefully from Logan to Linnet—but Logan merely inclined his head and turned back to deal the cards. “Last hand.”

The children pulled faces, but no one moaned.

Turning, Linnet walked to where Muriel sat, Buttons beside her.

Viewing the subtle smile curving her niece’s lips, Muriel felt compelled to ask, as Linnet reached her, “What about the sleeping arrangements?”

Logan might be a gentleman born and bred, nevertheless …

Linnet didn’t pretend not to understand. She grimaced lightly. “Logan will have to continue in my bed—his head’s still causing him considerable pain, and there’s nowhere else he’d be comfortable. I doubt the cot in the box room would support his weight, but it’ll do for me, at least for a few nights.”

Muriel nodded, her gaze going to Logan. “I suspect that’s the best arrangement in the circumstances. The better rested he is, the more likely he is to regain his memory.” Rising, she said, “I’ll have Pennyweather bring in the tea.”

Linnet remained where she was, her gaze returning to Logan—skating over his shoulders, the long, strong legs stretched out before him, the clean, harsh planes of his face, his firm lips.

She let her gaze drink him in—and thought of the small cot in the box room.

As usual, Linnet was the last to go upstairs. Once everyone else had retired, she did her rounds; in the calming stillness, the soft, enfolding shadows, she walked the ground-floor rooms of her home, checking every window, securing every door. Mon Coeur might stand in a sparsely populated neighborhood, yet by that very fact the house was isolated, far removed from the communal safety of town or village, and was within a few hundred yards of the coast—a coast that in the past had been an occasional haunt of pirates, and was also frequently raked by ferocious and unpredictable storms.

There was, she considered, sufficient reason for vigilance.

Once all was secure, she climbed to the attics, looked in, on all the children. Tucked Chester’s blankets in again, then did the same for Gilly in the room she shared with Jen.

Finally assured that all was as it should be, she descended to the first floor. The lighted candle she carried casting a warm glow on the polished wood of floor and paneled walls, she walked to the closed door of her room.

There, she hesitated, for the first time that evening not quite sure of herself.

The feeling, the realization, irritated. Squaring her shoulders, she reminded herself of her resolution to be wise, then raised a hand and tapped on the door. She waited, then, hearing nothing, reached for the knob, turned it, opened the door, and looked in.

Logan wasn’t in the bed. No lamp was burning, but the curtains were open; faint moonlight laid a swath of pale silver across the untrammeled counterpane. The candle flame didn’t illuminate much of the large room; stepping inside, she set the candlestick on the nearby tallboy, turned, and saw him silhouetted against the window. He’d been looking out to sea, but had turned his head to watch her.

Eyes adjusting, she saw he was still fully dressed. Closing the door, she frowned at him. “I thought you’d be in bed. You should be by now.”

He regarded her for a silent moment. “Are you going to join me?”

He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. She told herself that, again reminded herself of her resolution. “I was just going to get my robe and nightgown. I’ll sleep in the box room next door.”

He stirred, then with long, prowling strides closed the distance between them. “You’d rather sleep with boxes than with me?”

She fought the urge to step back as the space between them shrank. He halted with less than a foot between them, forcing her to tip up her head to meet his eyes. The candlelight cast them in deep and dangerous shadows. She held his, gaze, levelly stated, “Sharing a bed with you would, in the circumstances, be unwise.”

“Unwise?” One devilish winged brow arched. He held her gaze for an instant, then stepped closer.

Her nerves leapt; instinctively she stepped back—and came up against the panels of the door.

Temper sparking, she opened her mouth to berate him.

His head swooped and he covered her lips with his.

Kissed her. A full, open-mouthed, lips-to-lips kiss that stole her breath and left her giddy.

He drew back a fraction—enough for her to feel her lips clinging to his, to the taste of him, to the promise in the kiss—then he growled deep in his throat and returned, this time voraciously. His tongue plunged in with no by-your-leave, stroking, claiming, then settling to plunder. He leaned in, commanded, demanded—and she discovered it was impossible not to kiss him back, impossible to let such flagrant, blatant demands go unmet, unchallenged.

And suddenly they were there again, where they’d been last night, feeding and taking, giving and seizing.

Wanting.

It was he who, eventually, pulled back.

Just an inch, enough to meet her eyes through the candle-glow. His were narrowed; she would swear they burned blue.

“Last night you didn’t think sleeping with me unwise.”

She struggled to catch her breath, to find a way to distract, to deflect. To redirect.

His gaze dropped to her breasts as they swelled, flicked up in time to fix on her mouth as she moistened her suddenly dry lips. “That—”

“Was you last night—the houri beneath me. The one I rode to oblivion, the houri who took me in and rode with me. I remember your taste.”

Her brazen self was fascinated that he could, that he would; against her will, her gaze lowered to his lips. Focused on them as they curved in a blatantly masculine way.

“It was an excellent way to warm me up. Exceedingly noble. I feel I should be … unreservedly grateful.” He’d braced his big hands, splayed, on the door to either side of her shoulders, caging her within arms she knew were corded steel. He shifted one hand, fingers catching a strand of hair that had come loose from the careless knot atop her head. He sifted the tress between his fingertips. “I remember this, too—soft as silk, warm as flames.”

She dragged her eyes from the mesmerizing sight of him caressing her hair, fell into his eyes as he smiled, then he looked at her lips again.

They throbbed. She fought the urge to run her tongue along the lower. Managed to haul enough breath into her lungs to say, “That—last night—was an impulsive act.”

“So be impulsive again.” His hand shifted, drifted; he slid his long fingers between her arm and her side, hooked them in the side-laces of her gown.

Let his thumb cruise, brushing, impossibly lightly, over her breast.

She sucked in a tight breath as her flesh reacted, as her nipple pebbled and a wash of seductive heat swept through her.

“I was thinking,” he said, his voice a deep, gravelly murmur, the faintest of burrs underscoring the purring quality, “that tonight I should go out of my way to thank you.”

Out of his way?

She stared into his eyes from a distance of mere inches, breathed in the warmth of him, sensed the latent heat of him, the muscled power, reaching for her.…

No, no, no, no.

But …

Locked in his eyes, she gave in and licked her lip. “I shouldn’t.”

He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers, then his lips slowly curved. “But you will.” He took one long step back. With the fingers crooked in, her laces, he drew her with him, then to him. Against him and into his arms, then he bent his head and kissed her again.

Kissed her until she forgot every jot of wisdom she’d ever known.

Until she melted.

Until she wrapped her arms about his neck and surrendered.

Four

The wasn’t surrendering to him but to herself—to that brazen self who wanted to know what more of the magic he could show her. Last night had been a revelation, but if there was more to know, more to experience, she needed to know, to learn of it.

Knowledge, experience, understanding—she’d realized from her earliest years how important those were, how crucial to leadership. Taking risks to achieve them was, to her, second nature, simply a part of who she was.

Once she sank against Logan, wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back—as fearless as he was ravenous—her decision was made. Made and communicated; there was no going back. She never even considered it. Stepping back from a challenge wasn’t her style.

And his kiss—this kiss, his mouth and hers joined—was the first fascination. The first flare of heat, the first taste of passion. It was more, so much more, than any kiss she’d ever shared with any of her earlier lovers; they’d been boys, mere learners, dilettantes.

This kiss, his kiss, was one of claiming—of challenge, of blatant promise. Of sensual threat. A statement of intention, certainly—of domination. As with lips and tongue he ravaged, and sent her senses spinning, she clung and fought to return the pleasure, to match and meet his educated assault, while inwardly her brazen self rejoiced.

Titillated, expectant, glorying in the moment.

His arms had closed around her, his hard hands holding her, then they moved and he sculpted her curves—possessively, predatorially.

Excitement sparked; her nerves came alive—aware, awake, as they never had been. Tense and waiting, anticipating.

The next touch, the next flagrantly possessive caress.

It came, his hard hand closing about one globe of her bottom, the firm curve filling his palm; his fingers kneaded as he held her to him, lifted her to her toes—then he moved, hips suggestively thrusting, the ridge of his erection riding against her mons, the hard length impressing strength, intention, and erotic promise against her taut belly.

Setting greedy flames flaring low, swelling the hollow emptiness that had opened there.

The emptiness she needed him to fill.

Yet …

She felt a tug—realized he’d undone her laces. Felt her bodice sag. In mere seconds he had her out of it, had drawn her arms free, pushed the gown down to her hips, leaving it to slide as it would to the floor, and his hand closed, hard and demanding, about her breast, screened only by her thin shift and even finer chemise.

On a gasp, she pulled back from the kiss. Eyes closed, stretched up on her toes, her fingertips sinking into the heavy muscles of his shoulders as his wicked fingers found her nipple and tweaked. “Slowly,” she gasped.

And immediately felt his touch ease.

And what a thrill that was—a shiver of knowledge, of understanding, skated down her spine. She lifted her heavy lids and looked into his eyes.

They glittered through his dark lashes, his own lids low. “Just as long as slow doesn’t mean stop.”

The words were deep, almost guttural. They made her, smile. “No—just slow. Slow so I can …” Feel everything, every little nuance. So I can learn of myself, and even more of you. Her smile deepened. “Savor.”

His eyes searched hers. “With that,” he murmured, “I’ll be happy to comply.”

His hand hadn’t stopped caressing her breast, had been toying firmly, definitely, yet without the urgency she’d sensed had been about to sweep them both away.

He bent his head and kissed her again, took her lips again, engaged with her again, and instantly she sensed, all but felt, the rein he’d imposed on his passions.

That he maintained as, slowly, he stripped her gown, her shift, then her chemise away, and laid her on the bed, stripped off his own clothes—slowly, so she had the chance to catch her breath and admire the lines of the most magnificent male body she’d ever laid eyes on, bandages and all—then he joined her.

Unhurriedly propped on one elbow beside her, and ran one hard, callused hand slowly over her body from her throat to her calves.

She let herself respond instinctively, found herself arching lightly into the caress, her body, already heated and yearning, wanting more—blatantly, uninhibitedly.

If she wanted this—wanted to know, to learn, to experience—she saw no point in inhibitions. They had no place here, no purpose between her and him.

Something in his eyes as he looked down at her, for a moment studied her face, gave her the impression he somehow understood that, that he’d seen, taken note, and would use the knowledge, would respond accordingly.

Then he bent his head and set his lips to her breast.

First one, then the other, sampling, tasting, then feasting. Slowly.

Even as she writhed, as she gasped, then softly moaned, as her fingers tangled in his thick hair and she held him to her, helplessly offering her flesh, her body, for his delectation, she knew she’d been inspired in insisting on slow.

Slow. The word became a heartbeat, a pulse of this loving. This seduction he waged on her flesh, on her mind.

On her senses, on every inch of her skin.

She came alive beneath his hands in a way she never had before—and this time she knew it, felt the change to her bones, reveled in the inexpressible pleasure, in the freedom and joy of knowing this could be hers.

That she could have this, be this, the houri he’d called her.

He opened her senses, and she rose to the challenge—waited eagerly to experience what next would come as he lazily—slowly—wended his way down her body, placing hot, wet kisses here, there, past her navel, over the swell of her stomach.

Resting his head on her waist, he looked down, watching as he sent his fingers circling through the tight red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs, then he pushed past, down, and touched her.

Parted her already slick folds and caressed her.

Slowly. Blatantly.

As if he had all the time in the world to feel her, touch her, stroke and caress her.

Urgency slammed into her. She caught her breath; instinctively her thighs eased, parted—inviting, wanting.

She felt more than heard his deep chuckle.

“Slowly, remember?”

“Yes, but—” She broke off on a strangled gasp as another far-too-knowing caress had her arching beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ah—perhaps this is what you want?”

Before she could gather her whirling wits, his hand shifted between her thighs and he sank one long finger—slowly—into her, deeper and deeper into her sheath, until he could reach no further.

The breath she’d drawn in and held gushed out, halfsigh, halfmoan. “Yes. Oh … yes.” Her head was spinning.

“Good.” He stroked, slowly, deep inside her, then again, and her nerves tightened.

Tightened.

He continued his slow stroking until heat beat in swelling waves through her veins, pulsing and spreading beneath her skin.

Until she was wet, and helpless, and needy.

Until she was one stroke away from wantonly begging.

Until she was so taut that with the next stroke she was sure she’d fracture.

That next stroke never came. He slid lower in the bed; his finger left her. He pushed her thighs wider apart, one trapped by his shoulder, the other held wide with one strong hand.

She cracked open her lids, looked down her body at him—saw him looking down at her—at her swollen, throbbing flesh.

Then he ducked his head and set his mouth to her there.

She came off the bed with a shriek.

He paused, looked up at her. “Is anyone likely to hear you?”

“What?” It took a moment to process the question, to think of the answer. “No. Even the attic rooms aren’t directly above us.”

“Good.” With that, he set his other hand across her belly, holding her down, lowered his head, took her soft, most intimate flesh into his mouth, and suckled.

She screamed, fought to mute the sound, fought to breathe, hands scrabbling for some purchase that would hold her to reality as he played on her senses for all he was worth.

In this arena, he was worth quite a lot. Knew a lot—so much more than she. Her skin was dewed, flushed, her heart pounding, long before he eased back from the exquisite torment.

Panting, mind racing to catch up, she felt his gaze on her, gauging, but couldn’t find the strength to lift her lids—couldn’t cope with what she knew she would feel at the sight of him supping at her there.

Once he’d thoroughly—slowly—consumed her, reducing her to a mass of excruciatingly alive nerves, tense, knotted, and desperately aware, he shifted, licked, laved, then with his tongue probed.

Plunged her into passion unlike any she’d ever known. Her hands clenched, helplessly gripping, in his hair, all she could do was hang on as he drove her, shuddering, quivering, to the brink of ecstasy.

Then he drew back.

He surged over her, and she felt his heat, despite the bandages felt the inexpressible pleasure of his hard body hovering inches above hers as he wedged his hips between her widespread thighs, as he fitted himself to her—then sank home.

Her body arched. She clung, desperately held on—desperately wanted to feel every fraction of an inch of him as he thrust deep and hard into her heated, helplessly willing, mindlessly needy body.

As she felt her sheath stretch, greedily taking him in, all the hard length of him as he forged deep, she hungrily clutched, held him to her. With her arms, with her body, she wrapped herself around him and held tight.

Heard his guttural groan as he came to rest deep within her, then he lowered his head, found her lips—and she tasted her nectar on his lips and tongue as he kissed her ferociously. Then his spine flexed, powerful and sure, and his erection pumped within her, his hips driving in a steady, pounding rhythm.…

She couldn’t hold on. Couldn’t hold back the tide that rose up and crashed over her, surging again before barreling through her.

Ecstasy smashed into her, a tidal wave of sensation that streaked down every vein, down every nerve, to explode in brilliant glory.

Shattering her, emptying her, draining her, then filling the void with glory-tinged bliss.

A bliss that only deepened, only strengthened when he stiffened, then she felt the warm rush deep within, and he groaned and slumped in her arms.

She held him close and marveled, drifting in the aftermath—one deeper, more profound, than she’d previously known. Hands weakly shifting in his hair in an instinctive caress, she lay relaxed and boneless beneath him, beyond amazed at the depth and intensity, the sheer vibrancy of feeling that with him the act had encompassed, had contained.

Never, ever, not in any of her three previous attempts, had the act been anything like this. Not even a weak echo of this.

Logan knew he should shift, that he was pressing her into the bed and she probably couldn’t breathe, but … he could feel her hand in his hair, gently stroking, and some part of him didn’t want to let the moment go. Not yet.

She’d wanted slowly, so he’d gone as slow as he could. Not so easy given that the instant she’d melted into his arms, he’d known he would have her again—that her body was his to take again—and his baser self had been fixated on that, on achieving that as quickly and as blatantly as possible.

Why that last was so important—why some part of him had been so urgent to reimpose, reenact, reiterate his possession of her—he didn’t know. He liked women, liked indulging with them, yet never before had he wanted to do more than physically enjoy them. Possess them? No. Not him.

He wasn’t a possessive lover—or at least he never had been … for a moment, he wondered how he knew, yet consulting his deeper feelings, he knew he was right. He’d never before felt the need to mark a woman as his.

Yet he felt that way with Linnet Trevission.

Perhaps being clouted over the head had changed him?

Yet … why her?

Admittedly she felt better beneath him—fitted him better, suited him better—than any other woman he’d ever known. Still …

Perhaps when his memory fully returned, he’d lose this primitive urge to tighten his hold on her and never let her go. Perhaps.

Dragging in a breath, he managed to lift his body from hers—reluctantly separating skin from slick skin—then he, left himself down gently on his back beside her. He was well aware the gash on his side had not yet mended; he’d felt the stitches pull during his recent exertions, but was fairly certain none had popped.

Chill air played over his cooling skin. He hadn’t noticed the temperature before. Reaching down, he snagged the covers and flicked them up over them both. She lifted a hand weakly to help.

Grinning to himself, he lay back and simply rested. Sensed that it was a long time since he’d just lain back afterward like this, and let the warmth of aftermath lap, then gently recede.

He couldn’t raise his left arm and gather her in, not without stretching his wound. Eventually, even though he sensed she was awake, he turned carefully onto his side and slid his right arm over her waist. Felt insensibly comforted by having her beneath his arm, within his hold.

She shot him a quick glance, but immediately looked away, confirming she was wide awake. He knew why he was—he was basking, savoring the moment too much to succumb to slumber and miss it—but he knew he’d satisfied her, thoroughly, deeply, and utterly completely, so by rights she should be comatose … except she was thinking. Pondering.

He suspected he knew about what. Weak light from the distant candle played over them, well enough for eyes adjusted to the dimness to see reasonably well. Keeping his lips straight, his expression blank, letting his lids fall so he could only just see through his lashes, he murmured, “Your other lovers—I take they weren’t as … inventive as I.”

The look she shot him was faintly shocked, but even as he watched, that faded. Clearly assuming his eyes were closed, she studied his face, frowned. “I wouldn’t have said inventive. I suspect experienced is closer to the mark.”

He could smile without giving away that he was watching her. “I see. How many were there?”

Why he wanted to know was a mystery—he never had, with any other lover. But with her … he wanted to know. She continued to frown. “Three.”

“Only three?”

“Three before you.” Folding her arms over the covers, snugging them beneath her breasts, she acerbically added, “Three was enough to convince me that there was little in the activity to recommend it to me.”

That had him opening his eyes wide to stare at her. Directly into her pale emerald eyes. She couldn’t possibly mean … “Three lovers—three times?” That would explain why he’d found her so incredibly, arousingly tight.

“I wasn’t about to further indulge them if I got nothing from the event.”

“Nothing?” His mind boggled; she’d been gloriously, uninhibitedly responsive. “They must have been clods.”

“They weren’t.” She shrugged. “Just … not as imaginative as you.”

He held her gaze, inwardly held his breath. “Am I to take it, inventive, imaginative, and experienced as I am, that you won’t be averse to indulging with me again?”

She hesitated, but now he was piecing her situation together, he wasn’t all that surprised. He knew well enough not to push, but merely wait; she was, after all, a gently bred female, so that she’d indulged at all with anyone …

He narrowed his eyes. “How old are you?”

She narrowed her eyes fractionally back. “Twenty-six.”

When his expression relaxed, she frowned. “Why? What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t, but it does explain why you’ve indulged at all—twenty-six is getting a trifle long in the tooth.”

“Indeed. As you can clearly remember, twenty-six is more or less on the shelf.”

“And they—local society—expect you to marry.”

“Yes, but that’s not why I decided to take a lover. We weren’t courting—there was never any question of that.”

He inwardly frowned. Either customs had changed radically, or he was missing some relevant fact.

Before he could think of what question to ask, she said, “I’d already decided I would never marry.”

He let his frown materialize. “Why not?”

She arched her brows, haughty again. Even naked, she could pull it off. “For the same reason Queen Elizabeth didn’t.”

Oddly, that made perfect sense. “Ah. I see.” Linnet was surprised. Indeed, she doubted he truly had, but then he confirmed it. “The question of power.”

“Yes. My position here is essentially that of liege-lord, a hereditary position I’ve been bred to fill, and I have no inclination whatever to give it up.”

He held her gaze for a long moment—so long she wondered what was passing through his mind. Then he said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

She frowned. “What question?”

“Whether, given my expertise, you’re agreeable to indulging with me again.”

She couldn’t see any reason why she shouldn’t. Could formulate several reasons why she should. “Ask me again later, when you’re able.”

Something hot—that sense of blue flame—shifted behind his dark eyes. The sight made her breath hitch, made parts of her tingle. Made her seize on a distraction. “Could you really tell from kissing me that it was me with you last night?” Aside from all else, she wanted to know.

He smiled, slowly. “That, and other things.”

“What things?”

The heavy arm across her waist lifted, raising the covers. “Let me show you.”

Before she’d realized what he was about, he’d lifted over her, spread her thighs with his long legs, and settled his hips between—proving that, contrary to her expectations, he was very much able already.

He looked down between their bodies, shifted, and she felt the broad head of his erection nudge past her folds—instantly setting her nerves jangling, her body tightening in expectation, in anticipation. Pausing, he raised his head, caught her eyes as he settled on his elbows above her.

From a distance of mere inches, his gaze burned into hers. “This—how you feel when I’m pushing inside you”—he demonstrated, forging slowly but steadily in—”how you close so tightly around me when I fill you—” With a powerful thrust he filled her completely, making her gasp, making her arch beneath him, making her already furled nipples brush against the coarse bandages circling his chest—making her cry out.

Making her sheath contract tightly around him—making him hiss and close his eyes.

But then he opened them again, pinned her as she lay beneath him. “This,” he said, his voice gravelly and low as he withdrew and then thrust deep and hard again, “was the final proof.”

She’d thought her nerves were shattered, wrung out, unable to respond, not again, not so soon. But they were already sparking, tensing, tightening. As for him … “I didn’t think …” That was all she could manage to say as he filled her again.

“Don’t think.” He lowered his head to rest alongside hers. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”

She didn’t take orders well, but this time she complied.

His breathing harsh by her ear, her own breath coming in panting gasps, his heavy body moving over hers, her own responding, his hips and legs pinning her, spread and open, beneath him, she really had no choice as he settled into a driving, pounding rhythm that rescripted all she’d ever known about what could pass between a man and a woman.

Flames rose and enveloped them. Cindered all thought, any lingering inhibition. When she felt him tug one of her knees, she responded, raising her legs and wrapping them around his hips, opening herself even more.

For him to take. To fill. To ravish.

Logan didn’t hold back. She’d given him a telling piece of, information—her comment about Queen Elizabeth. About her position here. Her other lovers would have known it and bowed to it—and so failed. She was too strong a woman to be made love to gently, reverently, at least not at first. She didn’t need a man to bow to her but to take her, possess her—to show her what it was like, how it felt, to be desired and possessed.

So he took, gave desire and predatory hunger free rein and unrestrainedly possessed. He demanded, commanded, and took all she had to give, savoring her moans, her gasps, her surrender, until her ulitmate climax brought on his own.

The ensuing cataclysm rocked even him.

As he hung above her, gasping, waiting for his thundering heart to slow, his sawing breathing to ease, he looked down, and watched as, this time sated well beyond thought, she slipped, boneless and relaxed, into sleep beneath him.

He felt a satisfaction deeper than any he’d ever known as he withdrew from the clinging clasp of her body, then slumped beside her.

For however long he remained here, for however long this odd hiatus in his life lasted, she would be his. His to possess whenever he wished.

Whenever he could persuade her to it.

December 12, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

Logan woke to dawn seeping through the room, and an empty space in the bed beside him. As the events of the night replayed in his brain, he found himself grinning, but as the reality of the situation impinged, his sense of euphoria faded.

He didn’t yet know who he—Logan Monteith—was, not as an adult, not now. He didn’t know what he did, how he made his living—didn’t know where he lived, nor where, he’d been going. He needed to jog his memory and remember, but regardless, one fact stood crystal clear.

Despite his lack of memory, he had to have a life he needed to return to. Ergo, his time here, with Linnet, was limited.

He’d known that, and she knew it, too. Indeed, in a way she was counting on it, knowing that, regardless of whatever grew between them, he would eventually leave. The critical point being that she and her position stood in no danger from him.

Pushing back the covers, swinging his legs from the bed, he frowned. The knowledge that their liaison was already slated to be temporary, fleeting, sat poorly … as if he’d endured many such meaningless encounters in the past and no longer found succor in them.

That might well be true. Grimacing, he stood, crossed to the armchair by the window, and lifted the robe Linnet had given him. Shrugging into it, belting it, he decided he needed to do all he could to bring his memory back.

Going along the corridor, he washed, shaved. Twisting before the small mirror, he tried to unpick the knot securing the bandage around his chest, but couldn’t. He wanted to take a look at the wound, but would need help to do so. Turning his attention to the bandage about his head, he started unwinding it, only to discover it had stuck to his scalp and he couldn’t get it loose. Frustrated, he rewound it as best he could.

Returning along the corridor to Linnet’s room, he saw one of the little maids standing outside the door trying to balance a pile of clothes well enough to knock.

Hearing his footsteps, she turned, brightened. “There you are, sir—I’ve brought these up for you.” She offered the pile. “These are what you was washed up in. We’ve done the best we can with them, but Miss Trevission says that if you find anything unwearable to please continue to use the clothes she gave you.”

“Thank you.” He took the pile of neatly laundered clothes.

The maid bobbed a curtsy, turned, and clattered away. Logan entered the bedchamber, closed the door, then laid the clothes out on the bed. He studied them—the plain coat and linen shirt, the black breeches—tried to recall anything about them—where he’d bought them, even when or why he had—but they told him nothing. He didn’t even feel any sense of ownership. Perhaps he was the sort of man who cared nothing for his clothes.

That didn’t sound right, didn’t feel right.

Inwardly shrugging, he donned the clothes, discovering slashes in the shirt and coat corresponding to his wound neatly mended. The breeches were a better fit than Linnet’s father’s had been. He continued using the stockings Linnet had given him, and her father’s boots—wearable, if a touch tight. His own had yet to reappear.

Feeling oddly more himself, he went downstairs and headed for the dining room and the babel therein. Today he was early enough to catch the other men at the table. Exchanging nods and greetings, he slid into the vacant chair next to Linnet’s.

Brandon reached over the table, holding out a belt. “This is yours. We reoiled it and it came up well, but we couldn’t save your boots.”

“Thank you.” Logan took the belt. Uncoiling it, he saw the buckle was … something he should remember, but didn’t. Shifting in his chair, he slid the belt through the loops on his breeches, cinched and buckled it.

As the other men rose and left for their work, Linnet caught his eye. “Your boots were Hobys.”

When he blinked at her, she asked, “Do you know what that means?”

He nodded, but couldn’t work it out. A gentleman’s boots were usually made to measure and therefore not readily transferrable—witness the current pinching of his toes. So the boots he’d been washed up in were almost certainly his own, and Hoby was one of the ton’s foremost bootmakers.

The other little maid—Molly, he thought her name was—brought him a plate piled even higher than the day before. He thanked her and absentmindedly fell to eating while he tried to solve the riddle.

In case he hadn’t seen it, Linnet murmured, “Your expensive boots don’t match your ordinary clothes.”

He glanced at her, but said nothing.

Linnet left him to his thoughts. The children finished, and she dispatched them to their various chores and lessons. Buttons followed Jen, Chester, and Gilly out, shooing them ahead of her to the schoolroom.

With only herself, Muriel, and Logan left in the room, Linnet transferred her gaze to Logan, and waited.

Eventually he looked up and met her eyes. Grimaced. “I have no idea what the discrepancy between my clothes and boots means.”

He fell silent again, his forehead—what showed beneath the now lopsided bandage—deeply furrowed. Linnet looked down the table at Muriel, sipping her last cup of tea, and arched a brow. Her aunt saw, considered, then nodded.

Linnet rose, went into the parlor, retrieved both the scabbarded saber and the wooden cylinder, returned to her chair, then placed both items on the table before Logan. “These were the only other things you had with you, other than your clothes and boots, and the dirk.”

He glanced sharply at her and reached for the saber.

Unperturbed, she responded, “As I believe I mentioned, we’ve”—with her head she indicated Muriel, watching from the table’s foot—”had significant experience with temporary loss of memory. It never pays to push, to try to recall too much at once.” She watched curiously as he withdrew the saber and examined the blade. “Regardless, I was going to give you the saber yesterday, after the dirk had been so helpful in bringing so much back to you, but, if you recall, you were tired after that, so pushing again then didn’t seem wise.”

He glanced at her, grimaced, then looked back at the, saber. “Despite your solicitousness, this isn’t having the same effect as the dirk.”

“Perhaps it isn’t yours,” Muriel said.

Logan slid his hand into the saber’s guard, grasped the hilt. Hefted it, rolled his wrist a little, gauging the weight. “No—I think it is mine. It feels … familiar. But …” Frustrated, he shook his head. “I just can’t remember what it means, what it tells me.”

Setting it back on the table, he picked up the wooden cylinder. Examining the strips of wood that formed it, held together by brass clasps, he frowned. “This tells me even less. I’m fairly certain it’s not mine.” He tried to open what appeared to be the top, secured by a combination of brass levers, but nothing he did seemed to release the lid.

“It has to be important to you,” Linnet said. “You were carrying it, wrapped in oilskins, in a specially designed leather sling—the cylinder rested along your spine, secured by a belt loop and two other straps that went over your shoulders. We had to cut the sling off you to tend to your wound.”

“I can’t open it—I’m not sure I ever could.” Setting it down, he stared at it. “I must have been a courier—presumably taking that to someone, somewhere. But why? And to whom? And where was I heading?”

No answers came.

After a moment, Linnet rose. “Never mind that now—my advice is to leave it and it’ll come to you. However, as you’re clearly going to puzzle over it anyway, come and let me take a look at your head while you think. That bandage needs retying.”

As the loosened bandage had developed a tendency to slip down over one of his eyebrows, Logan grunted and rose. Muriel rose, too, and headed for the kitchen. Logan followed Linnet into the corridor leading to the back door, then she turned off it, down a narrower corridor. Stopping outside a door, she opened it and went through, into a small bathing chamber.

“Sit there.” She pointed to a bench beside a sink.

Noting that her voice of authority had returned in full measure, Logan somewhat grumpily sat.

Linnet ignored his frowning, undid the sloppily tied knot—one he had clearly fashioned—and carefully unwound the bandage, removing the various lumps of padding they’d included to protect the wound.

“It’s stuck,” Logan informed her, just as she reached that point. “That’s why I couldn’t take it off myself.”

“You shouldn’t have tried.” She looked, then humphed. “I’ll need to moisten it, dampen it to remove it. Wait here while I fetch some warm water.”

She went out and to the kitchen. When she returned minutes later carrying a basin with warm water, Logan was sitting exactly as he had been, hands braced on his knees, his gaze fixed in the distance, his brows drawn down in a distinctly black frown.

“If you keep on like that, you’ll give yourself a brain fever.” Setting down the basin, she squeezed out the cloth she’d dropped in the water, then drew his head forward, and gently, carefully, wet the patch where the bandage had stuck.

He shifted, but she kept hold of his head. “Does that hurt?”

“Not of itself—only when you press.”

“Good.” The bandage finally came free. She lifted it away. “Lean further forward so I can check the wound—you might not need another bandage.”

He obliged. Lifting the thick locks of his hair, she inspected the contusion. Although still raised, it looked nowhere near as angry as it had two evenings before, and the break in the scalp was closing nicely.

She straightened. “Let’s leave it unbandaged through the day. The air will help it heal. But you might need padding to sleep comfortably—we’ll see.”

“I sleep on my side or stomach mostly.”

She recalled that he’d tended to sleep draped over her—more on his stomach than not.

Sitting up, he caught her gaze. “I need to check the wound in my side—it’s itching, but until I look at it I can’t tell if that’s good or bad, but I couldn’t untie the knot.”

“Just as well. That’s my handiwork—I’ll untie it and check the dressings and the wound.”

He shrugged. “As you like.” He eased out of his coat. She helped him free his hands, then turned away to lay the coat aside.

When she turned back, he had his shirt half over his head. She leapt to help him draw it off and down his left arm. Pulling it free, she shook it out, then laid it on the coat and turned back to him once more.

Inwardly frowned as her mouth went dry at the sight of him. She wondered how he could possibly seem larger—broader, harder, more powerfully muscled—than he had in her bed last night. He’d seemed more than big enough, powerful enough, then. Of course, then, the bleak winter daylight hadn’t been washing over him, highlighting every line, every curve, every sleek bulge.

And she hadn’t, then, had time to stare.

Realizing, she gave herself a mental shake and briskly walked closer, waving him to swivel so she could reach the knot in the middle of his broad back.

As she reached around him to pick the knot apart, the scent of him—a definable scent that screamed male—teased her senses.

She held her breath and concentrated on the knot.

It came apart before she expired.

Straightening, surreptitiously dragging in a deep breath, she started unwinding the long bandage. Series of bandages. He had to help, but eventually, after she once again applied her damp cloth, the bandages and the dressings were stripped away, and he sat naked to his waist on the bench.

“Here.” Grabbing his left wrist, she lifted it. “Lean on the sink. I’ll need to check the stitches—you might have pulled some.”

His dark eyes watched her, but he said nothing, simply complied.

Ducking under his raised arm, she followed the line of the wound down, inch by inch checking each stitch, running her finger along the side of the gash—still angry but healing, and with no sign of infection, thank God. She worked her way down the side of his chest, bending to examine the spot where his rib had been exposed, then continuing her inspection down to his waist.

As she neared the point where the wound disappeared beneath his breeches, his right hand moved to the buttons securing the waistband, but then paused. “Do you want to check the rest?”

The lower part of the wound, the part that swept across his belly, hadn’t needed stitches, but she and Muriel had applied a salve. “I should check it for infection. Just in case.”

He could have checked that section, but she preferred to see for herself.

“As you wish.”

There was something in his tone that made her look up at his face as he obliged, his hand shifting as he freed the two buttons, but when her eyes met his, he merely arched his brows.

She frowned, then looked down.

Leapt up and back. “Oh!”

Color flooded her cheeks. Her gaze remained immovably locked on the head of his fully erect penis. She hadn’t thought … hadn’t expected him to be standing to attention quite like that.

Hauling in a breath, she wrenched her gaze upward, narrowed her eyes on his. “You did that on purpose!”

He laughed. It was such a lovely, rolling sound that she was caught, blinked. Then his eyes returned to hers. “I assure you it doesn’t respond to commands.”

She’d known that, but … the sight of him like that had temporarily scrambled her brain. Beyond her control, her, gaze slid down again, to where he stood, if anything even more rampant. That part of him looked a lot bigger than she’d imagined … had she really taken all that inside her?

“From the look on your face, I take it your previous experiences all occurred at night, or at least in a bed.”

She managed to haul her gaze up to frown at him. “Where else … oh.”

She’d never get her color back to normal if she kept thinking.…

“Clearly there’s a lot you’ve yet to experience. I’ll be happy to show you … but did you want to check my wound first, or not?”

She blinked at him, gathered her wits. “Yes.”

“In that case”—he waved with his left hand, the one propped on the sink—”be my guest.”

His other hand was splayed on the bench beside him. She suspected he could, if he wished, use it to help her, but from the gleam in his eye, the damn man was baiting her. Challenging her.

She’d never refused a challenge in her life.

Steeling herself, she stepped closer. His knees were wide spread; she halted between. Then she looked down. Boldly reached for his erection, closed the fingers of her left hand about it, and tilted it to the side.

She couldn’t see the gash well enough while standing. Fluidly dropping to a crouch, she slid her fingers down his length, keeping the head tipped aside so she could focus on what was now a red, healing welt. The salve had helped seal it. As far as she could see, the seal had withstood his exertions of the night.

Satisfied, she tensed to rise, but beyond her control her eyes shifted left. To the solid rod she held between her fingers, more or less level with her face. The flaring rim caught her eye, as did the dark color, more purple than red. The skin beneath her fingertips, fine as a baby’s cheek, seemed odd in contrast to the rigid, steely strength. Fascinated, she shifted her fingers, stroked.

Realized he’d grown not just silent but still. Totally, utterly still—like a massive cat about to pounce. Before she could react, his hands closed about her shoulders. She rose as he drew her up. “Don’t let go.”

The words were bitten off, a command—after one glance at his face, one she deigned to obey. Excitement slithered through her, anticipation streaked down her spine.

One large hand rose to slide around her nape, drawing her to him. Into a kiss.

His lips closed over hers, just as she felt his other hand close about hers, locking her fingers around his erection. She tightened her grip—and sensed the hitch in his breathing. Sensed that, with her touch, she held his attention, his entire focus, absolutely.

She drew back from the kiss enough to breathe across his lips, “So teach me. Show me.”

A command of her own, one with which he complied.

He kissed her, all hot tongue and ravenous lips, while he guided her hand, showed her how to please him.

His hand drifted from her nape, down her back, to her waist. Then further to cup her bottom and knead. Then he urged her closer.

He was raising her skirt, and she was curious and eager to learn what it would be like to indulge in broad daylight, when a knock fell on the door.

Releasing him, she whirled to face the door as Molly called, “Miss, are you done with that basin yet?”

“Ah … almost.” She swallowed desperately, fought to strengthen her voice. “I’ll be finished in a moment. I’ll bring it to the kitchen when we’re done.”

“All right, miss.”

Soft footsteps receded down the corridor. Linnet breathed freely again.

Then she whirled—and discovered Logan reaching for his shirt.

She looked down. His breeches were closed. For one, crazed moment, she didn’t know if she was grateful or not.

Then she looked him in the eye. “Just as well—I have to work with the donkeys this morning.”

He arched a brow, then pulled his shirt over his head. His expression when his head emerged was harder, bleaker. “I have to remember—if I’m a courier, then there’s some place I’m supposed to be, and no doubt people waiting for me to arrive.”

She frowned, then backed a step so he could stand and tuck in his shirt. “You can’t force your memory—you need to stop trying.”

He said nothing, just shrugged on his coat.

She stifled an irritated humph, then reached for the basin and lifted it. Cast him a deliberately challenging glance. “I could use some help, if you’re up to it.”

He looked at her—directly enough for her to wonder what she’d said—but then his lips thinned and he waved her to the door. “Donkeys. Lead the way.”

She did, waiting by the door for him to open it, then carried the basin back to the kitchen.

Five

Donkeys, Logan learned, were integral to life on Guernsey. They were the favored beasts of burden, better than horses on the rougher island lanes, more agile than bullocks, and, so he was informed, essential for transporting goods up and down the steep streets of St. Peter Port, the island’s main deepwater port, capital, and center of commerce.

Wrapped in Linnet’s father’s cloak, he trudged with Linnet and Vincent across frost-crisped fields, counting the shaggy brown-gray beasts.

When they finally returned to the stable yard, Vincent clapped his gloved hands, his breath fogging around his face. “I make that twenty—maybe twenty-two—we can send to the fair.”

Linnet had been making notes in a small ledger. “Let’s send the twenty-two. We’ll sell them for certain, which is better than us having to carry any extra through to next spring. Our breeding stock’s sound—we don’t need to adjust this year.”

Vincent nodded. “I’ll get the boys to bring them in to the holding pens next week—spend the weeks after that making sure they’re in prime shape and looking their best for the fair.”

Linnet grinned. “You do that.” Shutting her book, she glanced at Logan. Her eyes scanned his face. “Now we’re out and about, we may as well check the goats.”

He merely arched a brow and, resignedly saluting Vincent, who grinned in reply, trudged obediently in her wake as she headed back out of the yard, taking the track along which the boys had driven the wagon to market.

Lengthening his stride, he drew level with his bossy hostess. “Where does this track go?”

“A little way along, it joins the main road that runs along the south coast, then turns up to St. Peter Port.” She stopped at a gate in the fence, unlatched it, then led the way through.

He followed, relatching the gate before tramping after her. The paddock was rougher, more rocky. A wooden-beamed structure, a long, low, open-sided shed, nestled in a dip ahead, a stand of trees behind it. “So you breed goats, too?”

“Not so much breed as husband.” She halted on a low rise and pointed to a herd grazing some distance away. “Goats have always run wild on the island, and in large part still do. Most fences aren’t high enough to keep them in. But in winter they come down from the heights for feed and shelter.”

“They’re golden.” Logan studied the unusual coat color displayed by most members of the small herd.

“Most of that lot are Golden Guernseys.” Linnet had her book out again. She looked down as she made a note. “The color comes and goes depending on how much they breed with the other goats—there are several varieties on the island.”

“Do you send goats to market, too?”

“Some, but usually not as many in a year as donkeys. We take what we need, and then whatever seems appropriate to cull goes to market in St. Peter Port. Given there’s so many goats about, it’s only in the larger towns that there’s any real demand.”

They walked a number of the rougher paddocks, counting numbers. In one field, Linnet wanted to get a closer look at some kids.

Hanging back and watching as she coaxed the young ones to her, Logan heard a snort, looked, and saw a buck lower his head, paw the ground.

Linnet fell back as Logan abruptly appeared beside her, startling the kids away, but then she saw that his right hand was wrapped about the horns of a twisting, irate buck—who had been about to butt her.

She blew out a breath as Logan shoved the animal away. The buck snorted, eyed him evilly, but then harrumphed and turned away.

“Thank you.” She caught Logan’s eye. “I’d forgotten about him.”

He frowned. “I take it you usually do this—checking the animals—on your own.”

“Generally.”

“So what happens if one of them mows you down?”

“I pick myself up, brush myself down, and put salve on the bruises later.”

Falling into step beside her, he shook his head. “Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to land on their arses in goat shit.”

“Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to sleep with strangers, either.”

That shut him up. Head high, she led the way on and around to the pastures where the dairy herd grazed.

While she walked among the animals, checking their condition, noting which calves were showing most promise, he stood to one side, watched.

“I didn’t see a dairy among the outbuildings.”

“It’s a separate building.” She waved to the north. “It’s on the other side of that hill.”

“All part of your estate?”

When she nodded, he asked, “How many people does the estate employ?” “Outside the house, fifty-three.”

Logan knew that was a significant number—fifty-three outside employees would translate to forty or more families dependent on the estate. Not a small number. “That must, make the estate the biggest employer in this region, if not on all of Guernsey.”

“Both.” She looked up, smiled pointedly. “Hence my comment about Queen Elizabeth.”

He inclined his head. She saw herself as responsible for the welfare of a large number of people, and in fact she was. Logan didn’t know why, but he understood that—the concept of duty.

Letting his eye rove over the cows, placid and large, he said, “The cows and cattle around Glenluce are different breeds—Ayrshire for dairy, Black Galloway and Belted Galloway for beef.”

“I’ve seen Ayrshires, and the Blacks. Are the Belted much different?”

“Other than the white band, not that I ever heard.”

Eventually they trudged back to the house. It was the smells that stayed with him the longest, that teased his memory the most. He’d been familiar with the scents of donkey, goat, and cow, but … his memories suggested much drier, dustier versions, but that made no sense, not if those memories came from Scotland.

He felt Linnet’s gaze on his face, glanced up and met it.

She searched his eyes, then looked toward the house. “At least you’ve had some fresh air.”

Luncheon was being served as they walked in. Logan spent the meal chatting with the men, mostly about land and farming.

When the meal ended and the other men rose and left, Linnet cocked a brow at him. “You’re not a farmer.”

Although she’d been talking with the children, she’d lent an ear to his conversations with the men.

He grimaced. “I know only the general things one knows from growing up in the country—the rhythm of the seasons, the weather. But I don’t feel any connection to farming itself, the mechanisms, the details.”

“Your hands aren’t the hands of a farmer.” Linnet pushed, back her chair and rose. “I’m going to go out riding.” She met his gaze as he got to his feet. “Given the distance you walked this morning, you should probably rest.”

One black brow arched. “On your bed?”

She ignored the suggestion in his eyes. “Riding might jar your head, and it will stress the wound in your side. It’s healing nicely—no need to tempt fate.”

He held her gaze, the midnight blue of his eyes pronounced as a frown formed in the dark depths. “I want to ride.” He shook his head slightly. “Don’t argue—I’m fairly sure I ride. A lot.”

Not a little exasperated, she held his gaze, searched his eyes … read his determination and the underlying need to remember. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “But first you have to let me rebandage your chest.”

Logan suffered through the rebandaging—anything to get on a horse. The more he thought of riding, the more he wondered that he hadn’t thought of it before.

He felt as eager as a child anticipating a treat when, finally, he strode beside Linnet down the long central aisle of the stable.

“We’ve plenty of hacks—we all ride. You can—”

“This one.” Logan halted before the door to a large stall containing a massive gray stallion.

Linnet backtracked to halt beside him. “That’s Storm. My father bought him as a colt, but never got to ride him. We use him mostly for breeding.”

“But he’s been broken to the saddle.” Logan unlatched the stall door, pushed it open.

“Yes, but he’s not been ridden much. He’s so damned strong, even Vincent has to wrestle with him.” Linnet frowned as Logan walked straight to the big stallion’s head, placed a hand on the horse’s long nose, then reached up to scratch between his ears.

Logan flung her a glance. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m damned strong, too.”

Not a point she could argue. Resisting the urge to waste her breath lecturing him, trying to get him to choose a safer mount, she shook her head and stepped back. “The saddles are through here.”

Vincent was busy saddling her roan mare, Gypsy. Before she could stop him, Logan selected bridle and saddle and carried them back to Storm’s stall.

She leaned on the stall door and watched as he readied the big horse—who gave every sign of cooperating, almost certainly eager to run—and gave thanks she’d insisted on bandaging Logan’s chest again. Yet his movements as he settled the bridle, then hefted the saddle to the gray’s broad back, were practised and economical; he’d clearly performed the task countless times.

Vincent came up, leading Gypsy. He raised his brows when he saw Storm saddled. “That’ll be interesting.”

“Indeed.” She hoped it wouldn’t prove too interesting. Logan getting thrown wouldn’t help at all.

But as he led Storm out of the stall and into the yard, and she followed with Gypsy, she sensed in him nothing but supreme confidence. Then he planted his boot in the stirrup, swung up to Storm’s back, gathered the reins as the big stallion shifted under his weight—and even she ceased to doubt.

He grinned at her. Grinned like a boy.

Blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, she climbed the mounting block and clambered into her sidesaddle. She preferred to wear breeches and ride astride, but increasingly no longer did. She missed the freedom. Leading the way out of the yard, she was conscious of a spurt of envy.

Storm and his rider easily kept pace as she headed out along the track. Storm tried a number of his usual tricks, but each time was immediately brought into line; encountering an invincible hand on his reins, he quickly desisted and settled to the steady pace.

She glanced at Logan, found him riding easily. “We’ll be able to gallop once we turn into the fields.”

Expectation lit his face. “Lead on.”

She did, through the soft light of the winter afternoon, with pewter clouds scudding across the gray sky. Following her usual circuit around the estate’s perimeter, checking the fences and gates, they galloped several times, cantered for most of the rest.

He grew more and more silent, more clearly absorbed with his memories.

When, with the light fading around them, they clattered into the stable yard, and Vincent and Young Henry came running to take the horses, he halted Storm and, for the first time in over an hour, met her gaze. “I was in the cavalry.”

She nodded, then wriggled and slid down from her saddle. He dismounted, handed over Storm’s reins, then fell in beside her as she walked to the house.

When she glanced at him, arched a brow, he frowned. “It’s not like with the dirk—this time it’s coming in bits and pieces, lots of snippets. Like bits of a jigsaw that I have to arrange to see the whole picture.”

She looked ahead at the house. “Just let it come. And if you can’t make sense of one piece now, set it aside for later, when you’ll have more pieces to work with.”

He grunted, and followed her into the house.

When, washed and in a fresh gown, she came down to dinner, she found him in the parlor, standing before the sideboard where they’d left his dirk, the saber, and the wooden cylinder. He had the saber in his hand, was experimentally wielding it. He looked up, met her eyes. “This is mine.”

She merely smiled, and with her head directed him into the dining room.

He remained quiet and withdrawn during dinner, stirring himself only to apologize to Gilly for not hearing her question. The others understood he was wrestling with his memory and largely left him to it.

But at the end of the meal, when they all rose to repair to the parlor, he halted behind his chair, blinked.

She paused beside him, laid a hand on his arm. “What is it?”

He looked at her, refocused on her face. “The mess—I remember. I used to be in the officers’ mess.”

“You’re a cavalry officer.” She didn’t make it a question; the guise fitted him all too well.

Slowly, he nodded. “In the Guards—I’m not sure what regiment.”

She patted his arm. “Come and sit by the fire, and tell us what you can.”

Somewhat to her surprise, he fell in with that plan. He sat in the armchair to one side of the hearth, the one opposite hers, with the children sprawled on the floor between them.

Logan looked at the eager, innocently inquiring faces looking up at him. “I’m a cavalry officer in the Guards.” Or was, yet he felt the occupation was still his. “I don’t know what my current rank is, but I was a captain during the Peninsula Wars.”

“Did you fight at Waterloo?” Will asked.

He nodded. He could remember that terrible day, still hear the screams of men and horses, the obliterating roar of cannon. “I can’t remember all the details yet.” He felt sure he eventually would. “We were, at one point, caught up in the defense of Hougomont, but otherwise … it was a very … messy day. Most major battles like that are.”

“Were you in Spain?” Brandon’s eyes were huge.

Logan nodded. “Both early on—before the retreat from Corunna—and later, when we returned.”

Linnet stirred. “My father captained one of the ships that helped with the evacuation at Corunna.”

Logan glanced at her. “It took a lot of ships to get the army—what was left of it, at any rate—away.” Without prompting, he drew them a word sketch of what it had been like—the panic and confusion, the horses that had had to be left behind.

Recalling and retelling it embedded the memory more firmly in his mind—back into the slot where it belonged. Encouraged, he told them of subsequent battles, after they’d returned to hold Portugal, then fight their way across Spain—Talavera, Cuidad Rodrigo, Badajos, Salamanca, Vittoria, the crossing of the Pyrenees, the battle outside Toulouse. “We returned home after that, but then went back for Waterloo.”

He frowned, then shifted as Muriel handed him a cup of tea. Thanking her, he sat back and, grateful, let Linnet, who had noticed his sudden halt, distract the children.

Once the children had gone upstairs, and Muriel and Buttons had followed Edgar’s and John’s lead and left, too, Linnet arched a brow at him.

He grimaced. “I don’t know if it’s simply that Waterloo was a hellish nightmare—that the day was disjointed, with us being sent first here, then there—but …” He drew in a breath, let it out in a frustrated sigh. “I can’t see the faces. I know I fought alongside men I knew—who I knew well, comrades for years—yet I can’t see their faces, not clearly. And I can’t remember any names.”

Linnet studied him for a moment, then rose. “As you’ve just proved, your memory is returning. The details may be hazy and incomplete, but with time they’ll come clear.”

When he didn’t respond, just frowned at the floor, she inwardly sighed. “I’m going to do my rounds. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She headed for the dining room.

When she returned from checking the windows and doors on the ground floor, he was sitting where she’d left him, but was now turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands.

He glanced up, then returned to studying the cylinder. “I’ve run into another black wall. What the devil does this thing mean? What have I been doing since Waterloo? And with whom? For whom am I carrying this”—he waved it—”and what does it contain? Or is it just mine, for storing valuable papers?”

He was like a dog worrying a bone. And the intensity driving him was starting to worry her.

“Nagging at things rarely helps.”

When he sent her a black look, she laughed. “Yes, I know, easier said than done, but it’s time to go upstairs. After all our riding, you’ll need your rest.” Or at least distraction.

Grudgingly, he rose, carried the cylinder back to the sideboard, then followed her from the room.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, through the shadows met his eyes. “I’m going up to check on the children. I’ll join you shortly.”

He nodded. As she climbed the next flight of stairs, he walked slowly toward her room.

Logan stood by the window looking out on the wintry dark. A gap between two of the encirling trees offered a glimpse of moon-silvered sea rippling beneath an obsidian sky.

The more he remembered, the more he recalled of himself, of his past, the better he sensed what manner of man he was. Which, here and now, left him in a quandary. He was an honorable man—tried to live his life by that overriding precept—so was sleeping with his hostess, a beautiful, gently bred female with no effective protector—taking advantage of her, as most would deem it—the action of an honorable man?

To the man he now knew himself to be, the answer was a clear-cut no.

Last night … he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking; he’d responded to the challenge, the intrigue, the necessity of learning whether the night before had been dream or reality. But in satisfying his curiosity, he’d started something else—something he didn’t understand—for Linnet wasn’t just any woman, not to anyone, but most especially not to him.

The door opened. He turned. He hadn’t bothered to light the lamp.

The soft glow of the candle Linnet carried preceded her into the room. She entered, looked around and saw him, turned to set the candlestick on the tallboy and close the door. Then she walked toward him, the skirts of the fine, green woollen gown she’d donned for the evening swaying enticingly about her long legs. The fabric clung lovingly to the sleek curves of breast and hip, reminding him of how those firm curves felt undulating beneath him.

Fisting one hand, he pushed the tantalizing memory aside. She’d made up her mind to be unattainable and, bastard-born, he had his own road to follow—wherever it might lead. There was no benefit to either of them in allowing whatever it was that had flared between them to deepen, to evolve.

He knew that, recognized and acknowledged that, knew that simply ending the budding liaison here and now was the honorable thing to do, yet …

She halted, close, too close to pretend that they hadn’t been—weren’t—lovers. Despite the nearness, she was tall enough to meet his gaze easily. She studied his eyes, then said, “I’ve a proposition for you.”

He arched his brows. Felt immediately wary, but whether of her, himself, or what might be coming he couldn’t have said.

Her lips curved. “I don’t believe it will hurt.” She paused, then went on, “I want you to educate me in the ways of the flesh. In every erotic, sinful pleasure.”

Lustful anticipation slammed through him.

Equally instinctive, the honorable part of him held firm. He tightened his jaw, tightened his hold on his baser impulses. “It might, perhaps, be wiser if we didn’t further indulge.”

Linnet’s brows flew high. So he could spend all night obsessing about what he couldn’t remember? “Hmm … no. That won’t do. It occurs to me that you are presently without coin or other material means to repay my hospitality.”

His lips firmed. “I’ll help you with your donkeys. And the goats.”

She laughed, her eyes never leaving his. “Not enough—not nearly enough.”

“Throw in the cows—and I’m a dab hand with horses.”

“Now you’re getting desperate—and, if you think about, it, just a touch insulting.” She shifted nearer, held his gaze unrelentingly. “Stop arguing.”

His eyes narrowed on hers.

Holding his gaze, she lowered one hand and boldly closed it about the solid rod of his erection.

He hissed in a breath, closed his eyes.

“Tell me,” she purred, “why is it you don’t want to fall in with my plan?”

She knew the answer: Because he was the sort of man the last days had shown him to be, and he would therefore feel compelled to retreat to a position of conventional honor. She’d seen that coming and, discerning no benefit to either of them in his taking that tack, had devised a way around it by making his falling in with her plan an equally mandated act. He would want to repay her; she’d shown him the way.

His lips grimly set, he opened his eyes, looked into hers. “Do you really want that? To be taken, possessed, your body used in ways you’ve never even imagined?” His voice lowered. “Do you truly want to put yourself in my hands, in such a way, to that extent?”

Primitive threat underscored his tone, smoldered in the midnight embers of his eyes, and sent an evocative shiver down her spine. Sadly for him, that had the opposite effect to what he’d intended.

She thrived on challenges, the riskier, the more exciting, the more tantalizing the better. Smile deepening, she tipped up her face, and closed what little distance remained between them. “Yes. Take me.” Her eyes on his, she categorically stated, “However you want, however you wish—take me now.”

Logan’s lips were on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth, his hands fisted in her hair before he’d thought. And then … he couldn’t.

Think.

All he could hear were the words of her taunting order. Take me now.

Indeed he would.

However you want, however you wish …

As he held her face steady and ravaged her mouth, he remembered he was supposed to teach her, to repay her … by opening her eyes to all that could be within the realm of sensual pleasure.

She’d tied his honor in knots, so not even that could excuse him denying her.

So yes, he would do as she commanded. But how?

As per her sultry order, he consulted his fantasies, swiftly rejecting this one, that—those he couldn’t envision her in. Couldn’t imagine placing her in; she might have agreed to every erotic and sinful way, but she was a relative innocent with no real idea of what that encompassed.

But … yes, that one. He immediately knew it would work—that she would enjoy being taken, possessed, like that.

Wrenching his mouth free, he looked down at her face for a brief instant, then grabbed the hand still cradling his erection and towed her—dragged her—across the room. After one shocked gasp, she caught up her skirts and kept up easily enough.

Reaching the end of the bed, he yanked her to him, raised his arm over her head, and twirled her, twirled her—then brought her to an abrupt halt before the cheval glass in the corner.

He looked over her head at the reflection revealed in the glow from the candle she’d left burning on the tallboy.

The light washed over her, enough for them both to see her wide eyes and the soft flush tinting her alabaster skin, while he, in dark coat, black breeches, and black boots, with his black hair and tanned skin, appeared as little more than a dark presence behind her.

Perfect.

“This is a performance.” Closing his hands about her shoulders, he bent his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the point where her exposed nape met her shoulder.

Head still lowered, he lifted his gaze to the mirror, trapped her eyes. “An erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.”

She drew in a huge breath, breasts swelling beneath her dinner gown. As she opened her lips, he laid a finger across them. “First rule of this classroom—no talking from you. I will give orders, and you will obey. Other than that, you may moan, sob, even scream—and believe me, you will—but at no point will any word pass your lips. Not even my name.” He held her gaze, then softly asked, “Do you understand?”

She opened her mouth, saw his rising brow, closed her lips and nodded.

“Excellent. So let’s begin.”

The first thing he did was pull pins from her hair. Linnet expected him to take all of them, but no—he picked out one pin here, one there, concentrating on laying first this tress, then that, over her shoulders, trailing yet others to drape her neck. She stood and watched him in the mirror; she could only see what he was doing, where his darkly tanned hands were heading, once they came forward of her shoulders. Only then did the light reach them well enough for her to see.

She was wishing she’d brought up a candelabra rather than a single candle when he lost interest in her hair and focused on her breasts. She felt the shift in his gaze, felt the heat on her breasts—felt them tightening, peaking.

In the mirror she watched her nipples pebble beneath the fine wool of her gown.

“Undo your bodice.”

This is a performance, an erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.

She finally understood. Even as her hands rose to do his bidding, she wondered what she would learn from this lesson. Her green gown fastened down the front, a row of pearl buttons closing the bodice; she slipped the first free, eager to find out.

His gaze followed her fingers as they worked steadily, lower. She paused when she reached the raised waist—looked at him.

“Keep going.”

She could feel the heat of him down her back, sense the solidity, the strength, the masculine power, all held in check mere inches behind her. Primed, ready for action, but utterly controlled. She wouldn’t mind breaking that control, splintering it, fracturing it, but that, she suspected, was a lesson for another day. Tonight …

Reaching the end of the row of buttons, level with the line of her hips, she halted. Went to ask “What now?” but remembered in time.

“Slide the gown off your shoulders, free your arms and hands, and let it fall to the floor.”

She did as she was told; as the gown slid to puddle about her feet, she realized why he’d let only a few tresses of her hair free. Her hair was long, nearly reaching her waist, and thick and wavy; if he’d let it all down, it would have screened her upper body from his sight.

Merely having her naked clearly wasn’t his aim.

His next order came. “Take off your shift, and hand it to me.”

Her shift reached below her knees. She bent to grasp the hem and her bottom met his groin. He didn’t shift away. Losing the contact as she straightened and drew the shift off over her head, a strange frisson of awareness streaked through her.

Her arms free of the garment, with one hand she offered it back, over her shoulder. He took it, his fingers brushing over hers as he did.

Another odd shiver threatened.

She expected to be told to remove her chemise in the same way, but instead, he drawled, “Now, let’s see.…”

Her breasts were already swollen, achy, even though he hadn’t touched them, not even brushed them. Her nipples were furled so tight they hurt.

“Open the buttons.”

The chemise had a front placket that reached to her navel, closed by tiny flat buttons she never bothered undoing. One by one, she slipped them free. The placket gaped as her hands descended, revealing the creamy whiteness of her skin, the valley between her breasts.

By the time she reached the end of the line, her nerves had tightened, expectation gripping.

“Draw the sides apart and show me your breasts. I’m your audience—display them for me.”

Curling her fingers in the fine material, she boldly, brazenly, drew the sides wide, baring her breasts to his hot gaze. She could feel it moving over her exposed flesh.

“Keep your eyes on your body, not on me.”

She obeyed, shifting her gaze from the darkness behind her to the white glow of her breasts—and found the peculiarity of seeing and feeling simultaneously strangely arousing. She saw the light flush spread beneath her white skin, felt the telltale warmth spread, saw her nipples tighten even more as sensation heightened and her breasts grew heavy.

“Very good.” The raspy murmur washed over her ear. “Keep watching.”

His hands came around her and lightly cupped her breasts. Too lightly at first, but within a minute his touch had changed—to one of flagrant possession. His tanned hands and fingers stood out in stark contrast against her white skin as they surrounded her breasts, as he captured her nipples, rolled, then squeezed—and her knees went weak.

“Stand straight—don’t lean back.”

She swallowed and tried to comply. His body was close behind her—mere inches away, given the heat bathing her back. His strong arms reached around her, a steely cage, yet only his hands—those wicked, hungry hands—were touching her.

She wanted more, her body burned for more, yet for long minutes his hands remained on her breasts, kneading, increasingly explicitly claiming, spreading fire beneath her skin, turning the taut, swollen mounds rosy—until, head tipping, back, she moaned, careful nevertheless to keep her eyes on the mirror. In truth, it would have been hard to wrench her gaze away; a fascination she’d never imagined might exist kept her eyes locked on her body.

On his hands making free with it.

A shiver slithered down her spine.

“It’s time to show me what else you’re hiding beneath your chemise.” The gravelly whisper tickled her ear. Briefly, his lips cruised the delicate whorl, a trickle of fire, a promise of more. “Use both hands and lift the hem. Show me.”

Her heart thudding heavily, she did. Drew the fine fabric up, exposing her upper thighs, then higher, revealing the red-gold fire of the curls at the apex of her thighs.

Dragging in a breath, she raised the hem still higher, to the curve of her belly.

“Excellent.” His purr was almost guttural.

She still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers, but he didn’t seem concerned with those, and in truth, neither was she. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his hands. While one continued to play, firmly and possessively, with her breasts, the other skated down, over the rucked edge of the chemise, to stroke her curls.

He touched them, ruffled them, played until she hauled in a tight breath and shifted. Then he chuckled and said, “Let’s see.”

He angled his hand so she could watch as he pressed one long finger into the shadowed hollow beneath her curls.

She dragged in a quick, too-shallow breath, held it as the sensation of his touch, of each successive deliberate caress, married with the vision in the mirror.

The impact only escalated as she instinctively eased her feet wider apart, and he reached further, deeper, and the combined stimulation rolled in wave after wave through her.

She bit her lip against another moan, saw the flush of arousal deepen and spread until her skin glowed rosy in the candlelight. Felt the dew of desire break like a fever across her exposed skin.

And still his hands worked her flesh—her breasts, the swollen slickness between her thighs. And still she watched, unable to look away as the fires inside grew, as he stoked them relentlessly.

“Put your hands on mine.” The gravelly command was barely comprehensible. “One on each—close your palms over the backs of my hands and feel what I’m doing to you.”

She obeyed—because she had to. Because she couldn’t stand not to, not to know what might come.

She wasn’t prepared for the instantaneous heightening of her senses—through his hands, their tensing movements, she knew what would come an instant before it happened. Now she knew, saw, felt; anticipation was added to the sensual tumult burgeoning inside her.

Gasping, panting, barely able to remain upright, she couldn’t take much more …

His hands slowed. “Tsk, tsk—you still have your stockings and slippers on.”

Because he hadn’t told her to remove them yet. She bit her lip against the tart rejoinder she suspected he was waiting for.

His chuckle said she’d guessed aright, but then he said, “Release my hands.”

She did. To her dismay, he drew his hands from her. She felt bereft to have lost the contact.

“Pull your chemise off over your head.”

She rushed to do so, realizing as she did that he’d moved. Even as she refocused on the shadows behind her, he set the straight-backed chair that had stood beside her dressing table down on her left, its seat toward her.

She stared at it. Before she could figure out what he would have her do, he rapped out, “Face forward. Keep your eyes on your body.”

Yes, he’d been a cavalry officer. She snapped her gaze back—and felt something inside quiver. She rarely used her mirror, had never used it to view herself naked.

“Drop the chemise.”

Realizing she was still holding the garment in her right hand, she released it, forgot it as it floated to the floor.

Forgot everything as she looked at herself—naked and on display—as the knowledge he was doing the same washed over her. A shiver she couldn’t hide racked her.

“Are you cold?”

Despite the fire burning in the nearby hearth, she should have felt the air’s chill, but the heat in his gaze, the warmth suffusing her skin, left her immune. She opened her mouth, then remembered and shook her head.

“I didn’t think you would be.” Experience, knowledge, rang in the words.

His hands appeared on her shoulders, lightly touching. Then they moved.

Over her. He touched, caressed, stroked, explored—every inch of her skin, all he could reach.

She was reeling, senses drowning in the tactile pleasure of his too-knowing touch when, largely out of sight behind her, he caressed her derriere, explored, stroked, weighed, then kneaded—knowingly, firmly, openly possessively.

In keeping with his orders, she’d kept her eyes on herself—startled, then mesmerized by what she’d seen in her face. Had she always been this wanton, this sexually abandoned?

Had she just been waiting for him to be herself? For him to show her herself?

He shifted closer, his dark head dipping by her ear, even though his strong hands continued to fondle her bottom. “Put your left leg up on the chair, bend over, and slowly roll down your garter and your stocking. Leave them and your slipper on the chair, and wait for my next order.”

Breathing had grown difficult; she felt giddy as she complied, couldn’t think as she lifted her left foot to balance it on the wooden chair, then, grasping her garter, she slowly rolled it down, bending over as she did.

Two long, hard fingers slid into her sheath. Her hands on her calf, she froze, bent over, inwardly shuddering as one callused hand caressed her bottom while the fingers of his other hand explored her intimately.

Recalling his order, she struggled to roll her garter and stocking all the way down, to slide off her slipper, then, bent over her knee, hands on the chair seat, wait, wait …

She was panting, all but sobbing, nerves excruciatingly alive, aware to her bones of every touch inside and out, when he gave her the order to straighten, then he shifted the chair to her right, and instructed her to repeat the exercise with her other garter, stocking, and slipper.

It took every ounce of control she possessed to comply—to give herself up to such intimate exploration.

But she wanted every touch, gloried in every deft stroke of his hard fingers inside her.

She knew he could make her shatter with just his fingers, expected him to do so, yet even as she felt herself inexorably tightening, he drew back. Drew his hands from her.

“Stand up.”

Lowering her right leg, she did, blinking as she focused on her reflection in the mirror.

More of her hair had tumbled down, a river of fire lacing over her flushed skin. Her lips were parted; her tongue came out to moisten them. Even in the dim light, her eyes glittered emerald green. And her body …

Was that her?

“Time for the rest of tonight’s lesson.”

Before she could think, he gripped her waist, spun her to face him, then lifted her, turned, and tossed her on the bed.

She landed with her head almost on the pillows, bounced once. He reached around her, dragging the pillows down to either side of her.

“Wait.” He stripped off his coat, unknotted the neckerchief he’d worn about his throat. Tossed both aside, sat to haul off her father’s boots, strip off his stockings.

Then he came up on the bed on his knees, walked himself, closer. His gaze had locked on her lower body. Reaching out, he grasped her calves and spread her legs wide apart.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Nearly sobbed with resurging need.

He looked down at what he’d revealed. His face was a harsh mask of stark male desire. Releasing one leg, he reached down, trailed one long finger up through the sopping wetness. His lips curved in pure masculine anticipation.

He reached for the pillows, scooped her hips up in one arm, and stuffed the soft padding beneath her, raising her hips as he slid down to lie between her spread legs.

His shoulders kept her legs forced wide as he brought his mouth down on her, as he sucked, suckled, and she shrieked.

In seconds he’d reduced her to a writhing mass of wanting.

Within a minute she needed—needed—release.

Yet no matter how much she moaned and sobbed, how much she thrashed and wordlessly pleaded, even when she sank her hands in his hair and tugged, he kept pushing her tighter only to let her fall back again, up and back, up and back, until she thought she’d go mad.

Then he took her with his tongue and she soared over the precipice, straight over that indefinable edge.

She’d thought she’d known what he could do to her, but this time she saw stars. This time she felt the cataclysmic shock all the way to her soul.

By the time her senses, drowning in glory, had resurfaced enough to be aware, he’d stripped out of his shirt, out of his breeches. Naked but for the bandages she’d wrapped tightly about his torso, he looked like a wounded god as he returned to kneel between her legs again, hooked his arms beneath her thighs so the back of her knees lay across his bent elbows, then closed his large hands about her hips.

And lifted her, drew her hips up and to him.

He set the head of his erection at her entrance, looked up and caught her gaze, then thrust powerfully in, hard and deep.

Looking down, he withdrew and repeated the process.

Helpless to do otherwise, she watched as he held her hips immobile and thrust himself into her, relentlessly plunging deep to her core, harder, faster, hotter, deeper.

The friction was shattering.

She came apart on a wild cry, but he continued to use her—use her, fill her, take her, possess her—until she shattered again, more completely and deeply and soul-wrenchingly than she ever had.

This time he followed her.

Unable to resist any longer, to hold out against the powerful, milking contractions of her sheath, Logan gasped, closed his eyes, dropped forward to prop on one braced arm above her as his hips bucked helplessly, and he pounded into her, then with a muted roar, he thrust one last time and spilled his seed deep within her.

Her body clutched, clung.

Held him.

As the bright nova faded, he became aware of small hands weakly stroking his body, gently tugging. Dredging up the last of his strength, he pushed aside the pillows, then let himself down. Onto the one female body that cradled his perfectly. He let himself slump into her embrace.

Later, much, much later, when he finally stirred enough to lift from her and, pulling up the covers, settle beside her, Logan had a moment of not unaccustomed crystal-clear clarity; in most situations, this would be the point when he left the lady’s bed.

He wasn’t leaving Linnet’s bed.

The determination behind the thought, the innate stubbornness, stood in direct contradiction to what rational thought suggested the eventual outcome would be.

At that moment, the notion that any future between them was doomed didn’t seem able to impinge. The knowledge, the certainty, that him remaining in her bed like this would inevitably lead to emotional difficulties didn’t seem to matter.

The only thing that did matter was that he was there, and she lay beside him, taken, possessed, and sated to her toes.

He couldn’t think beyond that, beyond the wonder he’d felt in her body, the completeness, the triumph he’d found in possessing it. In drawing so much closer to her.

That last was dangerous, but he no longer cared.

If she demanded, he would give, and would keep giving until she no longer wanted him.

Regardless of honor, of safety, of danger, that was his new reality.

Sleep tugged. Confident there was no point in further thought, he gave in and let it drag him under.

December 12, 1822
Close to midnight
Shrewton House, London

“This really is a beautiful room.” With a negligent wave, Alex indicated the delicate white-and-gilt moldings, the pale blue silk wallpaper, the French Imperial-style chairs upholstered in the same blue silk. Turning to the large bed, Alex raised approving brows. “The counterpane, too. Nothing but the best for our dear sire’s offspring.” Regarding Daniel Thurgood as he shut the door, Alex added, “Even if we were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

Daniel’s lips curved. “It was a nice thought to use Shrewton House as our London base. Might as well enjoy our sire’s hospitality, even if he never knows.”

“How fortuitous that he winters at Wymondham.”

“Indeed.” Shrugging off his coat, Daniel laid it over a chair, then bent to warm his hands at the fire in the hearth. The room had been chosen and readied by his man, Creighton, and Alex’s houseman, M’wallah. Watching Alex circle the room examining the various expensive trinkets placed here and there, Daniel mentally blessed Creighton. A pleasantly distracted Alex made life much less stressful.

And their lives, unexpectedly, had taken a stressful turn.

He, Alex, and their half brother Roderick had formed a close—indeed, closed—circle years before. While Roderick was the present Earl of Shrewton’s legitimate son, he and Alex were illegitimate, yet both were of decent birth and thus able to pass in society. London had been their playground for some years, but when Roderick’s position at the Foreign Office had resulted in the chance to visit India, all three of them had jumped at the opportunity—and what an opportunity it had proved to be.

Roderick had requested and been granted a posting to the Governor of Bombay’s staff, a position that had made him privy to the details of many of the trade caravans. Once Alex and Daniel had joined him, they’d quickly set about exploiting the situation.

The outcome had been the Black Cobra cult—a creation of their own making that had satisfied the vicious appetites the three of them shared in ways not even they had dared dream. For the last several years, the Black Cobra cult had delivered to them a steady diet of money, sex, sadistic pleasure, and, above all, power.

All three had grown adept at manipulating and exploiting the cult members—hardly innocents—to shore up, then steadily expand, the cult’s activities. For several years, they’d pursued their hedonistic purposes without any serious hindrance from the authorities, represented by the Honorable East India Company. As the Earl of Shrewton, their dear father, was a member of the board, and as the Governor of India, the Marquess of Hastings, was beholden to the Prince Regent—who in turn was deeply indebted to the earl—there had seemed no reason to fear any threat from that quarter, or at least none they couldn’t easily see off.

That had all changed one day in late August, when a letter written by Roderick as the Black Cobra, signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark but, by unfortunate ill luck, sealed with Roderick’s personal family seal, had fallen into the hands of a cadre of officers Hastings had, months before, dispatched from Calcutta with specific orders to expose the Black Cobra.

Roderick, Daniel, and Alex had laughed off the officers’ efforts until then, but the realization that the letter could, if it reached the right hands in England, bring Roderick down—thus compromising the ability of the Black Cobra cult to prey on the caravans, the primary source of Daniel’s and Alex’s wealth—had sobered them. Even though it was Roderick alone at risk, Alex had agreed that to safeguard the cult’s continuing prosperity, Daniel and Alex should return to England with Roderick, to assist in seizing the letter and dealing appropriately with the officers responsible.

Such threats to the Black Cobra couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

Unfortunately, by the time they’d learned of the letter and the threat it posed, the four officers had copied the letter, then separated and fled Bombay. Which of the four was carrying the real letter—the original with Roderick’s incriminating seal, the only letter they needed to regain—was anyone’s guess.

By luck and good management, they’d reached England before any of the officers.

Annoyingly, an attempt two days ago to kill the senior officer, Colonel Derek Delborough, when he’d landed at Southampton had been foiled by some interfering female.

Daniel and Alex had just parted from Roderick after a short conference during which their efforts, past and present, to stop the officers and regain the letter had been discussed and reviewed.

Straightening from the fire, Daniel turned as Alex drew near. “Now that Delborough’s here, in London, and holed up at Grillon’s, how do you see our campaign progressing? Can we rely on Larkins to get the job done?”

Larkins was Roderick’s man—an Englishman with a sadistic streak. He had managed to infiltrate a thief into the colonel’s household with the express purpose of stealing the letter—copy or original—that the good colonel was carrying.

Alex halted beside Daniel, smiled into his eyes. Whereas Daniel had his mother’s coloring—dark hair and brown eyes—Alex and Roderick had inherited the earl’s distinctive pale blond hair and pale blue eyes. In Alex’s case, ice-blue eyes. “Larkins knows the price of failure—I’m sure he’ll manage, one way or another. I’m more concerned with the others—while I’ve allowed Roderick to think he’s in charge, M’wallah is, as usual, receiving all communication from cult members first. So while what Roderick just told us is correct, and we’ve men and assassins on the trail of the other three with strict orders to inform us the instant any of them successfully reach one of the embarkation ports on the Continent, the very latest news as of an hour ago is that Hamilton has reached Boulogne.”

“I take it the Major remains in possession of his customary rude health?” Daniel started to undo his cuffs.

“Sadly, yes. However, Uncle—you know the man, the sycophant always happy to slit the nearest throat ‘to the glory and the delight of the Black Cobra’?” When Daniel nodded, Alex went on, “Uncle and his men are already in Boulogne. At this point, we must rely on them to ensure Hamilton gets no further.”

“Any word on the other two?” Daniel wasn’t surprised to learn that Alex had withheld information from Roderick. It was common practice between them, keeping their dear half brother sufficiently in the dark so that they controlled the cult. In truth, they were the power behind Roderick’s façade.

“The story with Monteith is rather better. Our men in Lisbon spotted him the instant he set foot on the dock there. He’d signed on as crew on a Portuguese merchantman out of Diu—that’s why we missed picking up his trail at that end. He’d gone from Bombay overland to Diu and was too far ahead of our trackers. But he saw our men on the Lisbon docks. Although he was alone, he managed to fight his way out of an ambush, creating such a stir that he was able to get away. He immediately grabbed passage on another merchantman bound for Portsmouth. That was on the fourth, of December, more than a week ago. What the dear major didn’t know is that three assassins slipped onto the ship before it sailed. With any luck, Monteith is dead by now.

“As for Carstairs, I told you we had word he’d passed through Budapest and was headed for Vienna?”

Pulling his shirt free of his trousers, Daniel nodded.

“Since then, we’ve heard nothing, but he seems to be the slowest of the four, the furthest away. We can put off dealing with him for the moment.” Alex smiled as Daniel stripped off his shirt. “Indeed,” Alex murmured, “I believe we can put off all further discussion of the tiresome subject of Roderick’s lost letter—at least for now.”

Taking Daniel’s hand, Alex led him to the bed. “Time for dwelling on other things, my dear.”

Halting by the side of the sumptuous bed, Alex turned and went into Daniel’s arms.

Six

December 13, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

He’d tried to do the right thing, but Linnet had turned the tables on him. The next morning, Logan sat at the breakfast table outwardly listening to a general discussion of the day’s planned activities while inwardly brooding on his reversal of the night.

His foxy hostess—she of the fiery hair, peridot eyes, and incredibly fine white skin—had neatly manipulated him with her demand—one he couldn’t very well decline, given it was entirely within his ability to comply—to repay her by teaching her more about the pleasures to be had when a man and a woman joined.

If it had been nothing more than physical pleasure—the giving and the taking—he wouldn’t be so … uneasy. But he was too good a commander not to see the problems looming. They were who they were, yet … she might come to mean, might even have already started to mean, too much to him.

He’d known she was different from the very first instant he’d laid eyes on her—his angel who was no angel. From the moment he’d slid into her willing body in his dream that had, been no dream, he’d known she was special, that she held the promise, the chance, the hope of more—that she, somehow, resonated with some need buried deep within him, one he hadn’t yet articulated but that somehow instinctively she fulfilled.

All well and good, but until he recalled who he was, what he was doing, and where he was supposed to be, any relationship between her and him was … stifled. For all he knew, it might be strangled at birth.

She might not want him even if he wanted her.

“Stop frowning.”

The words from his left, in typical bossy vein, had him changing his absentminded frown to a scowl and bending it on her.

Linnet pulled a face at him. He’d been in a strange mood ever since he’d come downstairs. “I’ve been thinking about where you might have come from—where you might have been in recent months.”

He raised his brows, listening. At least his scowl was dissipating.

She looked up as the other men rose. She acknowledged their salutes with a nod, waited until they’d passed out of hearing before looking again at Logan. “Your hands are very tanned.”

He looked at them, then slanted her a midnight blue glance, no doubt realizing why the darkness of his hands had stuck in her mind. She could still see those strong hands traveling over her very white body.

Shifting, disguising the movement as turning to face him, she pointed out the obvious. “You’ve been in the tropics—somewhere hotter, much sunnier. You’re a cavalry officer. Perhaps if you look at maps, something might strike you.” Rising, she touched his shoulder. “Wait there—I’ll fetch our map book.”

The Trevission map book contained an excellent collection of maps of all the countries, coasts, and shipping routes around the globe—all those involved in trade. Linnet set it, on the table and opened it to a map of the western Channel. “Here’s Guernsey.” She pointed. “Here’s where the ship wrecked, and that particular storm blew from the northwest.” With her finger she drew a line from the western cove out to sea. “Your ship was traveling somewhere on that line, which means it was most likely headed for Plymouth, Weymouth, Portsmouth, or Southampton. Given it was a merchantman, and looked to have been of reasonable size, Plymouth or Southampton are the more likely, with Southampton most likely.”

The children leaned across the table, looking. Geography was the one subject in which Buttons never had to work to hold their interest.

“Plymouth or Southampton—if either was the destination, where was the ship coming from?” Logan glanced up at her.

Linnet turned to the front of the book, to a huge map that folded out, showing all the major countries and shipping routes. She pointed to the relevant ones, of which there were many. “Southampton’s England’s busiest port. Your ship could have come from the Americas, but given the current situation there, more likely that it came from the West Indies.” She looked down at Logan. “There are British soldiers there, aren’t there?”

Logan looked at the map, grimly nodded. The information was there, in his brain. “But we have troops over half the globe—in many countries from which ships would pass Guernsey to Plymouth or Southampton.” He pointed to the map. “Aside from the West Indies, even though the war’s long over we still have troops in Portugal, and even some in Spain, and there’s detachments through North Africa, and whole regiments in India.”

He stared at the map, then sat back and looked up at her. “There’s another possibility. I was a cavalry commander—I’m sure of that—but I might not be one now. I might be a mercenary.” He waved to the map, indicating a broad swath across the middle. “And there’s mercenaries fighting over much of the world.”

When he looked down again, frowning at the map, Linnet inwardly grimaced. She gave her attention to the children, seeing them off to chores or lessons, then looked back at Logan—still wracking his brains.

Reaching out, she folded the large map, then shut the book.

Met his dark eyes as they lifted to her face. “Come and help me with the pigs. You haven’t met them yet. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll inspire you.”

Rising, she waited pointedly until he rose, too, then she led the way out.

Later that morning, certain that no other occupation would suit him as well, Linnet had Gypsy and Storm saddled, and with Logan rode out toward the hills, then cut back to the coast above Roquaine Bay.

Her destination was a small stone fisherman’s cottage nestled in a hollow at the top of a cliff, looking out to sea. Old Mrs. Corbett, a longtime fisherman’s widow, lived there alone.

“She had a bad fall last month, but she won’t leave here, even though she could live with her son in L’Eree, further north.” Linnet drew rein at the top of the cliff; the rocky descent to the cottage was too steep for horses. “I suppose we all understand, so we try to keep a neighborly eye on her.”

Already on the ground, Logan halted by Gypsy’s side; before Linnet realized his intention, he reached up, grasped her waist, and lifted her down. Being held, trapped, between his strong hands, that instant of helplessness sent memories of the night surging through her mind.

When he set her on her feet, she had to haul in a breath, quiet her thudding heart.

He looked down at her, but then released her. “I’ll wait here with the horses. She might feel imposed upon, overwhelmed, if I come in.”

Just the thought of Mrs. Corbett coping with such a large masculine presence in her small house … the old woman, would be thoroughly distracted. With a nod, Linnet handed him her reins and started down the steep path.

The cottage door opened. Mrs. Corbett came out, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Good morning, missy—and as there’s no storms brewing, it is a good morning, too.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Corbett. How’s the hip?”

“Aching some, but I can manage.” Mrs. Corbett’s gaze had fixed on Logan, now seated on a large rock at the head of the path and looking out to sea. Glancing back, Linnet saw the sea breeeze ruffling his black hair, the pale glow of the sun playing over his chiseled features.

“Be he the one who washed up in your cove?”

“Yes, that’s him. His memory hasn’t yet fully returned.”

“No doubt it will in time. But come you in and have a sit down—I’ve griddle cakes made this morning.”

Linnet followed the old woman indoors. She sat and they chatted about the little things, the mundane things that made up Mrs. Corbett’s world, then moved on to local gossip. As many locals looked in on the widow, she often had the latest news.

Eventually satisfied Mrs. Corbett was coping, Linnet rose. “I must be going. Thank you for the cakes.”

Seizing a cane that rested by the door, Mrs. Corbett followed her outside. “Always a pleasure to have you drop by.”

Linnet paused at the foot of the steep upward climb.

Halting beside her and looking up at Logan, the widow murmured, “Could he possibly be as good as he looks?”

Lips twitching, Linnet followed her gaze. Felt forced to reply, “Very likely, I should think.”

Mrs. Corbett humphed. “You might want to think about hanging onto him, then. A lady your age, with your responsibilities, needs something to look forward to at night.”

Linnet laughed and started up the path. As much as she appreciated Logan, especially at night, she wasn’t about to forget that when his memory returned fully, he would leave. Would have to leave, because clearly there was somewhere he was supposed to be, something he was supposed to be doing.

Behind her, Mrs. Corbett leaned on her cane and raised her voice to call to Logan. “You’re not a sailor, are you?”

Logan rose to his feet, politely inclined his head. “No, ma’am. I can sail, but I’m not a sailor.”

“Good.”

Reaching the top of the path, Linnet allowed Logan to lift her to Gypsy’s saddle. Gathering the reins, she watched him fluidly mount, then looked back to salute Mrs. Corbett.

Hands folded over the top of her cane, the old woman looked up at her. “You remember what I said, missy. Sometimes life drops apples in your lap, and it never does to just toss them away.”

Linnet grinned, waved, and turned Gypsy’s head for home.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” She kicked Gypsy to a gallop, sensed Storm surge, coming up alongside. She glanced briefly at Logan, then looked ahead.

Much as she might wish it, hanging on to him—holding on to a man like him—wasn’t a viable option.

On the way back to Mon Coeur, they fell in with Gerry Taft, her chief herdsman, and his crew, who were rounding up the cattle and driving them down from the low hills to the more protected winter pastures. Logan hadn’t met the herdsmen before; she performed the introductions, then she and Logan joined the effort to keep the normally wide-ranging herd together and moving in the desired direction.

With the fields so large, with so few fences and the ground broken by rocky outcrops and the occasional stand of wind-twisted trees, what should have been a simple matter wasn’t easy at all.

They rode and checked, constantly shifting direction, patroling and enforcing the perimeter of the loosely congregated herd, urging them with shouts and yells to keep moving. And within five minutes, apparently unable to help himself, Logan was giving orders.

Linnet, at least, recognized he was, but his approach was, such that neither Gerry nor his men had their noses put out of joint. Command was her forte, yet she looked on with reluctant appreciation as Logan asked questions, clearly valuing the men’s knowledge, then made suggestions, which the men therefore saw the sense in and immediately implemented.

The mantle of command rode easily on Logan’s shoulders, very much second nature to him, something he didn’t have to think to do.

As she skirted the herd, wondering how she felt about that, she noticed the herd’s matriarch had been hemmed in by their shepherding. She pointed with her whip, yelled, “Clear her way—get her to lead them.”

Logan was closest to Linnet. He looked, and changed his previous orders to implement her direction.

She continued to ride nearby, and he continued to defer to any countermand she made.

By the time they drew within sight of the herd’s destination, she had to admit he knew what he was doing in this sphere of command as much as in the bedroom. He was one of those rare men who was so settled in his own skin, so confident in his own strengths, that he didn’t have any problem deferring to others; he didn’t see others’ status as undermining his own.

He didn’t see taking orders from a female as undermining his masculinity.

Thinking of his masculinity, of its innate strength, made her shiver.

Damn man—he really had got under her skin.

As Gerry and his men turned the herd through the gate into their winter quarters, Logan drew near. “Back to the house?”

She nodded, waved to the others, then turned Gypsy’s head homeward. Logan settled Storm to canter alongside.

They rode through the morning, the rising wind in their faces. One glance at his face told her he’d returned to wracking his brains, trying to remember his present, and his recent past.

Unbidden, Mrs. Corbett’s words echoed in her mind. Prophetic in a way; if he was an apple fate had dropped in her lap, she’d already taken a bite. And intended to take more. Until he remembered who he was, and left.

The thought effectively quashed the budding notion that, as he seemed a man capable of playing second fiddle to a female, she might, just might, be able to keep him.

She couldn’t regardless, because he wouldn’t stay. Almost certainly couldn’t. His nighttime lessons stood testimony to considerable experience in that sphere; for all she knew—all he knew—he might have a wife waiting for him in England.

No thought could more effectively have doused any wild and romantic notions that might have started germinating in her brain. She had to be realistic; he would remember and go … and that any wild and romantic notions had even occurred to her proved that her wisest and most sensible course was to do all she could to help him remember. So he could leave before she started yearning for things that could never be.

She glanced at him. “Torteval—the village—isn’t far. We should ride over and see if anyone there has learned anything more about the wreck.”

He met her gaze, then tipped his head. “Lead on.”

She did, wheeling east, determinded to find some clue to ressurect his memory so he could be on his way.

They rode into Torteval, a village just big enough to boast a tiny tavern. Leaving their mounts tied to a post, Logan followed Linnet inside. The locals greeted her eagerly; she was clearly well known, well liked, well respected. She introduced him, and eagerness instantly gave way to curiosity.

Those seated about the tables were old sailors and farmers; none were young.

“You’ve the luck of the devil,” one elderly seadog informed him. “Coming from that direction, if you’d missed Pleinmont Point, you’d have washed into open sea—next stop France.”

Logan grimaced. “I was hit on the head, and I’ve yet to remember where my ship was bound.”

Stripping off her gloves, Linnet sat on one of the benches at the long wooden table about which everyone was gathered. “Has anybody found anything—learned anything—around here?” She looked up at the innwife, bustling out from the kitchen. “Bertha, have you heard of any pieces of the wreck being washed up?”

Bertha shook her curly head. “No, miss—and I would of if there had been. We’d heard there’d been a wreck, so those ‘round about have been looking, but no one’s even seen bits and pieces.”

Grimacing, Linnet glanced up at Logan. “It was worth a try.” Looking back at Bertha, she said, “Now we’re here, we’ll have two plates of your fish stew, Bertha, and two pints of cider.”

Bertha bobbed and hustled back to the kitchen. Understanding they were lunching at the tavern, Logan stepped over the bench and sat beside Linnet.

One of the old sailors leaned forward to look at Linnet. “No sign of debris in Roquaine Bay?”

She shook her head. “My men have checked, but no one’s found anything.”

“Then seems likely the ship broke up on the reefs well out from the bay, north and west of the point. Given the direction of that last blow, if things didn’t fetch up in your west cove, they’d miss our coasts altogether.” The sailor looked at Logan. “If that’s the case, there’s not going to be anything to help you get your memory back, not anywhere on the island.”

The other sailors all nodded their grizzled heads.

Bertha appeared with two heaped and steaming plates, which she placed with a flourish before Linnet and Logan. “There you are! That’ll warm you up before you head out again. Wind’s whipping up. I’ll fetch your ciders right away.”

The talk turned to the perennial sailors’ subject of the day’s likely catch. Logan applied himself to the surprisingly tasty fish stew and let the chatter wash over him.

He was ready to leave when Linnet rose and bade the company good-bye. He was reaching into his pocket for his purse when he remembered.

Linnet waved to Bertha, telling her to put the charge on the Mon Coeur slate. Logan followed her from the tavern, frowning as they walked to their tethered horses.

He lifted Linnet to her saddle, then held her there, caught her gaze. “If I was wearing Hoby’s boots, I must have money somewhere. When I remember where, I’ll pay you back.”

She arched her brows. “I was thinking you could pay me back tonight.”

Lips thinning, he held her gaze. After a moment said, “That hardly seems sufficient recompense.”

Releasing her, he turned, grabbed Storm’s reins, and swung up to the saddle.

“Then make it sufficient.” Linnet caught his eye. “I’m sure, if you exert yourself, you’ll manage.”

With that, she set her heels to the mare’s sides and surged out into the lane.

Logan held Storm in, prancing on the spot, while he stared at Linnet’s back. Then, frown converting to a scowl, he eased the reins and set off after her.

Returning to the house, Logan insisted on doing what he could to help about the estate—which that afternoon meant helping the other men erect a new enclosure to protect a small herd of deer Linnet had imported to breed and raise for meat.

He threw himself into it, blotting out his frustration with not being able to remember—and with her. He hadn’t liked her suggestion that he repay her hospitality with sex the first time he’d heard it, and he was even more annoyed that he’d let her override his scruples and lure him into playing her game last night.

Her continuing insistence on casting their nighttime interludes in that light made him … he didn’t know what, but spearing a shovel into the dirt to dig out a post hole felt good.

He was aware of his wound, of it pulling, skin tugging, but as long as he protected his left side, he wasn’t too restricted. His strength had largely returned to what he thought it should be, and as he was right-handed, he could wield a mallet with more force than any of the other men there.

So he dug, and thumped, and with the other men heaved posts into place, railings into grooves, and ignored the female critically watching.

Linnet stood under a nearby tree and watched her deer pen take shape. The pen itself met with her approval; it was just the right size, in both acreage and height. She wasn’t so sure about her latest stray, but she could hardly complain. Constructing enclosures was not her forte, yet he, apparently, knew enough to direct Vincent, Bright, Gerry, and their respective staffs. From the respect they’d immediately accorded his “suggestions,” he was, once again, firmly in charge.

He pulled his weight, literally. Despite the chill wind and the gray clouds scudding overhead, all the men had stripped off their coats and were working in their shirts, with or without waistcoats. In Logan’s case, without; she watched the way his muscles, visible through the fine cotton of one of her father’s old shirts, bulged and shifted, contracted and released as he lifted a huge post into the last hole.

Immediately he grabbed a shovel and started filling the hole in. Young Henry ran to help; even from a distance Linnet could detect a certain awe in the lad’s expression.

She humphed. All very well, but … was this Logan’s way of balancing the scales with her, rather than obliging her in her bed? In her view, there was no real debt—she would do the same for any man in his situation and expect nothing beyond sincere thanks—but their liaison had been established, more through his doing than hers, and in light of that, her request that he educate her in matters in which he was expert was entirely reasonable. Yet although he wanted to lie with her, neither last night nor this afternoon had he been at all eager to fall in with her script.

Indeed, after today’s exchange, her earlier challenge, he’d insisted on coming out here and building her a deer pen.

Folding her arms, she frowned, as the last section of fence in place and secured, negligently swinging a mallet it would take her two hands just to lift, he walked to where Vincent and Bright were assembling the gate.

The message was clear. He wasn’t going to cease his exertions until the pen was complete.

She narrowed her eyes on his back. She knew the male of the species found her significantly more than passably attractive. Logan was, in that respect, typical of his kind. So why wouldn’t he accept her proposition?

Presumably because he didn’t like the language in which it was couched.

Last night his reticence had sprung from a sense of honor. While she might not agree, that she could respect. And the more he recalled of the man he was—cavalry commander, gentleman—the more his code of honor would become entrenched. However, if she didn’t have the excuse of allowing him to repay her by teaching her of things she, at her age, really ought to know, things she patently wouldn’t be able to learn from, or with, anyone else, then what reason would she have for indulging with him?

What other excuse could she have for wanting to lie with him?

She felt like Queen Elizabeth worrying about Robert Dudley. At least she judged Logan more trustworthy, and less power-hungry, than Dudley had been.

But like Elizabeth, she felt she was grappling with a relationship that was threatening to develop in ways she didn’t want.

Ways that could only lead to heartache.

So no. Logan would have to toe her line, and accept her proposition as it stood; it was safer that way. While their interaction remained on such a footing—a near-commercial exchange—neither she nor he was likely to forget that what happened in her bed had nothing to do with her heart.

And neither would develop any deeper expectations.

The men finally lifted the gate into place and secured it. As a group, they stepped back and looked at it—surveyed the pen, admired their handiwork, then congratulated each other on a job well done.

The lads gathered up the tools. Parting from the other men, Logan bent to retrieve his coat from where he’d tossed it over a log—and Linnet saw the bandage around his torso shift and slide.

Lips thinning, she stepped out from beneath the tree and waited on the path as, shrugging on the coat, he walked toward her.

As he drew near, he arched a brow.

“Thank you for your help. Now come inside and let me check your wound and retie that bandage.”

Spinning on her heel, she stalked ahead of him back to the house.

Lips tightening, Logan followed.

After pausing to wash his hands under the pump near the back door, Logan ambled in Linnet’s wake into the downstairs bathing chamber. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat, drew off his shirt, then sat on the bench beside the sink and let her have at him.

He’d largely worked off his earlier frustration, but was curious as to what was gnawing her. As she shifted back and forth in front of him, unwinding the long bandages, he studied her expression.

When she next went to step past, he caught her about the waist, held her between his knees. He examined her forehead, then lifted one finger and rubbed between her brows.

She jerked her head back, stared at him. “What was that for?”

“There was a furrow forming there.”

The furrow promptly returned. He raised his finger again.

She batted it away. “Stop that.”

“You don’t have any reason to frown, so why are you frowning?”

She met his eyes, hesitated, then said, “You’re making things too complicated. Just …” The last bandage fell free and she scooped it up. “Just sit there and let me check your stitches.”

Linnet shifted his arm, held it back, and focused on the stitches. She breathed in, steeled herself against being this close to him. Just concentrate on the stitches.

She examined, gently prodded. Thought again of how he must have got such a wound. Seized on the distraction. “Some man faced you with a sword—someone who knew how to wield one. Right-handed, like you. He went for a killing stroke, but you pulled back just enough, just in time. You must have been fighting on deck during the storm—you could only have just taken this wound when you went into the water. You lost some blood, but you would have lost a lot more if you hadn’t been immersed in icy water.”

“There were two of them.”

She glanced up to see his gaze fixed in the distance.

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s not right. There were three, but I killed one … after they leapt on me as I came out of the forward companionway. I came up to see what was happening with the storm.”

Carefully straightening, she held her breath. His words were coming slowly, as if he were literally piecing the memory together.

“I didn’t know them … I can’t remember who they were. I’m not even sure I knew at the time. I can’t see their faces.”

When he fell silent, she whispered, “What can you see?”

“Beyond the storm, beyond the flash of blades … nothing.” Suddenly focusing, his gaze shifted to her face. “But I know they were after something I had. That was why they wanted me dead, so they could take …” He paused, then, face and voice hardening, continued, “The only thing of potential value I had on me at the time. They must have been after the wooden cylinder.”

He tensed to stand.

Slapping her hands on his shoulders, she held him down. “No! The cylinder is where we left it. You can get it in a minute, but first I need to finish checking these stitches, then I need to wash, dry, and rebandage. With stitches you can’t go out without a bandage yet.”

The look he bent on her should have withered steel, but she was adamant and gave not an inch.

With a disgusted humph, he settled back on the bench.

Logan let her finish tending his wound while he struggled to make sense of what he’d remembered. The facts were sketchy, disjointed, some visual memories, others just random bits of knowing.

When he added them up … his blood ran cold. He didn’t know who his opponents were, or why they wanted the cylinder, but of their viciousness, their utter disregard for life, their callousness, their unrelenting evil, he had not a shred of doubt.

He might not remember who they were, but he knew what they were.

The thought that such evil might have followed him there, might even now be tracking him to this isolated, windswept, and so beautifully complete little corner of the world—Linnet’s corner, her domain—shook him.

“I need to leave.” He met Linnet’s eyes as she turned from setting a washcloth aside. “They might follow me here.”

“Nonsense.” She frowned at him. “You heard the old seadogs—if they didn’t wash up in our coves, then they almost certainly perished.”

He frowned, shifted as she dabbed along his damp side with a towel. “Others might have been waiting ahead and now be searching—they might hear there was a survivor and come looking here.”

Linnet blew out a dismissive breath. “If they’re waiting ahead, then they’re either somewhere in England, or somewhere even farther away—we assumed your ship was heading north, but it might just as well have been going the other, way.” Opening a pot of salve, she dabbed two fingers in, then—trying not to notice whose chest she was tending, or indeed anything about that chest at all—she smeared Muriel’s potent cream down the still red, but healing, wound.

“And,” she continued, doggedly stroking, “no one other than locals knows you’re here. How could anyone—especially off-island—learn you’re here?”

She glanced up, saw his jaw clench. Setting aside the salve, she reached for the roll of clean bandage she’d left ready.

“Matt and Young Henry went to the market with the cabbages the second day I was here—they would have mentioned it to someone.”

“No, they wouldn’t. Trust me—they know better than to gossip about something like that.” As she shifted around him, bandaging his chest again, she looked into his face, saw his disbelief. “If you need more reassuring on that point, both lads are ex-buccaneer brats. They know to keep their mouths shut about anything that washes in from the sea.”

Logan gave up arguing. He didn’t have enough facts to win, or even to make sense of his burgeoning fear. His pursuers were people any wise commander would fear—of that much he was now sure. And in that vein, the fear he felt wasn’t personal. All his fear was for her and hers.

He didn’t know why—couldn’t formulate a rational argument—but he knew what he felt.

Later, standing before the sideboard in the parlor and turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands, he still couldn’t say why he felt so strongly, but the premonition of danger, of impending threat, was impossible to deny.

After dinner, he sat on the parlor floor with the children and taught them another card game.

Linnet sat in her armchair and watched, not the children but him.

She could almost see the connections forming, the intangible links. Brandon and Chester he’d held in the palm of his hand from the moment he’d opened his eyes, but Willard—Will—was both older and more wary. Although friendly, Will had initially held back, hesitated to commit to the near hero-worship the younger boys had so enthusiastically embraced. But Will was now a convert, too.

All three asked questions—about this, that, male-type questions—all of which Logan either answered or used to gently steer their thoughts in a more appropriate direction.

The girls, too, Jen and Gilly, enjoyed his company, and while they didn’t take the same advantage of his presence, they, too, were benefiting simply from having a large, strong, adult male about with whom they could interact freely, and trust implicitly to care and watch over them.

Children knew. Her children—her wards—certainly knew. She, Muriel, and Buttons hadn’t raised them to be anything but quick and bright. Enough to be wary of strangers, ready to be suspicious, ready to react to any even minor detail that wasn’t quite right.

All of them had looked at Logan, looked at him and seen, and known he was trustworthy.

And in that they were correct. He was good with them, instinctively knowing when to be firm, when to laugh and tease. When to be kind. He was good with them in ways neither Edgar nor John, both of whom were fond of the children, could emulate. Where the older men struggled to find the ways, Logan simply knew.

She doubted he was even aware of it; his reactions to the children were immediate, innate. It occurred to her that while he might still be wrestling with what sort of man he was, she and her brood could fill in many traits—all the important ones, certainly.

He was good, kind, considerate without being overwhelming. He was commanding, yes, but only in spheres in which he was experienced. He was trustworthy, caring, strong, able, and, after his response to his latest recollection, she could throw loyal and protective—highly protective—into the mix.

She also suspected he could be recklessly brave.

And on that note, she decided she would stop—she was making him sound like a saint, and he was definitely not that.

Underneath his protectiveness and caring lay a dictatorial possessiveness she recognized all too well; she carried the same trait. That was one reason he and she would never be compatible beyond a certain point. For a few days, even a few weeks, they could brush along well enough, but eventually the inevitable clash would come—and she would win. She always did, and then he’d leave—if he hadn’t remembered and left already.

“Time for bed.” Pushing out of the armchair, she rose, let her skirts fall straight as she fixed the children with a direct look that slew their protests before they uttered them.

Edgar and John had already retired. Buttons was struggling to stifle her yawns. Muriel looked up from her knitting and smiled over the top of her spectacles. “Indeed. It’s grown late.”

Within minutes, Linnet was alone with Logan in the parlor, with only a single candle burning and the sound of footsteps retreating up the stairs. She arched a brow at him, wordlessly asking why he’d remained.

“I recall last night you said something about ‘doing the rounds.’ “

She might have known. “I check all the doors and windows on the ground floor—a habit my father instilled in me.” Shielding the candle flame, she started for the back door, smiling wryly when Logan fell in behind her. “At one time, pirates, then later buccaneers, used to lurk in the southern reaches of Roquaine Bay.”

“I’d always heard that folk from the Isles were descended from pirates.”

“You heard aright—we are.”

“Are there any pirates—or, for that matter, buccaneers—remaining in these parts?”

She smiled. “Nearer than you might suppose. But they’re no threat to you, much less to this household.”

Reaching the back door, she slid the twin bolts home; as she led the way on, she pretended not to notice that he checked, then tried, the door.

Her “rounds” done, she parted from him on the first floor and headed upstairs to check on her wards. Logan watched her go, imagined her bending over the small beds, tucking hands beneath covers, dropping kisses on foreheads.

Doing all the little caring things women—mothers—did, even though she wasn’t their mother.

He still wasn’t sure what to think of this household, but the longer he spent within it the more he realized that for all its unconventionality, it worked. It provided those who lived there with all they needed for a full, happy, and contented life.

A safe life, too, as far as Linnet could guarantee.

Reaching her room, he went in. Closing the door, he crossed to the window, and as he’d done the night before, stood looking out. He’d thought, last night, that he’d been drawn to the view because that way lay England, but in reality, it was the sense of peace, even in the face of the strafing winds and beneath the roiling skies, that drew him. Held him.

Outside the window, nature ruled over a raw, rough, elemental landscape, yet people had lived there for centuries—possibly longer than they’d lived in England. The rawness, the roughness, reminded him of Glenluce, yet here the elements were harbingers of excitement, adventure, and exhilaration, lacking the bleakness, the grayness, that characterized Scotland.

This was home yet not, familiar yet different, and somehow more welcoming. Perhaps that was why he felt so intensely about protecting it, defending it, from any threat.

Such a depth of innate protectiveness wasn’t something he’d felt before—not anywhere, not for anyone. His memory might still have holes, but he was indisputably sure of that.

Just as he knew that Linnet herself would deny he had any right to feel so. There was no logic or rationale behind his, unbending conviction that he was, somehow, protector and defender of these innocents, of this small realm. As if he’d fallen under some spell—the house’s or hers. Perhaps both.

Regardless, Mon Coeur increasingly felt like the lock his key fitted.

The door opened. He turned his head as Linnet came in.

Locating him, she set the candlestick on the tallboy and walked deliberately, with certain intent, toward him. She was wearing another of her fine woollen gowns, a plain, modest creation in smoky green, yet the sleeves outlined the graceful lines of her arms, the scooped neckline drew his eye to the swells of her breasts, while the clinging skirts flirting about her long legs teased his senses.

Fixing his gaze on her face, he steeled himself to hear her push to continue their “arrangement,” with him repaying his obligation to her by educating her, tutoring her, in the ways of the flesh.

Her flesh, and his.

He didn’t want that—didn’t want to, couldn’t bring himself to, treat her like that, to view her and her body as part of some bartered exchange. He, body, mind, and soul, would be delighted to make love to her if she wanted him—if, freely, she wanted to lie with him, to explore that side of paradise with him without any hint of obligation or coercion.

He wanted to deal with her on a different plane—man to woman, gentleman to lady, lover to lover. He wanted nothing, no other consideration, tainting what they shared, coloring it, corrupting it.

As she halted before him and looked into his eyes, he wanted to tell her, to find the words and rescript their relationship, nudging it onto the simple, direct, conventional path, one he’d followed with no other woman but wanted to follow with her.

He knew what he needed to say, but he didn’t have the words.

Regardless, he couldn’t speak them. Uncertainty, lack of memory, forced him to silence.

He didn’t yet know his recent past—didn’t know if he had a wife waiting for him. He didn’t think he had, yet the possibility was there.

Making love to Linnet at her instigation, more, at her insistence, was one thing—something his honor didn’t approve of but could live with given he had no real choice. That she would leave him no choice. But to speak, and lead her to believe there could be more between them when he didn’t know if that were so, would be the action of a cad.

He looked into her eyes, lucent in the moonlight, and knew he wasn’t going to like where she would lead him. Yet until he knew all about Logan Monteith, the man he was now, the commitments he’d made and had yet to fulfill, he was helpless to, on her own turf, take the reins from her.

Linnet studied his eyes, examined what she could see in his face, in the chiseled angles and planes. “You’re thinking too much.” He was thinking of ways to argue, to discuss their situation. She trapped his dark gaze. “Stop resisting. You know there’s no point. Your obligation to me is mounting, so how are you planning to balance the account?”

She felt utterly brazen—and just a touch guilty—holding to such a line, compelling him in a way she knew he didn’t like, yet that way would keep her firmly in control, dictating their relationship.

Ensuring it remained superficial.

Ensuring she did nothing to encourage him to think it might be more. Could be more. That she might ever wish for more.

His eyes narrowed on hers. “What do you want of me? What lesson am I supposed to teach you tonight?”

His voice had lowered; she hid a smile. He was, it seemed, going to fall into line. “I want to learn more—I want you to show me more beyond what we’ve already shared.”

His lips thinned. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

Her own eyes narrowed. Perhaps she’d been too quick to assume his capitulation. How could she be specific if she, didn’t know? … she smiled. Smugly. “I want you to treat me as you would a slave—a pleasure slave.”

His eyes widened.

She let her smile deepen. “As a female given to you to do with as you wish—specifically for you to indulge your most potent desires.” Boldly, utterly brazenly, she arched a brow. “Is that specific enough?”

His lips tightened to a grim line. His eyes were deepest midnight. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. Try again—you don’t want that.”

She raised her brows higher, haughty and assured. “I know what I want—your desires unfettered. I want to know—to experience—what meeting those desires means. What fulfilling your most potent desires feels like.”

Logan stared into her witchy green eyes, took in her prideful, arrogant expression—and felt everything within him quake.

He felt like a predator about to pounce. To be offered such a sexual feast, to have it forced on him … but he shouldn’t. She shouldn’t. Desperately he sought some way to deny her.

She tilted her chin and stared back at him, stubbornness in every line of her face, of her body. “Tonight,” she stated, her tone a ringing challenge, “that’s my price.” Her gaze held his. “And I believe you’re obligated to pay.”

He struggled not to react. All but shook with the impulse to seize her and devour. How had he got into this? Every time he thought he’d be able to control her, she took another step into deeper waters—and effortlessly dragged him with her.

If he did as she asked…

You don’t know what you’re asking for.

Truer words he’d never spoken—he knew to his bones she had no idea. Compared to him, she was an innocent. Why she was pushing him in that particular direction he didn’t know, but given said innocence, if he complied, even half complied … perhaps she wouldn’t push him again. At least not along such a dangerous path.

The last thing he wanted was to see fear in her eyes, yet just a lick, a suggestion, would with luck have her shying from any further dangerous games—not with him or anyone else.

God forbid she tried this with anyone else.

That thought sealed his fate. Better him than any other. If he wanted to protect the damned witch, then picking up the gauntlet she’d just flung at his feet was the right course.

To make sure she never flung it again.

“All right.” He nodded. “You’re my pleasure slave for the night. You don’t speak unless asked a question, and you obey every order I give instantly—without hesitation.”

Her lips curved in subtle triumph as she inclined her head.

“Fetch the candlestick.”

She turned and walked back to the tallboy. He flung himself into the armchair angled before the wide window. She returned, candlestick in hand.

“Put it on the table by the bed.”

She did, then looked at him.

He pointed to a spot a yard before his feet. Obediently, she crossed to stand there. Cloud-veiled moonlight and starlight washed through the window, combining with the candle glow to illuminate her while leaving him largely in shadow.

He met her gaze. “Take off your clothes.”

Her lips curved, and she obliged. She patently understood enough of her role to do so without haste, yet without unnecessary hesitation.

He watched as she revealed herself, the long lines of her limbs, her delectable curves, all encased in alabaster-white. He debated, but didn’t instruct her to let down her hair; the rippling mass would conceal too much of her body, and he was leaving her no modesty tonight.

That was part of his plan. As he watched, he worked out more.

When she tossed her chemise aside and it floated down to join the rest of her clothes scattered to one side on the floor, he openly examined her, ran his gaze slowly over the white curves and hollows, over the full peaks of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the thatch of red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs. Long, sleekly muscled thighs, sculpted knees, svelte calves and delicate feet.

Slowly, still blatantly assessing, he ran his gaze back up, to her face. “Put your hands on your breasts. Cup them.”

She blinked, but obeyed, supporting the white mounds in her hands.

“Fondle them.” He gave her directions, watched as she complied—watched the arrested expression in her eyes. He debated how far he might take that tack, but the activity wasn’t making his life any easier.

His gaze on her breasts as they overflowed her hands, he reached up and unknotted the kerchief about his neck, slowly pulled it free, knowing she’d noticed and was watching.

Slowly, he stood, then walked toward her. “Keep fondling.” Unhurriedly he circled her, then halted behind her, with less than a foot between her back and his chest.

He draped the kerchief over her shoulder, clearly intending to use it later. For what, he left her imagination to supply, for now.

Then he curved his palms about the ends of her shoulders and began.

Linnet fought to stay upright, to keep her spine rigid while his hard hands and long, strong fingers commanded her senses and suborned her will.

His hands roved her body and possession seared her skin.

Until her nerve endings sparked, until every inch of her skin came alive, delicately flushed, heating.

Abruptly he pushed his hands under hers, still loosely cupping her breasts.

“Leave yours on top of mine.”

The rough command fell by her ear, then he closed his hands and kneaded, much more firmly, more devastatingly knowingly, than she had. His fingers found her nipples and, squeezed, squeezed until she came up on her toes, head tipping back as her spine bowed and she gasped for her next breath.

He drew his hands away, pressed hers to the now swollen and aching mounds. “Like that.”

An order, one she bit her lip and tried to obey.

As his hands slid down to her waist, then back and over her hips.

To caress her bottom. To explore, flagrantly possessive, to examine.

The night air turned cool as her skin fevered and dewed.

Without warning, he clamped one hand about her hip, with the other reached beneath the globes of her bottom and touched her—stroked once, long and sure—then he thrust one finger into her, penetrating deep into her sheath.

Her lungs locked; she couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes—and felt her own hands on her breasts, felt her awareness heighten, felt sensation streak like lightning through her.

She closed her hands, sucked in a tight breath as he eased his hand back, but only to push a second finger in alongside the first.

He stroked, deep, hard, the pressure nothing less than an intimate invasion.

Her heart raced. Desperate, she trapped her nipples and squeezed as he worked his fingers relentlessly within her, his fist flexing beneath her bottom, pushing her on.

The tension built, soared. Head back, she gasped. His iron grip on her hip guided her as she helplessly rode his invading fingers.

As release drew closer, brighter, as her nerves tightened and coiled. His fingers slowed, then left her.

Eyes snapping open, lips parted and dry, she fought to stand steady as her senses reeled.

He walked around to face her. His face a mask carved in stone, he met her gaze. “Pleasure slaves have to earn their, pleasure.” His gaze fell to her hands, still locked about her breasts. “Hold out your hands, wrists together.”

Dragging in an unsteady breath, she obeyed. He lifted his kerchief from her shoulder and lashed her wrists together, tightly enough so she couldn’t part them but could swivel her hands back and forth.

“On your knees.”

She felt heated but empty, and deliciously, fascinatingly, out of her depth. Excitement flickered through her as she lowered herself, settled on her knees, then looked up at him.

His eyes were dark pools. “Open my breeches and take my member in your hands.”

She knew enough—had heard gossip enough—to know where this was leading. She tried not to be too eager, to keep to her role of slave as she freed the buttons at his waistband, pushed open the placket of his breeches and took his straining erection between her hands.

It wasn’t the first time she’d touched him there, skin to skin, yet she couldn’t hide her continuing curiosity, her avid fascination. Without waiting for any instruction, she traced the length, circled the empurpled head, then closed one fist and lightly squeezed.

Heard his breath hitch, catch.

Felt tension leap and snare him. Sensed the muscles all over his body tighten as beneath her palms his erection turned to steel. Rigid steel covered with skin the texture of fine satin; such a contrast, such a strange softness.

Forgetting to wait for orders, she played, explored, learned.

Felt his hands slide into her hair, glide beneath the heavy chignon that hung low on her nape, fingers spreading into the coiled tresses as he gripped.

“Take me into your mouth.”

She complied instantly.

Greedily.

Logan closed his eyes on a groan, one he only just managed to hold back as her lips slid over his engorged head, then lower, and her hot mouth engulfed him. He tightened his grip on her skull to guide her, only to have logical thought suspend as she licked, laved, then sucked.

Where the hell had she learned …?

Even as she set about shredding his control, he realized she was improvising. That she didn’t really know but was doing as she wished.…

God help him.

As if in answer to his prayer, she eased back and released him, but only to demand, “Tell me how to please you.”

Opening his eyes, he looked down.

Just as she glanced up, met his eyes. “Master.”

She purred the word, her sinfully wicked lips brushing skin so sensitive he felt it like a burn.

Looking into her green eyes, all he could think was: Master? Who was master here?

But then she licked, broke the spell, and his hands tightened on her skull and pressed her back into servicing him, to which she enthusiastically devoted herself as, in a voice hoarse with passion, he instructed her.

As he told her how to raze every defense he possessed against her and bring him to his knees.…

Realizing, he looked down, saw her red head at his groin, felt the silk of her hair brush his exposed skin … felt his control sliding. Dragging air into lungs locked tight, he forced himself to act—to slide a thumb between her lips and withdraw his throbbing erection from the haven of her mouth.

She complied with his implied directive. Sitting back on her ankles, she looked inquiringly up at him—undaunted, uncowed, undeterred.

All he saw in her eyes was desire and brazen willfulness.

Delight and the unalloyed anticipation of pleasure.

His own lips tightened. Clamping his hands about her shoulders, he lifted her to her feet—and slanted his mouth over hers. Kissed her—devoured her. Passionately, possessively demanding, commanding, then ravishing without quarter. As he wished, as he wanted.

As she wanted, too.

She met him in a clash of tongues and rapidly escalating desire.

He couldn’t get enough of her, the taste of her like this, wild and wanton, and so patently, potently, his. Surrendered, but joyously, gladly, eagerly. Dangerous, so dangerous …

He was supposed to be teaching her about what she didn’t want, what she shouldn’t invite.…

Wrenching his mouth from hers, he spun her around to face the side of the bed. Her hands were tied; grasping her waist, he lifted her. “Kneel on the edge.”

She did. The mattress brought her hips to the perfect height; her knees spread for balance, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Face forward. Keep your gaze fixed directly ahead.”

His words were little more than a guttural growl. Linnet deciphered them well enough to obey, breasts aching, pulse thrumming, as she waited for what came next.

A hard, hot, masculine presence, he stood close behind her, between her calves, and touched her again, but differently.

He showed her how force could be wielded against her, taught her how feeling helpless could add a sharp edge to passion, how through nothing more than touch her senses could be razed, how desire could be honed into a whip to lash her until she sobbed.

Until she moaned.

Until desperation sank to her bones.

He showed her how waiting for his touch could make her quake, how receiving it could make her gasp, then moan. Then sob, then scream.

Showed her how passion could build, and build, until it grew claws and raked her, then shattered her.

Taught her how pleasure could flay her, how raw need could beat her from the inside out, how pleasure could become a raging fire that consumed her.

His hard hands moved over her with unveiled intent. Harshly, compellingly, driving her on. If he’d pressed possession on her before, now he gave her fire and conflagration—gave her no choice but to take it in and let it rage. Let it have her. Consume her.

Eyes closed, giddy, she fought to keep upright, to keep her head from tipping back. Tried not to notice how her breathy pants converted again to moans, then to hitching sobs.

Greedy passion again leapt high, flared cometbright, then raced over her skin, spreading beneath, then building like a fever.

Until she burned again.

Until primitive passion ran molten in her veins.

Until visceral desire was an empty furnace in her belly and she ached with the need to feel him within her. Had to fight the compulsion to writhe under his hands.

His wicked fingers continued to knead, to squeeze and explore, to possess every curve, every intimate hollow. From behind, he probed her sheath again, but purely to confirm that she was ready, wet and hot and slickly prepared to receive him.

Gasping, sensually reeling, she felt him move closer. Between her thighs, he slid his fingers further forward, with the broad tip of one circled the delicate nubbin throbbing behind her curls, sending sensations spiraling and rising, pushing her arousal to even greater heights.

“What do you want?” The words were a guttural whisper by her ear.

“I want you inside me.” Eyes closed, she licked her lips. “Deep inside me. Now.”

“Good.”

She felt him at her back, then one hand flattened and pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her down.

“Bend over. Put your elbows on the bed.”

Her skin crawling with need, she did. His hands clamped about her hips, gripped.

She had an instant of warning—an instant for her nerves, every sense she possessed, to seize with expectation, then he drove himself into her—hard, deep, powerful and sure.

Into the weeping furnace of her sheath.

She couldn’t hold back a moan as he filled her, then he withdrew and thrust powerfully in again, pushing deeper still, and her moan turned to a strangled sob.

The fabric of his breeches rode against the sensitized skin of her bottom, reminding her that he was all but fully clothed while she … was bent naked and helpless before him on her bed, her wrists tied, her sheath flagrantly offered for his use.

Another layer of arousal, a deeper possession.

She sobbed, panted, unable to do more than shake her head from side to side as he pounded into her, and she gladly—so gladly—received him. As she tightened and clung, embracing the fullness of his shaft as he pressed deep and filled her, as she desperately clung to sanity as he drove her ever higher up the peak of sensation.

She wanted every last moment, every senses-shattering instant of pleasure.

She fought to shift, to ride his thrusts and prolong the engagement—and discovered she couldn’t. Discovered just how helpless she was as he held her immobile and repeatedly, relentlessly, filled her.

As over and over he worked his erection, all steel and fire, deep in her sheath, until the friction felt like living flame.

Logan held her in position, refused to let her buck, let her move her hips at all as he stroked repetitively, pressing deep, as he felt her instinctively clamp and cling, the most primitively intimate caress of all.

Her head threshed as he drove her harder, higher up the peak; the sounds falling from her lips were gasping sobs of entreaty and surrender.

He felt her muscles clench, closed his eyes, and thrust forcefully deep—heard her scream as she came apart, her sheath clamping hard, pulling him in.

Jaw tight, he hung on, pumped steadily through the powerful, rippling contractions, until he felt them slowly ebb, then fade.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her. Her hair had come loose; a rumpled red curtain, it flowed over her shoulders and veiled her face as she lay slumped, panting, still gasping, her cheek on the covers as she struggled to catch her breath.

Her skin glowed like a pale-rose-tinted pearl, flushed with desire, sheened with spent passion.

He still held her hips clamped between his hands, was still sunk to the balls in her bounty.

He’d slowed his thrusts while he’d looked. He picked up the pace, worked his erection deeper into her surrendered body, enjoying the sensations of having her so open, so intimately exposed and conquered.

He stroked deep, felt sensation shiver through him, long, luscious, a lingering sense of triumphant possession.

He’d planned to let go and plunder her body anew, to finish like this, in this position, reinforcing what he hoped was the lesson she’d learned—that she could be made helpless by passion, then taken, conquered, and used in whatever way her conqueror desired.…

He’d thought that was what he would want, but … no.

She’d demanded he use her to satisfy his most potent desires.

There was no reason he shouldn’t. Withdrawing from her, he stepped back, and stripped off his clothes.

Lifting her, he laid her on her back in the middle of the bed, her body flat, her head barely touching the pillows, her arms extended above her head, her hands, still tied, between the pillows. Her limbs were still lax; she struggled to lift her lids, tried to frown. Naked, on his knees, he grasped her ankles and spread them wide, then moved between and let his body down on hers.

Came down on his elbows, wedged his hips between hers, caught her gaze as her lids rose to reveal dazed green eyes.

He thrust powerfully into her.

Watched her eyes flare, heard her breath catch.

Then he bent his head and took her mouth.

Rapaciously, ravenously plundered, sinking deep and claiming both her mouth and her body.

Felt her rise beneath him as he did.

Felt her join with him and ride the uninhibited crest of unleashed passion, of unfettered desire.

This was what he wanted—his most potent desire—to have her spread beneath him, his to plunder, yet with her with him, an active participant, every heated inch of the way.

He filled her forcefully, repeatedly, unrelentingly. Yet even as he reached for her knees, she lifted her legs, wrapped them about his hips and tilted hers, inviting him deeper yet, luring him further yet, riding him as he rode her in an unreservedly primitive consummation.

Taking unreservedly.

Being taken unreservedly.

But as he sensed their climax roaring down on them, as the wave of release reared, about to crash, as her body clung to his, abandonly enticing, he realized …

Then she screamed his name and shattered, and her release brought on his own, and all thought was drowned beneath an orgy of sensation.

Bliss rolled in on a heavy wave of aftermath.

In the instant before he succumbed, he acknowledged defeat.

She hadn’t drawn back. She hadn’t been frightened—not the faintest lick of even reticence had touched her.

She’d loved every minute, every intense second.

On a long-drawn groan, he slumped on top of her.

He’d achieved the opposite of what he’d intended—and more. Worse.

Only one thought, one reaction, managed to surface in his exhausted brain. How the devil had it come to this?

He should have guessed she’d revel in the power, the passion, the intensity. She was like no woman he’d ever known, ergo …

Some untold time later, when he’d managed to lift from her and settle them in the bed, with her curled beside him, he lay staring at the shadowed ceiling—thinking. Of what, beneath all the heat and fire, courtesy of the power, the passion, and the intensity that had undeniably ruled, had actually occurred.

Had happened.

There was no going back.

It had definitely not been what he’d intended—almost certainly not what she’d expected, either. But she’d stubbornly brought it on, engineered the encounter, and it had happened, come to pass, and so here they now were.

Somewhere they hadn’t been before.

He’d thought that being so dominant a personality, she’d recoil from being dominated—that she wouldn’t like it, would draw back from it. Instead, she’d gloried in his possession, welcomed and embraced it, and him, and wrapped him in something akin to heaven—an angel’s embrace. He’d thought she’d run screaming, at least figuratively. Instead … he was the one conquered.

The one now addicted.

She’d satisfied every dream—every potent desire—he’d ever had.

Even if he dreamt up more, and he could—definitely could—he felt certain, now, that she would happily fulfill them.

After what had happened … things between them had changed. Irreparably, irretrievably. He wasn’t going back, could no longer step back. Not now he knew what it was like to touch heaven and come to rest in an angel’s arms.

Even if she was, very definitely, no angel at all.

Seven

December 14, 1822
Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

Linnet woke, once again, to the sensation of being filled, of being swept away, smoothly, irresistibly, on a tide of pleasure and quiet passion, of being taken, whisked high, and shattered, drained, then suffused with indescribable glory as she sank to rest, sated and bliss-filled, in her lover’s arms.

As she slipped, helplessly, back into slumber, Logan slumped by her side, and felt his lips curve. His new direction was irrefutably right. Satisfied, reassured, he surrendered to the combined lure of her warmth and his satiation and let sleep have him again.

He woke as Linnet slid from the bed. Opening his eyes, he raised his head, looked at her. Arched his brows.

Linnet stared into his dark blue eyes—into the smug, distinctly masculine, self-satisfied expression inhabiting them—and nearly panicked. She never panicked.

“Don’t get up—it’s early yet. You should rest.” After your amazing exertions of the night. And the morning. Desperately ignoring her naked state, she walked to where she’d, dropped her clothes, swiped her chemise from the top of the pile, and tugged it on.

Better. She could still feel his gaze—all over. The flimsy chemise didn’t dull its edge. Donning her shift helped, gave her a touch more confidence.

Enough to ignore him as he rolled over the better to watch her dress.

She’d told him to go back to sleep, so she wasn’t going to talk to him. Talking could wait until her mind was working again.

It was early, earlier than usual, but she had to get away. Had to get out of sight of him, out of reach of him, before she did something stupid.

Like grab him again, demand he make love to her however he wished again.

Foolish, foolish, but how could she have known? No one had ever told her “making love” could be like that—something that seized you, sank claws so deep you couldn’t escape, then turned you inside out with need.

Before satisfying every last iota of that need with mind-bending pleasure.

Her mind had definitely been bent. She didn’t think she could trust it to work again, not where he was concerned.

She kept herself facing away from the bed. Yet—damn it—she was already thinking, mentally flirting, with notions she shouldn’t. Like imagining what it would be like to keep him in her life. To have him there to satisfy … all he’d shown her, the deep cravings she’d never known she had.

Now she knew, and she couldn’t undo the damage. She would know she craved that—preferably with him—for the rest of her life.

Her lonely, largely solitary life. The life that stretched before her, much as the life she’d had to date—the one without a large, naked, entirely capable man in her bed.

Without a man by her side to share the day’s burdens … oh, this was not good.

On a personal level, she was alone, and always had been.

She’d survived before, and she would again—once he’d left and she’d recovered her equilibrium.

Annoyance and irritation came to her aid. Annoyance at him for being all she’d never known she desperately wanted, irritation at herself for wishing for something that could never be.

Pulling a dark navy gown from her armoire, she yanked it over her head, tied the laces as she headed for the door. She was almost surprised to reach it without some comment from him, but she told herself she was inexpressibly grateful. Don’t look back.

She put her hand on the knob—and glanced at the bed.

Arms crossed behind his head, like a dark Adonis he lay watching her.

“I’ll see you at the breakfast table.” Opening the door, she stalked out, and shut it carefully behind her.

Any day—perhaps today—he would remember the missing pieces of the jigsaw of his life, and then he would leave.

That was the one thing above all others she had to remember.

The one thing she couldn’t afford to forget.

Logan lay in her bed, lips slowly curving in a knowing smile.

It might not have been obvious, but his angel who was no angel had been flustered—that’s why she’d beaten such a hasty retreat. He doubted she approved of having her senses, let alone her will, suborned so easily.

He hoped this morning’s interlude had given her something more to think about, another perspective on what they’d shared last night. The same possessive passion, but a gentler, less blatant version.

Gradually, his smile faded as the challenge that lay ahead of him solidified in his mind.

He didn’t think he was married. He was starting to feel sure enough of his reactions to believe he couldn’t be; if he had been, his Calvinistic upbringing would have him writhing with guilt, regardless of whether he could remember or not.

He was almost certain he didn’t have a wife, almost certain he could ask Linnet to fill the role.

He was even more certain that when the time came, he could convince her to agree.

One trait that became clearer, more pronounced, every day, was that he wasn’t the sort of man who gave up. Not when he’d set his mind on something, on attaining something.

And he wanted Linnet with a passion beyond anything he’d felt before.

In a few short days, she’d made him—forced him to—face his future, to understand and accept that she and this place of hers were elements he couldn’t do without. That they fulfilled him in ways, and to a depth, he hadn’t before thought possible. That his place there, securing it, was vital—that he had no choice but to incorporate her and all that was hers into his life.

She would be the lodestone around which the rest of his life would revolve.

How to make that clear to her, how to persuade her to accept the inevitable consequences … of that he wasn’t quite so sure.

Tossing back the covers, he rose and stretched, feeling more alive, more energized, than he could ever recall feeling before. Lowering his arms, he glanced at the door. Regardless of what Linnet might think, he already had a place in her life, one he was currently filling. No matter what she thought, he wasn’t going to surrender it, wouldn’t give it up.

He wasn’t going to let her go.

When he joined her at the breakfast table, he decided he might as well start as he meant to go on. After taking his usual seat on her left, and smiling and thanking Molly, who came rushing up with a plate piled with sausages, ham, and kedgeree, he looked at Linnet, met her eyes. “So what are we doing today?”

She stared at him, then repressively replied, “I haven’t yet decided what I need to do.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll come with you.”

“I was thinking it might be better for you to rest after your disturbed night—perhaps help Buttons with the children.”

He held her gaze for a second, then glanced at the windows, at the gray day outside. “The weather’s closing in—the children will most likely stay indoors. I think it would be more useful for me to go with you.”

He returned his gaze to her face, scooped a forkful of kedgeree into his mouth, chewed, and kept his gaze leveled on hers.

Eyes narrowing, Linnet baldly stated, “I believe we should do whatever we can to prod your memory, but I’m not sure what else we can do.”

He nodded, finally gave his attention to his plate. “There must be something. I’ll think about it.”

Linnet bit her tongue against the temptation to reply; if he’d decided to stop baiting her—she was fairly certain that’s what he’d been doing—then she’d be wise to let sleeping dogs lie.

From across and down the table, Vincent asked Logan about cavalry mounts and stabling. While Logan answered, Linnet glanced around the table, confirming that none of the others had seen their exchange for the clash of wills it had been.

Head down, she finished her meal, absorbing the conversations bandied about the table, hearing more the sounds than the words. Buttons and Muriel chatting at the far end, their voices brisk, but light. Edgar, John, and Bright discussing something about the crops, voices low, while the boys’ bright, eager voices joined the conversation Vincent had started. Even Gilly piped up with a question. Logan’s deep voice was a rumbling counterpoint running beneath all the others, balancing and connecting the others into a harmonious whole.…

She inwardly shook herself, wrenched her mind from that track. No matter how well Logan fitted, he wouldn’t stay. Exasperation tinged with frustration bloomed. She might, want him to remain, might want that, and him, to a degree she hadn’t mere days ago thought possible, but realistically, she knew it wouldn’t work. If he stayed, there’d be problems. He’d want to lead, he was that sort of man, while she would never consent to handing over the reins—to stepping aside from the position she’d been born and raised to fill.

She ignored the niggling fact that he’d already shown a certain sensitivity over not stepping on her toes, that he might be intelligent enough to see and accept the need for compromise on the who-was-leader front. If he stayed they’d have to make their relationship formal, and that was where the intractable problems lay. This was her place; she would never leave it, but his home was in Scotland. And then there were the issues of gentility and expectations of ladylike behavior. He was a gentleman, an officer, yet while she’d been born a lady, certainly qualified as gently bred, she had neither the inclination nor the training to play the role of lady-wife.

And she certainly didn’t have the temperament.

With one last, dark glance at Logan’s black head, she pushed back from the table, rose, and followed Muriel into the kitchen.

She felt Logan’s dark gaze on her back, but he remained at the table, chatting with the other men while Buttons gathered the children preparatory to herding them upstairs for a full day of lessons.

Mrs. Pennyweather, Molly, and Prue were busy in the scullery. Muriel, a cup of strong tea in her hand, stood at the window looking out over the kitchen garden. Pouring herself a cup of the fragrant black brew from the pot in the middle of the big table, Linnet sipped, then went to join her aunt.

Her gaze on the garden, Muriel murmured, “I’m not going to ask, and you’re not going to tell, but … you’re fond of Logan.”

Looking out on the brown beds, Linnet sipped. Took the instant to consider her words. “Fond is as fond might be, but regardless, once he remembers the rest—the missing, pieces—he’ll leave.” She hestitated, then added, “I’d rather that was sooner than later.”

So she could limit the hurt, the disappointment that she, and the children, too, would feel.

Muriel nodded. “Yes, that’s wise. Not a pleasant prospect, but inevitable.”

Linnet said nothing, simply sipped and fought to keep that looming prospect from dragging her spirits down.

“Smell.”

Linnet glanced at Muriel, saw her aunt frowning in concentration.

“I heard somewhere that smell is the most potent trigger for memory.”

Before Linnet could respond, heavy footfalls had her turning.

Logan halted in the doorway. “The others suggested we check in L’Eree to see if anyone or anything from the wreck turned up there.”

In terms of finding something to jog his memory, it was a reasonable suggestion, but of course he’d need her to introduce him to the locals, and ask the questions, too. She didn’t want to spend more time alone with him, but the sooner he remembered and left … the sooner this—her restless, chafing, disaffected mood—would end.

Setting down her cup, she nodded. “Very well—let’s go.”

Muriel stood at the window and watched Linnet and Logan, cloaks flapping, stride toward the stables. Behind her, Mrs. Pennyweather came out of the scullery, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Pennyweather,” Muriel said, her gaze still on the figures walking to the stable yard, “what spices do you have in your pantry?”

Alongside Linnet, Logan rode back into the Mon Coeur stable yard in the early afternoon. The ride had been refreshing, exhilarating in parts, but their hours in L’Eree had been disappointing. In more ways than one.

No one in the small town had even realized there’d been a wreck, so they’d made no advance of any kind on that front.

A drizzling rain had settled in during the long ride back. After leaving their mounts with Matt and Young Henry, he and Linnet strode swiftly, heads down, to the house.

In the small hallway inside the back door, he shrugged off her father’s cloak, hung it on a peg, then reached for hers. As he lifted the cloak, heavy with damp, from her shoulders, she shot him a sharp, irritated glance, then stiffly inclined her head. “Thank you.”

He swallowed a snort. Her politeness was so thick he could whittle it.

That was the way it had been between them all day, a battle of sorts in which neither would yield. As far as he could manage, he’d seized every opportunity to underscore—to make plain to her—his view of her vis-à-vis him, and she’d been just as relentless in holding firm to politeness and her “arrangement,” depressing his pretensions with haughty distance.

He followed her into the parlor as determined as she to prevail, equally irritated and, he suspected, a touch more grumpy. The rest of the household were already gathered, passing around delicate cups and mugs of tea and a plate of—he sniffed—some sort of spiced biscuit.

Eschewing the armchairs, he joined the children on the floor before the hearth. Buttons handed him a mug of tea, which he accepted with thanks, along with the plate of biscuits Muriel handed him. He set the plate down before the hungry children. “So what did you learn today?”

Accepting a cup of tea from Buttons, Linnet sat in her usual armchair and doggedly kept her gaze from the large male sprawled a few feet away. Their recent interactions reminded her forcibly of a battering ram thudding on a pair of castle doors—unrelenting force meeting unbending resistance.

From the moment they’d left the house, his attention had, been constant. His gaze had rarely left her, his awareness of her had never faltered—any more than had hers of him. That hyperawareness irritated, but there seemed nothing she could do; the curse seemed an inescapable outcome of the heated engagements in which they’d indulged.

The sooner he left, the sooner her nerves, her senses—and her foolish, wanton heart—would recover.

Disinclined to make conversation, she found herself listening to the children, to their interaction with Logan.…

Damn! How the devil had he drawn so close to them so quickly?

Shifting, she studied the group, and a chill touched her heart. Not only because of the happy, engaged look in Will’s eyes, and the eager hero-worship on Brandon’s and Chester’s faces, or the settled content in Jen’s—but more than anything because of the outright adoration in Gilly’s innocent eyes.

She was supposed to be their protector. It was unarguably her duty to protect them as best she could from the disappointment, the distress, that would come when Logan left.

Glancing at Buttons, then at Muriel, Edgar, and John, she realized her entire household had, each in their way, fallen under Logan Monteith’s spell.

Throwing a glance at the clock, then the window, she stood. “I’m going for a walk along the cliffs.”

As she’d expected, Logan looked up. “I’ll come with you.”

“As you wish.” As she wanted. Better that only she be devastated by his leaving. Turning, she met Muriel’s surprised eyes. “We’ll check the western coves for any further wreckage—according to the experts, that seems the only place there might be more to find.”

“Be careful if you go down to the rocks,” Edgar said. “Tide’s on its way in.”

Linnet nodded and strode for the door.

Behind her, she heard Muriel ask Logan, “Did you like the biscuits?”

Linnet could feel his gaze already locked on her as he replied, “Yes, thank you, ma’am. They were delicious,” then he followed her.

Muriel watched Linnet and Logan leave, then sighed. She looked at Buttons. “I don’t know. Perhaps not the right spice.”

Rising, Muriel headed for the kitchen. “Pennyweather?”

Linnet stood at the top of the path leading down to the west cove. It was the third and last of the coves on this narrow face of the island, and like the other two, it was devoid of anything but the smallest slivers of debris.

She scanned slowly one last time, then shook her head. “If anything other than you and those two bodies was washed in this direction, the waves battered it to smithereens on the rocks before it had a chance to reach shore.”

Logan stood beside her, his hands in his pockets as he looked out to sea. “I gathered there are submerged rocks out there.” With his chin, he indicated the choppy, broken sea well out from the headlands.

“There’s reefs aplenty, and when the waves are high and the troughs between them deep, they stick out like jagged teeth. They’ve ripped the hulls of more ships than anyone will ever know.” Turning away from the surging sea, Linnet started back, electing to take the longer route through the wood southwest of the house.

Logan fell in on her heels, his eyes on her cloak’s hem, his mind retreading their conversations through the day, dissatisfying as they had been. Being subtle wasn’t working. She could too easily deflect any point he tried to make. He needed to be more forceful. More direct.

Silence descended as they walked beneath the first trees. Registering the lack of even bird calls—with the scent of a storm in the air, animals and birds had already sought shelter—Logan looked around, noting the relative stillness after the building ferocity of the wind out on the cliffs.

The trees were old, their branches entwining, with saplings, pushing up wherever they could, filling in the gaps where their fellows had fallen or been harvested for firewood. The tang of the sea was countered by the scent of cypress, of fir. Shadows pooled to either side of the path, at one with the gloomy day.

Linnet strode on, her stride even and sure.

Further along, deep in the wood, a clearing opened to one side of the path. The roughly circular space hosted a pair of flat stones surrounded by splintered wood, now damp.

No one would be coming to chop wood, not today.

He caught Linnet’s arm, halted her. When she faced him, he released her, locked his eyes on hers. “We can play games, circle the subject forever, but it won’t change anything. Won’t achieve anything.”

Comprehension showed clearly in her green eyes, but she wasn’t going to help him. He searched for words, for the right tack forward. “There’s no point in pretending that what is, isn’t.”

She tensed slightly, faintly arched a brow.

Drawing breath, he held her gaze—took the plunge. “To me, you’re a drug, an addictive ambrosia—I’m not giving you up. I might have to leave, to deliver that wooden cylinder to whoever or wherever it’s supposed to go, but I will be back.” He paused, let every ounce of his determination color the statement “I’ll come back for you.”

Green flashed as her eyes narrowed. “You can’t know that—you can’t say that. You absolutely cannot promise that.”

He felt his jaw clench, felt temper stir. “I know what I want—you. I know what I’ll do to get you.”

“Do you, indeed?” Her tone was sharp, incisive, and as hard as her darkening eyes. “If you think you’ll return here, to me, to us, after you recall what you haven’t yet and go back to continue your life in England, then you know yourself less well than I do.”

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Don’t argue! You’re the type of man who makes commitments and sees them through. Am I right in that, or not?”

Lips compressed, he could do nothing but nod.

“Exactly.” Looking down, she folded her arms, took one step off the path, then turned and paced back, crossing before him. “What do you think it would take to make you walk away from a commitment made, a vow solemnly sworn?”

He gave no answer.

Swinging around, she inclined her head; his silence was answer enough. “You won’t break a vow, an undertaking. That would run counter to everything you are.” Halting before him, she looked up into his face. “So how can you swear you’ll come back when you have no idea what commitments you already have on your plate?” She gestured. “Back in England, or wherever you’ve been?”

She met his gaze, his determination, toe to toe. “You already know you’re on some sort of mission—you’re a courier for someone, taking that cylinder somewhere, doubtless for some excellent and very likely important reason. And once back to your previous life, who knows what other commitments you’ll discover you already have? Commitments that take precedence over any you can make here and now.”

Holding his gaze, she drew in a deep breath, her breasts swelling above her folded arms. “So don’t tell me you’ll be back, don’t swear, don’t you dare make me—or the children—promises you have no idea if you can keep.”

Inwardly railing, he met her irate gaze. He wanted to sweep the past aside, to declare that she and here took precedence, regardless, over anything that had gone before … but he couldn’t.

She wouldn’t believe him even if he did.

His jaw was locked so tight, he was grinding his teeth. “So … what? We go on as we have been, and wait and see?”

“No. We go on as I stipulated at the outset. In return for my material aid, you teach me what I want to know.” She tipped up her chin, looked him in the eye. “That’s all that exists between us—a barter. That’s all it was supposed to be—all it can be.” Her eyes flashed. “That’s all I’m offering you.”

Violent reaction surged. Fists clenching, he quelled it. Searched her eyes, saw that she meant every word. He forced himself to nod. Once. “Very well. If that’s all you’ll allow … I’ll take it.”

Before she could move, he seized her elbows, pulled her to him. Bent his head and kissed her. Dipped his head, forced her lips wide and tasted her.

Backed her as he did.

When her spine met the bole of a tall tree, she pulled back on a gasp, eyes wide. “What?” She glanced to either side, then met his eyes as he released her arms, grasped her waist, and stepped closer.

“Another lesson. Alfresco.” He wedged one thigh between hers.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, whether to hold him back, or to her, she didn’t seem sure. “Here?”

“Right here.” Locking his eyes on hers, he pushed her cloak wide, reached down, and drew up her skirts. “Right now.”

“But …” She licked her lips, stared into his eyes.

Lifting her skirt and shift out of his way, he reached beneath, slid his hand under the hem of her chemise, and found her curls. Reached past, and found her.

He watched her lips part, heard her breath hitch, felt her tense as he cupped, stroked, and stoked her passion. Watched her gaze grow unfocused as her all but instant response coated his fingers in slick heat.

With his other hand he undid his breeches, then withdrew his fingers from between her thighs, pushed aside her clothes, and reached beneath to close his hands about her bottom and lift her.

To just the right height.

Linnet gasped, braced her hands on his shoulders, eyes wide as she looked down into his eyes, at the hot blue flames flaring in their depths. She struggled to breathe, to assimilate the sensation of the hard head of his erection poised at her entrance.

To assimilate just how ready, how wantonly willing her, body was, how eager to receive him. To have him fill her and stretch her, pound into her and pleasure her.

His eyes held hers; she couldn’t look way. His hands kneaded, his grip shifted, tilting her hips. She surrendered to impulse, raised one leg and curled it around his hip.

Brazenly, she licked her lips, looked at his.

Wordlessly dared.

His lips twisted, half grimace, half acknowledging smile. “This won’t be slow, and it won’t be short. You can scream as much as you like—no one’s going to hear.” He shifted his hips, teasing her with the promise of the rigid rod riding at her entrance; anticipation shivered through her, sharp as any knife. He repeated the movement and her eyes closed; her breath caught. Her fingers slid over his shoulders and dug in.

Logan leaned closer, angling his head to whisper as he pressed into her just a little way, “I’m going to take you thoroughly, and I guarantee you’ll scream.”

Opening her eyes, she looked into his. “All right. Show me.” She arched her brows. “It’s the least you can do.”

He shut her up. Filled her mouth with his tongue and silenced her.

Ravished and took, knowing it was precisely what she wanted. That she would revel in the heat, in the passion and the hunger.

He thrust deep and filled her, and simply let go—let all he was free to engage, unfettered, unleashed, with her. It was what she wanted—and after her little lecture on him and commitment, it was what he needed.

He needed to imprint himself on her soul.

Linnet clung and let his passion take her. Felt her own rise to meet it, to taunt and challenge and boldly mate, to give and take in a storm of sensations.

Felt heat and desire surge and merge in a fiery wash of grasping, greedy need.

Hungry need.

Frenzied greed.

Their lips clung, mouths mating as thoroughly and completely, as their bodies. She held him to her, moved against him as they raced for the distant peak.

As he’d promised, it wasn’t a short ride.

But it was fast. Hard, powerful, exhilarating.

He took her breath and gave it back. She arched against him, demanding more.

Commanding more. Whipping him on, driving herself as much as he drove her.

Pulling back from the kiss, she tipped her head back, gasping, struggling to find enough air to breathe. Fighting to expand her senses to take it all in.

To fully appreciate the heavy bucking thrust of his hips between her thighs, the forceful repetitive surges that rocked her against the tree. Pinned her there as he filled her, and took his fill of her.

The tempo built, and built. She caught his nape and locked her lips on his—and gave. Gave.

Felt the rush as they reached the last stretch, the surging power as they raced up the rise.

Higher and higher, faster and harder.

She flung back her head and breathlessly screamed.

In the indescribable moment of brain-scrambling glory as together they crested and flung themselves high—over the precipice and into the void.

Linnet knew the engagement had been at least partially fueled by anger—his that she hadn’t believed him, perhaps that she hadn’t begged him to return, hers because he was all she’d ever wanted and yet knew she could never have. She didn’t care.

Head back against the tree, eyes closed, she wondered when she’d be able to fill her lungs again. He lay against her, slumped, his head on her shoulder, his shoulders pinning her chest, his hands still beneath her bottom, supporting her.

He didn’t seem able to move any more than she could.

So she let her lids rest closed, let her lips ease into the satisfied smile they wanted to form, and savored. Absorbed.

Stored up all the little details of having him out there, in the wild. In her wild, in her wood.

He’d surprised her, yes, but at no point had she been averse to another of his lessons. She needed to—should—take all he would give her while he was still there.

She had a strong premonition his time there, with them, with her, was coming to an end.

The winter’s dark had closed in by the time they made it back to the house; they’d had to wait in the clearing until she’d been able to command her limbs enough to walk.

He’d offered to carry her. She’d declined. Quite aside from seeing no need to feel that helpless again so soon, she worried that his recent exertions might have harmed his stitches.

When she’d said as much, he’d looked at her, then reminded her that he hadn’t screamed.

She glanced at him as they stepped free of the trees, pulled a face at him that he didn’t see. Damn man—he annoyed her so much by the way he made her feel.

He was looking grim. Grim because she hadn’t let him sweep her away into his impossible dream. What irritated her most was that, even though she knew how futile and unutterably stupid it would be, she felt ridiculously tempted to let him do just that—just to see him smile.

Just to make him happy.

That she could contemplate such an action, even knowing it was pure delusion and would only lead to emotional devastation far worse than anything she would, as things now stood, feel, was a real measure of just how dangerous to her he’d grown.

Never had she imagined feeling for a man as she already did for him; never had she imagined that her emotions could be this deeply involved.

They entered the house through the kitchen door. No one used the front door; she’d never known why—the back door had been the door for all her life. As they paused in the small hall to remove and hang up their cloaks, a rich aroma of blended spices wafted out from the kitchen.

She breathed in; the exotic smell made her mouth water. “Pennyweather hasn’t made curry for months.”

She glanced at Logan—and froze.

He’d frozen, too, caught in the act of hanging his cloak on a peg. Arm raised, he stood stock-still, his eyes unfocused, his expression not blank so much as not there.

Her heart thudded, one painful thump. She waited a moment, then, her mouth suddenly dry, asked, “What is it?”

But she already knew.

Slowly, he returned, animation reinfusing his features, then his gaze refocused on her face.

Eventually he met her eyes, and he said the words she’d known were coming. “I’ve remembered. All of it.”

It was like floodgates opening—a roiling, tumbling powerful river of facts and recollections rushing in. Logan felt overwhelmed, close to drowning, at first.

Seated at the dinner table surrounded by the rest of the household, all eager and excited to hear his news, he started with the most important—most pertinent—facts. “I’m Major Logan Monteith, late of the Honorable East India Company, operating out of Calcutta under the direct orders of the Marquess of Hastings, Governor-General of India.”

Absentmindedly eating the curry-stew and rice placed before him, he frowned. The missing pieces had arrived, but not in any order; he had to sort them, fit them into the right blank spaces, before he could see a cohesive whole.

At the foot of the table, Muriel was beaming, thrilled that what had apparently been her stratagem to use smell to jog his memory had worked. He was sincerely grateful, yet he’d sorted through enough to know he didn’t need to burden them—the innocents of this household—with all he knew.

After one searching glance at him, Linnet waved the children, all bubbling with questions, back. “Let him remember it all first. The faster you clean your plates, the sooner we’ll go into the parlor. Logan can tell us what he’s remembered then.”

The children looked at him, then applied themselves diligently to their plates.

He was grateful to them all. There was so much to slot in, to realign and confirm.

To acknowledge.

His instincts hadn’t been wrong in presaging approaching danger. He’d been right in thinking that the assassins who had attacked him on the ship were part of a greater whole, and that their colleagues wouldn’t have given up.

The more he remembered, the grimmer he felt, but he forced himself to go through it all, to examine and verify that each segment of memory was now clear, consistent, no longer had holes. That what he remembered rang true.

The memory of his last sight of his friend and close colleague, Captain James MacFarlane—the sight of James’s body, of the torture he’d endured at the hands of Black Cobra cultists before he’d died—that, above all, was blazoned in his mind.

That, and the knowledge that he and James’s three other close friends, Colonel Derek Delborough, Major Gareth Hamilton, and Captain Rafe Carstairs—all of whom Logan regarded as brothers, having fought alongside them for more than a decade—were ferrying vital evidence to England, evidence that would bring the Black Cobra cult’s reign of terror to an end.

That—his commitment to that—took precedence over all else.

Movement around him had him refocusing. Discovering that he, like the children, had cleaned his plate, not just of the main course but also of the coconut-flavored blancmange that had followed it, he laid down his spoon as Molly and Prue arrived to clear the table.

He glanced at Linnet.

She caught his eye. “Let’s go into the parlor.” Pushing back her chair, she rose. “And you can tell us what you’ve remembered.”

He nodded. Hung back as she, Muriel, and Buttons went, ahead, trailed by the children, heading for their places before the hearth. He followed them in, Edgar and John, equally curious, on his heels.

Setting foot in the parlor, his gaze went to the wooden cylinder lying on the sideboard. The scroll-holder it was his duty to ferry to the Duke of Wolverstone. Walking across, he picked up the holder and carried it to the armchair he’d occasionally occupied—the one facing Linnet’s across the hearth. The place that, in just a few short days, had come to feel like his.

The children swung to face him as he sat. They watched, eyes growing round as, with confident flicks, he opened the six brass levers in the top of the cylinder in the correct order, then lifted the cap of the cylinder free.

Reaching inside, he drew out the single sheet the scroll-holder contained, unrolled it, and glanced over it, verifying that that, too, was as he remembered.

It was. He’d got his past back, every last bit.

The good news was that there was no impediment to him returning to Linnet, and remaining with her for the rest of his life.

The bad news …

Looking across the hearth, he met her green gaze. “I have to get to Plymouth.”

Eight

Three hours later, Logan followed Linnet up the stairs. During those hours, he’d talked and answered questions, satisfying as much of the household’s curiosity as he could. The only elements he’d omitted were the grim details of the atrocities the Black Cobra cult had committed, presumably was still committing, in India; those were the stuff of nightmares.

The children had gone up after the first hour, chased to their beds by Buttons, who had later returned to sit with Linnet, Muriel, Edgar, and John as he’d outlined his mission, which explained why he had to reach Plymouth as soon as possible. According to the orders he’d memorized months ago, he was already two days overdue.

Linnet had, too calmly, assured him she would help him arrange his onward journey tomorrow. He would have to cross the island to St. Peter Port, the deepwater port on the east shore where oceangoing ships put in, and hire one to take him to Plymouth.

He brooded on that, on the part she’d have to play in arranging his departure, how his leaving so abruptly—having to leave immediately now he’d remembered all—sat with their earlier discussion in the wood, while he trailed her to the children’s rooms, propping in the doorways to watch as, exactly as he’d imagined, she tucked them in, kissing them even though they were asleep.

As was now his habit, he’d followed her on her rounds downstairs, assuring himself that all was indeed secure, doubly important now he’d remembered who was after him. He hadn’t again mentioned his concern that cultists might follow him there; Linnet would only dismiss it as she had before. The best way he could protect the household was to leave as soon as possible.

Which was why he’d followed her to the upper floor, knowing this would be the last chance he would have for some time to watch her tuck her wards in. His last chance—until he came back—to watch the softer side of her that she only allowed to show around the children.

He’d wanted that memory to add to his stock, to balance out some of the horrors.

To remind him why—give him a specific reason why—his mission was so important, why his unwavering determination to see it through was the right and proper course. Why James’s death had to be avenged, why evil—a real and present evil—had to be defeated.

So the good could live.

So women like Linnet could tuck children who weren’t theirs into bed at night.

So those children could grow up safe and secure, never knowing terror, never seeing evil’s cold face.

Linnet straightened from Gilly’s bed, then, picking up the candlestick, came toward him. He straightened from the doorjamb, stepped back into the corridor to let her past, then followed her down the stairs to her room.

Leading the way in, she set the candlestick on the tallboy, then crossed to her dressing table and sat before it.

Closing the door, he paused, watched as she reached up and started unpinning her chignon. It was the first time he’d seen her tend her long hair; when the mass of rippling tresses fell loose, veiling her shoulders and back in red-gold fire, he drew in a breath, then walked to stand behind her.

Sinking his hands into his pockets, he watched as she plied a brush, drawing it through the silky strands, then he met her gaze in the mirror. “Tomorrow. I’ll have to hire a ship, but, as you know, I don’t have any funds here. I’ll need to contact London, but that will take days.”

Her lips curved lightly. “Don’t worry. I know a captain who will take you on account.”

Logan wondered what he was supposed to make of that. Was this unnamed captain a rival, or simply another of Linnet’s male acquaintances? He’d noticed that, presumably because of her peculiar status as queen of her realm, her interactions with men—the vicar leapt to mind—were different, as if she were more lord than lady.

She’d refocused on her hair, on the soothing, repetitive motion of the brush down the long tresses.

Unable to help himself, he reached out, closed his hand around hers and lifted the brush from her fingers. Ignoring her questioning look, he settled behind her, settled to brush her hair.

Another memory he wanted—of the brush sliding smoothly down, the black bristles stroking the gleaming curtain of fire, making it gleam even more.

Another image to hold on to, to know he would return to.

Linnet watched him, watched the concentration in his face as he steadily worked through the heavy mass, laying each brushed strand down as if it were in truth the red-gold it resembled.

She tried to ignore the gentle rhythmic tug, the subtly soothing, almost hypnotic caress.

Felt her lids grow heavy, seduced nevertheless.

He’d be on his way tomorrow, and although she would be going, too, this would be the last night they would share here—in her bedroom, at Mon Coeur.

No matter what he said, she knew he wouldn’t be back.

Reaching up, she caught his hand, took the brush, and set it down on the dressing table. Then she rose, stepped around the stool, and turned.

And boldly went into his arms.

He was waiting—waiting to close his arms around her, to bend his head and take the lips she offered.

To kiss her long and lingeringly, deeply and possessively—as she wished, as she wanted. Tonight she was determined to claim one last lesson, and she knew what she wanted to learn.

Logan sensed her intent, her focus. Felt her determination when she pushed his coat open, then down his arms. Breaking off the kiss, he let her go and drew his arms free of the sleeves, tossed the coat aside. By the time he had, she’d opened his waistcoat and fallen on the buttons closing his shirt.

He wasn’t averse to letting her undress him—to a point.

Somewhat to his surprise, with his shirt dispensed with, she pushed him around to pick at the knot securing the bandages around his chest.

“I need to examine your wound.” She tugged, and the bandages loosened.

As she unwound them he almost sighed in relief. The long wound, the stitches she’d so neatly set into his flesh, had been itching like fire all day. A good sign, he knew, but he was more than happy to lose the constriction, the restriction.

She freed him of the long bands, then tugged him to a position where the candlelight played over his side. He shifted his left arm out of her way as she poked and prodded, swiftly scanning down.

“Good.” She straightened. “It’s good.” She met his gaze. “It’ll be some days yet before the stitches can come out, but you can do away with the bandages, at least for tonight.”

Her hands had come to rest at his waist. Eyes locking on his, she slipped the buttons there free.

He sucked in a shallow breath and took a step back. “Boots.” He took two more steps back and sat on the end of the bed.

Eyes narrowing, she followed, her navy skirts flicking about her legs, her stride reminding him of a stalking cat.

“All right.” Hands going to her hips, she watched him ease off the tight boots. “Just hurry. I want you naked on my bed—now.”

He nearly laughed. She thought he’d argue? But … he glanced up at her. “What about you? Are you going to take off your clothes, too?”

She frowned, obviously not having worked out her scenario to that extent. “Possibly. Probably.”

After a moment’s cogitation, during which he tossed first one boot, then the other, to the floor, she stepped between his knees and turned, giving him her back. “Help me with these laces.”

He did, swiftly undoing the laces at her back. By then she’d undone the ones at the side of her waist.

She stepped away. Waved a hand at him. “Now strip and lie on the bed.”

Pulling her gown up and over her head, she moved away.

Watching the show, he rose and unhurriedly complied with her orders. Settling—naked as requested—on his back in the middle of her bed, his head and shoulders on the mound of pillows, he crossed his arms behind his head and watched her pull off her warm shift, lay it aside with her gown, then roll down her stockings, removing her garters and slippers, too.

Finally, in just her chemise, the cotton so fine it was translucent, she returned to the bed, came to stand at its end. She looked at him, surveyed him with a proprietorial air guaranteed to have him standing at full attention, then she smiled and climbed onto the bed.

Crawled up it to his side. The candlelight struck through her chemise, revealing every svelte line, every luscious curve, every tantalizing hollow.

She stretched out, propping on one elbow and hip beside him. She resurveyed his body, then lifted her gaze to his eyes. “I want you to lie there, your hands where they are, and let me … satisfy my curiosity.”

He studied her face, read the not-so-subtle challenge in her green eyes, nodded. “All right. I will. But first …”

In one smooth surge, he had her flat on her back, his chest held over hers. “Before we get started, there’s a few matters I’d like to get clear.”

Once she commenced her game, he’d be in no state to discuss anything, and she would be in even less state to hear.

Her brows had flown high, her gaze coolly haughty. But she inclined her head slightly. “Very well. I’m listening.”

He had to smile, but the expression faded as he looked into her eyes. As he marshaled his arguments. “I’m not married.” That was his first point. “But I can’t offer to share my life with you until I know I’ll have a life to share.” Point two, his only hesitation. “The mission I’m involved in is deadly dangerous. Those opposing me would be happy to see me dead—as my wound so eloquently illustrates. And as you rightly foretold, I have an outstanding commitment, one I can’t break, to see the mission through to a successful end—or die trying.” The reason behind his hesitation.

“But”—he held her gaze—”my commitment to completing this mission is the only commitment of any sort I have. Once the mission is over, assuming I survive, I’ll be coming back here. To claim you.”

He saw her lips tighten, saw not refusal of the prospect but refusal to believe cloud her eyes. His own lips thinned. “I can see that for some reason—which I don’t comprehend—you don’t believe I’ll return. But one thing I can and I will swear to you: If once this mission is over I still have a life worth sharing, I’ll be coming back here to lay it at your feet.”

She blinked once, twice. She studied his eyes, then an unusually gentle smile curved her lips. Raising a hand, she laid it along his cheek, but the disbelief didn’t leave her eyes. “I value your words—don’t think I don’t. But I’ve been me, myself, for too long not to face reality, and my reality is that no matter what you say, in the end, you won’t be back.”

He opened his mouth—

Placing her fingers over his lips, Linnet silenced him. Stopped him from saying anything more to wring her heart even more than he already had. She spoke as strongly, as decisively, as she could. “No—this is our last night together here, and I don’t want to waste it arguing.”

Lowering her gaze to his lips, she drew her hand away, then boldly raised her eyes again to his. “I want to spend tonight loving you. I want you to lie back and let me.”

One hand on his shoulder, she pushed.

Openly exasperated, he held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed through gritted teeth and rolled back to lie as he had before.

Letting her come up on her elbow and hip alongside.

His dark eyes glittered as he crossed his arms behind his head. “So what now?”

She looked down over his large body, over the expanse of delectable male flesh, solid muscle, heavy bone, taut skin. Crisp, crinkly, black-as-night hair scattered across his chest, arrowing down to his groin. Where he was still fully erect.

She smiled, raised her gaze to his eyes. “Now you lie there, and let me feast.”

He obeyed. She had to give him that. Even when she pressed him to the very brink of breaking, he fought to remain supine and let her have her way.

Let her caress him, first with her hands, spreading them wide to sweep over his shoulders, over the bunched muscles of his upper arms, then down over the contours of his chest, lovingly outlining the broad swath before heading lower, over the rippling strength of his abdomen, over the concave hollow of his waist, over his flat belly to the rock-hard mucles of his cavalry officer’s thighs, the solid length of his calves, and his large feet, before returning, sweeping up his body again to take his member between her hands and caress, fondle, stroke.

Examine, weigh, assess.

She continued to touch him there, where he was most sensitive, where he most liked to be touched, while she rose up, over his chest, found his lips with hers, and kissed, long, lingeringly, as openly possessive as he was with her, before drawing back and sending her lips to trace the path her hands had already forged.

Outside, the storm that had been threatening all day finally rushed in. It rattled the windows, lashed at the house, pelted rain in drumming fury on the glass. She heard it, but distantly, too wrapped in the warmth, in the pleasure as, finally, she rose up on her knees and straddled him, and, with his help, his direction, took him in.

Her head fell back on a gasp at the sensation of him filling her. Excitement skated over her skin as she realized that this time, all—everything she felt—was under her control.

That this time he’d ceded the reins to her and was letting her drive them both.

Her breath tight in her chest, she opened her eyes and looked down at him. His face showed the strain—the battle he waged not to seize control—as, his hands clamped about her hips, he urged her up, showed her how.

How to ride him.

How to pleasure him and please herself.

“Your chemise—take it off.”

The guttural words cut across her concentration, her inward focus on all she could feel. She considered them. Eyes closed, she rose up, sank down, down, down again, then reached for the chemise’s hem.

Opening her eyes, she drew it off over her head, flung it away.

Smiled down at him as she used her thighs and rose up yet again. Closed her eyes as she slid down.

Felt his hands caress, then claim, her breasts, felt his long fingers close about her nipples.

She rode and he paid homage. There was no other word for the way his hands moved over her body, reverent and sure.

Too soon, she was panting, flushed and heated, her hair a mane of living fire writhing about her shoulders, lashing, her sensitized skin, sending sensation lancing through her, flashing down to where the exquisite friction built and built between her thighs.

Eyes open yet near blind, she rode on in increasing desperation, searching, wanting. The peak was so close, but not yet within her reach.

Beneath her, he shifted, then drove upward into her, timing his thrusts to her downward slides so she felt him higher than before, sparking a furnace deep inside.

One hard hand captured one of her breasts, gripped and framed the swollen flesh. She glanced down, through her lashes saw him prop himself on one elbow and bring his mouth to her breast.

He licked, laved, then he took the ruched aureola and nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth. The sensation of scalding heat closing about the excruciatingly tight peak had her gasping.

Then he suckled and she screamed.

He suckled harder and she shattered. Flew apart in a long agony of bliss that went on and on and on. His mouth feasting at her breast, his hips pumping beneath her, he drove her through it, through the raging fire, over the precipice, and into ecstasy’s waiting arms.

She was barely aware when he gripped her hips, held her down as he thrust high and hard one last time. He held rigid for a fractured instant. Then on a long-drawn groan, he collapsed back on the pillows.

Boneless, she sprawled atop him.

Logan lay there, his heart thundering, feeling her heart beating against his chest. Waited for both to slow.

Eventually, he raised a hand, brushed back the rich fall of her hair enough to tilt his head and look down at her face. “I meant what I said. You can’t seriously imagine I won’t be back for you.”

She stirred, but didn’t seem able—didn’t seem to have the strength—to lift her head to look at him. “No matter what you say, once you get back to your normal life …”

Weakly, she waved. “You’ll fit in there, and you’ll realize that’s where you belong.” She paused, then went on, “What can I offer you that you won’t have—and have in greater abundance—there?”

He knew the answers—the many answers. A ready-made family, the home of his dreams. A place he belonged. Her. Those many answers burned his tongue, yet he didn’t give them voice. Other than she herself, he couldn’t make a strong case for any of those things meaning as much as they did to him without revealing his birth—his bastard state.

And that he wasn’t yet ready to mention. He would, would have to, but not yet—not until he had set the stage.

Telling the lady you wanted to marry that you’d been born a bastard, albeit a well-born bastard, was something that needed to be handled with care.

Linnet wasn’t surprised by his silence—what answer could he give? She wasn’t the sort to undervalue herself, but in this she was simply stating fact and clinging to reality by her fingernails.

In order to protect her silly, foolish heart.

She couldn’t afford to believe his almost-promises.

Because her silly, foolish heart had already commited that most wayward of acts and fallen in love with him.

But he didn’t love her; he might desire her physically, but she wasn’t wife material, as he would realize once he returned to England. And he would soon be on his way, and that would be the end of this. Of them.

He shifted, reaching for the covers, dragging the sheets and quilts over them, then settling her more comfortably on him. She sensed an instant of hesitation, then he murmured, “No matter what I say, you’re not going to believe I’ll come back, are you?”

“No.” Spreading one hand over the spot beneath which his heart beat strongly, she pillowed her cheek on the thick muscle of his chest. “I’m a realist.”

He sighed. “You’re a bone-stubborn witch, and I’m going to take great delight in proving you wrong.”

December 15, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

“I. Am. Driving.” Linnet glared at Logan, then, the disputed reins in her hand, stepped back and waved him to the wagon’s seat. “You can sit beside me.”

Logan glared back, but as Edgar and John were coming up the path from the cottage beyond the stable to join them in the yard, he reluctantly climbed onto the wagon’s step, hoisted his bag—the one Muriel had given him to carry his few possessions—into the wagon’s tray behind the seat, then turned and held out his hand for the bag Linnet held.

As if suddenly remembering she had it, she huffed and handed it over. Stowing it beside his, he noted the strange sound as the bag connected with the wagon’s bottom. He wondered what had caused it—what she was carrying that sounded like a scabbarded sword.

Edgar and John came up as he swung around and settled on the seat. They grinned at him, tossed bags similar to Linnet’s into the tray, and climbed up to sit in the bed of the wagon, facing rearward, legs dangling over the tray’s edge.

Logan turned to watch Linnet take her leave of Vincent and Bright. They’d already farewelled Muriel, Buttons, and the children in the house. When he’d come downstairs that morning, Linnet had, in a low-voiced aside, asked him not to mention returning to Mon Coeur to anyone else. Given he knew he’d be waltzing with death in the next days, he’d reluctantly complied.

So the rest of the household thought he was leaving for good, but they’d all, each and every one, pressed him to return.

He’d told them the truth, that he would try.

They’d believed him, at least.

So they wouldn’t be surprised when he turned up again—not like the witch who climbed up to the seat, sat beside him, and flicked the reins.

The four donkeys between the shafts pricked up their ears, then started to trot.

He’d never been in a donkey-drawn vehicle before. Sitting back, he folded his arms and took in the scenery as they rattled along.

They joined the main road that Linnet had told him ran along the island’s south coast, eventually turning north to St. Peter Port. The journey, apparently, would take three hours or more.

A mile or so later, she murmured, “We’re just crossing out of the estate.”

Considering that, he felt a curious tug—both back and ahead at the same time. Now he’d left Mon Coeur, he was impatient to get on and finish his mission so he could return. The compulsion was real, a palpable force inside him.

He glanced at Linnet as she sat alongside, her thick wool cloak wrapped about a dark red gown, kid gloves covering the hands that held the reins, competent and confident as she lightly wielded a whip and kept her donkeys trotting along. He was tempted to ask what she was carrying in her bag, but after that scene in the stable yard, she’d probably bite off his nose before telling him he had no right to pry.

An assertion he might well respond to, yet she did have the reins in her hands. Along with a whip.

Edgar and John wouldn’t appreciate ending in a ditch. The donkeys probably wouldn’t, either.

Aside from all else, he had to mind his tongue because he needed her help to get to Plymouth. That was the principal reason he’d quashed the impulse to filch the reins from her back in the stable yard. He needed her to introduce him to this captain who would, she insisted, be willing to take him to Plymouth, apparently just on her say-so.

He didn’t know that much about oceangoing vessels, yet it seemed odd that such a ship would simply be standing by, her captain amenable to what would almost certainly be a rough Channel crossing for no other reason than to oblige a friend.

But he had to get to Plymouth as soon as possible. Shifting, he looked at Linnet. “If the captain you mentioned, can’t put out immediately, what are the chances of finding another ship?”

She glanced at him, then her lips curved. “Stop worrying. The Esperance will take you—I can guarantee that. But it won’t be tonight.”

Before he could say anything, she tipped her head back and called to the two in the rear, “Edgar, John—I’m thinking the tides will be right for the Esperance to leave harbor tomorrow morning. About eight o’clock?”

“Aye,” John called back. “Eight o’clock’d be about right.”

Linnet glanced at Logan again. “Even if a ship beat out of harbor under oars, the coast is such that she would have to remain under oars, driving against both wind and tide, until she rounded the north tip of the island, and that’s simply too far. So you won’t be able to get out of the harbor, not on any vessel, until tomorrow morning.”

Logan pulled a face. He couldn’t argue with wind and tide.

He did, however, wonder what it was that Linnet was so carefully not telling him.

They reached St. Peter Port a little after noon. The town faced east, overlooking a roughly horseshoe-shaped bay delimited by slender, rocky headlands. A castle and associated buildings lined the right shore, with gun emplacements guarding the narrow channel linking the bay to the sea.

“Castle Cornet,” Linnet informed him. “It’s still garrisoned.”

Logan nodded. Looking down the precipitous, narrow cobbled streets leading to the wharves built below the town, he understood why there was such great demand for donkeys in St. Peter Port.

Yet instead of driving her four beasts and the wagon further down, Linnet turned into the yard of an inn on the high ground above the town proper.

Sticking his head out to see who had arrived, the innkeeper immediately beamed and came to welcome her.

Logan watched while Linnet exchanged greetings, then, turned to include Edgar and John, who had hopped down from the wagon’s tail. Unsure what was planned, Logan listened. When Linnet made arrangements to stable the wagon and donkeys for a few days, he climbed down and hefted both his bag and hers from the tray. He stepped back as three ostlers, summoned by the innkeeper’s bellow, came rushing to take the wagon; once it was pulled from between them, he walked across to join Linnet and the innkeeper just as Edgar and John touched their caps to Linnet and, bags swinging, headed down into the town. Inwardly frowning, Logan watched them go.

Linnet glanced at him, then turned back to the innkeeper. “This is Logan.”

He inclined his head to the innkeeper, pleased she’d remembered his insistence that they say as little about him as possible to others, the better to ensure no Black Cobra minions learned he’d been staying at Mon Coeur.

“I was thinking,” Linnet continued, “that Logan and I would let you feed us luncheon before we get on with our business below.”

“Aye—come you in.” Beaming, the innkeeper waved them to the inn. “The missus’ll be delighted to see you. She’s got pies just out of the oven.”

Linnet smiled and fell into step beside Henri, very conscious of Logan at her back. She always left her donkeys and wagon with Henri and his wife, Martha, until she needed the wagon to fetch goods from below.

“So is the Esperance putting out again?” Henri glanced at her. “The weather’s turned, and there’s storms to the north.”

Linnet smiled easily. It wasn’t surprising that Henri would be curious about what might take the Esperance out in this season. “I expect she’ll be going out for a short run—some unexpected business to attend to over there.”

Reaching the door to the inn, she passed through. Not needing to look at Logan to know he wouldn’t want to invite further questions, she paused and told Henri, “We’ll wait in the parlor for our lunch.”

“Yes, of course. There’s a good fire in there. I’ll send Martha in.”

Collecting Logan with her eyes, Linnet led the way into the neat—and at this time of day, deserted—little parlor.

Logan followed. He had curious questions of his own, but Linnet gave him no more than she’d given the innkeeper. Apparently she had business to attend to in town. What with the innkeeper’s wife popping in and out, and the serving girls, and Linnet’s chatter about the town, and the remarkably delicious pie, the meal was over and he was following her from the inn before he’d learned anything to the point.

Carrying their bags, one in each hand, he followed her down the steep streets, noting the many donkeys and the busy industry of the people all around. They descended past houses built cheek by jowl, propping each other up; all looked well-cared for, neatly painted, the stoops scoured and swept. Further down, they came to shops and businesses of all types. As St. Peter Port was the center for all commerce on the island, it hosted banks and merchants of every conceivable sort.

At last they emerged onto the long quay fronting the harbor. With mooring for ship’s boats, mostly pinnaces and barges, on the seaward side, on the town side the quay was lined with shipping company offices and warehouses.

Sparing barely a glance for the many ships riding at anchor out in the bay, their masts a small forest of bare poles tipping this way, then that, with the swell, Linnet strode confidently on, then turned into the entrance of a solid, prosperous-looking stone building.

Following, Logan glanced at the brass plaque on the wall flanking the entrance. Trevission Ships.

He was still absorbing that as he followed Linnet through the swinging wood-and-glass doors, the glass again announcing Trevission Ships in gilt lettering, with a logo of a ship under sail in a braided circle etched beneath. Halting behind her, wondering if she was related to the owner—perhaps an uncle or cousin—he watched as various clerks, behind desks looked up, saw her, and smiled, and a well-dressed man, a senior manager by his dress and deportment, came hurrying out from an office to bow in greeting.

“Miss Trevission. Delighted to see you, ma’am.”

Linnet smiled. Drawing off her gloves, she inclined her head. “Mr. Dodds. And how are things here?”

“In prime shape, as usual, ma’am—although I must say I’m glad you dropped by. I have a number of issues I would like you to consider.”

“Of course.” She turned, and Dodds bowed her on, then, with just one curious glance at Logan, fell in at her shoulder.

As she reached a pair of handsome wooden doors, Dodds reached around her to open one. “I’ve left some of the papers on your desk.” Dodds stepped back. “Shall I fetch the rest?”

Pausing in the doorway to glance Dodds’s way, Linnet nodded. “Yes. And I also need to know if there’s any cargo the Esperance might take to Plymouth. I find she needs to make a quick trip there, so we might as well make what we can out of it.”

“Of course, ma’am. I’ll bring the cargo register in right away.”

Dodds hurried off to fetch his papers. Linnet turned and stepped into the room. Logan silently followed.

Pushing the door closed, he looked around, and saw confirmation everywhere that, yes, she—Linnet—was indeed the owner of Trevission Ships. The room was dominated by a large, long, rectangular central table, the far end of which she used as her desk. Reaching that end, dropping her gloves by the blotter there, she sat and picked up the papers awaiting her and read.

Setting down their bags, Logan grasped the moment to survey the place—her place, her space. A pair of long windows looked out over the quay to the harbor and beyond. The looming bulk of the castle, also built of stone, sat perched to the right, limiting the view in that direction. Velvet curtains framed the windows. The room was well appointed—richly appointed without being ornate—from the gilt frames of the, paintings on the walls, to the glowing colors of the subjects, to the royal blue carpet beneath the highly polished table, to the fine etched glasses of the lamps upon it.

Numerous multidrawer cabinets lined the paneled walls below the pictures. A rather fine bust of Nelson sat on a pedestal by the door.

Hands sliding into his pockets, Logan finally moved, commencing a slow circuit of the room, studying the paintings. Most were of ships under sail. One along the wall was titled The Esperance, which explained Linnet’s certainty that the captain of that vessel would happily do as she requested. Naturally he would; she owned the ship, a fine-looking, three-masted barque, square-rigged on the fore and middle masts and with an aft sail on the mizzen. The ship was depicted as all but flying over choppy waves. He spent a moment considering the picture, then moved on.

Irresistibly drawn by the portrait that hung in pride of place behind Linnet’s chair. As he passed behind her, she picked up a pen, checked the nib, then flipped open an inkpot, dipped, and signed some of the papers she’d been perusing.

Shipowner at work, Logan wryly thought. His passage to Plymouth would be yet another thing he owed her. Halting to one side of where she sat, his back to the room, he gave his attention to the portrait—to the man who looked down the length of the room. He had a humorous twist to his lips, a devil-may-care glint in his green eyes, and hair the color of burnished red-gold.

Logan read the title, set into the base of the frame, unsurprised to learn that the man was Captain Thomas Trevission, of the Esperance.

Without turning, he murmured, “Your father?”

“Yes.”

He glanced at Linnet; she was still bent over her papers. Turning back to the portrait, he felt a number of pieces of the puzzle that was her and her household fall into place.

Her taking in orphans whose fathers had been sailors, lost presumably from Trevission ships. And all the men attached to the household, including Vincent, Bright, and even the younger lads, now he thought of it, had that distinctive rolling seaman’s gait.

The door opened and Dodds returned, his nose in a ledger. “By way of immediate cargo for the Esperance, Cummins has a shipment waiting that he would, I judge, pay extra to get to Plymouth this side of Christmas.”

Linnet looked up. “That’s precisely the sort of cargo I’m looking for. Send a message to Cummins that if he’s willing to meet our price, and can have his cargo to the ship before we sail, we’ll take it. And you may as well spread the word—any smaller consignments that need to get to Plymouth, we’ll be taking on cargo until the morning tide. They can speak directly to Griffiths.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Dodds noticed the papers she’d signed, smiled. “Excellent. The only other items pending are these three queries.” He offered a sheaf of papers. “If you can tell me how you’d like them handled, I can take care of them.”

Linnet took the papers, rapidly scanned, then handed them back. “We are, as usual, not interested in selling any ships or warehouses to anyone. Please thank Messrs. Cartwright and Collins for their inquiries, and politely decline. As for the query from the Falmouth shipyard …” She paused, then said, “Tell them we’ll be interested in discussing taking their barque, but won’t be commissioning new fleet until March next year, at the earliest.”

Rising, she shook her head. “It never fails to amaze me that they think we might buy a new ship just as the shipping season ends. Anything else?”

“No, ma’am.” Dodds shut the ledger. “That’s it.”

“Good.” Linnet pointed to the ledger. “Get moving on lining up cargo for the Esperance first. The rest can wait.”

“Indeed, ma’am. Right away.” Dodds bowed, spun around, and departed.

Linnet looked at Logan. “We can leave our bags here for the moment. There’s somewhere else I need to go before I can take you to the ship.”

He inclined his head and fell in behind her as she led the way around the table and back out of the door.

Stepping out onto the quay, Linnet turned right. Pulling her cloak, whipping in the rising breeze, more tightly around her, she headed toward the castle. Lengthening his stride, Logan came up alongside her.

When she turned onto the walk leading up to the castle’s gate, his pace faltered. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, exchanging a nod with the guard, who, like all those at Castle Cornet, knew her at least by sight, “I won’t mention your mission.” Raising her voice, she addressed the guard. “Lieutenant Colonel Foxwood?”

“In his office, I believe, miss.”

“Thank you.”

Giving Logan no chance to remonstrate, she swept on, striding confidently through the main doors and on through the echoing corridors.

Logan had to keep pace, wondering, debating. There were too many others around for him to stop her and demand to be told what she was about. But … as he saw a pair of guards flanking a door at the end of the corridor ahead, he gripped her arm and slowed her. Lowering his head closer to hers, he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone of my rank. I’m just a friend of the family you’re helping out by arranging passage to Plymouth.”

She flicked him one of her haughty glances, but said nothing in reply. He released her as they neared the guarded door.

Halting, Linnet smiled at the guards. “Please inquire whether the Lieutenant Colonel can spare me a few minutes.”

With an abbreviated salute, the elder guard nodded, rapped on the panel, then opened the door and looked in. “Miss Trevission, sir, come to see you, if you’ve a moment.”

From his position beside Linnet, Logan heard from within, the room, “Miss Trevission? Yes, of course, man—show her in.”

“You can wait here if you like.”

At the soft whisper, Logan looked down into Linnet’s green eyes. “Not a chance.”

She inclined her head. “In that case, just let me do the talking.” To the guard, she said, “He’s with me.”

The guard obligingly held the door for them both. Following Linnet through, Logan swiftly scanned the room, then focused on the two occupants.

The elder, Foxwood judging by his uniform’s insignia, was lumbering genially to his feet behind a substantial, exceedingly messy desk. Logan instantly pegged him as a career soldier, sent there to see out his last years. The second man, a youthful captain, clearly Foxwood’s aide, stood to one side of the desk, his openly eager and appreciative gaze fixed on Linnet.

As Linnet halted before the desk, Logan grimly took up station at her shoulder, between her and the overeager captain. What the devil was she doing there?

Nodding amiably, Linnet extended her hand. “Good morning, Foxwood.” She ignored the captain.

Beaming, Foxwood reached over the desk to clasp her hand in both of his. “Delighted as always, my dear. Please, do have a seat.”

Foxwood sent an inquiring gaze at Logan. Mindful of Linnet’s instructions, he didn’t respond.

Neither did she. “No, thank you. I merely dropped by to inform you that the Esperance will be putting out tomorrow morning, bound for Plymouth. A quick round trip, but as there’s cargo to be delivered, and possibly to be brought back, it might be a few days before she returns.”

“Indeed, my dear? I wouldn’t have thought the weather …” Foxwood trailed off, smiled. “But you would know more about such matters than I, so I’ll wish you Godspeed and safe journey.”

Linnet inclined her head, briskly took her leave—still ignoring the all-but-adoring young captain—then turned and led the way out. Puzzled, with a polite nod to Foxwood, Logan followed her.

He waited until they were out of the castle to ask, “What was that about?”

“Preserving the courtesies.”

After a moment, he asked, “What is there in this that I’m missing?”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “You need to get to Plymouth—I’m arranging it. Don’t rock my boat.”

Somewhat grimly, increasingly convinced he was not in possession of all the relevant facts but unable to guess what it was he didn’t know, he followed her back to the Trevission offices, where he reclaimed their bags and Dodds gave her an update on cargo both for the run to Plymouth and the return trip, then, once again, they walked out onto the quay. This time Linnet turned left.

Hefting their bags, he followed. When he’d picked up her bag, he’d again felt the shift of something very like a scabbarded sword. It was an item with which he was so familiar that his senses immediately identified it. Had the bag belonged to any other female, he would have dismissed the notion as nonsensical and asked what it was that had confused his senses … only this was Linnet, and he didn’t think his senses were confused.

His gaze locked on her back, he was trying to think of some innocent way to phrase his query—something that wouldn’t result in her tartly telling him that what she chose to carry was none of his business—when his feet hit the thick wooden planks of the wharf.

He looked around, surveying the vessels, most of which were anchored out in the harbor. He searched for the ship in the picture, but many of the ships were three-masted barques, and the painting had been from too great a distance to provide identifying details.

Linnet continued to stride along. He was about to ask her to point out the Esperance when two sailors leaning on the side of a vessel hailed her—not as Miss Trevission but as something else Trevission. With the quickening breeze whipping their words away, Logan didn’t catch what title they’d used, but Linnet smiled and raised her hand. And continued marching on, briskly turning left to continue down a pier along which several larger vessels were berthed.

The pier was busy, with sailors and navvies loading and unloading holds. Several more sailors saw Linnet and waved, but none again hailed her. At her heels, Logan realized she had to be making for the last ship in the line. Looking ahead, he saw a sleek, undoubtedly swift three-masted barque that, from the activity on deck, had come in to the pier only minutes before.

Sure enough, when they stepped free of the chaos before the ship one berth in, and into the relatively clear space alongside the sleek barque, he saw the name stenciled on the prow—it was indeed the Esperance.

The name, he knew, meant “hope” and “expectation” in French, the base language of Guernais, the patois of the island. Linnet strode straight for the gangplank; he followed, trusting her to lead him safely while his gaze drank in the sight of her ship.

Like her owner, the ship was a beauty. Not new—all the woodwork had gained that glowing patina of lovingly tended oak—yet she was clearly designed for both power and speed. With lines more pared down, more sculpted, than the other barques around her, she sat lightly on the waves, gracefully riding the harbor swell, a princess among the bourgeoisie.

Very like her owner.

Linnet swung onto the gangplank and climbed swiftly up, not even bothering to reach for the rope rail. Closing the distance between them, Logan was directly behind her when, without waiting for any assistance, she jumped lightly down to the deck.

“Ahoy, Capt’n!” A large sailor dropped down the ladder from the stern deck and snapped off a jaunty salute.

For an instant, everything in Logan stilled, then he stepped, slowly, down to the deck, and turned to stare at Linnet.

Who, ignoring him, returned the salute. “Good afternoon, Mr. Griffiths.”

“Indeed it is, ma’am, if what I hear is true.” Griffiths halted before her, beaming fit to burst. “Welcome aboard, ma’am. Edgar and John seem to think we’re off somewhere.”

Nine

Logan stared at Linnet in increasing horror as she grinned at Griffiths.

“Yes, we’re heading out.” She waved at Logan. “Major Monteith must reach Plymouth urgently, and I’ve volunteered to take him.”

She started toward the rear hatch; Griffiths fell in beside her. Logan followed, still struggling to take it in—feeling very much as if he’d been hit over the head again.

“We’ll go out on the morning tide,” Linnet continued. “Please summon the crew and have everything made ready. And Dodds said Cummins has cargo for us to take, and there may be more as well. If they have it here in time to load before the tide turns, I’ve agreed to take it—I told Dodds to have the merchants report direct to you.”

“Aye, ma’am. We’ll have all ready to sail on the tide.” From the corner of his eye, Griffiths was eyeing Logan in the same measuring manner as Edgar, John, and the men at the house had.

“Excellent.” Pausing by the companionway hatch, Linnet glanced at Logan. “Major Monteith will have the cabin next to mine. We’ll be spending the night on board. Tell Jimmy and Cook we’ll have dinner in my cabin.” She turned to go down.

“One moment.” Logan was still grappling with the news that Linnet—Linnet—was the captain of the Esperance, but … he fixed his gaze on her face as she turned back, brows rising a touch haughtily. “There’s something I intended to tell the captain—whichever captain you inveigled to ferry me across the Channel.” Apparently her; every instinct rebeled at the thought. His lips thinned. “It’s possible we’ll meet resistance somewhere between here and Plymouth.”

She frowned. “From the cultists chasing you?”

“They’re not skilled sailors, but they have deep pockets, enough to hire captains and crews who can sail and are willing to engage, even with a peaceable vessel.” He glanced at Griffiths, who he took to be her first mate. “You can’t count on them behaving rationally—they’re dangerous because you simply can’t predict to what extent they’ll go to seize what they want.”

“And they want you?” Griffiths asked, eyes narrowing.

“They want the document I’m carrying,” Logan replied. “It’s crucial evidence to bring down a villain—an Englishman who’s been wreaking havoc in India—and he, of course, doesn’t want it to reach the authorities.”

Griffiths snorted, looked at Linnet. “Well, he won’t catch the Esperance, that’s for certain.”

She nodded. “Give the orders and have the crew armed and ready to sail by dawn. We’ll put out the instant the tide turns—the others will give way to us. What winds are expected?”

“For Plymouth, fair. We should be able to catch a good breeze once we’re round the point.”

“Good.” Linnet stepped through the hatch. “I’ll be below. Make sure the others report as they come aboard—from the sounds of it, we’ll want a full complement for this trip.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Logan stood and watched her descend. He wanted to put a halt to the insanity; just the thought of her facing cultists made his gut clench sickeningly. But … how to do that, without trampling on her toes—or, worse, her pride? Still wrestling with the ramifications of this latest twist in who and what she was, feeling strangely helpless as if awash on a tide he couldn’t control, he hoisted their bags and followed her down the narrow stairs, then along the tight corridor to the cabin door through which she’d passed.

Ducking, he stepped through the open door. Filling the space across the stern, the cabin was large and, like her office on the quay, beautifully appointed, all polished oak paneling and furniture, the latter anchored to the floor. To one side stood a desk, with an admiral’s chair behind it and two smaller chairs facing it. In the center of the room was a round table, with bench seats attached, while in the far corner a good-sized bed was built out from the wall, with storage below and racks above. A sea chest sat at the foot of the bed, with an armoire along the wall, while the inner wall played host to a built-in washstand with every necessary amenity.

A lamp was set into the table’s center; there were holders for cups and candlesticks at suitable positions around the room.

It was the best, most comfortable cabin Logan had ever seen.

Tossing her cloak on the bed, Linnet started pulling pins from her hair. “Shut the door—and I’ll have my bag.”

Pushing the door closed, Logan set down his bag, then crossed the cabin and put hers on the bed. With her hair loose, tumbling about her shoulders, she set her pins down, opened the bag, rummaged inside, and drew out a long-sleeved white shirt. Nudging Logan aside, she went to the sea chest—from there she pulled out a pair of leather breeches, a waistcoat, and a coat.

Logan blinked. When she tossed the clothes on the bed, he reached out and touched the breeches—and found the fawn leather butter-soft. The image taking shape in his mind did not bode well. “Linnet—”

“Help me with these laces.” She gave him her back. He frowned. Muttered, “This must be what King Canute felt like.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” He swiftly undid the laces while evaluating his options. “Linnet—I appreciate all you’ve done and are doing for me, but …” Having freed the laces, he stepped back, sat on one of the bench seats, his back to the table. Leaned his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands the better to keep them from her. Locking his gaze on her face as she glanced inquiringly at him, he said, “Frankly, I’d be much happier getting some other ship.”

She considered him for a moment, then smiled, almost secretively, and stripped off her gown. “No, you wouldn’t be. Happier, that is. Let me tell you why.”

He frowned, found himself watching in curious fascination as she pulled off her shift, then, drawing a long linen band from her bag, set about binding her breasts. He knew women sometimes did that, for hard riding or similar violent exercise … shaking off the distraction, he forced his gaze back to her face. Recalled her last words. “So tell me.”

Her faint smile suggested she knew very well to where his mind had wandered. But then she grew serious. “At this moment, completing your mission is your highest priority, and rightly so. It’s important—the outcome will be far-reaching, affecting many lives in a positive way. The choices you make must be those that give your mission the best chance of succeeding—and if that means you must put personal feelings aside, then that’s what you’ll do.” Tying off the band beneath her left breast, she met his eyes. “You’re that sort of man.”

Lips thinning, he couldn’t disagree, but … “Be that as it may, there’s plenty of ships in the harbor here, and surely one of them—”

“No.” She pulled on the shirt; it billowed about her slender arms. Settling the neckline, then lacing it, she continued, “Of all the ships in the harbor, the Esperance represents your, best chance by far of reaching Plymouth safely.” Toeing off her half boots, she picked up the soft breeches and stepped into them. Tucking in the long tails of the shirt, she buttoned the waistband. “And contrary to what you’re imagining, the prospect of pursuit and attack, of action, only makes that more so.”

Logan felt adrift, cut free of the moment again. The soft leather clung lovingly to her long legs. As she shrugged into the waistcoat, buttoned it, then pulled on the loose captain’s coat, all he could think was that the masculine attire only made her look more intensely feminine.

More blatantly female.

Also more dangerous.

“We have superior capability, unmatched speed, and a highly experienced crew.” She went to the armoire, reached inside, and drew out a pair of long boots. Pausing to button the closures at the ends of the breeches’ legs, she glanced at him. “Believe me, if that weren’t so, if I didn’t believe the Esperance was the best ship for your mission …”

Stepping into the boots—high boots in gleaming black leather that reached above her knees—she tugged and stamped, then, straightening, looked him in the eye. “If I didn’t know the Esperance was the safest ship for you to take, I’d set aside my own feelings and find you the best ship and captain, and twist his arm to make him take you instead.”

Reaching up, Linnet parted her hair, then set about swiftly plaiting it. “As matters stand, however, you’re going to have to accept that, in this, I know best, and, judged on all the criteria that matter, the Esperance is the best ship to take you and your letter to Plymouth.”

Eyes narrowed, his face like stone, Logan sat and watched her; she could all but see him searching for a way to counter her arguments. Tying off her braids, she walked to the small mirror set in the armoire door and wound the plaits coronetstyle about her head, then set about pinning them.

In the mirror, she glanced at Logan, studied his face.

She’d known he’d be difficult over her being there, captaining the ship, which was why she’d avoided telling him, had been careful to let no hint fall prematurely. Yet she’d told him the truth; the Esperance with her at the helm was his best chance of reaching Plymouth safely—there was not one soul on Guernsey who wouldn’t tell him the same.

Of course, she’d yet to divulge the most pertinent peculiarity of the Esperance, the one that sealed the argument beyond doubt, but some niggling need wanted him to accept her word, her judgment—to understand and acknowledge that in this arena she not only knew best but was also commander enough to make the right decision with regard to his mission and his safety. Her decision to take him on the Esperance was based on what was right, what should be, not on a personal whim.

Her hair secure, she reached into the armoire and retrieved her captain’s hat with its jaunty cockade, then returned to the bed to pull a kerchief from her bag and knot it about her throat.

Then she reached into her bag and drew out her sheathed cutlass.

Instantly sensed Logan’s tension jump.

“Yes, I can use it.” Pushing back her coat, she slung the leather belt about her hips. Buckling it, she looked up and met Logan’s eyes. “How do you think I could read your wound so accurately? I was right, wasn’t I?”

The question distracted him, diverted his attention as he thought back, then, with obvious reluctance, lips tightening, he nodded. “Yes.”

A tap on the door had them both glancing that way. “Come!” she called.

The door opened and her cabin boy, Jimmy, poked his head around it. “All right here, Capt’n?”

“Yes.” She could never keep back her smile, not with Jimmy. “How’s things above?”

“All hands have reported for duty. Mr. Griffiths has everyone scurrying. Truth is, we’d’a been ready to sail tonight, if the tides were right, but they aren’t, so we’ll just have to wait ‘til tomorra, but we’re all keen as ever to get out. Wasn’t expecting any adventure this late in the year—like a Christmas present, it is.”

“I dare say.” Jimmy had been throwing curious glances at Logan. Linnet waved at him. “This is Major Monteith, and he, or more correctly his mission, is the reason we’re doing this dash to Plymouth, so it’s he you should thank.”

Jimmy grinned at Logan, bobbed his head. “Major. You won’t hear any grumbles from the crew. It’s a pleasure to be of service.”

Logan, not quite succeeding in keeping his lips straight, inclined his head. “Pleased to be of service in return.”

“Jimmy—the major will use the cabin next door, and we’ll dine here this evening. Usual time. And now …” Collecting Logan with her gaze, Linnet picked up her hat and started for the door. “I’m going to do a round of the decks.”

Logan followed her up, trailed her as she circled the decks. Listened as sailor after sailor hailed her as “Capt’n,” the light in their eyes, the expressions on their faces, testifying to their eagerness and the respect and confidence they had in her as their leader. He’d seen successful generals who’d inspired less devotion.

And the more he listened to her question each man about his family, about his home or whichever of the island’s small communities he hailed from, the more he saw of her eagle eye and her attention to detail, the more he heard of her quick, decisive orders, the more he understood that, even if she’d in some ways inherited the rank from her father, the respect that came with it in such abundance was something she herself had gained.

Yet just how that had come about—how she had risen to fill such a position in such a way—mystified him.

He got no real chance to pursue the issue when, with night shrouding the now quiet ship, they repaired to her cabin to sit around her table and dine; Jimmy was constantly in and out, often standing to attention behind Linnet’s chair and, chatting nineteen to the dozen, mostly filling Linnet in on the latest gossip among the crew.

Logan quickly realized that Jimmy saw no need to censor the subjects on which he reported on the grounds Linnet was female.

The more Logan thought of it, the more he suspected that her crew saw her as … not male, definitely not that, but as a different category of female, one demonstrably capable of leading them.

Her comparisons between herself and Queen Elizabeth seemed even more apt.

After dinner, he followed her up on deck, again trailing behind her as in the weak moonlight she checked this rope, that furled sail. Finding themselves at last alone, he murmured, “I thought sailors were superstitious about having women on board.”

She laughed. Reaching the prow, she swung around, hitched a hip on a coil of rope, and looked up at him. Studied him through the shadows, then faintly smiled. “Most of the crew, certainly those years older than I, have sailed with me since I was a child. The Esperance usually does relatively short trips, so my father often brought me along.” She glanced around, affection in her face. “I ran wild on this ship as a toddler, as a young girl. And from when my mother died—I was eleven at the time—I sailed on every voyage.” She met his eyes. “I was even on board when we assisted with the evacuation at Corunna.”

Logan shifted to lean against the side, studying her in return. “So you were a seaman’s brat, and when your father died, you inherited his captaincy?”

“More or less. The rank is, of course, honorary, but you won’t find anyone in Guernsey quibbling.” Her lips twisted wryly. “Just as no one, not any harbor master here or in England, or even in France, or any other maritime authority, would question my right to take the helm even though, as a female, I can’t hold a master’s ticket.” She tipped her head, back along the ship. “There’s two others aboard with master’s tickets who could captain the ship, but they’re content to leave that to me. Experience tells, and on the sea there’s much less tolerance of mistakes.”

How far had she ranged? Had she seen any naval actions? How much time did she spend aboard in any year? Did the Esperance ever put to sea without her? Logan asked his questions and she answered, directly, honestly.

The confirmation that she had seen real action, that yes, she’d wielded her cutlass and killed when necessary, was both reassurance and horror combined, although the information that she’d carried her sword for more than a decade provided some relief.

By the time his curiosity was satisfied, he had a much better understanding of who she was, and how she had come to be Captain L. Trevission, owner and captain of the Esperance.

As those mounting the nightwatch came up on deck, Linnet rose, quirked a brow at Logan. “Are you feeling more resigned to letting me take you to Plymouth?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if only then realizing that easing his mind had been her intention, then he looked across the deck to where most of the other larger ships dipped and swayed in the weak moonlight. “I suppose I am.” He looked back at her. “If you’re the fastest, the surest … then I suspect I should stop arguing and thank you.”

Lips curving, she inclined her head regally. “Indeed.” Glancing pointedly at the men on watch, she looked at him, smiled. “You can thank me below.”

She led the way, feeling deliciously brazen. He pushed away from the side and followed without a word. Down the companionway stairs, along the narrow corridor and into her cabin.

He shut the door, turned, and she was on him, stretching up, winding her arms about his neck and pushing him back against the wooden panel. She pressed her lips to his, felt his, hands fasten about her waist. She kissed him boldly, determined to keep the reins, to remain in control, to have him offer his thanks under her direction.

This was their last night together. Her last night with him, almost certainly forever. She would do her duty and get him to Plymouth tomorrow; by the time night fell again, he would be gone from her life. She was sure that was the way fate would have their liaison end—he would go, and she would never see him again.

Blindly reaching with one hand, she fumbled, found the bolt on the door, and slid it home. Then she framed Logan’s face and kissed him, kissed him with all the passion he’d shown her she harbored in her soul.

How? Where? She was struggling to think when, in the blink of an eye, in one surging heartbeat, he took over the kiss.

Simply filched the reins from her grasp—as he hadn’t that morning in the stable yard.

As he steered her back, back, until the back of her thighs hit the edge of her desk, she fought to regain the ascendancy, their battlefield the ravenous mating of mouths their simple kiss had become—but there he held the upper hand. Experience told.

Wrenching back from the kiss, eyes closed, she tipped her head back, gasped, “My ship. I’m captain here.”

“But I’m the captain’s lover.” As if to prove the point, he closed one hard hand possessively over her bound breast, palpating, then rubbing his thumb over her tightly furled nipple. “Regardless”—wrapping his other hand about her thigh, he eased her hips up and back onto the desktop—”last night was yours.” He caught her gaze, boldly pushed his hand between her thighs and through the buttery soft leather, rubbed her there. “Tonight’s mine. Tonight I get to dictate. Tonight I get to have you my way.”

His head swooped and his lips came down on hers and he captured her again, captured her wits and her senses and waltzed them into the fire.

Into the heat she’d come to know so well, into the flames she’d learned to delight in. One hand at her breast, the other working between her thighs, he pushed her on until she was panting and desperate, then he flicked open the buttons at her waist, worked his hand inside her breeches, and his fingers found her. Stroked, then delved, then penetrated her.

His tongue filling her mouth, his hand at her breast, his fingers buried in her body, he sent her spinning, dizzyingly rapidly, over the edge into ecstasy.

Wits whirling, she slumped back, bracing her arms on the desk behind her. Eyes closed, head hanging back, she struggled to breathe, to think, to anticipate. Yet as he drew his fingers slowly from her sheath, all she could think about was having him replace them with his erection. She wanted that, ached for it, as if she were hollow inside. But how? Where? Her breeches were too tight—she needed to get them off before—

One hand on her midriff, he pushed her down, until she gave up and fell on her back across the desk. He worked her breeches down to her knees. She felt the cool wood, the ridges of the desk, against her bare bottom. Then he grasped her knees, pushed them up and as wide as the breeches would allow and bent to taste her.

Thoroughly.

Until she lost her breath so completely that she could only sob and wordlessly beg, entreat, implore. Hands clenching tight in his black hair, she arched helplessly beneath his too-knowing ministrations. Desperately dragged in a breath. “For God’s sake, Logan—just fill me. Please …”

He obliged, but with his tongue, stroking so deeply, so roughly that she climaxed in a shattering, shuddering rush of sharply glittering pleasure.

As it waned, she only felt emptier still.

Cracking open her lids, she focused on his face, took in his expression of pure masculine gloating as, straightening, he looked down at her. His slow smile stated he knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed, and how to deliver it.

“Up.” Grasping her hands, he pulled her up and off the desk, steadied her when she wobbled, then turned her and steered her, guiding her unsteady steps toward the table. It was difficult to walk with her breeches about her knees, but before she could think to do anything about it, his hands tightened about her hips and he halted her. “Lean forward and grip the edge of the table.”

She did, her knees against the edge of the bench built out from the table’s base.

Even as the vulnerability of her position registered, she felt his hands roam her bare bottom, sending sensation and dewed heat washing beneath her skin, then his boots bracketed hers, keeping her feet, her braced legs together. His splayed hands caressed slowly, savoringly, upward over her hips, pushing her shirt and her chemise up over her waist, exposing even more of her, then one hand settled heavily over the back of her waist while the other swept down and away.

Her heart was still cantering, hadn’t slowed from before. Anticipation kicked it into a full-blown gallop.

She’d barely started to work out what he planned, hadn’t truly caught her breath, when she felt the thick rod of his erection push into the hollow between her thighs, felt the marble head nudge between her folds—and he thrust home, pushing her forward, onto her toes, making her breath stutter, her hands grip tight.

He withdrew and thrust in again and she nearly mewled with pleasure. He held her hips steady and filled her repeatedly. She could feel his groin meeting the smooth skin of her bottom, feel the rasp of crinkly hair, the evocative pressure of his balls against the backs of her thighs. She clung to the table, head bowing as the sensation of him filling her over and over, deeper and yet deeper, rolled over and through her, and claimed her mind.

His hips pumped powerfully in a primal beat. He reached around her, hands working, then she felt a tug. He leaned, forward, pushed deeper into her. A darkly whispered order in her ear had her complying by releasing one clenched hand, then the other, letting him strip off her coat and waistcoat, then reaching beneath her shirt, he loosened her bands, drew them down, and closed his hands about her breasts, screened only by her fine chemise.

He kneaded, filled his hands and played, possessed, while his body possessed hers in the most flagrant way.

Then he leaned closer yet, one hand leaving her breast to skate down her front, to stroke her curls, then reach further and stroke her, then cup her there, steadying her as he changed the angle and pushed her on.

She shook her head in desperation, started rocking her hips, riding to his rhythm.

Glorying in the sensations that crashed through her as he rode her deeply, thoroughly, unrelentingly, until she shattered again. Came apart on a cry she fought desperately to smother.

Felt her legs, her arms, fail, heard his deep, dark chuckle as he caught her against him, held her to him, still sunk in her body, hard and full.

She felt a moment’s indignation that he wasn’t as desperate as she.

But she knew him, his ways, well enough by now to know that he would seek his own release only after reducing her to boneless helplessness with bout after bout of blinding ecstasy.

Her wits were so enthralled in glory she was only distantly aware of him shifting her bands, unpicking the knot, then unwinding them.

Then he drew off her chemise, withdrew from her, shuffled her the short distance to her bed, and tipped her onto it.

She could barely summon the strength to lift her lids, and through her lashes look up at him. He stood for an instant looking down at her, his smile holding equal measures of primitive possession, unalloyed pleasure, and simple content.

The latter clutched at her heart, but she pushed it aside. He would undoubtedly be just as content with some other woman, some other lady, later. After.

Logan couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her, his fierce captain, sprawled mostly naked on her bed, her skin rosy, flushed with sated desire, the marks of his possession showing faintly on the fine skin of her breasts and hips. He would probably mark her more before the night was out, but as he’d informed her, this was his night, his way.

He saw the glint of green beneath her lashes. Before she could think to say anything, he reached down and tugged off her boots, rolled down her stockings, and drew off her breeches.

Leaving her totally naked, still sprawled, letting him look his fill as he swiftly dispensed with his own clothes, then, naked, let his body down on hers, covering her, with one hard thrust mounting her, feeling her arch instinctively beneath him, then wriggle to more comfortably accommodate his harder bones, his different angles.

Clamping one hand about the worked head of the bed where it attached to the wall, he looked down at her beneath him and let the reins fall, let his body surge.

Again and again, he moved powerfully over her, thrusting deeply into her, smoothly, rhythmically, taking her, possessing her. Imprinting the feel of him deep within her.

He didn’t stop when she dragged in a huge breath, thrust a little faster as she raised her arms, ran her hands down his sides, over his back, then helplessly clung.

And started riding with him, her body undulating beneath his, actively receiving him.

Giving him all, everything he wanted.

All of her, every last gasp, every moment of passion he wrung from her. With his free hand, he reached down and gripped her thigh, raised it. She lifted it further, wrapped that leg, then the other, around his hips, opening herself even more.

So he could fill her even more deeply, take even more of, her luscious heat, bathe even more deeply in her scalding glory.

Eyes closing, he rode on, harder, ever more powerfully pushing her on. He could feel his grip on reality fracturing, feel the siren call of her body as it tightened around his, inexorably racking the wheel of passion to the last degree.

He raised his free hand, blindly searched and found her face, framed it, then bent his head and sank into her mouth. Filled it to the same primal rhythm with which he filled her sheath.

Swallowed her scream as she climaxed beneath him, as bucking and straining she fractured, and ecstasy took her, racked her, raked her.

As she pulled him with her, hands clutching, her sheath a velvet fist clamping around him until he surrendered, until, on a long, hoarse groan, one she drank in, he gave himself to her.

Sometime later, Linnet awoke, immediately reassured by the weight of the heavily muscled leg entwined with hers, by the warmth of the hard chest wedged beside hers. Opening her eyes, she saw Logan propped on one arm alongside her. The narrow bed forced him to lie half over her—no bad thing in her opinion.

The moonlight had strengthened, pouring through the stern portholes to bathe his face, limning the chiseled angles in silver. Revealing his expression, the firm set of his lips, but drowning his blue eyes in shadows.

A long moment passed, then he said, his voice deep, low, but definite, “I meant what I said. I can’t believe you can conceive of anything in this world powerful enough to make me give you up. Make me not return. Only death, or something close to it, will stop me coming back for you.”

She said nothing; there seemed nothing she could say. In this, their views were diametrically opposed, and no amount of his loving was going to change that. But … “I believe you believe that.” She had to allow him that. “I don’t think you’re, just saying it, a sop to your conscience or mine. But—and yes, there is a but—I don’t have your faith that, once back in your real world, away from my world, you’ll still see things the same way.”

The twisting of his lips told her clearly what he thought of her lack of faith, her inability to believe. But after searching her face for a moment more, he shifted, then slumped over her shoulder, laid his arm across her, holding her half beneath him.

If their minds weren’t in accord, their bodies were. Sleep drifted over them, inexorably drew them down.

Before it captured them completely, he murmured, his voice a dark, faintly Scottish rumble by her ear, “One of us is wrong. Bone-stubborn witch that you are, it’s going to be glorious when you realize it’s you.”

Linnet fell asleep smiling.

Close to midnight

Shrewton House, London

Daniel strode into the bedroom he and Alex had been sharing, brushing lingering snowflakes from his coat. By the flickering firelight, he saw Alex rise to prop in the bed, brows arching in question.

Closing the door, Daniel headed for the bed. “The snow’s coming down heavily. I’d forgotten how wet snow here is. The roads are slush.”

“I thought you and dear Roderick were off to deal with Hamilton in Surrey.”

Daniel grimaced, and sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “So we’d thought, but by the time we reached the area, he—or those with him, guards like Delborough had, according to the few of ours left to tell the tale—had removed those of our men sent to trail their party, and before you lose your temper, the party split into four, so there were only two, men at most following any group.” Boots off, he stood and stripped off his coat. “With our followers dispatched, the devil and his henchmen went to ground. But all is not lost.”

Tossing his coat aside, he started on his waistcoat. “Roderick and I managed to track our men well enough to get a reasonable idea of the area in which Hamilton’s bolt-hole is. We’ve left men enough to trail him whichever way he runs, and they’ll send word as soon as he does.”

“Hmm.” Alex resettled in the bed. “I still think it’s close to certain he’ll head in the same direction—toward the same ultimate goal—as Delborough. Somewhere in Cambridgeshire, northern Suffolk, or Norfolk, to whoever is the puppetmaster pulling all their strings.”

Daniel tugged his shirt from his breeches. “Did you have any luck with finding a new base closer to the action?”

“Yes. Creighton proved most useful. From his description, the house he’s found in Bury St. Edmunds will be just the thing. I’ve organized for our removal there tomorrow.”

Undoing his breeches, Daniel nodded. “You’ve sent word to all our scattered commanders?”

“I have. I thought it best to get the word out before the weather closed in.”

“So what’s happened with Delborough?”

“Larkins is, apparently, confident his little thief is terrified enough to deliver Delborough’s scroll-holder to him—he seems very sure, but I’d rather Roderick went up there tomorrow to make certain nothing goes amiss.” Alex rolled over as Daniel lifted the pale blue silk covers and climbed into the bed. “As for Monteith and Carstairs, we’ve had no further news.”

“With any luck, both are already dead.”

Alex grimaced. “Much as I’d like to believe that … Delborough and Hamilton, too, were supposed to be dead by now. Yet they live, and still have their scroll-holders, and what’s more, are steadily getting closer to their goal—wherever that is. Regardless, our cultists are having a harder, time of it here in England. Not only do they stand out, but they’re also having difficulty comprehending that they can’t simply kill, torture, and intimidate as they do at home in India.”

“Sadly true. And they can’t gain access to places like Grillon’s.” Daniel turned to Alex, smiled through the shadows. “I suspect we might have to take a hand ourselves.” His smile widened. “I know how much killing distresses you, m’dear, but you’ll simply have to grin and bear it.”

Alex laughed and reached for Daniel. “I will. For you, I will. Still, I just hope we’ve brought enough assassins to assist.”

Ten

December 16, 1822
St. Peter Port, Guernsey

The day was overcast, dense clouds in myriad shades of gray blocking out the weak sun. A cold wind strafed low over the sea, sending whipped gray-green waves spraying in plumes over the rocky breakwater.

Standing beside Linnet at the helm, with the wind raking chill fingers through his hair, Logan watched the gun emplacements of Castle Cornet slide away to starboard as, under limited sail, the Esperance rode the tide out of the harbor.

The Channel swell lifted the prow high. Linnet held the wheel, held course, her gaze locked on the breakwater to port. The instant the stern cleared the line of tumbled rocks, she snapped out orders, relayed by her bosun down on the main deck. Sailors leapt to obey, many already hanging in the rigging above. Her gaze now following their movements, as more sails unfurled, Linnet turned the wheel, hand over hand, and steady and sure, the Esperance came around.

As the prow came onto the heading she wanted, she called out more orders, setting sail to run north along the island’s coast. Once they rounded the northern headland, she’d turn northwest for Plymouth.

Sensing the sheer power of the ship beneath his feet, of wind and waves expertly harnessed, Logan looked up, admiring the taut sails, square-rigged on the fore and main masts. At the top of the main mast, the Guernsey flag flapped and snapped in the stiff breeze.

Beside him, Linnet called out another order, and a young sailor dashed to the mizzenmast. Logan watched him operate the lines of some other flag; shading his eyes, he looked up to see … squinted. Blinked and looked again.

He was army, not navy, yet he recognized one of the various Royal Navy ensigns now flapping high above the Esperance’s deck.

Stupified, he turned to Linnet, gestured. “What the devil does that mean?”

She grinned, corrected the wheel a trifle, then handed it over to Griffiths. “Straight north, then northwest. We’ll take the most direct route unless we see anything that suggests otherwise.”

Griffiths nodded and settled behind the wheel.

Turning to Logan, Linnet waved him to the starboard side of the stern deck. “That”—with her head she indicated the ensign above—”is the strongest plank in the argument that the Esperance is the best ship to carry you to Plymouth.”

Logan stared at the ensign, then looked at her. “I don’t understand. How can the Esperance still be sailing under a Letter of Marque, much less with you as captain?”

Leaning on the stern railing, looking out over their wake, Linnet smiled. “The Trevission family has held an extant Letter of Marque for literally centuries.” She cast Logan a glance. “Englishmen forget that the islanders are more allied to the English Crown than they are. We—the Channel Islands—have been part of the Duchy of Normandy for untold centuries, and still are—your King is our Duke. We’re a property of the English Crown, not of the British state. As such, we’ve fought the French for just as long, if not longer. We’ve been a bastion against the French, and the Spanish, too, in centuries past, and in more recent, times through the Peninsula Wars, we played a crucial part in England’s defense, specifically in imposing naval supremacy.

“As I mentioned earlier, the Esperance—this version of her, there have been four—played a role in the evacuation of Corunna. Later we guarded your troop ships when the army returned. The Guernsey merchant fleet in particular has always provided a bulwark against direct attack on the Channel coast from any of the ports in Brittany, all the way to Cherbourg. And because we’re usually out and about, traveling the western reaches of the Channel, we’ve often provided early warning of any attack from further afield, to the west and south. Without us patrolling those waters, covering so many of the sea lanes, Plymouth and Falmouth wouldn’t have been able to concentrate their fleets on the Channel itself, on discouraging Napoleon from launching his invasion from Boulogne, and then later supplying and protecting the army when you returned for Waterloo.”

She met Logan’s eyes. “English naval dominance owes no small debt to the merchant ships of Guernsey. And the commanders at Castle Cornet, and at Plymouth and Falmouth, know it.”

“Which explains why you informed the castle before sailing—your courtesy call to Foxwood.” Logan studied her face, saw the passion behind the history. “Does the Admiralty know that Captain Trevission of the Esperance is a woman?”

Her lips twisted in a cynical smile. “They do, but you would, I suspect, never get them to admit it. Not in any way.”

He considered, then said, “What you’ve told me explains why your family held a Letter of Marque until your father died. What it doesn’t explain is why it was renewed after his death, presumably with you as holder, and why it’s still in force so long after the end of the war.” He glanced up, then looked back at her. “I’m assuming you are legally entitled to fly that?”

She chuckled and turned, leaning back against the rail to, look up at the ensign. “Yes, indeed—I’m fully entitled to claim the right, might, and protection of the Royal Navy.” She met his eyes. “Which is why the Esperance sailing under marque is the perfect vessel to carry you to Plymouth. With that ensign flying up there, any captain would have to have rocks in his head to even challenge us.”

Logan shook his head. “I can’t argue that, not anymore, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”

Linnet met his eyes, then looked ahead, along the ship. “My father died in ‘13. I was seventeen. You know how things were in the Peninsula at that time—you were there. The navy desperately needed the Esperance sailing, and more, sailing under marque—she was, still is, the fastest ship of her size in these waters, the best armed, most agile, and her crew the most experienced and best trained. The navy couldn’t afford to lose the Esperance, not at that juncture. The Admiralty received urgent petitions from the island, as well as the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth.

“No doubt the Admiralty sputtered and paled, but the admirals of the fleets and the then-commander at Castle Cornet all knew me. They knew I’d been trained to sail the Esperance by my father, that I could, and frequently did, take command. They knew I’d already seen more battles than most of their own captains, that I’d been sailing these waters since I could stand.” She glanced at Logan, smiled cynically again. “Basically the Admiralty had no choice. They renewed the Letter of Marque exactly as it had been for centuries—to Captain Trevission of the Esperance.

“So I took over in my father’s place, and the Esperance continued sailing, patrolling, fighting the French. Mostly to hold them at bay. Other than certain special missions, our role was to ensure no speedy French frigate tried to spy on Plymouth or Falmouth, and then race home to report. As you might imagine, the Esperance is well known. The instant any French frigate lays eyes on us, it piles on sail and flees.”

She paused, eyes instinctively checking the sails, the, wind, the waves. “As to why the Letter of Marque is still in effect, the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth recommended it remain in effect permanently, essentially because they have no faith that, should their need of the Esperance’s services arise again, they’ll be able to convince the Admiralty to issue a new letter to a female captain—at least not quickly enough.”

Pushing away from the rail, studying the sails, she strode to the forward rail of the stern deck and called a sail change. Again, the crew sprang instantly to carry out the order. After considering the result, she spoke with Griffiths, then, leaving him with the wheel, swung down the ladder to the main deck. Logan followed more slowly as she strolled to the prow, looking over the waves as she went, constantly checking the breeze and the sails above, reading the wind and the sky.

It was as if, now they were out on the sea, it called to her. She seemed to have some connection with the elements that commanded this sphere, some ability beyond the norm to interpret and anticipate. Even he could sense that, see it. A commander himself, he didn’t need to ask the men, her experienced and well-trained crew, what they thought of her; their respect, and more—their unshakable confidence in her to the point they would unhesitatingly obey her orders, would follow her into battle with total conviction that she would guide them in the best way—shone in every interaction.

The crew trusted her implicitly. It wasn’t hard to see why. Her competence—and that certain, almost magical ability—were constantly on show. As the deck rolled and pitched as the ship neared the northern point and Linnet called more sail changes, trapping the wind as she prepared the Esperance to come about onto a northwest heading for Plymouth, Logan felt the power beneath his feet, felt the rush of the wind, the lifting surge of the ocean, and fully understood the crew’s eagerness to sail on this ship, with her.

He watched as, satisfied for the moment, she strode swiftly back toward the helm, then followed more slowly.

This—the unrivaled, unquestioned female captain of a privateer—was another part, a large part, of who and what Linnet Trevission was.

It was, he could admit to himself, an awesome part, one that boggled his mind, yet also filled him with honest and true admiration. Not an emotion he’d expected to feel for a lover, let alone a wife. Yet she was proving a lady of many parts—and each and every one called to him.

And that, he suspected, as he climbed the ladder to the stern deck where she had once again claimed the helm, was something she didn’t yet understand.

But she would.

Smiling to himself, he settled against the stern railing to watch his lover, his sometime-soon-to-be wife, send her ship racing over the waves to Plymouth.

With her ship smoothly heeling around the northern tip of Guernsey, Linnet set sail to best capture the brisk breeze for a fast run to Plymouth. Setting course for Plymouth Sound was something she could do in her sleep in any weather; Plymouth was the port to which she and the Esperance most frequently sailed.

Although Cummins and his men had been on the wharf at dawn, as had a number of other merchants, even with their collective goods in her hold, the Esperance was still running light; no need for full sail to streak over the waves.

Beside her, his large hands curled about the rail, Griffiths nodded. “That’s a good pace. If the wind keeps up—and no reason it shouldn’t—we’ll be in Plymouth well before dusk.”

“That’s what I’m aiming for.” Leaving the wheel in Griffith’s capable hands, Linnet stepped down to the main deck and set out on a circuit—a habit when underway. She ambled down the deck, exchanging comments with the crew members she passed. Logan, she’d noticed, had halted in the prow. Hip against the rail, arms crossed over his powerful chest, he stood looking down into the waves.

Lifting her face to the breeze, she briefly closed her eyes, savored as always the inexpressible thrill of being at sea, of flashing over the waves, the wind tugging her hair, the salty tang of the ocean sinking to her soul. She was a child of sea and ship, of wind and wave. She loved the familiar, reassuring roll of the deck beneath her feet, the creak and snap of spar and sail. Loved the sheer exhilaration of speeding beneath the wide open sky.

Opening her eyes, she continued on, taking stock as she always did. She’d taken Logan’s warning to heart and given orders she hadn’t had to give for some years—not since the end of the war. A Royal Navy ensign might be flapping over her head, signaling to all others on the waves that any vessel seeking to impede the Esperance would, in effect, be taking on the English navy—the navy that currently ruled the seas—yet while she found it hard to believe that anyone would engage, she’d nevertheless given the order to have the crew armed, and the guns made ready. Two words from her and the cannon would roll out, primed and ready to fire.

She’d rarely uttered those two words. The Esperance‘s guns were especially deadly, and she’d never liked seeing such graceful creations as ships smashed, broken, and sent to the deep. Nature’s wrecks were bad enough; only if the opposing captain gave her no choice would she fire. She’d been forced to do so on more than one occasion, and knew she would again if that was the only way to protect her ship and her crew.

Threaten either, and she would act; safeguarding ship and crew was her paramount duty as captain.

Her circuit had led her into the prow. As she joined Logan by the rail, other ships came into view.

He nodded toward them. “Company.”

She scanned the sails, but could tell little from this distance. “Hardly surprising. This is the Channel—we’re traversing the busiest shipping lane in the world.”

Leaning on the rail, she glanced at him, realized he was looking at the gun port below.

“I went down onto your lower deck, took a look at your, guns.” He met her gaze. “They’re not positioned in the usual way.”

She smiled, shook her head. “My father built this vessel, the fourth to carry the name. He was always looking to make improvements, and one he designed and implemented was a different sort of platform for cannon, at least of the caliber barques of our size carry. The platform allows a greater degree of swivel than found in other ships. Through using it, and changing the position and structure of the gun ports accordingly, the Esperance is able to fire effectively well before we’ve attained the customary broadside position, which puts us one up on the opposition from the first.”

“You can still fire fully broadside as well?”

“And even angled sternward. It gives us more freedom in any engagement, whether the other ship is coming up on us or we’re chasing them.”

“What’s the largest cannon you can carry?”

Somewhat to Logan’s surprise, she knew the answer. An almost disconcerting discussion of ordnance ensued, one he would never have imagined having with any female.

After that, a comfortable silence enveloped them. With her leaning on the railing alongside him, they looked out to sea, at the sails of the seven other ships they could see crossing the waves under the gray sky.

They’d been watching for some time when three ships changed course, some sails furling while others were released to billow and catch the wind.

Slowly, Linnet straightened.

Logan glanced at her face, saw the intentness of her expression as she tracked the three ships.

Then her lips tightened. “Damn!” She watched for a moment more, then glanced at him. “The idiots! They’re coming for us.” She glanced back at the ships, exasperation in her face. “Perhaps once they get closer they’ll remember what the ensign means … but they would already have seen it, and I’m not taking the chance they’ll rediscover their brains.”

Whirling, she strode, bootheels ringing, back up the ship. “All hands on deck!” Fully raised, her voice carried clearly. “All stations!”

Thunder rolled below, then erupted as men pounded up the stairs, pouring out on the deck, buckling on swords and bandoliers, checking pistols and knives, short swords and cutlasses, tying back long hair, yanking on coats. Many swung straight up into the rigging, climbing with focused attention to specific positions on the spars above.

Everywhere Logan looked, men rushed with single-minded purpose. Every man knew exactly where he needed to be, what he had to do. Not one questioned why they were summoned; like an excellently drilled company, they swung into battle-ready formation.

Following Linnet as best as he could, he caught the glance she threw over her shoulder. “You’d be best up with me at the helm.”

He knew she meant that there he’d be out of her men’s way, but he wasn’t about to argue. Catching up, he stayed on her heels as she ducked and wove unerringly through the organized chaos that filled the Esperance’s main deck.

Jimmy, Linett’s cutlass and belt in his hands, popped up at the bottom of the stern ladder just as Linnet reached it. She grabbed them and went up the ladder faster than a monkey, giving Logan a glimpse of the sailing brat she’d been.

Giving thanks for the impulse that had seen him buckle on his saber before he’d come on deck, he followed. His dirk was, as usual, in his left boot.

By the time he reached Linnet, she’d buckled on her sword and reclaimed the helm. Taking up a position behind her right shoulder, Logan saw with surprise that the deck that an instant before had been a sea of rushing bodies was now the epitome of calm preparedness, all the men standing ready at their stations.

With one eye on Linnet, the crew watched the three approaching ships; that they were approaching was no longer in doubt. Griffiths, standing off to Linnet’s left, had a spyglass, to his eye. “The buggers are circling to come up astern. They’ve pitch-dipped arrows ready, and braziers on deck, archers standing by—looks like they think to slink close, within range, take out our sails, slow us, then board us.”

Linnet snorted, an eloquent sound. After a moment, she said, “They’re smaller and faster than us, but they don’t have what it takes to take us. Here’s what we’ll do.”

She’d spoken in a clear, decisive, but even tone; she paused to let Griffiths repeat her words loudly, then they were bellowed by the bosun, Claxton, standing amidship, so all the crew could hear.

When Claxton fell silent, Linnet continued, pausing every now and then for Griffiths and Claxton to relay her words. “There’s three enemy ships out there—all frigates and as quick as frigates can be. No flags, so we can’t know how experienced they are in these waters. Regardless, two are circling to come up astern, to get within arrow-range and take out our sails, then presumably they think to flank us, and wedge us between for boarding. Of course, we’re not going to let that happen. As they pull close, we’re going to put on all sail—as they’ll expect us to do, as if we think to outrun them. They’ll chase, and put on all sail, too, to run us down. But we’re not going to run—at just the right moment, we’re going to veer hard port, and cut across the bow of the ship on that side, raking her with our guns as we go. Our sail changes are going to have to be slick, we’ll be at full speed, so be ready.

“Once we’re past her, we’ll be in position to go after the third ship, the one presently hanging well off to starboard—most likely the one with their senior commander aboard. If they give us the chance, we’ll board his ship and capture him, but meanwhile, we’ll need to keep an eye on the other ship, the one we’ll have left to come around. By the time she does, we need to be clear of the commander’s ship, so if we do board, we keep it fast. This will be a raid—we go in, we do what we came to do, and we get out tout de suite—do you hear me?”

An instant later, when the question was relayed, a resounding “Aye!” rose from the decks.

“Good.” Linnet kept speaking, her words fed down the line. “The instant we’re all back, we pile on sail for Plymouth and race the bastards there. I don’t think they’ll give chase, but who knows? If they do, we might turn and savage them, but”—she slid her gaze to Logan—”today our duty is to get Major Monteith into Plymouth, so as far as possible, we’ll stick to our course.”

Logan stepped closer. “Tell them that if they come up against dark-skinned men with black scarves about their heads, they’ll be Indian cultists, and they shouldn’t hold back. The cultists won’t. They’ll be eager to kill anyone any way they can.”

Linnet glanced at Griffiths, nodded. The first mate relayed Logan’s words.

“Good luck,” Linnet called. “Now stand ready!”

The crew shifted again, some going below to the guns, others taking up fresh positions, waiting for Linnet’s order to change sail as, far to the rear, the two unflagged frigates completed their circling manuever and fell in on either side of the Esperance’s wake.

As she’d intimated, Linnet called for all sail. Overhead, canvas was released; it billowed for a few seconds, then the wind rushed in and filled it—and the Esperance leapt.

The pursuing frigates at first fell behind, but then fresh sails blossomed in their rigging, pulled taut, and they came on.

Pushing, pushing, surging to get nearer, they reminded Logan of pursuing hounds. Further back, the third frigate was forced to set all sail to keep up.

“Bosun—message to the gun captain.” Linnet held the wheel lightly, steady on her course. “He can fire the port guns at will after we start the turn.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Claxton pointed at Jimmy, who raced off below to deliver the order.

An odd silence fell, broken only by the waves splashing against the hull, the caw of an inopportune wheeling gull.

Logan recognized the lull, the universal nerve-racking hiatus before battle was joined—that moment when no one wasted even a breath.

“They’ve taken up our challenge and are coming up fast.” Linnet glanced at Griffiths; he relayed her words. “They won’t be able to change direction as fast as we can. You know what to do, which sails to furl, which to trim. Which angle we need to catch the wind. We’ve drilled often enough, so stand ready now … on my word when I give it, hard to port.”

They waited. The entire crew held still, expectant and ready, barely breathing. To Logan, it was exactly like waiting for the order to charge. Battle-ready tension sang in the air, yet every man stood reined, poised, all but quivering.

He waited, too, fist resting on the hilt of his saber as he stood beside Linnet, facing astern, watching the ships draw nearer and nearer—and still nearer. And still Linnet held to her course. She glanced over her shoulder, once, twice, gauging distance, but still she held the wheel steady.

Jaw clenched, he swore behind his teeth. He was about to appeal to her—if she didn’t move now, surely the ship on their portside would cleave the Esperance in two—

“Now!” Linnet swung the wheel hard.

Griffiths helped her haul and haul.

The ship heeled to the left so violently Logan had to grab the rail to keep from being thrown. The instant the turn, a tight one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, was commenced, sailors aloft were hooking and trimming sails, hauling in others, changing angles of spars as the ship swung around.

Logan held his breath, hand fisting on the stern rail as he felt the changes take hold, felt the force of the wind in the sails combine with the pressure on the rudder to push the Esperance smoothly through the turn at maximum speed.

He saw how close Linnet had judged things, and wondered how she’d dared. From his position in the stern, he could clearly see shocked faces on the sailors and, yes, the cultists crowded on the frigate’s deck.

Then the Esperance’s stern slipped past the oncoming frigate’s bow, and he—along with many others, he was sure—exhaled.

Then the Esperance’s port guns boomed, once, twice, a raking, staggered volley that ripped a long, jagged hole right on the waterline of the frigate.

Pandemonium erupted on the frigate’s deck. If they’d had guns prepared, they would have been on the wrong side. Their archers with their pitch-arrows and braziers were also facing the wrong way, and with the cultists milling in the middle of the ship, they couldn’t reposition—not in time. The Esperance‘s speed and the frigate’s even greater speed combined to rapidly widen the distance between the ships.

Then Linnet and Griffiths fully righted the wheel and the Esperance straightened. “Full sail!” Linnet yelled.

Even as the order was relayed, sails were being unfurled and reset. In seconds, the Esperance leapt forward again—streaking away from the stricken frigate.

Logan looked back. A few burning arrows came belatedly whistling their way, but fell well short, fizzling out in their wake.

Linnet had just sunk an enemy frigate without sustaining so much as a scratch, not to her crew or her ship. The realization was stunning.

He dragged in a breath, felt a sense of exhilaration streak through him. Turning away from the crippled frigate, he looked at Linnet.

Her eyes locked on the sails above, her hands steady on the wheel, she called orders, Griffiths and Claxton relayed them, and sailors leapt to obey.

Most of the sailors were grinning. Logan realized he was grinning, too. The speed and power of the Esperance under full fighting rig—under an expert captain’s hands—was breathtaking.

Even if those hands were delicate.

He had no experience of naval battles, but having a captain, who knew precisely which sail needed to be where at any time, to the square inch, was clearly a significant advantage—and Linnet, with her years of experience from childhood on, knew this ship, and these waters, these winds, as few others could. Her knowledge was all but instinctive.

It was no longer any wonder that she was so widely accepted as Captain Trevission, that even the old fogeys in the Admiralty turned a blind eye to her gender. Underneath their gold braid, they were sailors to a man, and Linnet was a sailor of the most exhilarating sort.

But their battle wasn’t over.

With the disabled frigate slowly sinking behind them, Linnet exchanged the wheel for Griffiths’s spyglass. The second frigate, the one that with the first had tried to come up on the Esperance’s stern, had started to follow when she’d turned hard port, but the cannon volley had sent it shying away. Now its captain seemed to be dithering, probably signaling to the third frigate, the one she assumed was the command ship, for direction.

The command ship itself seemed unsure what to do. Her unconventional manuever appeared to have given the captain second, even third, thoughts. As the situation stood, both frigates were still heading toward Plymouth, although they’d trimmed their speed, while the Esperance was heading the other way, picking up speed as it passed the command ship at a safe distance.

With their original attack plan in tatters, the frigates were waiting to see what she would do.

Closing the glass, she returned to take the wheel. “We’ll turn to port and come about again—let’s get back on course for Plymouth, then see what these idiots do.”

She rapped out orders, and the crew responded as she steered the Esperance through another turn, this one much wider than the last, coming full circle. When they were once more on line for Plymouth Sound, all three ships were sailing in more or less the same direction. The second frigate, was well off to port and a good way ahead, too distant to pose any immediate threat, but the command ship, also now off the port side but much nearer, was scrambling, angling as if to intercept the Esperance rather than slink away.

“They can’t be serious.” Linnet shook her head. “We’re coming up astern and they’ve just seen what our guns can do.”

“The other frigate’s turning.” Griffiths had the glass to his eye.

Lifting her gaze, Linnet watched, then frowned. “That’s too big a turn to come directly at us—looks like he plans to circle and come up astern again.”

Slowly, Griffiths nodded. “Looks that way. They don’t want to come broadside and risk our guns.”

“The command ship’s running.” Linnet watched as the command frigate suddenly angled away and put on more sail, drawing ahead and apart. She watched for a moment, then snorted. “What does he think I am? Blind?”

The Esperance was still traveling faster than either of the frigates. Linnet called for sails to be trimmed, slowing the Esperance, and, as if helpfully falling in with the command ship captain’s plan, turned slightly off course as if to follow.

When Griffiths glanced inquiringly at her, she smiled tightly. “He wants to engage, and assumes, after our last manuever, that I want to, too, but he wants to lead me a dance until the other frigate can come around and assist. I can’t just leave him and run for Plymouth; we’re still too far out—they’d catch us again, try coming up astern again, but I won’t be able to play the same trick twice. I suspect their new plan is for me to get distracted chasing the command ship, then suddenly discover the other frigate coming up hard astern and to starboard. When I react and try to run, the command ship will spill wind enough to swing close alongside the port bow. While we’re distracted at the stern, they’ll send men over the bow.”

Logan asked Griffiths for the glass, trained it on the command ship. What he saw made his blood run cold. Lowering, the glass, he caught Linnet’s eye. “I’d say your reading is correct. There are cult assassins on board the command ship. They’ll be the ones wanting to come over your bow.”

Linnet nodded. He stood beside her as she continued to follow the command ship as it tacked this way and that, much like a fox before a hound.

“He keeps trying to slow us,” Linnet said, “but has to, at least at the moment, stay far enough ahead so I don’t simply overrun him.”

Logan looked up, trying to judge how much sail she’d had taken in. “Could you overrun him?”

“At his current speed, easily, but I don’t think he realizes that. The Esperance is significantly faster than other ships of her class. In these conditions, the speed we’re doing now is more typical.”

“Which suggests the captain doesn’t know the Esperance, which means he’s from further afield—not these waters.”

“It certainly seems that way.”

Logan watched as she called another set of sail changes; he couldn’t follow the purpose behind them all, but assumed she was setting the stage for the upcoming engagement.

Sure enough, once the Esperance was riding steady again, going nowhere near as fast as it could, she left the wheel to Griffiths, took the spyglass from Logan, and trained it on the other frigate, now attempting to sneak up on their rear.

Those on the frigate saw her looking. The captain immediately put on all sail and came on as fast as the wind allowed.

Linnet smiled. Lowering the glass, she gauged the distance between the ships, then strode to the forward railing and leaned over to yell, “Tommy, Burton, Calloway! Get your bows, arrows, and a brazier, and get up here—but keep everything hidden from the ship in front, and below the rail up here.”

“Aye, Capt’n!”

Two minutes later, three young sailors came clambering up the ladder. Logan helped the first lift a brazier of glowing, coals up, carefully setting it near the stern rail. The three slid long bows across the deck, then climbed up, each carrying arrows with ragged heads dipped in pitch in one hand.

Leaving the arrows with their bows, the lads looked at Linnet. She joined them, her gaze on the frigate coming up hard on their stern. “They have arbalests standing ready to light our sails, but your bows have greater range. How soon before you can take out most of their sails? Doesn’t have to be all, but we need the main sails alight.”

With the Esperance slowed, the frigate was closing the distance quickly.

The lads narrowed their eyes, pursed their lips.

“Just a little more …,” one of them said.

“As soon as you’re ready, then—fire at will.” Linnet turned and walked back to the helm.

Resuming his position more or less at her back, Logan watched as, with no further instruction, the youngsters waited, muttering between themselves about distance and wind, then as one they bent and, screened by the high side of the stern deck, fanned the brazier. With one eye on the frigate, each found his bow, notched an arrow and lit it, then, in perfect concert, the trio stood, smoothly drawing back the long bows, and let fly.

They didn’t even wait to see fire blossom on the sails, but bent again. In less than a minute they sent another three arrows flying. They were fast and accurate. Using just nine arrows in all, they set nearly all of the rear frigate’s sails ablaze, sending the frigate crew frantically scrambling.

All but instantly, the frigate fell away.

Linnet returned to clap the three lads on their shoulders. “Perfect!” Behind them, the frigate was all but becalmed. “Excellent work—now get below. We’ve one more frigate to fry.”

Logan looked back at the frigate rapidly falling behind. They hadn’t enough sail to even limp along, yet how soon before the cultists on board reached shore? And which shore?

And while the first frigate they’d engaged had almost certainly sunk, it had gone down slowly; plenty of time for all those aboard to abandon ship.

“Full sail again!”

Linnet’s call had him putting such concerns aside. Beneath his feet, the Esperance leapt like a hound unleashed. What would she do with the third frigate, the one carrying assassins? Returning to his position beside her as she stood alongside Griffiths, presently managing the helm, he followed both their gazes to the last frigate—and saw it swing very definitely away.

Linnet watched, eyes narrow, lips thin, then humphed. “Ten points starboard.” Griffiths obeyed, and the Esperance‘s bow swung elegantly north. Linnet called several sail changes, then regauged the distance to the frigate, still some way ahead to port. “That will take us past at a safe distance. If they’ve finally come to their senses and want to scrurry out of our way, we’ll let them go.”

The sails caught more wind on the new heading; the Esperance picked up speed, swiftly moving away from the last frigate.

Logan watched, inwardly cursing, yet … “A magnanimous gesture.”

Linnet shrugged. “That misbegotten captain must by now realize that taking the Esperance is beyond him.”

She’d turned to look at Logan as she spoke.

Griffiths’s shout had her turning back. “Blimey! Will you look at that.”

The three of them stared. Most of the crew stopped what they were doing and stared, too.

Rather than slink away, as it had definitely and sensibly started to do, the frigate abruptly changed course again, as if to engage—but then the masts dipped wildly and the ship nearly keeled.

“What the devil’s going on there?” Linnet grabbed the spyglass she’d set down and refocused on the frigate’s deck. A second passed, then, her tone disbelieving, she reported, “There’s fighting on board. Some men—men with dark skins and black scarves about their heads—are fighting the captain and his mate, and the rest of the crew, too. They’ve seized the wheel and are trying to steer the ship our way … but the idiots are simply forcing the wheel over without changing sails. In this wind, they’ll capsize the ship.”

Grimly Logan stared at the frigate. To his admittedly inexperienced eye, the space between it and the Esperance was already great enough to ensure the frigate wouldn’t be able to come up with them, certainly not if manned by cultists and not sailors. “All we can do is hope the captain and his crew win the battle.”

And toss the cultists, especially the assassins, into the briny deep.

Linnet lowered the glass. “Indeed.” She looked at Griffiths. “Keep all sail on. Let’s leave them to it and race for Plymouth.”

Setting the glass back in its holder beside the wheel, she headed down the ladder to talk to her men.

Logan watched her go, then picked up the spyglass, walked to the stern rail, and trained it on the frigate, now dwindling to their rear.

He’d been prepared for a battle, but his saber hadn’t even cleared its sheath. He felt frustrated and stymied, especially over having to leave cultists, and even more assassins, alive to tell their tales. To report to their superiors, as they inevitably would.

Yet there’d been no help for it, no legitimate way around it. The battle had been Linnet’s to command; she’d made her calls and got them clean away, crippling the opposition while her own men remained unscathed.

The hallmark of an excellent commander.

Asking her to turn back and attack the other ship, to put the Esperance and her crew at risk again to satisfy his wish to ensure no cultist who knew he’d been on the Esperance remained free to report … that wasn’t in the cards.

She’d done the right thing every step of the way.

Lowering the glass, he stared at the speck the last frigate had become. Rubbed a hand over his nape.

Like any good commander, Linnet had rescripted her plans on the run, rejigging them to best save her ship and her crew.

Now he would have to do the same. He’d have to meet the challenge of rescripting his plans to see them all safely home.

Later that afternoon, still out in the Channel but with Plymouth not that far ahead, Logan arranged to meet with Edgar, John, Griffiths, and Claxton in the cabin he’d been given next to Linnet’s. She was still on deck, more or less above their heads at the wheel.

When Griffiths, the last to join them, came in and shut the door, Logan waved him to a perch on the narrow bunk, and from his position leaning against the wall beside the small porthole, began, “Edgar and John already know about the Black Cobra cult and my mission, of my role, and those of my three colleagues and numerous others, in attempting to bring the fiend to justice. But what none of you can have much idea of is the reason our mission’s so vital.”

In stark detail, he described some of the cult’s atrocities, enough to have the four sailors blanch. “That’s what these people are capable of.”

He tipped his head toward the sea beyond the porthole. “You all saw the cultists aboard the last frigate—most were cult assassins, the deadliest group, the most fanatical. You saw how desperate they were to reach this ship—they’ll do anything to reach me, and, now, Captain Trevission. She, a woman, defeated them. Her gender will make the defeat sting unbearably. I doubt they’ll come after the Esperance herself—they don’t think of ships in that way—but they will come after her captain—to punish her. When I escape them, as I must once I reach Plymouth, those remaining on the coast will be desperate to—as they’ll think of it—redeem, themselves in the eyes of their leader, the Black Cobra, by killing Captain Trevission in the most gruesome and painful way they can devise.”

He paused, scanning their faces; their expressions were as grim as he could wish. “To a lesser extent you and the crew will be in danger, too, but it’s Captain Trevission they’ll focus their vengeful hatred on.”

Shifting, he straightened. “When we left St. Peter Port, my plan was for the Esperance to carry me to Plymouth, where I’d leave the ship, meet with the guards waiting for me in town, and carry on with my mission. I’ve already told Captain Trevission that on completion of my mission, I plan to return to Guernsey and Mon Coeur. If I survive, I intend to ask her to be my wife and live on Guernsey with her, but I won’t, can’t, make any offer until I know I’ve survived hale and whole.”

The men blinked at his open declaration, but Edgar’s and John’s expressions lightened, and they nodded with both approval and relief.

“However,” Logan continued, “if after today’s action I continue as I’d planned and leave Captain Trevission on the Esperance in Plymouth, the cult will target her.”

Griffiths and Claxton frowned. “We can rally the crew—we’ll keep her safe.”

Logan inclined his head. “I’ve no doubt that, while she’s on board, you’ll be able to do that. But I seriously doubt that, after today, the cult will come after her while she’s on the Esperance. They’ll wait until she leaves and heads home—to Mon Coeur.” He paused, scanned their faces as the potential for horror sank in. “And we all know what’s at Mon Coeur. The cultists aren’t much good on the waves, but tracking on land—at that they excel. They’ll follow Captain Trevission to Mon Coeur, scout the place, gather their forces—and they do have considerable numbers—and pick their time. I know there are men at Mon Coeur capable of fighting, but even if you can persuade Linnet to allow some, extras to go home with her, it won’t be enough. Not enough of you will realize the savagery and fanaticism you’ll face, not until it’s too late.”

Again he paused, then simply said, “There are too many innocents at Mon Coeur to risk it.”

None of the four disagreed; he could see their rising protectiveness in their faces. Griffiths fixed his shrewd eyes on Logan. “What’s our alternative?”

Logan met his gaze. “I can see only one. If you could keep your captain on board the Esperance, under constant guard and in Plymouth Sound, until my mission is complete and the Black Cobra is no more, I believe she and everyone associated with her would remain safe. The cult might, in desperation, try to attack the ship in harbor, but from what I’ve seen of your crew—and you’d be surrounded by other navy and army, more or less at call—I can’t see even assassins succeeding. In addition, most of the assassins will follow me—it’s reasonable to assume those are their standing orders.”

He paused, noting that all four men were nodding, following and agreeing with his assessment thus far. “The problem with that scenario is that I can’t see you—any or all of you—managing to keep Captain Trevission in Plymouth. The instant she realizes the potential danger, as indeed she might already have done, she’ll insist on returning to Guernsey and Mon Coeur with all speed, to make sure all’s safe there—to be there to defend it and her household when the cult come calling. She’ll reason that as the Esperance is flying the Guernsey flag, is so well known, and as her captaincy is an open secret, the cult will be able to identify Mon Coeur as her home even without her leading them there, and seek to harm her by harming her family.”

He grimaced. “In this instance, that reasoning is wrong, but neither you nor I will be able to convince her of that. The cult would delight in butchering her family, but they’d want to do it in front of her. That’s the sort of fiends they are. It’s her they want—she’s their target—and they’ll remain, fixated on her. Only if she’s in the immediate vicinity will family or associates be used as tools—to draw her out, weaken her, or cause her pain. For all their brutality, the cultists are simple—acting at a distance isn’t their way.”

He studied the four men, raised his brows. “As I see it, the only way you and the crew could keep her on board, here in Plymouth, is by committing mutiny—she is, after all, Captain Trevission of the Esperance, holder of an extant Letter of Marque. I won’t even suggest that—I think it would be an equally bad disaster, just in a different way.”

The four men exchanged glances heavy with meaning, then Edgar looked up, grimly nodded. “You’re right. We couldn’t do it. This is her ship, and none of us would stand against her. She’s our leader—it’s been that way since her father died.”

“And so it should remain.” Logan pushed away from the wall, but the cabin was too small to pace.

Griffiths eyed him measuringly. “So what’s your solution? Your new plan? We’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep the capt’n and her family, and the ship and crew, safe.”

Logan looked at the other three, saw agreement and the same resolution in each face. “It’s simple.” In a few brief words, he outlined his plan.

They opened their mouths to argue, closed them, opened them again, then, accepting there was no real option and that he’d countered all their objections, they slowly nodded and agreed.

Logan leaned on the stern rail alongside Linnet, once again at the wheel, and watched the shores of England rise on the horizon.

It had been so many years since he’d last seen them, so many hard, dusty years—the last, spent in chasing the Black Cobra, the hardest of all.

For long moments, he simply stared, let his soul drink in the green. The lush, vibrant fields of Devon—even with the louring sky above, the sight welcomed, soothed.

He was conscious of the glances Linnet threw him, but didn’t meet them. She didn’t speak, didn’t question, but left him to his quiet homecoming.

And it was that. This time he was home for good. He wouldn’t be setting out on any more adventures, any more campaigns. Now, in this moment, and he felt it in his bones, he was stepping beyond that phase of his life—and into the next. Whatever it would be.

Whatever he made of it.

Wherever he made it.

He glanced at Linnet, then looked ahead. Home, his uncle had told him, was wherever you chose to make it.

If fate allowed, he would choose to make his home with her.

With that certainty sinking to his bones, he stood beside her and watched her steer her ship into Plymouth Sound.

One thing he knew about was command. As the last of the daylight waned, and she sent the Esperance gliding past Drake Island, tacking through the many naval vessels riding at anchor in the protected waters, he harbored not a shred of doubt that Linnet was a natural leader. She could probably even teach him a thing or two about inspiring men—Tommy, Burton, and Calloway, the three young archers, would, he judged, be hers for life.

In that, they would only be joining the rest of the Esperance‘s crew. To a man, they were devoted to their captain.

Linnet steered the ship directly into Sutton Harbor, Plymouth’s principal basin. She called orders; once again at her elbow, Griffiths relayed them. Sails were furled, still others hooked in as the ship slowed, slowed, then, on the last gasp of wind spilling from canvas, was expertly turned to slide smoothly into an empty berth at Sutton Wharf.

The sandbags slung over the ship’s side bumped once, then again more softly as the Esperance settled. Straightening, pushing away from the rails, Logan swung down to the main deck, then went down the companionway to the stern cabin. He paused only to seize the handles of the two, bags he’d left waiting there—Linnet’s as well as his—then headed back.

He felt no sentimentality over leaving the Esperance—no need to look around and fix anything in his memory. He would be back. As soon as his mission allowed. Of course, he might be, very possibly would be, groveling at Linnet’s dainty heels as she strode back on board, but he would be back. He hoped, he prayed.

Emerging on deck, he saw Linnet standing by the railing midship, watching the gangplank being rolled out. The ship had been secured and was now bobbing lazily on the swell. He glanced around, then out at the town as he walked to where Linnet waited, arms folded, beside the gap in the railings. The light was fading fast. Running lights flickered on many ships. In the town, lamps already glowed in many windows, and streetlamps were being lit.

Shadows were lengthening, deepening, prime concealment for watchers and assassins alike.

Halting at the head of the gangplank, directly in front of Linnet, he brought his gaze to her face—only to discover she’d noticed her bag in his hand.

She frowned, stabbed a finger at the bag. “That’s mine. Put it down.” Raising her eyes to his, she scowled. “You’re going on to complete your mission, and I’m sailing home on the Esperance. I’m not going ashore with you, not even just for the night.”

He dutifully set down the bags, both of them. Faced her, eye to eye, and said, “Today you foiled the Black Cobra’s men, and they got a good look at you. By now they know that Captain Linnet Trevission of the Esperance, a woman no less, defeated them, took on three ships and left them wallowing in her wake. Their master is not going to be happy—and they won’t be, either. For the safety of this ship, your crew, your household, your home—and most especially you yourself—you have to come with me.”

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 made 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 enemy 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.”

“Carstairs?”

“We’ve had no word of him, but that doesn’t mean Royce, hasn’t. Our ex-commander has a tendency to share only what he feels one needs to know.”

“We heard that he—Dalziel—is now Wolverstone.”

Charles nodded. “He was Marquess of Winchelsea all through his years of service, not that we ever knew. It was one of those twisted, only-in-the-British-nobility tales.”

“Regardless, his reputation is all but legendary. How long were you under his command?”

Logan and Charles settled to discuss wartime espionage. Linnet’s attention drifted. Soothed by the steady rocking of the carriage, she focused on the now black night outside, the wind raking the trees bordering the road.

No icy drafts penetrated the carriage. Registering that, she looked more closely, despite the enfolding dimness noted the superb craftsmanship, the luxurious trim. This wasn’t just a carriage—it was a very expensive carriage.

Presumably Charles’s—the earl’s.

She was out of her depth socially, but she’d already heard enough of Charles’s exploits, seen enough of him, to know he was a man very much like Logan. A man of action and adventure, doubtless infinitely happier riding into battle than doing the pretty in some hostess’s drawing room.

She could manage Charles, deal with him and any like him. Which was just as well.

She hadn’t made any final, reasoned decision to fall in with Logan’s insistence that for her safety, and that of those connected with her, she should travel on with him.

Yet here she was.

The rush from the inn and the battle in the narrow yard had made any further arguing moot. After seeing the cult’s members face-to-face, seeing Logan trying to defend against three simultaneously—something no swordsman, no matter how brilliant, could be certain of doing and living to tell the tale—she was no longer focused on rejoining the Esperance and setting sail for home. Not yet.

Given the icy fear she’d experienced in that poky little, yard, given the aftermath still fading from her muscles, from her very bones, she would stay with Logan and travel on with him until his mission was complete.

Not for her safety, but for his.

That she could tip the scales in engagements such as the one in the yard—the most likely type he would encounter in winning through to his goal, wherever in England that was—owed nothing to starry-eyed, foolhardy optimism but was simple fact. Men never expected a woman to fight. They discounted her presence, her ability, and that instantly gave her, and the side she fought on, an advantage, one she was well equipped to exploit.

She paused, pressing her mind to rationally examine her decision—an impulsive one, yet all her instincts screamed it was right. No matter which way she twisted the facts, she came up with the same answer—the same best plan.

She would continue on with Logan, guarding him while he guarded her, until he reached his goal and successfully concluded his mission. Then she would bid him farewell and return home to Guernsey, to Mon Coeur, leaving him to the life he would live—would choose to live—once he returned to the world in which he belonged.

Glancing at him, then at Charles, she gathered her cloak closer and settled into the well-padded seat.

Minutes later, the carriage slowed, then turned right. Looking out, she glimpsed a signpost, managed to decipher Totnes. “Where are we heading?” She looked at Charles, remembered. “Paignton Hall, I think you said.”

Charles nodded. “It’s south of Paignton itself, on the coast beyond Totnes. It’s Deverell’s—Viscount Paignton’s—family seat.”

“My other guard?” Logan asked.

“Indeed. There were four of you coming in, and Royce could call on eight of us, so you each have two guards to conduct you to our erstwhile leader’s presence. You’ll be relieved to learn that for the occasion he’s wintering on his estate in Suffolk, and not at his principal seat, Wolverstone Castle, on the border in Northumbria.” Charles glanced at Linnet, smiled reassuringly. “Paignton Hall is our refuge for the moment—a safe place to take stock. The Hall is built into the husk of an old castle—quite neat. They have the views, the position, the outer walls and the bailey, but not the drafts.”

His gaze slid over her; his expression, his smile, what she could see of it in the dimness, turned decidedly wry. “Penny, my wife, and Deverell’s wife, Phoebe, are going to be utterly thrilled to meet you. If I could just mention, if you could avoid giving them too many ideas, Deverell and I will be forever grateful.”

Linnet stared at him. She was tempted to ask exactly what he meant, but … he’d just informed her she was going to be staying at an aristocratic residence—part castle, no less—in the company of ladies, and all she could think was that she had only one gown—and that a traveling gown—with her.

Still smiling, Charles shifted his gaze to Logan. “I meant to mention—we have a connection of sorts through our fathers. Along the lines of my father the earl knew your father the earl. Apparently they first took their seats in the Lords on the same day and remained acquaintances ever after—connected via a shared ordeal, you might say.”

Slowly, all but unable to believe her ears, Linnet turned her head to stare at Logan. He was an earl’s son?

His gaze on Charles, he shrugged lightly. “My father died some years ago—he never mentioned the acquaintance, but we weren’t close.”

He asked about Charles’s home, which was, apparently, Lostwithiel Castle—a real castle, drafts and all—in Cornwall.

Linnet heard, but wasn’t truly listening. Traveling on with Logan was leading her into waters far deeper, and more strewn with reefs, than she’d foreseen.

As if to emphasize just how out of her depth she was, their arrival at Paignton Hall went entirely counter to her expectations.

The Hall itself was everything Charles had promised. But from the moment the carriage halted in what was clearly the old inner bailey and she followed the men out onto the cobbles, in a nod to feminine decorum allowing Logan to hand her down, nothing went quite as she’d expected.

For a start, a beautiful, willowy blond in a simple woollen gown came rushing down the steps to fling herself into Charles’s arms. He caught her with a laugh, kissed her soundly—but then she pulled back and pinned him with a narrow-eyed look. “You’ve been fighting. I can tell. Have you been wounded?”

The quality of Charles’s smile as he slung an arm about the lady’s shoulders was breathtaking. “Such confidence in my swordwork. But no—I didn’t take so much as a scratch.” He looked up as another couple descended the steps to join them, the gentleman dark-haired and distinguished looking—a somewhat less obvious version of Logan and Charles—the lady on his arm with dark auburn hair, and a kind, openly welcoming smile on her face.

They proved to be their host and hostess, Viscount and Viscountess Paignton. Charles made the introductions.

While the men shook hands, Paignton—who went by the name of Deverell—expressing his disgust that he’d missed the action, both ladies, far from turning up their aristocratic noses as Linnet had fully expected, smiled delightedly and welcomed her eagerly, touching fingers, then turning to flank her as they escorted her up the front steps. “You truly are most welcome,” Phoebe, Viscountess Paignton, assured her. “I had no idea Monteith was bringing a lady with him, but I’m delighted he did.”

Linnet looked from one delicate face to the other, sensed sincerity and a certain determination behind both, and felt curious enough to admit, “The truth is, I had no idea I would be traveling on with him. I found him shipwrecked on my land on Guernsey, my household cared for him until he regained his strength and his memory, then I brought him to Plymouth on my ship, but I expected to leave him there and sail home—”

She broke off as they halted in the lamplit front hall and Lady Penelope waved her hands to halt Linnet’s words. “Wait, wait! I’m already dying with envy. First let me say that along with Phoebe here, I am most sincerely thrilled to see you, because you clearly know something about this mission all our men are about to embark on, so you can tell us—give us a feminine view of the matter. However, my head is reeling, filled with avidly green jealousy.”

In the better light, along with Phoebe, Lady Penelope ran her shrewd gaze down Linnet, taking in her jacket, leather breeches, high boots, and her cutlass still riding at her hip, then she pointed a delicate finger at the cutlass. “Don’t tell me they allowed you to fight alongside them?”

Linnet looked from one openly amazed face to the other, but could detect not a single hint of censure. “I didn’t actually ask their permission.”

Lady Penelope blinked, asked of no one in particular, “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

Intrigued, Linnet added, “I have two daggers in my boots, as well.”

“Did you account for any of the attackers?” Phoebe’s eyes had hardened, her chin firm.

“Two. But we didn’t wait to check if they were dead. It started off as nine to three, and once we’d accounted for the first nine, there were more coming, so we ran.”

“May I?”

Linnet turned to find Lady Penelope with a hand hovering by her—Linnet’s—thigh, fingers waggling, wanting to touch her breeches. Bemused, already fascinated by these totally unexpected gently bred females, Linnet nodded. “Of course.”

The Countess of Lostwithiel ran her hand over the fine, butter-soft leather, felt its quality, and heaved a long, wistful sigh. “Please call me Penny—and I would really love a pair, like that. Can I inveigle you into telling me where you got them? On Guernsey, or farther afield? Not that I care—I’ll send Charles anywhere.”

“Actually, they’re from much nearer to hand.” Linnet grinned at Penny’s eager expression. “Exeter—there’s a leathermaker there I convinced to make them for me. I can give you his direction.”

Penny clasped her hands to her bosom, her face alight. “Wonderful! I’ve just decided what Charles can get me to make amends over me having to miss the action in this latest adventure.”

“I’m still working on what to wring from Deverell,” Phoebe said. “But I have another question. You said you conveyed Monteith to Plymouth on your ship. You own a ship? Do you sail it?”

Her lips curving irrepressibly, Linnet snapped a jaunty salute. “I’m afraid I left my captain’s hat on board, but I’m Captain Trevission, owner of Trevission Ships, and in particular, the barque the Esperance.” She glanced over her shoulder at Logan, lightly frowned. “Mind you, I’m not, at this precise moment, exactly sure where my ship is. My crew were seduced into letting me be carried off it, but I suspect the Esperance is currently riding in Plymouth Sound, safely tucked among His Majesty’s warships.”

The men had followed them into the hall. Logan heard her comment, smiled crookedly, and inclined his head.

“I think,” Phoebe said, tucking her arm in Linnet’s, “that you and I, Penny, should escort Captain Trevission to a nice guest room, and learn just how she’s achieved such things in no more years than we’ve had.”

“Indeed.” Penny took Linnet’s other arm. “Clearly there’s much here we can learn.”

When Phoebe paused to give instructions to her kindly butler and her efficient-looking housekeeper, Linnet glanced back at the three men, and saw Charles’s and Deverell’s faintly concerned expressions—remembered Charles’s, comment about not giving their ladies ideas—and finally understood.

Smiling, she looked ahead and allowed Penny and Phoebe to sweep her up the stairs. “Actually, there is one thing you could help me with.” Reaching the head of the stairs, she glanced at Penny, confirming, as they started along the corridor, that they were much the same height and not dissimilar in shape. “In return for the direction of my breeches maker.”

“Anything!” Penny declared. “At the moment, I would even gift you with my firstborn—he’s been a handful all day, wanting to follow his father, of course.”

Linnet laughed. “Thank you, but I have one of those—well, not mine, but one of my wards. But I really do need some gowns.”

“My wardrobe is yours.” Penny smiled intently. “Just as long as you tell us all you know.”

“All,” Phoebe said, halting at a door along the main corridor, “that our dear husbands are keeping to their chests.”

She set the door swinging wide, then ushered Linnet in. “Now—how about a bath?”

She had, Linnet decided, landed in some strange heaven.

She’d never had feminine companionship like this—freely offered, from ladies of her own class, her own generation. It was … a revelation.

Under Phoebe’s direction, a bath had been prepared, and Linnet had luxuriated, then Penny had arrived with a selection of gowns, all of which she’d insisted Linnet take, assuring her, “I always pack so much more than I need.”

While Linnet had dressed, then dried and combed out her hair, the other two had perched in the window seat and they’d talked. They’d shared bits and pieces of their lives openly with her, and she’d found herself reciprocating.

She and Penny had exchanged tales of horses and riding, shipwrecks and sailing, and she’d listened with rapt attention while Phoebe had explained about her agency, then, they’d listened with real interest while she’d described Mon Coeur and explained about her wards.

Phoebe had instantly volunteered her agency should any of Linnet’s brood ever want to find work in England. “I can always place well-educated young women, and even young men, as companions or personal secretaries.”

Linnet had had no idea aristocratic ladies were so engaged and active.

When she’d said so, Penny had pulled a face. “The sad truth is, a lot aren’t, but we are, and all those you’ll meet when you reach Elveden—the end of your journey—are like us, too. We have the position, the wherewithal, and the ability, and so we do. Sitting and embroidering is definitely not for us.”

Phoebe had laughed. “In fact, not many of us can embroider. Minerva, Royce’s wife, does, beautifully, and perhaps Alicia might. But most of us are not, as one might say, accomplished in that direction.”

Linnet had grinned. “In that respect, at least, I’ll fit in.”

By the time the three of them went downstairs to join the men for dinner, Linnet was, to her very real surprise, relaxed, at ease, and indeed, in that moment at least, enjoying herself.

Not that she didn’t have a bone or two to pick with Logan, but that would have to wait until later.

Over dinner, the others were eager to hear about Logan’s mission thus far, from its beginning in India to when he and Linnet had arrived at the Seafarer’s Arms.

Reassured that all was well with Linnet—very aware that it was at his insistence that she’d been forced into a world she wasn’t accustomed to, and that any consequent unhappiness would lie at his door, and thus relieved and cravenly grateful to Penny and Phoebe for smoothing her way—Logan set himself to succinctly but comprehensively satisfy their curiosity.

Linnet listened, too, no doubt adding flesh to the bare bones he’d previously revealed to her, but she left all questions, to the others. Charles and Deverell were experienced interrogators; they knew what to ask to clarify his story.

When it came to Linnet’s part in it, he didn’t hold back. She blushed at his compliments, his very real praise, tried to deflect attention by claiming it was no more than anyone else would have done—which argument none of the others accepted.

Penny waved Linnet’s words aside. “There’s no help for it—you’re heroine material. No point trying to clamber off the pedestal. You’ll just have to get used to the height.”

Which shut Linnet up. Logan thought she was dumfounded, which in his admittedly short experience was a first.

He took pity on her and quickly summed up their time in Plymouth, which brought them to the present and Paignton Hall.

They paused to allow the empty dessert dishes to be cleared.

When the footmen had withdrawn, Deverell asked, “So your mission’s a decoy run?”

When Logan nodded, Charles said, “From the way Royce is managing the four individual threads of this action, I suspect Delborough’s most likely a decoy, too. Hamilton I’m not sure about.”

Logan thought of his comrades, of Gareth, and especially Rafe, about whom he’d yet to hear definite information. He stirred, looked down the table at Deverell, then across it at Charles. “So what now? Where to from here?”

Deverell raised his brows at Phoebe, at the other end of the table. “Shall we repair to the drawing room to make our plans?”

Phoebe nodded decisively. “Yes, let’s. Aside from all else, we ladies aren’t about to leave you gentlemen to swap secrets over the port. If you want any spirits, bring the decanters with you.”

Deverell checked with Charles and Logan, but as none of them felt the need for any further bolstering, they left the decanters on the sideboard and fell in on the ladies’ heels as they led the way to the drawing room.

A minor distraction occurred when the respective nannies ushered in the Deverell and St. Austell children to say their goodnights. Logan watched as Linnet smiled and shook hands with Charles’s two little boys, and Deverell’s eldest daughter and his son, admitting that yes, she really was a ship’s captain, that yes, her ship was a big one with lots of sails, an oceangoing vessel, not a sailboat, but that as yet she hadn’t ordered anyone to walk the plank.

Satisfied, the children smiled huge smiles, bobbed bows and curtsies, and chorused their goodnights.

Penny and Phoebe handed their youngest children—Penny’s daughter, Phoebe’s second girl—to their husbands to jiggle, kiss, then return to the nannies’ waiting arms.

When the door finally shut behind the small cavalcade, Penny fixed her eyes on her husband’s face. “Right. Now cut line, and tell us what your orders are.”

Charles arched a brow at Deverell.

Subsiding beside his wife on one chaise, Deverell said, “I’ve already sent a messenger to Royce to report that Logan’s reached us hale and whole, and with his scroll-holder still in his possession. However, Logan was late in to Plymouth, so Royce has already sent us our orders for the next leg. We’re instructed to reach Oxford by the evening of the nineteenth, traveling via Bath, where we’re to stay at The York House. Further orders will await us at the University Arms in Oxford. Our ultimate goal is Royce’s house, Elveden Grange, just short of Thetford in Suffolk, but he’ll want us coming in on a specific route, on a particular day. Presumably we’ll learn which route and what day once we reach Oxford.”

Lounging beside Penny on the opposite chaise, Charles said, “Given the enemy knows you’re in England, and will almost certainly trace us to Totnes, I suggest we remain here in safety before doing a dash in the minimum number of days required to reach Oxford on the nineteenth.”

Deverell nodded, his gaze going to Logan. “We’re safe, here—it’s close to impossible to successfully attack this house.”

Logan inclined his head. “So what’s the minimum number of days on the road to get from here to Oxford?”

“Two,” Deverell replied. “With the days so short—and we certainly won’t want to be traveling through the night, inviting attack—then it’ll take us one long day to reach Bath, and then a shorter day’s journey to Oxford.”

“That should allow us some flexibility as to which roads to take,” Charles said, “although I assume we’ll stick mostly to the main highways.”

Deverell leaned back. “Unless we have reason to do otherwise, that would be my plan.”

“All right,” Phoebe said. “It’s the sixteenth today, so that leaves you tomorrow to make preparations and get everything arranged, then the day after tomorrow, you leave for Bath.”

Everyone nodded. Charles looked at Phoebe, then Penny beside him. “I still can’t believe Minerva invited you and the children—and the other wives with theirs, too—to join us at Elveden.”

“Minerva,” Penny stated, adding for Logan’s and Linnet’s benefit, “she’s Royce’s duchess, is an eminently wise and sensible lady. And she’s now one of the grandest of the grandes dames, so of course we can’t possibly decline the invitation.”

“Especially not when that invitation so perfectly aligns with your own wishes,” Deverell rather acerbically remarked.

Phoebe struggled to keep her lips straight as she patted her husband’s hand. “Indeed. Especially not then.” She looked at Penny. “If they’re leaving the day after tomorrow”—she glanced at Deverell—”and I expect you’ll be away at dawn?”

Resigned, he nodded. “We should leave at first light, if not just before—if there’s any surprise to be had, we want it on our side.”

“Well, then”—Phoebe looked at Penny—”I can’t see any reason why we couldn’t set off within an hour or so.”

Logan shifted, frowning as he imagined it. “If you can, it would be wiser to wait a few hours at least.” He met Deverell’s, then Charles’s, eyes. “We have to work on the assumption that the cult will locate us here, that they might be watching. If we leave, they’ll follow us, but it would be preferable that they get no hint that anyone else might be leaving shortly after.”

“In case they think to take hostages?” Charles asked.

“No point taking chances.” Logan looked at Phoebe. “Don’t start making preparations—any that might be seen from outside the Hall—until we’ve been gone for at least two hours. If there’s others waiting for us further up the road, those watching might mill about for a while when we leave, but if there’s nothing happening here, they won’t stay—they’ll fall in on our tail.”

Charles and Deverell both nodded emphatically.

“That’s what you’ll need to do.” Charles looked at his wife. “Where had you planned to stay on the road?”

Penny exchanged a look with Phoebe. “We’d planned to make Andover on the first night, which we still should be able to do.” When Phoebe nodded, Penny went on. “There’s a very large hotel there—what with our guards around us as well, we’ll be perfectly safe. On the second day, we’ll travel through London to Woodford.”

“Another very large hotel, again with lots of other people around,” Phoebe put in. “Which means we’ll reach Elveden easily on the third day. We’ll be there to welcome you when you get there.”

Charles glanced at Deverell, grimaced. “I suppose, as neither of you will consent not to go, then the best we can do is surround you with guards.”

Penny smiled resignedly. “We’ll take however many you want to send, but if I might point out, we’re already resembling a royal procession.”

Charles grunted.

Linnet asked a question about Elveden Grange, and the talk veered into less fraught waters.

Leaving the three men reminiscing about the war and their respective parts in it, Linnet climbed the stairs with Phoebe and Penny, very ready to rest. The day had been beyond eventful; quite aside from recouping physically, she had a great deal to review and digest. Parting from the other two at the head of the stairs, she found her way to her comfortable chamber and what promised to be a very comfortable bed.

Undressing by the light of a small lamp some maid had left burning, Linnet let her mind range over all she’d learned that day—the true danger of Logan’s mission, the reality that she could, and now looked set to, play a part, in her mind as his guardian, his keeper, regardless of what he might think. The abrupt shift in her view of aristocratic ladies, the realization that, at least in terms of Phoebe’s and Penny’s world, she might indeed fit in; they thought like her, had so much in common, shared so many attitudes, and had no more patience with social pretense than she did. She had a shrewd suspicion that, given the circumstances, they could both be as bold and as brazen as she.

She found Charles’s and Deverell’s attitudes to their wives interesting, too. Revealing, intriguing—their marriages were definitely not the norm, or at least not the norm as she had previously understood it.

There was a lot to assimilate, a large number of her views to reassess and rescript in light of what she’d observed. Yet one topic, one piece of news, increasingly filled her mind, increasingly captured her thoughts. Increasingly commanded her entire attention.

Logan was an earl’s son.

What did that mean with respect to her?

In a nightgown Penny had loaned her, wrapped in the counterpane for warmth, she was standing by the window staring out at the restless sea and wrestling with that question when the door opened and Logan came in.

She glanced at him. “I wondered if you’d come. I’ve no idea which room you were given.”

With a quirk of his brows, he sat on the end of the bed and bent to ease off his boots. “I could tell you it was my superior tracking skills that led me to your door, but the truth is my room is two doors further along, and going down to dinner I passed this door and heard your voice.” Setting his boots aside, he looked at her. “Regardless, I would have found you. I wasn’t about to stay away.”

She faced him, but didn’t venture closer. “Wasn’t about to sleep alone?”

Logan studied her face in the lamplight; the set of her features was uninformative, her eyes shadowed. “No.” He had no interest in sleeping alone ever again, not if he could help it. “However, if you’re wondering if that was part of the reason I insisted you came with me, the answer is no—that consideration didn’t occur at the time, and weighed not at all in my decision. Yet now you are here, with me, I can’t imagine not lying with you, sleeping with you in my arms.”

She seemed to hear the truth in his words. Yet still she hesitated, her arms wrapped over the counterpane, her gaze on him.

Then her lips firmed, and her gaze grew sharper. “An earl’s son?”

The question was quiet, yet loaded with intensity. With intent.

Mentally cursing his luck, he baldly stated, “My father was the Earl of Kirkcowan.”

“Was? He’s dead. So who’s the earl now?”

“His eldest son.” Standing, he shrugged off his coat, tossed it on a nearby chair. Started unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“From which curt description, I take it you’re estranged?”

He nodded. “I’m …” A bastard. “The black sheep of the family.” He had to tell her, and surely this was the perfect opening, but he hadn’t yet got all in place. He was too good a commander to charge in when his troops weren’t ready. Jaw tightening, he said, “You don’t need to worry about, my … elevated connections. In every sense, they’re irrelevant.”

“Are they?”

“Yes.” Laying aside his waistcoat, he turned as she came closer, but she halted more than a yard away, studied his face as, raising his chin, he unknotted, then unwound, his cravat.

From her stance, arms still folded, from her increasingly determined expression, from the frown tangling her brows, she was preparing for battle.

Sure enough …

“Originally you swore you’d return to me. Instead, you’ve managed to whisk me away with you.” Her green gaze locked on his eyes. “But you can’t keep me with you. You’ll have to let me go in the end.”

Meeting her challenging gaze with adamantine stubbornness, he started unbuttoning his shirt. “I am not going to walk away from you.” Stubborn witch. “I won’t be letting you go. Not now, not later. You’d best get used to that.”

The scoffing sound she made stated she was far from that.

“Just how do you see that working?” Temper snapping, Linnet swung out an arm, encompassing the pair of them and the bed. Inside her roiled panicky fear—and the fact she felt it scared her even more. The desperate fight in the narrow yard, the race through the maze with enemies in pursuit, the knowledge that those enemies were still there, lurking beyond the Hall’s thick walls to fall on him again … her reaction to that, and to what that reaction meant and might mean, shook her to the core.

She’d fallen in love with this stubborn, irritating, impossible man, and she’d never be the same again.

Her heart would never be the same again.

That didn’t mean she would let him trample it, cause her more pain—more pain than she would feel anyway when they came to part.

She stepped closer, locked her eyes on his. “I refuse to allow you to keep me with you. I will not be kept.” Raising a finger, she pointed at his patrician nose. “I will not be a kept, woman. I will not be your mistress, sitting waiting for you at your house in Glenluce.”

Something flared in his eyes, some emotion so powerful that her unruly heart leapt and her nerves skittered, but then he locked his jaw, reined it, whatever it was, in.

All but ground his teeth as, eyes burning darkly, he stated, “I don’t want you as my mistress.”

She held his gaze. “What, then?”

“I want you as my wife, damn it!”

Slowly, she released the breath she’d been holding. Commendably evenly stated, “Wife.” She’d assumed he’d meant that, but … “You never said anything about marriage. You didn’t mention a single associated word—like wife, bride, wedding.” Belligerently stepping closer still, temper rising as her emotions churned, even more out of control than before—God, how did he make her feel so much?—she deployed her finger again, wagging it under his aristocratic nose. “And don’t you dare suggest that me not jumping to a wedding-bell assumption is in some way a slur on your honor. I can’t read your damned mind—and it’s not as if scions of noble houses don’t keep mistresses. It’s a time-honored tradition for earl’s sons!”

The point that had been preying on her mind for the past hours. Folding her arms, a barrier between them, she glared at him from close quarters.

Somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t glare back.

Hands fisted at his sides, jaw clenched, Logan held his fire—because she was right. He’d spelled out his intentions to her men, but he hadn’t told her, not clearly. He’d sworn he would never give her up, had insisted that once he was free, he wanted to share his life with her, but he hadn’t mentioned marriage.

He’d omitted stating what to him had been the obvious. He’d assumed she had, as he had, come to see their relationship as something any sane man would seek to formalize, that, indeed, being a very sane woman, she would view it in the same light … but she hadn’t.

Clearly she hadn’t been thinking along those lines. Marriage lines. Vows and permanency.

Which was both a blow to his pride, and a sudden, jolting disappointment—more, a threat. A threat to what he now wanted, nay, needed his life to be—a threat to his dreams for the future.

Yet he couldn’t fault her—she’d always stated that in her view their liaison would inevitably end. She’d expected it to end in Plymouth. Instead, he’d all but kidnapped her, and now …

His eyes locked with hers, he dragged in a slow breath, filling his lungs, fighting to clear his head while he grappled with how to forge a way forward. Her description of a mistress sitting and waiting in a house in Glenluce … the vision had rocked him, pricked him on the raw as nothing else could have. The thought that he would ever subject her to that …

That had been his mother’s life. It would never be Linnet’s. Not while he breathed.

Forcing his fingers to uncurl, his jaw to ease, he slowly lifted his hands and gently closed them about her arms, simply held her and looked into her eyes. “You’re irritated, annoyed—and you’ve already countered any argument I might make that you ought to have guessed what my intentions were, any righteous assertion that as a gentleman I’d never have slept with you—continued to make love to you—if my intentions hadn’t been honorable—”

Eyes sparking, she opened her mouth—

“No—it’s your turn to listen.”

Reluctantly, all but smoldering, she subsided.

“You countered those arguments before I made them because you’ve already thought back and realized that, all along, I could have been intending marriage—you just assumed I wasn’t.” He held her gaze. “But I was. As God is my witness, I never thought of making you my mistress—I don’t want you as that. I want you in my bed, but I also want to have breakfast with you, to spend my days, my time, with, you. I want to dine with you, to follow you on your rounds and check the doors after you, and follow you up the stairs to your bed.

“I want that as my life, my future. I told you I wanted to share my life with you, but I didn’t say anything about marriage because the fact that I might die, or be too seriously wounded to have a life to share, precludes that. You saw what I’m facing—the cult is determined to kill me and seize the scroll-holder. Until we reach the end of this, I can’t—in the traditional, honorable way can’t—make any formal offer for your hand.”

He dragged in another breath. “But I can tell you this—you are the woman I want to share the rest of my life with, whether you consent to marry me or not. I won’t willingly let you go, and while, as you’re so relentless in telling me, I can’t force you to stay with me, I can, and will, do everything I can to change your mind.”

Still holding her gaze, he drew her to him, slid his hands slowly around the silky comforter in which she was wrapped. Quietly stated, “I want you as my wife, to have and to hold, and never release from the day we exchange our vows.”

She blinked up at him. Watched as he bent his head to hers, but didn’t pull back, away.

He sensed in her gaze, in the uncertainty of her stance—her uncharacteristic indecision over whether to sink against him or hold rigid in his arms—that she was caught in emotional turmoil, too.

Unexpected turmoil. Matters between them were not proceeding as, apparently, either of them had thought.

The realization lent a grim edge to his voice as, letting his lips cruise her temple, he murmured, “I want you. I want a life with you, a traditional, time-honored married life with you—and I would prefer not to settle for anything less.” He paused, his breath fanning her cheek, then added, “I’ve been a soldier, a commander, all my adult life, and I’m going to fight for you. And win. I will push to win. Because, for me, there’s no other choice.” He bent the last inch and his lips, brushed hers. “You are my future, the only future I want.”

He kissed her, pressed his lips to hers and caressed. Gathered her closer, inexpressibly relieved when she permitted it—more, when she came. When she sank slowly against him and let him settle her there, her hips to his thighs, her taut belly cradling his arousal.

Arousing him even more.

He wanted her with a power, a force, a raw need that ripped at him. A need their discussion, her miscomprehension of his intentions, had only whipped to more raging heights.

But this wasn’t a battle that could be won with force and might, not with power. Only with persuasion.

So he set himself to persuade, to hold all the power, the force and raw might of his need in check—let her see it, sense it, know it was there, but that it was, for her, held at bay.

Held back so he could show her, demonstrate and reveal how real and vital, how vibrant and deep, was his ardor. His passion, his desire, his fathomless need of her, something that welled from his heart, not just his loins, that lived in his soul, not just his mind.

Linnet sensed the difference, his intent. Felt it in the heavy thud of his heart beneath the palm she placed, braced, on his chest. Sensed it in the way his lips moved on hers, enticing, beguiling, not seizing, not taking.

Knew it in the strength, masculine and demanding, yet tonight not commanding, that closed around her, surrounding her, but gently.

All but reverently.

And yet the passion built, the heat and the flames, until her own need rose. Until their lips turned greedy, hungry and needy, until their bodies yearned.

He released her and shrugged out of his shirt. She dealt with the buttons at his waist, then, as he stepped back to strip off his breeches, she dropped the counterpane, quickly flicked the ties at her throat free.

Naked, he gripped the nightgown, with quiveringly restrained care drew it off over her head.

Then he flung it away, reached for her, and she went into his arms.

Caught her breath as he lifted her, wound her legs about his waist, her arms about his neck and gasped, head back, as, slowly, he filled her.

Filled her until she was full and complete.

Held her in his arms while they both, for that magical instant, savored.

Then he tipped his head up and his lips found hers, and he kissed her and she kissed him back and clung as he moved her on him.

As he lifted her, drew her down, thrust in.

Their bodies strained to race, to plunge and plunder, yet he held them back. Even though the drumbeat of their mutual desire had escalated, even though, steady and relentless, it pushed them on, he still took his time, held their rhythm to a rigidly reined cadence, and showed her.

More.

Lavished feeling and sensation and delicious delight on her, on her body. Fed her whirling mind with another type of joy, communicated by his hands as they held her securely, by his body as he used it in myriad ways to please and pleasure her.

And she couldn’t fight this—couldn’t resist his lure. Couldn’t pretend she didn’t see, didn’t know, didn’t understand what he was doing, what he wanted her to see.

What he wanted her to want.

Him. Like this. For the rest of her life.

She could have told him she did, that that very need was a barb buried deep in her heart, in her soul. But she didn’t.

Head back, breathing labored, she shook free of all thought, gave herself up to the moment, and rode on through a landscape colored by sensation. He found her, snared her, pushed her up, quick and hard, to the peak of jagged desire, and she shattered in bright incandescence.

Even as, tumbling her back on the bed, he followed her down, then came inside her, hard and fast, deep and powerful, again, she couldn’t find the words, couldn’t grasp the essential meaning of what she should say.

What she could say, could tell him.

Instead, she let all inhibitions fall, joined with him and let him drive them on into a landscape richer, more vibrant, more brilliant, more intense—let all she felt free to well through her and meet all the passion, the desire, the need he let her see.

In that moment she accepted what lay between them—what he felt, what she felt, what together they had somehow created.

This was real.

Powerful, intense.

That reality was etched on his face as, head rising, he groaned as his body clenched, then shuddered with release.

She went with him, let the potent pleasure have her, shatter her, clung as together they flew.…

They drifted back to earth, locked in each other’s arms.

As he slumped, wracked and spent, upon her, as her arms closed around him and held him close, as her body welcomed his weight, his warmth, savored that incredible moment of closeness, she acknowledged this was right, that this was truth, that above all, this was their reality.

For tonight, knowing that, recognizing that, was enough.

Tomorrow, in the harsh light of a winter’s day, she would weigh, assess.

She would have to adjust.

Because this, and he, would never leave her. That much, she now understood.

Late at night

Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

“So where do we really stand?”

In the bedroom Alex had chosen as theirs in the temporarily empty house tucked into the arches of the old abbey, ruins into which they’d moved that day, Daniel watched his lover pace.

They’d just parted from Roderick, who had reported that, with heavy snow now blanketing the region, the boy-thief Roderick’s man Larkins had inserted into Delborough’s household—now quartered at Somersham Place with the Cynsters—would have to wait for the drifts to decrease before delivering the scroll-holder to Larkins at nearby Ely Cathedral.

“Why so agitated?” Daniel bent to warm his hands at the fire. The house was still cold. Their people had been in residence for less than a day, not enough time for the fires to dispel the winter chill. “Delborough’s not going anywhere in this snow, and Larkins seems to have set up a reasonable scheme to get his hands on the colonel’s scroll-holder. We’ll just have to wait and see on that front. There’s nothing you or I can do to improve matters.”

Frowning, Alex bit a nail—never a good sign.

Inwardly Daniel sighed, and continued, his tone steady and reassuring, “Hamilton’s gone to ground and—given the weather—is unlikely to move north for a day or so. But when he does, we’ll know of it before he crosses the Thames. As for the other two … a rider just came in with news.”

As he’d known it would, the information captured Alex’s immediate attention.

Inwardly smiling, Daniel went on, “Monteith’s ship, the one he took from Lisbon, has failed to reach port. It’s believed to have been lost in a storm in the Channel.” Catching Alex’s pale eyes, Daniel smiled coldly. “I think we can assume that, one way or another, Monteith is feeding the fishes as we speak.”

Alex flashed a chilly smile in response, but didn’t cease pacing. “We’ve heard nothing more about Carstairs?”

“No, but that may be to the good. It gives us time to deal with the others without having yet another on the doorstep.”

Alex grimaced. “True.”

Daniel waited, quietly pointed, for some explanation of Alex’s continuing concern.

Alex waved. “It’s this notion of a puppetmaster. More than a notion—there is someone behind this, driving the entire scheme, and we don’t know who he is. That, my dear, is what’s worrying me. I hate not knowing who our opposition is.”

Halting, Alex met Daniel’s eyes. “As I said earlier, this puppetmaster is someone with real power.”

“You’re sure it’s not St. Ives?”

“Yes. If what Roderick says is true, it won’t be him. St. Ives is … a lieutenant, if you like. Which only underscores our puppetmaster’s standing. He commands at a very high level, and he’s somewhere around here.” Alex sat on the bed and frowned up at Daniel. “It’s worrisome, to say the least, that we now have someone of that caliber involved.”

Daniel left the fire. Halting before Alex, he wondered what the correct thing to say was.

Alex could be difficult. Against that, Alex was rarely wrong.

“Perhaps,” Daniel ventured, “either Delborough or Hamilton might lead us to this puppetmaster—after we relieve them of their scroll-holders, of course.”

“Of course.” Alex sighed and fell back across the bed. “I just wish I could feel more confident that Delborough is the one carrying Roderick’s letter. That way, once we seize it, we can depart this drab, dreary, and oh-so-damp place, and never need to tangle with the puppetmaster.”

“I thought”—Daniel leaned over Alex—”that you reveled in taking on challenges.”

Alex smiled up at him, pale eyes like winter ice. “Only when I’m sure of winning, my dear. Only then.”

Twelve

December 17, 1822
Paignton Hall, Devon

Linnet was late down to breakfast. When she reached the breakfast parlor, she discovered that the cause of her lateness had already broken his fast and gone out riding with Charles and Deverell.

“Of course,” Penny said, “while they carefully did not say so, they’re eager to see if they can find any cult people who might be watching this place.”

From her position at the head of the table, Phoebe smiled at Linnet. “Did you sleep well?”

The question might have been innocent, except for the twinkle in her hostess’s eye.

Luckily, the question was one Linnet could answer with perfect truthfulness. “Yes.” Sitting opposite Penny, she shook out her napkin, turned to thank the butler as he set a rack of fresh toast before her. Turning back to her newfound friends, she said, also perfectly truthfully, “I was so worn out, I slept like the dead.”

Penny chuckled. Phoebe grinned.

After completing the ritual of nibbling on toast and sipping tea—a ritual not that much different from Linnet’s habitual, breakfast at Mon Coeur—Phoebe and Penny declared they would help her pack, and then she could help them pack for themselves and their children.

They and their children kept her engaged and amused for most of the day, yet despite her involvement, again and again Linnet found her mind drifting to other matters. Personal matters.

Hardly surprising. Her impossible man was determined to marry her.

She hadn’t consciously thought of what his intentions had been, not until yesterday when the specter of him wanting her as his mistress had risen out of the revelation of his being an earl’s son, yet, contrary to what she’d allowed him to think, unconsciously she’d assumed marriage had been his goal.

Regardless, she hadn’t spent time considering the prospect because she’d been so sure they would part when he left Guernsey to pursue his mission, and the consequent separation would see the connection, and his impulse to marry her, wither and die. But now he’d taken her with him, and she’d decided—felt compelled—to remain by his side, no immediate separation was likely, and far from withering and dying, what had grown between them was deepening and burgeoning and growing ever stronger.

Sitting polishing her knives and cutlass on the window seat in her room while Phoebe and Penny sorted through the clothes—mostly theirs—they felt she should take, Linnet grappled with that fact. With the direction Logan had reiterated that morning in forceful, undeniable, senses-scrambling fashion. He was fixed on marrying her, and wasn’t merely in earnest, but determined, dogged, and as stubborn as she.

Most ladies would be in alt, delirious with delight, yet … she was who she was, and she’d given up all thoughts of marriage, laid all hope of it aside years ago. She was, after all, the virgin queen in her domain; she’d seen no way of marrying while retaining both the responsibility and the ability to act that was her birthright.

And it was that—the difficulties that arose from being a virgin queen—that Logan was challenging. She suspected he knew it, too. It was a question of power and command, and the wielding of both was something he understood, something of which he had long and real experience.

He was, in effect, challenging her. To reassess, to rethink. To explore. To take the risk.

What if she married him? Could a marriage between them work?

How could she know? How could she tell?

Yet the answer was vital, and not just to her. Her whole household, her wards, all who sailed for Trevission Ships, would be affected if things went wrong.

That was one great unknown. Another hurdle was, to her at least, utterly obvious. She might have been born a lady—indeed, she could correctly claim to be the Honorable Linnet Trevission—yet her life had never been that of a lady, certainly not the sort to marry the son of an earl.…

Even as her mind stalled, Penny came over, Linnet’s leather breeches in her hands.

“I am still insanely jealous, but at least I’ll shortly have a pair of my own. I wasn’t sure if you roll them or fold them to pack.”

“Roll.” Linnet took them and showed her. “The fewer creases you put in them, the longer they’ll last.”

They chatted for some minutes about the care of fine leather, what to do, what to avoid, then Phoebe called.

“Linnet, come and decide what gown you’ll wear tomorrow.” Staring at the options laid upon the bed, Phoebe frowned. “I was wondering if there’s any way you might wear your cutlass, but disguise it.”

Even as they assessed the possibilities, Linnet’s reservation over not being the right sort of lady for Logan resonated in her head.

Finally, she sat on the bed and looked up at Phoebe and Penny. “Tell me—before you were wed, was there ever any, time when you wondered if you were … I can’t think how to put this, but enough of a lady for him?”

Both Phoebe and Penny looked at her, then, sobering, sank down onto the counterpane.

“For me,” Penny said, “it wasn’t so much that. I’m the daughter of an earl, and I’ve known Charles all my life. We moved in the same social circles and our families were close. It wasn’t anything social that was my problem—it was more if I was woman enough to accept all of him, all the parts he’d kept hidden from us all, not just me, but his whole family. It was like trying to embrace a man where half of him remained permanently in shadow. I wondered, at the time, whether I could be strong enough to see him all, know him all, and yet continue to love him all—not just the laughing buccaneering adventurer that anyone with eyes can see, but the devoted and deadly spy beneath.” She paused, and an expression Linnet could only define as serene joy passed over her features as she smiled. “But I discovered I was strong enough, and I’m still reaping the rewards.”

“Hmm.” Phoebe tapped her chin. “I did wonder at the time if I was suitable—suitably suitable, I suppose you might say. I was already immersed in the agency, it took up most of my time, and I’d convinced myself that marriage was not for me.” She smiled, the expression as joyous as Penny’s. “Deverell convinced me otherwise, but I can see parallels with your situation.” Phoebe met Linnet’s eyes, understanding in hers. “The thing one needs to remember is, while we may not be the most conventional of ladies, they are, indubitably and indisputably, not conventional gentlemen.”

“That’s entirely correct.” Penny nodded sagely. “Our gentlemen are more. And as such, it’s been my observation that conventional ladies are not to their taste, and further, are highly unlikely to be able to handle them.” She gave a more decisive nod. “That’s my tale, and I intend to adhere to it. However”—she rose—”you might want to consider that not one of Royce’s ex-operatives, no more than Royce himself, has married a conventional lady.”

She paused, head tilted, then said, “Minerva is probably the most outwardly conventional, and Letitia and Clarice—you’ll meet them all at Elveden. Yet even those three … once you learn of their backgrounds, and if you give them a challenge, a problem, or heaven forbid threaten anyone they hold dear, then you’ll uncover something quite outside the realm of the conventional.”

Phoebe snorted. “Oh, yes. Those three of us all—they would without a blink take on the Lord Chancellor himself and reduce him to quaking. As for Prinny, they’d likely send him gibbering.”

Both Phoebe and Penny smiled as if relishing the thought.

A gong sounded in the distance. Phoebe glanced at the clothes neatly folded on the bed. “Come on—let’s set aside your things for tomorrow and pack everything else. Then after lunch, we can start on the children’s things.”

With much to think about, and a still, as she thought of it, questing heart, Linnet readily fell in with her hostess’s directions.

After lunch, she followed Phoebe and Penny up the stairs to the big nursery, which took up most of the upper floor of one of the house’s irregular wings. At one end was a large circular chamber filling one of the old castle’s towers. With wide windows giving wonderful views out to sea and along the coast, it was the perfect place for the children to play.

It was instantly apparent that the best way in which Linnet could assist with the children’s packing was to distract the four older children. Pulling rank as captain of the Esperance, she had no difficulty luring them to the wide window seats beneath the tower room’s windows. Ensconced there, they played spot the ship, then spot the bird. As there were plenty of specimens of the latter readily visible, and as the children’s fascination with ships had yet to wane, they happily pointed and displayed their knowledge, arguing, then listening as Linnet explained and corrected. Eventually, at her suggestion, they started making up stories about the ships they saw—about their voyages, their captains, and crews.

Relaxing against the window frame, Linnet smiled, laughing and encouraging their flights of fancy. The three boys were especially inventive, describing pirates and treasure and sea battles.

Phoebe’s daughter, Jessica, tiring of such nonsense, climbed up to sit alongside Linnet. Reaching up a hand, she touched Linnet’s loose chignon, face lighting at the silken feel. “Can I braid it? I sometimes do Mama’s hair.”

Linnet smiled into green eyes much like her own, and even more like Phoebe’s. “If you like.” Shifting so Jessica could kneel at her back, Linnet reached up and pulled out the pins anchoring the mass. When it cascaded over her shoulders, Jessica oohed, then ran her small fingers through it.

“One big braid,” Jessica decided.

Smiling, Linnet left her to it and gave her attention to settling a discussion over the relative merits of swords or knives in dispatching scurvy pirates.

Jessica was gentle, carefully using her fingers to comb out Linnet’s long hair, then doggedly plaiting; she had to go back and forth a number of times, unraveling the braid to redo it tighter or straighter, but eventually she slipped from behind Linnet, scurried out to the main room, then returned a moment later with a ribbon.

Climbing back beside Linnet, Jessica frowned with concentration as she tied the end of the braid, then she sat back on her ankles, surveyed the result, and smiled. A big, beautiful smile. “There you are.” Laying the fat braid over Linnet’s shoulder, Jessica patted it. “That will keep it neat.”

“Thank you.” Linnet leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Jessica’s head. Drawing back, she squinted down at the slightly lopsided braid. “It’s lovely, but you mustn’t be upset if later I have to brush it out and put up my hair for dinner.” She met Jessica’s eyes confidingly. “It’s what ladies have to do.”

Jessica nodded back solemnly. “I know. Mama has to do that, too.”

“So does our mama,” Penny’s boys chorused.

Linnet laughed. Opening her arms wide, she managed to hug them all. She rocked them for a moment, an armful of warm, trusting, energetic bodies, bodies who laughed and giggled, then she released them—slowly.

Slowly straightened, staring blankly across the room, then she blinked, turned her head to look outside. “Look—is that a rowboat all the way out there? Or a fishing boat?”

The children swung back to the windows, kneeling and peering out to see, arguing once they’d located the boat she meant, bobbing on the waves in the bay.

Dragging in a breath, Linnet let them good-naturedly bicker, seized the moment to find her mental feet again.

She wanted children.

She’d forgotten how much. She’d buried that want so long ago she’d forgotten how much it had ached, and for how long, when she’d made her decision not to marry.

At the time, she’d already started gathering her wards. She’d told herself that they would do, would be enough to absorb and satisfy any maternal instinct she possessed.

But it wasn’t maternal instinct that ached inside her, that made her press her fist to her breastbone, fight to draw a full, even breath.

In the instant the boys had chorused, she’d been struck by a thought—out of nowhere, yet not—a stray thought of what it would be like to look into midnight blue eyes that held that degree of mischief. To see such eyes laughing up at her out of an innocent face.

She’d wanted, for that waking instant had dreamed of, Logan’s child. Son or daughter, her vision hadn’t been specific, but the thought of a little Logan running wild …

Had made her heart ache.

Had reopened the empty, hollow cavern below her heart.

Dragging in a longer breath, forcing her lungs to function, she blinked again, straightened on the seat, then leaned to look out of the window. After a moment, she said, “It’s a fishing skiff. Can you see the nets dragging behind it? Look at the way the wake is churning.”

Linnet was very ready to accompany Phoebe and Penny downstairs when they declared it was time to attend their own packing. Penny stated that her packing was merely a matter of repacking everything she’d brought to Paignton Hall—no decisions to be made—so she and Linnet accompanied Phoebe into her dressing room.

The next hour and more passed swiftly. Linnet put aside her private cogitations and gave herself up to the novel experience of laughing and enjoying the company of like-minded ladies. Then the first gong sounded and it was time to dress for dinner.

Back in her room, she washed and changed into one of the gowns Penny had lent her. Standing before the dressing table, she unwound Jessica’s braid. Instead of summoning a maid, she elected to brush out her hair, then plait it again, this time into two tight plaits, which she could wind about her head and pin to fashion a gleaming, gilded coronet.

Being alone gave her time to think, to look back over the day, and consider all she’d felt, all that had surfaced while she’d been with the other two, already married ladies, and their children.

Most especially the children.

For all she knew she might already be carrying Logan’s child. As her earlier forays into intimacy had been so very brief, she’d ignored the risk of pregnancy, and with Logan … had forgotten to remember it. Yet their liaison had extended far beyond a single occasion, and indeed would continue.…

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t make herself view falling pregnant with Logan’s child as anything other than a blessing, a joy.

That left her feeling even more unsettled.

She went down to the drawing room early. Penny and Charles were already there, as was Deverell. Logan arrived not long after, then Phoebe came bustling in. As they chatted and exchanged stories of their day, she watched and observed—took closer note of how Charles and Deverell interacted with Penny and Phoebe, and vice versa.

Now she knew them better, she could see, detect, the very real connection that flowed between each couple. Easy affection, a touch of pride, protectiveness, and yes, even in this setting, a hint of possessiveness from the men, and a reciprocal but more open affection from the women, an acceptance and a bone-deep confidence in all their men were and would provide. If she’d needed any demonstration of what constituted a sound basis for marriage between people like them, it was there, before her nose.

As Logan fell in beside Linnet as they followed Phoebe into the dining room, he studied Linnet’s face, wondered what she was thinking. He’d noticed her watchfulness; she’d been quiet, quieter than he was used to her being, but she’d been fully absorbed and listening avidly. As if she was studying what was going on.

Holding her chair while she sat, he settled her, then sat beside her. Gave his attention to the soup that was placed before him.

Conversation waned while they all supped.

He didn’t know what was in Linnet’s mind. Didn’t know what he should or shouldn’t say at this point. They were in a hiatus—a frustrating interlude during which they couldn’t go forward, couldn’t make decisions, but had to wait for external issues to resolve before they could do anything at all.

Indeed, his whole day had been one of frustration. On horseback with Charles and Deverell, he’d ridden a wide swath around Paignton, but had found no traces of the cult. No watchers, either cultists or hired locals, no hint from the villagers around about of any sightings of unknown men.

They might have temporarily lost the cult, but, as he’d assured Charles and Deverell, they’d be watching the main roads to the north and east, knowing he’d make a dash in that direction sometime.

While they’d ridden down the lanes and over the fields, he’d had time to reassess his personal strategy, to reaffirm that showing Linnet the man he was, the man the years had made him—giving her the chance to see for herself what manner of man he was, what he’d made of his life thus far, giving her the facts on which to judge what he would bring to her and Mon Coeur—before he told her of his bastard state was the right and proper course of action.

The course most likely to succeed.

Her inclusion in the party for this last dash to Elveden meant she’d have a chance to see with her own eyes and gauge his standing, his circle of friends, his past achievements, his capabilities, even get some idea of his wealth.

He could tell her all that, recite a catalogue, but he’d much rather she saw and made her own assessment. Faster, more direct, more certain that way.

Especially as he didn’t know exactly how she would react to the revelation that he was a bastard, albeit a noble one. In wider tonnish society, he would be accepted as the man he was; he wasn’t in the same boat as the average bastard whose mother hailed from the lower orders. In his case, his mother, too, had been from one of the highest families. His position was more like that of old Lady Melbourne’s children, all of whom where widely regarded as having different fathers, none of whom was Lord Melbourne.

Society accepted him, always had, but would Linnet? Some people had more difficulty overlooking a bastard birth than others.

He didn’t think Linnet would consider his birth a problem, but as he set down his soup spoon, he inwardly admitted that, cravenly, he didn’t want to take a chance.

He’d faced guns and cannon, led charges in battle, yet she, was now so important to him that he didn’t want to take even the slightest risk of her rejecting him, not if it was in any way avoidable.

So he’d wait until the end of the mission to break that news to her. Aside from all else, from tomorrow morning on, his mission would take precedence, and he and she would necessarily put all personal matters aside.

Phoebe looked down the table at her spouse, then glanced at Charles. “Well, I expect you two better explain the arrangements you’ve put in place for our journey to Elveden.”

Logan inwardly grinned as Deverell and Charles obliged.

The three of them had spent the afternoon making the necessary preparations—selecting the coachman who would travel with them, provisioning the carriage they would take. Then Charles and Deverell had turned their attention to the two other carriages that would carry Penny, Phoebe, and the children on their journey east, organizing drivers, guards, and weapons.

He’d been impressed by Charles’s and Deverell’s arrangements. Relieved and reassured. He couldn’t imagine even the cult overcoming the heavily, if discreetly, armed cavalcade they’d organized. Their guards were experienced, loyal, and knew their work. Penny, Phoebe, and the children would be safe.

The thought niggled. He glanced at Linnet, on his right; she was absorbed with the discussion, silent but watching. He let his gaze linger on her face, on the delicacy beneath the determination.

Something in him stirred; he looked away before she felt his gaze.

She should be kept safe, too—he should keep her safe, just as Charles and Deverell were so focused on keeping Penny and Phoebe safe.

Inwardly frowning, he couldn’t help but wonder if keeping her with him—and so knowing she was safe, thus relieving his anxiety on that score—was the best arrangement for her—or only the best arrangement for him.

He was still inwardly frowning when, dinner concluded, he rose with the other two men and followed their ladies to the drawing room.

They all retired relatively early. Their plans for the morrow called for a departure before dawn, at least for the three men and Linnet. Penny and Phoebe would be up and about, too, to fuss over their husbands, then wave them all on their way.

Linnet stood by the window in her bedchamber, consciously seizing the moments before Logan joined her to take stock—to fix in her mind just where he and she stood before they embarked on a journey that would be, she suspected, akin to running a gauntlet. They would run, and the cult would attack; from all she’d heard of the men’s assumptions, that was how they expected the next days to unfold.

No time, not the right time, to make any decisions about him and her, yet she didn’t want to fetch up at journey’s end with no clear idea of where they were, what questions still loomed, what next she needed to do.

He’d declared he wanted to marry her, that that was his adamant intent. Her initial reaction had been that she could never be the sort of wife he needed, yet after spending time with Penny and Phoebe and watching Charles and Deverell, seeing and sensing how such marriages worked, she’d jettisoned that stance. She could, if he wished and she wished, be a suitable wife for him.

Assuming she could meet his ultimate expectations, his specific requirements; that was an issue they hadn’t discussed, but would have no time to address now.

Staring out at the night, she pulled a face. Indecision wasn’t a state she appreciated, but she couldn’t decide if she could fill a position without knowing what the specifications were, before she understood what said position entailed, yet any such discussion would have to wait until his mission was concluded.

Aside from that caveat, as far as she could see there was only one hurdle remaining, and while it was a major one, on, multiple levels, addressing it before deciding to accept his suit was pointless.

The one thing she could no longer do was refuse to seriously entertain his suit. Not after today, not now that she knew—to her bones and her soul finally appreciated—all he would offer her.

Quite aside from the virgin queen no longer having to remain an all but virgin into her old age.

Children. She had never considered having children with any other man. Still couldn’t imagine it. Only with Logan. With Logan … she could, and if she married him, God willing would, fill that aching, empty hollow that resided below her heart.

She heard his footsteps outside the door, swiftly reviewed her thoughts. Inwardly nodded. As far as she was able, she knew where she stood.

Reaching up, she drew the curtains across the window. Turning, she waited while he came in, saw her, closed the door, then crossed the room to her. She’d left a candle burning on the dressing table; in the soft light, she saw he was … not exactly frowning, yet the expression was there in his eyes. “What is it?”

He looked surprised that she’d asked, then allowed his frown to materialize. “I was just thinking …” Halting before her, he grimaced, then slipped both hands into his breeches’ pockets and looked down. “I was thinking perhaps you would be safer going with the other ladies.”

She blinked. She might well be safer going with Penny and Phoebe—but what about him? “No.” Lips setting in what she’d been told often enough was a mulish line, she caught his gaze as he looked up, and shook her head. Decisively. “Absolutely not. I’m going with you.”

His lips thinned. “But—”

“No.” Turning, she stalked toward the bed. “No, no, no.” Swinging around, she pinned him with her gaze. “You carried me off my damned ship, in full view of my crew, for heaven’s sake—and yes, I know you bent them to your misguided, will by convincing them it was safest for me to go with you—but that doesn’t change the fact that it was your idea that I come with you, travel with you to your mission’s end. And so now, no. You do not get to change your tune.” Lifting her chin, she held his gaze. “I’m staying with you, traveling with you, until your mission ends, and that, as far as I’m concerned, is that.”

He studied her for a long moment, then his brows rose. Drawing his hands from his pockets, he walked slowly toward her.

Halting before her, he looked into her face.

His eyes were still troubled.

“You’re absolutely certain that’s what you want—to face whatever risks we might have to run?”

She searched his eyes, hearing inside the resonance between his mission and their lives—their putative future that yet lay unresolved. Whatever risks we might have to run. The same question applied in that sphere, too.

Was her answer the same?

She didn’t know, but she knew her right answer here and now.

“Yes. I’m absolutely sure.”

Slowly, he nodded. “All right.”

His expression didn’t ease.

In a flash of insight, she understood his problem. “Stop worrying.” Reaching up, she wound her arms about his neck, stepped closer. “This is my decision, and you’ll be there, by my side all the way, in case I need rescuing.”

Stretching up against him, feeling his arms instinctively rise and close about her, she looked at his lips, let her own curve, then, looking up through her lashes, met his eyes. “Just remind yourself of how grateful I might have to be if you do indeed rescue me.”

He sighed, gave in. Bent his head. Whispered across her lips in the instant before his brushed them, “As long as you’re safe.”

“I will be,” she whispered back. “You’ll be there.”

She kissed him on the words, and he let her, let her for once lead the way. Let her please herself by pleasing him, then he gently took the reins and returned the pleasure.

In full measure.

Reiterated, not in words but in deeds, in devotion, with passion and desire fueled by hunger and need, the truth of all he’d told her, that she was the woman he wanted, the one above all he coveted, that she was, to him, all.

All he wanted, all he would ever need.

Much later, when she lay sated and boneless beneath him, her fingers idly riffling his black hair, she saw deep inside a truth she had until then overlooked.

He was everything she had ever wanted, and all she would ever need.

Thirteen

December 18, 1822
The road from Paignton Hall to Exeter

They encountered the first ambush five miles from Paignton Hall. Thick fog blanketed the coast. The carriage’s sudden appearance out of the murk surprised eight sleepy cultists camped beyond the ditch; they scrambled to form up across the road, a human barrier waving short swords.

The coachman, David, whom Linnet concluded Deverell and Charles had chosen for his reckless enthusiasm, whipped up his horses and drove straight for them. Yelling, screeching, the cultists scattered, leaping and tumbling back into the muddy ditch.

Linnet saw open mouths and stunned faces as the carriage rocketed past.

“Well, that was uneventful.” Charles resheathed his sword, settled back into his corner, and closed his eyes.

Inwardly shaking her head, Linnet tucked her cloak more snugly over her red traveling gown, and with her cutlass riding comfortingly against her hip, settled in her own corner, diagonally opposite Charles. Deverell sat across from her, Logan alongside.

They’d left Paignton Hall in the icy chill an hour before dawn. Phoebe and Penny had stood on the steps and waved them away; the pair’s absolute confidence as they’d farewelled their husbands with assurances that they would all see each other shortly at Elveden had been infectious.

A good omen when heading out to face villains.

“I counted five on this side,” Deverell murmured.

Linnet glanced at him.

“Three this side,” Logan said.

“Which,” Charles concluded without opening his eyes, “makes eight—which just might be cause for concern.”

“If they had eight men to set watching a minor road like this …” Deverell met Logan’s eyes. “Another group before Exeter, do you think?”

Logan nodded. “More than likely.”

“In that case, we’d better make ready to start reducing the enemy’s numbers.” Opening his eyes, Charles stood, reached up to the rack above Linnet’s and Logan’s heads, and lifted down four small hunting crossbows and a handful of quarrels. “That, after all, is the main purpose of a decoy mission—to draw out and weaken the enemy.” Handing the bows around, he asked Linnet, “Can you fire one of these?”

She took a bow, examined it. “We have arbalests, big ones, on board, and I can fire those when they’re mounted, but this”—she tested the weight—”is light enough for me to hold, so yes.” Accepting the small winch used to load the bow, and a few quarrels, she raised her brows. “I might even be able to reload it.”

Resuming his seat, Charles loaded his. “We shouldn’t need to reload immediately, not unless they manage to halt the carriage. If they hunt in packs of eight or thereabouts, then if we each down one, that should be enough to get us through their next roadblock.”

“They won’t know it’s us, not until they look into the carriage.” The carriage was one of Deverell’s, built for speed as well as comfort, but anonymous and unmarked. Deverell set his loaded crossbow on the floor. “If we obligingly slow, when they wave us down, wait until they’re close enough, then drop the windows, fire, and David springs his horses immediately, we’ll be through.”

Linnet looked at the windows—glass in wooden frames that slid down into the carriage’s sides and secured with a latch at the top.

Logan nodded. “I can’t see any holes in that.”

Deverell rose, opened the hatch in the carriage’s roof, and gave David his latest orders.

As Deverell resumed his seat, leaving the hatch open, the carriage slowed, then turned right onto the highway between Plymouth and Exeter.

“This is the road they’ll expect us to be on.” Logan peered out of the window, searching ahead. “The Black Cobra—Ferrar—is clever, and he’s had time to send his cultists to all the main ports on the south coast. We know he had men in Plymouth. He wouldn’t have missed Exeter.”

“And knowing you fled Plymouth in this direction but have yet to reach Exeter, they’ll be waiting.” Charles smiled in anticipation.

The carriage bowled on as a gray and mizzling dawn spread across the land.

“Heathens ahead, m’lord.” The words floated down through the open hatch. “Nine of the bastards with swords in their hands. I guess I’d better smile and look innocent.” The carriage slowed.

Deverell beckoned to Linnet. “Change places with me.”

She didn’t argue, just obliged.

Like Logan, Deverell angled back in the corner, gaze fixed through the window. They all had their crossbows in their hands. The coach rocked to a halt. Linnet shrugged off her cloak, reached her hand to the window latch. Saw the men slowly do the same.

“Now!” Deverell flipped his latch.

The sound of the four windows slamming down startled the approaching cultists, three on each side.

Logan’s and Deverell’s bows twanged. Two cultists fell.

Linnet angled her bow around, sighted a dun-colored tunic, a black scarf dangling over the shoulder; she pulled the trigger. Instantly drew back, raising the window as the carriage jerked, then surged.

She relatched the window, glanced out and saw two cultists who must have been standing by the horses sprawled on the ground.

Then they were past. Through.

“Four down.” Charles set his bow on the floor. “I wonder how many more we’ll meet?”

Minutes later they were passing the outer abodes of Exeter.

“They’re following, m’lords,” David called down. “Three of ‘em. But they’re hanging back, not looking to close the distance.”

“Let them follow.” Deverell looked at Logan. “I assume they’re unlikely to mount any attack in town?”

“That’s not their style, especially not if we’re traveling through. Hard to stop a carriage without anyone else noticing.” Logan settled back. “They tend to prefer more isolated surrounds, but not because they care about breaking any laws—to them the violence they employ is the only law that matters. They don’t care about witnesses, either, but while they’ll happily kill anyone who gets in their way, people getting in the way distracts and hampers them, and their master is very keen on success when it comes to the tasks he sets them.”

Charles nodded. “So they’re following, waiting for us to helpfully drive into the next little band of theirs further down the road.”

“In that, they’ll be disappointed,” Deverell said. “They’ll expect us to head directly east, out on the road to London—where else?” He raised a brow at Logan. “What are the odds that once we’re bowling along the London road, they’ll send one of their number forward to alert the next group?”

“That’s a certainty.”

“So when we turn north, they’ll have to send a second man back to alert the others of our change in direction.”

“So we’ll be left with one man.” Logan smiled. “And he won’t be able to leave us to alert anyone for fear of losing us altogether.”

“Which, I must remind you, we don’t actually want them to do.” Charles settled back. “The trick with a mission like this is to reduce their numbers as much as we can without risking being overwhelmed.”

“This is the center of town.” Deverell signaled to Linnet and changed places with her again, giving her the more comfortable position facing forward. “We’re now heading out and east, so let’s see if our predictions prove correct.” Still standing, Deverell spoke through the hatch, “David, keep to our planned route to Bridgwater, but take your time until the turnoff to Cullompton. Give them a chance to send a rider past us.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Deverell resumed his seat.

Sure enough, five minutes later, when the last cottages of Exeter fell behind, Charles pointed out of the window. “There he goes.”

They all looked and saw one of the cultists, rugged up in a frieze coat buttoned over a dun tunic, but with his distinctive head scarf flapping, urging his mount over the soggy field bordering the road. Eventually, he pulled ahead.

Minutes later David called down, “He’s away, m’lord. Round the next bend and out of sight. The Cullompton turn-off’s just ahead.”

“Take it,” Deverell ordered, “and drive on as fast as you safely can.”

The carriage slowed, then turned left into a narrower road that ran between high hedges. As soon as the carriage completed the turn, David whipped up his horses; they surged, then settled to a steady, mile-eating pace.

“Lots of argy-bargy going on between the two heathens still with us, m’lord. Seems like one of ‘em’s turning back.”

“Good.” Smiling, Deverell sat back. “On to Bridgwater as fast as you can.”

They rattled on through the morning, through wet mists that blurred the landscape. The damp chill reached deep. Linnet huddled in her cloak, glad she was in the carriage and not on horseback. They passed through Taunton without challenge, but their sole follower was still with them when they reached Bridgwater. David slowed his horses, then turned the carriage into the yard of the Monmouth Arms.

Deverell led the way in, bespoke a private parlor and the best luncheon the inn could provide. Linnet found herself bowed deferentially into the parlor by the innkeeper, then before she could swing her cloak from her shoulders, Logan lifted it away, then held a chair for her at the table.

Once she sat, the three men took their seats. Almost immediately the door opened; the innwife and a bevy of serving girls swept in, bearing covered platters and a huge tureen. With a flourish, the innwife set the tureen before Linnet. “Ma’am.”

With a bobbed curtsy, the innwife turned, shooed her girls out ahead of her, then went out and closed the door.

Linnet didn’t need to look at the three faces about the table to know that they, too, expected her to serve the soup. With only a slight twist to her lips, she did. The oxtail broth was delicious, as were the various roast meats and assorted vegetables and puddings provided as accompaniments.

Early in the proceedings, the innkeeper arrived with three mugs of ale for the men and a glass of ginger wine for Linnet. Once again, the innkeeper’s deferential “ma’am” niggled Linnet; despite the fact that she wore no ring, everyone, Logan included, was treating her as if she were his wife.

She felt a touch off-balance, and didn’t appreciate the feeling.

But she, Logan, Charles, and Deverell had more pressing concerns.

When only the platter of cheese and walnuts remained, Charles popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, gathered a handful of nuts, and pushed back from the table. “I’m going out to scout around.”

Deverell nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

From the door, Charles looked back at Logan. “Give us at least half an hour before you send the cavalry.”

Logan nodded, and then the pair were gone.

They returned twenty minutes later. Logan turned from the window as the door opened and Charles walked in, looking puzzled.

“They’re here.” Charles waited until Deverell came in and closed the door. “But for some ungodly reason they’re gathered, all eight of them, back down the road.”

Deverell halted by the table. He, too, was frowning. “They know we’re here—they’re keeping watch on the entrance to the inn’s yard.” He looked at Logan. “We checked ahead first, then circled all the way around before we found them. It looks like they’re intending to follow us rather than attack, even though there are eight of them.”

“I can’t see how they can attack from the rear, not in this sort of country, on this sort of road, and against a fast carriage and four.” Charles looked at Logan. “There’s something we’re missing here.”

After a moment, Logan said, “I think I know what.” He looked at Deverell. “Have you got that map?”

Reaching into his pocket, Deverell drew out a map, carefully unfolded the parchment, and laid it on the table. Linnet rose from the armchair to which she’d retreated and joined them. They all stood looking down at the map.

“We’re here”—Deverell pointed to a spot labeled Bridgwater—”currently on the road to Bristol. Our destination, Bath, is here.” He pointed to the town northeast of Bridgwater, and southeast of Bristol. “As the crow flies, it’s about thirty-five miles, fifty or more by road. Five hours’ drive, perhaps less. The reason we’ve come this way is that, from here, there are many different routes we can take to reach Bath.” He traced a number of them. “None of those routes is useful for mounting an attack from the rear—so why send eight men to follow us where one, or at most two, would do?”

“Because they think we’re going to Bristol, and they’re not just following us.” Logan pointed to Bristol, to their nor’northeast, then looked up, met the others’ eyes. “We know Ferrar sent his men to the south coast ports, those being the ones we, the couriers, were most likely to come through. But the three frigates that attacked the Esperance? Given no one believed any captain from the south coast would fail to recognize the Esperance and therefore know better than to attack it, especially when it was flying the naval ensign, I asked Linnet’s crew where they thought those ships hailed from. Their educated guess was from an east coast port. And if Ferrar sent men to the east coast ports, he would have sent men to Bristol, too.”

Charles grimaced. “It is one of the major trading ports.”

“So,” Deverell said, “it’s likely the group behind us have already sent someone to alert their colleagues in Bristol, and as we drive on, with the eight behind us, we’re going to run into a cult welcome up ahead.”

“And we’ll be trapped between”—Charles looked at Logan—”sixteen or more? Those are not odds I like.”

“Nor I,” Logan said, “but that’s how the cult operates. They smother opponents—overwhelming odds to ensure victory. Ferrar has no consideration for how many he loses, and many cultists have absorbed so much of the religious zeal Ferrar has fostered that they view death in the service of the Black Cobra as imparting some sort of glory.”

“In that case,” Deverell said, leaning on the table and studying the map, “we need to break up the group behind us, or step sideways out of their trap.”

“Or both,” Charles said. “The question is how.”

They evaluated the various roads they might take.

“The problem,” Logan said, “is that if we take any of these roads to Bath, in the carriage we’re going to be slower than a rider from the pack behind us seeing our direction, riding hell for leather to Bristol, meeting up with the welcome committee there, and redirecting them to Bath. They’ll be able to reach Bath, and even come southeast to meet us as we, drive in. We’ll be no better off, and might even be in worse, less frequented terrain.”

They all stared at the map. “That means,” Deverell eventually said, “that regardless of all else, the best route for us to take to Bath is the one that’s quickest from the moment we turn off the Bristol road.” He traced a route. “This one—we turn off at Upper Langford, then go via Blagdon, Compton Martin, Bishop Sutton and Chelwood to Marksbury, and so to Bath. For us, that’s the fastest way.”

Logan grimaced. “They’re still going to reach Bath well ahead of us.”

Linnet tapped a finger on the map. “Not if they don’t see which way we go.” She glanced up at the three men. When they all simply waited, she half smiled and looked down. “Here—just past this hamlet called Star. There’s a bend in the road, and then half a mile further on, Upper Langford and the turnoff we want. And while it’s difficult to stage an attack from the rear, we’re in front. We can attack them. And if we do, and cause sufficient panic and mayhem, just after Star and just before this bend, then we can be on and around the bend, down the road to Blagdon and out of sight, before they catch up enough to see us turn.”

Deverell was studying the map closely. “They’ll realize we’ve turned, but they won’t know to where. Just past that bend there are roads to Cheddar, Weston-Sur-Mare, Congresbury, as well as the one we want to take.”

“They’ll spend time casting about, trying to find which way we’ve gone.” Linnet looked at Logan. “It might not delay them long, but it will gain us some time, perhaps enough to beat them into Bath.”

Logan nodded. “That’s our best plan so far.”

Charles straightened. “The only alternative is to kill all those following us, and as they’re all on horseback, it’s too likely one of them at least will flee and ride on, so that’s not a viable option.”

Deverell nodded. “I vote for Linnet’s plan.”

“And me.” Logan nodded at her.

Charles grinned and swept her a bow. “Indeed. And I’ve got just the thing to ensure sufficient panic and mayhem to get away unseen.”

When their carriage rattled out of the Monmouth Arms yard, only Logan and Linnet were inside the vehicle. Charles and Deverell were stretched out on the roof, with two primed rifles each. Logan and Linnet each had one rifle and two pistols. The pistols were unlikely to have much chance of hitting any cultists, but the shots would add to the confusion.

David, who’d looked thoroughly thrilled when told the plan, took his time settling in his new team, galloping them along the straighter stretches, then reining them in, trotting through the small towns, before settling to a steady, but rapid, pace.

According to Charles, who reported via the open hatch, the changes in pace alone caused uncertainty in their pursuers’ ranks.

Not that they stopped pursuing.

Linnet had claimed the map. She continued consulting it as they swept on. Deverell, Charles, and Logan had agreed that the welcome party from Bristol would be waiting to ambush them along a particularly empty and desolate stretch between two villages. Luckily that stretch was at least three miles further on from where they planned to turn off.

The carriage slowed, and she looked out, saw a signpost. “That’s Sidcot.” She checked her map, then called to the two above. “Star’s about a half mile on.”

Setting aside the map, she undid the ties of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. She’d left her cutlass in the carriage when she’d gone into the inn, but had promptly buckled it on again as they’d left Bridgwater. Although their plan didn’t involve any face-to-face combat, she preferred to be prepared. Standing, she resettled the belt about her hips, then looked at the crate Charles had left on the opposite seat.

She studied the glass bottles wicked with rag that lay nestled, in crumpled paper inside the crate. “Do you think these will actually work?”

Logan glanced at the bottles. “I’ve seen far less professional incendiaries work brilliantly.”

“Star coming up.” David’s voice drifted down from above.

David followed the pattern he’d established when driving through smaller towns, slowing to bowl smoothly through, then whipping up his horses the moment the last cottages fell behind.

He drove on for several hundred yards, then abruptly slowed the carriage to a grinding halt.

The cultists, by then clear of the hamlet, at first came on at their accustomed gallop, then, realizing the carriage had halted, they slowed, confused … yet still closing the distance.

“Now!” Charles called, and both he and Deverell opened fire.

On the heels of their first volley, Logan and Linnet swung open the carriage doors, and, one foot on the carriage’s steps, took aim and fired. They pulled back into the carriage as the second volley sounded from above.

Logan dropped the rifle he’d used, grabbed the tinderbox he’d left ready.

Linnet lifted one of the bottles from its packing and held it for him.

He lit the wick, seized the bottle, and passed it up through the hatch to waiting hands. Immediately lit a second and passed that up, too.

The carriage rocked as Charles and Deverell stood. Logan imagined them waiting, then the carriage swayed as they threw the small flame bombs.

“Go!”

David had the carriage rolling when Charles and Deverell dropped to the roof.

Just as the bombs hit.

Logan and Linnet hung out of the carriage windows, and saw a scene of carnage and confusion, of cultists lying on, the ground, some clutching wounds and wailing, of horses milling. The bombs had landed, as intended, just in front of the cultists. Flames had whooshed and flared—the pervading damp would soon have them out, but the show was enough to have the cultists’ mounts panicking, pulling free if they could and galloping away.

As the carriage started around the bend, the flames died and smoke rose in billowing waves, engulfing the cutlists, setting them coughing and choking.

The carriage rounded the bend, their horses racing on as David drove hard for their chosen road.

They reached it and turned off toward Bath.

The carriage rattled wildly along the lesser road, helpfully lined with high, unclipped hawthorn hedges. David slowed a trifle as they passed through another hamlet. Once they were bowling along again, Charles called down, “None of them got to the bend before we turned. We’ve lost them, at least for the moment.”

They busied themselves tidying away the rest of the incendiaries, the rifles and pistols. At the next hamlet, David halted long enough for Charles and Deverell to climb down and return to their seats inside the carriage.

“It’s damned cold out there.” Charles stamped his feet, blew on his hands. “But at least we’ve made some impact.”

“We’ve done our duty,” Deverell affirmed, “at least for the moment.”

They all settled back, drew their cloaks closer. Linnet looked out of the window, thought back through the recent engagement.

Reduce numbers, avoid being overwhelmed.

That, apparently, was to be the catchcry of their mission.

The best-laid plans of mice and men were, sadly, subject to the whim of the gods.

The gods’ minions, in this instance, were sheep. Lots of them. The carriage was forced to a halt just beyond the tiny town of Compton Martin by a large flock being moved to, winter pastures. There was nothing for it but to wait for the bleating mob to file slowly past.

When the road was finally clear, David whipped up his horses—only to have to rein them to a halt again just past West Harptree, then again near Sutton Wick.

“It’s like a damned organized migration,” Charles muttered.

By the time they reached Marksbury and headed toward Bath on the last stretch of their day’s journey, although no one said anything, they were all tense and watchful. What advantage they’d gained by their inventive action near Star had been well and truly eaten away by the sheep.

There was every chance the Black Cobra’s men had reached Bath by now; they might even be lurking along the road into town.

Dusk fell, and the shadows thickened. Their tension racked steadily higher the closer they got to the famous spa town; Logan knew little about it beyond its famous waters. They each sat back from their windows, watching, scanning, searching for any telltale black scarves.

That they rattled into the town center without spotting one didn’t materially ease Logan’s concern. The more deadly variety of cultist, the assassins, loomed high in his mind.

David, under orders to drive unremarkably so as to draw no especial attention to their vehicle, eventually halted the carriage outside their chosen hotel, The York House. Streetlamps had been lit, bathing the wide pavement before the hotel in warm welcome. With the hour edging toward dinnertime, there was not a great deal of other traffic about.

After all Logan’s worrying, it felt anticlimactic to step down from the carriage, hand Linnet down, and find an august, liveried doorman waiting to bow them in.

“Logan.”

He turned to see Charles beckoning. His hand on Linnet’s back, he urged her on. “Go in—we’ll follow.”

Leaving her to the deferential care of the doorman, Logan returned to assist Charles and Deverell in packing the rifles, and their other weapons, and hiding the remaining incendiaries while handing their personal bags to the footmen who swarmed out to help.

Brows arched, Linnet watched, saw, then consented to turn and follow the doorman across the wide pavement to the front door. She’d heard of The York House. It had long been the favored haunt of visiting nobility. Running an eye over the elegant façade, she cynically smiled, imagining telling Jen and Gilly—and Muriel and Buttons, too—that she’d stayed there. At least, thanks to Penny and Phoebe, her wardrobe would pass muster.

The doorman had stridden ahead to pull open and hold the heavy brass, etched glass, and polished wood front door, bowing her regally through. Lips curving more definitely, she glided toward the doorway—

Heard the telltale sing of an arrow.

Instinctively she ducked, curling herself into a smaller target, then looking around. The doorman froze, eyes widening, then he whisked around the open door, taking cover behind the thick panel.

With a gasp and a clatter, the footman who’d been following Linnet with her bag hit the ground. Eyes wide with shock, he clutched one arm from which a crossbow quarrel protruded.

She didn’t think, just acted. She’d been in too many battles to panic, was too much a leader not to immediately take charge.

Moving swiftly in a halfcrouch, she turned back, grabbed her bag in one hand, the footman’s uninjured arm in the other, and hauled him to his feet—thanking her stars he wasn’t taller or all that much heavier than she. As more arrows rained down, using the bag to cover their backs, she propelled him through the still open front door.

Halting in the hall, she let the footman go. He collapsed to the tiles. She turned back to the door, taking cover just inside to look out.

The doorman picked his moment between showers of, arrows and rushed in. Shaken out of his rigid control, he nevertheless called for help for his footman, gave orders for others to man the windows, then came to stand behind Linnet, peering past her shoulder as she surveyed the scene.

“No one else is down,” she murmured, for herself as much as the doorman. Logan had been in the carriage, but must have jumped down and been on his way to help her when she’d acted and got herself out of danger. He’d taken cover behind the open carriage door on this side, protected to some extent by the bulk of the carriage. Deverell had been inside and still was. He was working frantically. As she watched, he passed Logan one rifle, then another.

Logan looked toward the rear of the carriage. Called to Charles, who reached around and took the rifle, then returned to his position at the far rear corner of the carriage.

The arrows were still coming in unpredictable fits and starts. They seemed to be coming from the top of a building a little way down the street. Linnet could see all the footmen now huddled in a group at the carriage’s rear, looking longingly at the front door. But David—where was he? He’d been on the box in full view of the enemy. Had he been hit? Was he even now dying?

But then she saw a shadow beneath the carriage, beneath the box itself, and realized he’d taken cover there. As far as she could tell, he was uninjured, just temporarily stuck in a cramped space.

Relief slid through her; she’d known David for all of a day, mostly as a voice and a presence guiding the horses, yet she thought of him as one of their small band. Refocusing on the continuing danger, she saw a town carriage rumbling down the street toward them. Charles stepped out, waved his arms, called orders—then ducked back, most likely swearing, as another flight of arrows rained down.

The startled coachman halted his horses, scrambled down from his box, and took cover—bobbing up by the side of the carriage to explain to his master what was happening.

After checking that all was clear in the other direction, Logan looked back and called orders to the huddled footmen; they nodded in reply.

Then Logan eased forward, inching to the edge of the box seat, then crouching to aim his rifle—at what neither Linnet nor the doorman could see.

“This is outrageous,” the doorman huffed. “Such things simply don’t happen at The York House. Not anywhere in Bath!”

Linnet struggled not to let her lips curve. “Sadly, they are. Take heart—no one ever died of a little excitement, and your man”—she tipped her head toward the injured footman—”isn’t badly hurt. Now step aside—I think you’re about to get the rest of your footmen back.”

Logan fired his rifle, then Charles took his shot, too.

In a group, the footmen raced across the pavement and in through the door as Deverell fired out of one of the carriage windows.

Logan and Charles were already tossing their spent rifles back into the carriage; they stepped back with pistols and swords. Deverell emerged, and then the three, all armed to the teeth, separated—Charles and Deverell going around the back of the carriage, then racing, doubled over, across the street. Logan glanced at Linnet, signaled that he was going to circle the cultists’ position—presumably to ensure the enemy had fled.

No more arrows had come slicing down since they’d discharged their rifles.

Linnet nodded, waited, saw Logan race across the street, then, hugging the shadows thrown by the shop fronts, ghost away, out of her sight. Inwardly sighing, she turned and took up the role they’d left her. Tugging off her gloves, she swept up to the heavy desk behind which the manager, somewhat goggle-eyed, stood. She vaguely recalled Deverell saying their rooms had been arranged. “I believe, if you consult your register, that you’ll find a booking in the name of Wolverstone.”

The name worked wonders. Within minutes, she was ushered into one of the hotel’s principal suites.

Luxurious, even opulent in its decoration, the suite had two bedrooms giving off a central sitting room; she claimed the bedroom to the left, leaving the other for the men, but when a footman carried Logan’s bag into the room she’d chosen, she didn’t protest.

Inwardly grimaced; there was no point.

Trailing after the footman, she was in time to stop the maid from unpacking Logan’s bag; the scroll-holder was in it. She felt obliged to allow the maid to unpack her gowns and hang them up instead.

When the maid eagerly asked which gown she should leave out for dinner, Linnet arbitrarily picked one of the evening gowns—one in green silk. The question had reminded her that someone needed to order the meal.

She had little experience in choosing menus—Muriel normally handled such matters—but she had the happy thought to consult the maitre d’hotel, and he was both delighted to have been asked and solicitous in arranging an appropriate repast.

That done, she oversaw the disposition of the men’s weapons, then summoned David up to report, confirmed he was unharmed and well-quartered—and insouciantly thrilled by the action—then she settled to pace—only to have a succession of the hotel’s staff tap on the door to offer this, that, and the other.

By the time her three companions walked through the door, she’d been driven to the edge of distraction by the maids’ offers and by an unaccustomed, yet very real, nagging worry—one that evaporated the instant Logan walked in and her eyes confirmed he was unharmed.

That he looked faintly disgusted was neither here nor there.

Dropping into an armchair, Charles explained the disgust. “They’d fled.”

Arms folded, she looked down at him, then at the other two. Then she turned on her heel and headed for her room. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I’m going to change.”

In these surroundings, even in this company, she felt obliged to play the part of lady, no matter how ill she fitted the role.

The dinner was superb, and served with a smooth, silent efficiency that allowed them to concentrate first on the dishes, then, once the cheese platter arrived and the servers withdrew, on their plans.

“I don’t think there were more than four archers pinning us down out there.” With a tilt of his head, Deverell indicated the front of the hotel. “As there’s bound to be more cultists than that around, I think we can conclude that they reached Bath before us, but then set up ambushes at all the major hotels—there’s not so many of those to cover in Bath.”

Logan nodded. “I think our diversion near Star worked more or less as we’d planned, and by the time they reached here, not knowing we’d been held up, they assumed we were already in residence. Those archers were posted to pick us off if we showed our faces outside. That’s why they were in that position—perfect for when we walked out onto the pavement, but not so ideal when we rolled up in a carriage to go in.”

Charles nodded. “Tomorrow we have an easier day—only about sixty miles in all, along larger, well-surfaced, well-populated roads.” He looked at Logan. “Any insights into what they’re likely to do?”

“This hotel is too solid, too secure, and has too many people in it to attack. They won’t have time to organize anything complicated, like hiring someone local to break into these rooms.” Logan paused, then went on, “I’ve been thinking that our presence here must be causing the cult members stationed in this region some consternation. It’s reasonable to expect that all the cultists in England know by now that three couriers have landed, but there’s one more yet to come. They don’t know where Rafe is going to land, so they have, to continue their watch at all the ports. Which means our group currently here—mostly drawn from Bristol—cannot afford to follow us on. They may leave a few to track us—to see where we go and later alert some other group further on, mostly likely much closer to Elveden—but the majority will have to return, might already have returned, to Bristol.”

“That’s a fair assumption,” Deverell said. “It suggests we won’t face an attack tomorrow as we set out.”

Logan considered it. “Only if we try to leave very early, before there are others about. The Bristol contingent might dally long enough to see if we try to set out before dawn again, hoping to mount an attack outside town, but if we leave later, with other travelers around, I can’t see them trying anything.”

Deverell exchanged a glance with Charles. “No need to leave early.”

“Indeed not.” Charles sighed. “Let’s set our departure for midmorning. Say ten o’clock. We’ll still make Oxford by four o’clock at the latest. And while I would prefer to go hunting tonight, to see if we can locate and eliminate the Bristol group, such an act would make it too obvious the paper we’re ferrying is a decoy. We reduce their numbers every chance we get, but we have to wait for them to come to us.”

His tone made it clear that wasn’t his accustomed modus operandi. Deverell, too, grimaced resignedly.

Logan eyed the pair of them and shook his head. “Wolver-stone’s orders made it clear we must behave as if I have the original letter.”

“I know.” Charles sighed. “I can see his point, but letting murderous cultists slip away unchastized goes painfully against my grain.”

Logan’s lips twisted wryly. “The cultists won’t use firearms, so we’re safe from that, unless they hire locals, which it’s possible they might do. And if you find yourself facing a cultist with a blade in each hand, he’ll be an assassin, so expect the unexpected. They fight to the death, to win any way they can.”

“Speaking of the unexpected,” Deverell said, “should we set watches?”

Logan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve learned never to trust logic when it comes to the cult.”

Used to rising before dawn, Linnet claimed the early morning watch, then said her good nights and headed for her room.

Suddenly weary, she stripped, put on the nightgown the attentive—frankly awestruck—little maid had left out for her, then slumped into the bed and tugged the sheets over her shoulder.

She was half asleep when the bed bowed and Logan joined her beneath the piled covers. She’d turned to the side of the bed, her back to him; he slid near, hard and warm, and spooned around her.

Through her slumberous haze, she sensed him looking down at her, studying her face. Then he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“Are you all right? You seem very … worn out.”

Not physically, yet since he’d returned with the others, Logan had noted a certain underlying tension, a sense that underneath her competent calm, she was irritated, annoyed … bothered over something.

Wrapping one hand over her hip, he leaned closer, brushed his lips across her ear. “I’m sorry if the clashes today bothered you. You can’t have killed that many men before—it can be unsettling.”

She snorted, opened her eyes, and shot him a glare, one he felt even through the shadows. “Don’t be daft. They’re trying to kill us—their deaths are on their heads. That isn’t what’s worn me out.” She narrowed her eyes on his. “And don’t you dare try to leave me out of anything just because you think I’m about to turn into some sort of hysterical female.”

He didn’t; he’d suggested the excuse so he could ask, “What is bothering you, then?”

Her lips thinned. Narrow-eyed, she regarded him, then turned and settled her head back down, facing away. “If, you must know, it’s pretending to be a lady that’s driving me demented. Having to watch what I say, what I do, how I behave—and now these sweet innocents have decided I’m some sort of heroine, and I’m not. That’s not me.” She huffed, then in an even lower tone went on, “And on top of that, they all think I’m your wife. Even Charles and Deverell have fallen into the habit of it, so even with them I feel I have to play the role, fit into some mold that’s not me. Frankly, it’s giving me a headache.”

He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he slid down in the bed, laid his head behind hers, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close. Held her. “You don’t understand—you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. The woman I want as my wife is the woman you are—Linnet Trevission, captain and all. And the staff here—the lady they now revere is the lady who, without a thought for her own safety, saved one of them. They don’t care what else you are, what other traits you have—it’s what they saw in that instant, the real you, that has stirred their loyalty.” He paused, stared at the back of her head. “You, as you are, inspire loyalty in a lot of people.”

Him included; he hoped she knew that.

She’d left her hair up. With his cheek, he brushed tendrils of flame from her nape and pressed a soft kiss there. “You, as you are, are the perfect wife for me in every way.”

She wriggled, settling deeper within his arms, but all she said was, “Shush. Go to sleep. You have to get up for your watch in two hours.”

Within minutes, she’d relaxed; her breathing slowed, evened out.

He listened to the sound, comforted by it, yet oddly uncertain. A touch uneasy, just a little concerned.

He wasn’t sure what the problem was—not even if there was a problem at all. If she was wrestling with the mantle of being his wife … that was good, wasn’t it?

Sleep claimed him before he could decide.

Fourteen

December 19, 1822
The York House, Bath

At precisely ten o’clock the following morning, Logan followed Linnet out of the hotel, struggling not to grin as the staff, the patriarchal doorman included, bowed, scraped, and positively fawned as if she were royalty.

She’d exchanged her red traveling gown for a severe dark blue carriage gown Penny must have lent her. With her hair up, a red-gold coronet, she looked every inch a reincarnation of the original virgin queen. At times she had an uncannily regal air; he wasn’t sure she even knew it.

She carried her cloak over her arm. Only he knew the folds concealed her cutlass. She tossed both into the carriage, turned and thanked the staff for their attentiveness, then climbed up.

He caught a glimpse of her boots as she did—her privateer boots, the knee-high ones she’d worn aboard ship. The sight of her in nothing more than a chemise and those boots, striding about the room that morning, the faint light of a candle flickering over her as she’d prepared to take her turn at watch in the sitting room, had ensured he’d got no more sleep.

With a nod for the doorman, he followed her into the carriage. Settling on the seat beside her, he found her hand, linked, his fingers with hers, gently squeezed. He caught her gaze as she looked at him, under cover of the others stowing their bags, murmured, “You are what you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear, whether you do something this way or that. Whether you embroider brilliantly, or raise donkeys instead. Regardless, people see you for the lady you are.” Raising their linked hands, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You never pretend, or prevaricate about yourself—and that’s good, not bad. That’s reassuring and comforting. That’s strong. That’s why people are drawn to you.” Lowering his voice, he touched his lips again to her fingers, smiled. “That’s why I adore you.”

Linnet stared into his eyes, mesmerizing midnight eyes, then rapidly blinked, looked away as the others climbed in.

Damn man—impossible man. He actually understood.

In her heart of hearts, she could admit that her one private vulnerability, a weakness she did her best to hide, was her uncertainty over how others, those in the wider world, saw her. She’d grown up a ship’s brat, but outside her domain she had to be a lady. She had none of the right training; when outside her world, she was never confident of meeting the standards of behavior her station demanded.

Within her own world, she knew who and what she was, knew why she was that way, knew her strengths and weaknesses, and was always utterly confident.

Out of her domain, the uncertainty lingered. And she hated, hated, feeling uncertain.

And somehow, he understood.

That unsettled her more than the rest.

She stared steadfastly out of the window as the carriage rolled unchallenged out of Bath and headed at a spanking pace toward Swindon and Oxford beyond.

As the gray miles and the louring skies passed uneventfully by, her inner turmoil subsided. A large part of the reason she found Logan, his understanding and his comfort—that freely offered, never pushed on her, simply there, at the right time and in the right way, comfort—so unnerving was that she was always the strong one, the one who, comforted others, the one others turned to for strength and support. That was her role; it always had been.

Only Muriel guessed that sometimes she needed comfort, needed strength and support. And Muriel only saw because she cared.…

But now Logan had seen, because he cared, too. Cared enough to look beneath her surface.

She didn’t pretend, was no good at lying, but she did hide her uncertainties, her weaknesses, well. Yet he saw because he looked with the eyes of one who cared.

She dragged in a breath, held it.

He cared. And she loved him.

Not even because he cared—that was the silliness of love in all its glory. She loved him regardless of anything and everything—the impossible man who’d washed up in her cove, woken up in her bed, and changed her life.

He made her want the impossible, too.

She loved him. She was only now learning what that meant, yet given how she’d felt when she’d seen him attacked, when cultists had swung swords at him intending to kill, there was no point avoiding that inescapable conclusion—it was set in stone.

Engraved on her virgin queen’s heart.

She had to face it, because now she had to deal with it.…

No, not now. Later.

After.

Yes, after. With a firm mental nod, she made that her resolution; she wouldn’t think any more about him, her, and any potential future until his mission was over and complete.

The uneventful day was no help.

As Charles had noted, the route they took was no minor road, but a well-traveled highway. They passed through Chippenham, Lyneham, and Wootton Basset; by the time they stopped for lunch at a busy coaching inn in Swindon’s main street, they were all bored beyond bearing.

However, when they paused in the busy inn yard and looked around, they spotted a number of black-scarf-encircled, heads. “Three at least.” Taking her elbow, Logan steered her toward the inn door. “Could be more—difficult to tell with the crowd.”

Over luncheon in a private parlor, the men spread out the map again and pored over it, teasing themselves with the prospect that perhaps an ambush might lie ahead. Eventually, however, the consensus was no. Not today. The road to Oxford was too open, too clear of useful geographical obstacles, too busy—and, as Logan pointed out, too damned far from any port.

If anything, the lack of action preyed even more heavily on Charles and Deverell; both seemed positively itching to be out and doing. Logan wasn’t surprised when they decided to play spy again—to hire horses and circle around to follow their pursuers.

“At least we’ll get a better idea of their numbers,” Charles said.

Logan would have liked nothing better than to be on horseback again, out in the fresh air, even if it carried an arctic chill. But Linnet would remain in the carriage—anything else was too problematical—and he felt compelled to stay by her side.

If by any chance their assumptions proved incorrect and an attack was mounted on the carriage, he would need to be there to defend and protect her; any other option was untenable.

With horses arranged, Charles and Deverell set out, intending to find a spot from which to watch the carriage go by, then slip behind any cultists following. Fifteen minutes later, Logan ushered Linnet back into the carriage, and they set out once more.

As predicted, they rolled briskly on through the gloomy afternoon, through Faringdon and on toward Oxford, without challenge. Without sighting any cultists, much less Charles and Deverell.

After several miles had rolled by in silence, Linnet stirred and glanced at him. “Penny for your thoughts.”

He met her eyes briefly, then admitted, “I was thinking of the others—my three comrades-in-arms.”

When he said nothing more, she prompted, “What of them?”

He hesitated, yet if they were to be man and wife … he drew in a breath, said, “Del’s made it through, at least to Somersham Place, and Gareth’s in Boulogne, possibly already in England. But no one’s heard anything about Rafe … and of us all, he’s the most risk-loving, the most devil-may-care.” He glanced at her. “His nickname is Reckless, but more than that, he was the closest to James.”

She searched his eyes. “The one who died?”

He nodded. “We all thought of James as our junior, but to Rafe he was more like a younger brother. James’s death hit him the hardest.”

“You’re worried about him—Rafe?”

Logan half grimaced, half smiled. “You’ll understand when you meet him, but all of us—Del, Gareth, and I—will be worrying about Rafe until we lay eyes on him again.”

Somewhat to his relief, she nodded and fell silent again, and he didn’t have to explain that part of his worry was that he didn’t want to face losing another close friend, most especially not to the Black Cobra.

With all prospect of them seeing action of any sort fading with the chill winter light, Linnet found it increasingly difficult to cling to her resolution. No matter that trying to think logically about Logan with him sitting alongside her, one of his hands engulfing one of hers, his solid presence, his elemental masculine warmth constantly impinging on her senses, was a near impossible task, the impulse was a constant temptation.

In the end, she gave up, gave in. Shut her senses to his nearness as best she could, and in light of all she’d learned and now felt, tried to evaluate the pros and cons of marrying him. Until then, she’d been thinking of their marriage on a purely practical plane—how would it work?—but perhaps, with them, there were other aspects to consider. Possibly more important aspects.

She wanted him, and that in itself was unexpected. She’d never wanted any other man, yet she wanted him, yearned to keep him by her side, and not just for the obvious physical benefits. Lust played a part in her want, but it was by no means the sum of it. The prospect of having a strong, reliable, honorable man, one willing to stand at her back or by her shoulder rather than in front of her, to help in whatever way she needed—with the estate, with her wards as they grew older—was temptation beyond measure.

Companionship of a kind she’d never had, enough to banish the loneliness of her private life. A man who understood her better than even her father had—he’d appreciated her wildness, her love of challenges, her adventuring soul, but he hadn’t understood her compulsion to nurture, to grow, to protect on the emotional plane as well as the physical.

Above all, a man she could trust. With her life, with the lives of those she cared about.

Logan encompassed all of that, seemed to grasp all of that—all of her. With him, she might even have a child of her own, a fundamental want she’d buried deep for so many years it ought to have died, but instead, now he was there, now the prospect dangled before her, she’d discovered that want had with the years only grown stronger. More intense, more compelling.

Logan offered her all the critical elements of a relationship, of a love she’d years ago resigned herself to doing without.

A heady temptation, a visceral yearning.

Yet against that stood her reservations. Her lingering fear, no matter what anyone said, of not being a socially appropriate wife for him. Of not being able to measure up, to manage in the ways society, and eventually he, too, would expect. He’d told her she was what he wanted, had assured her those other requirements didn’t matter, but she was not yet convinced. But that was the more minor hurdle.

The major hurdle, the one she could see no simple way around, was the necessity for her to live with him, in Glenluce, Scotland. That was the way things generally happened, yet her leaving Mon Coeur would be close to impossible; she honestly didn’t think she could.

He was an earl’s son—he would have links, deep links, with land, with an estate somewhere; he was that sort of man. The responsibility she’d seen in him would have to have had some cornerstone, some wellspring—some place that mattered fundamentally to him. His home.

But she couldn’t leave hers and share his. And despite him wanting to marry her, she couldn’t see the man she knew him to be cutting ties with his home, happily turning his back on it to come and live with her at Mon Coeur.

One element in life, above all others, mattered to people like him and her—place, roots, home. Regardless of how much he wanted her, she couldn’t see that want being sufficient to trump his need of his home.

Blinking, she refocused on the gray day outside, felt the numbing dullness sink to her bones.

The carriage rumbled on.

Eventually the spires of Oxford appeared, rising above the mottled brown of skeletal trees.

She stirred, and remembered her earlier conclusion, that whatever he gave her, she would take. That for however long their liaison lasted, she would give herself to it, give to him as he gave to her, take all she could and store up the memories until, with the end of his mission, he would realize the difficulties, face the insurmountable hurdle she’d already seen, and, with regret perhaps, yet regardless, he would agree that they should part.

That earlier course still seemed the wisest.

The carriage wheels hit cobbles.

Releasing her hand, Logan glanced out, then stretched. Relaxing again, he scanned the buildings and pavements as David guided the carriage to the hotel Wolverstone had nominated, the University Arms, one of the older, well-established hotels in Oxford High Street. “No sign of any cultists thus far. I can’t see any reason Ferrar would have, sent men to Oxford, so presumably the only ones here will be those following us.”

He glanced at Linnet. He’d thought he’d made a fair stab at easing her concerns that morning, but she’d been so quiet … then again, so had he. An old soldier’s habit, a suspension of mind and thought while on a march with no enemy in sight.

She met his eyes, yet he couldn’t read her mood. Then the carriage rocked to a halt, and her lips wryly curved. “So we should be safe enough going inside—no hail of arrows likely.”

“Thank God.” Reaching for the door, he opened it and stepped down. After a quick glance confirming there were no cultists lurking, he moved aside and offered Linnet his hand.

He helped her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smoothly escorted her inside.

As before, a suite had been bespoken. As he followed Linnet up the stairs, Logan wondered how the other two had fared.

Equally uneventfully, as it transpired.

“There are eight of them. They’re taking it in turns, four at a time, to keep the carriage in view.” Charles speared a slice of roast beef from the dish on the table. He and Deverell hadn’t turned up until night had fallen. They’d walked into the suite half an hour ago, but chilled and damp, they’d gone to their room to wash and change before joining Logan and Linnet for dinner.

The servers had placed the silver dishes on the table, seen to all their needs, then withdrawn, leaving them free to speak without restraint.

“We followed them from just outside Swindon.” Deverell shook his head. “The four on duty did nothing but plod along in your wake, a good distance back. All they wanted was to keep you in sight.”

“When you stopped here, they halted at the corner.” Charles tipped his head toward the Swindon end of the, street. “They watched you go in, saw the bags taken in, then two of them left to get rooms at the tavern back down the street, leaving the other two to watch this place.”

“We considered removing them permanently, but”—Deverell reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, placed it on the table, tapped it with his finger—”we knew Royce’s latest orders would be waiting for us here. It was possible he might want us to lead them further on, or that it might prove prudent to give them no hint that we’re aware they’re following us.”

Logan nodded at the missive. “Have you read it?”

“Just glanced at it. There’s news that’ll make more sense to you than me.” Deverell nudged the packet Logan’s way. “Read and explain.”

Logan picked up the packet, unfolded the stiff sheets. Scanned them. “He’s given us the news first. Delborough reached the Cynsters at Somersham Place on the fifteenth, managing to reduce cult numbers by fourteen between London and Somersham. Now he and the Cynsters are planning to spring a trap on Ferrar, or at least his man Larkins, at Ely”—he glanced at the date at the head of the letter—”Wolverstone says tomorrow, but this was written yesterday, so that must mean today. After said trap is sprung, Del and Devil are under orders to transport whoever they catch to Elveden.”

Charles looked up. “So it’s possible Ferrar’s already been caught?”

Logan shook his head. “I’d be shocked were that so. Ferrar’s been too clever and cautious for years to suddenly fall into some trap. I can’t see that happening.”

“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Deverell said. “Royce would send word hotfoot if they succeeded, because our mission’s objectives would then change.”

“What of your other friends?’ Linnet asked.

Logan refocused on the bold, black script. “Gareth made it safely to Dover and is heading north today. He’s expected at Elveden by tomorrow evening. At this point they’re not sure what might come of his foray, but he and his party are, expected to be at Chelmsford tonight with cultists in tow.”

“That sounds familiar,” Charles quipped.

“The locations are interesting.” Deverell set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate. “Elveden is just southeast of Thetford, about ten miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, and roughly thirty miles east of Somersham Place. And between Somersham Place and Elveden lies Newmarket, where Demon Cynster and friends hold sway. So there’s a line of sorts, west to east, between Somersham Place and Elveden, where Royce has a lot of troops, as it were. He’s brought Delborough north from London to Somersham, removing cultists along the way—clearing the west flank. Now he’s bringing Hamilton north from Chelmsford to Elveden—clearing the east flank. Now we’re coming in from the west …” Deverell broke off, patting his pockets. “Where’s that map?”

“You left it with us.” Linnet rose and went to fetch it from her room.

Returning, she discovered the three men shifting the dishes and platters to the sideboard, clearing the table. Obligingly she unfolded the map and spread it out. They all retook their seats.

Deverell, a certain eagerness infusing tone and expression, traced the routes Delborough had taken, and Gareth Hamilton was taking, to Elveden.

“And now”—Deverell nodded at their orders—”Royce wants us to make for Bedford. Ferrar will have to deal with Hamilton tomorrow, or risk the scroll-holder he’s carrying getting through, so the Cobra’s attention is going to be fixed to the east while we’re closing in from the west.”

Charles was nodding. “Which suggests we shouldn’t run into any substantial opposition tomorrow. The next day, however …” He grinned wolfishly. “Royce really is a master at planning. Ferrar will be crossing and recrossing Royce’s chosen battlefield, back and forth, east to west to east, rushing to stop first Delborough, then Hamilton, then us.”

Logan frowned. “Why is pushing Ferrar so important?”

Charles and Deverell looked at him, then Deverell smiled.

“Sorry—I’d forgotten you’ve never run in Royce’s harness before.” He nodded at the map. “From what we’ve put together, it’s certain Royce was never intending to rely on your letter—about crimes committed in faraway India—to prosecute Ferrar, not if he could help it. Make no mistake—if Ferrar doesn’t stumble, Royce will make the best he can of your proof, but how much more convincing if instead he, or one or more of us, captures Ferrar committing some nefarious deed here, on English soil, under straightforward English law?”

Logan’s expression was a study in revelation. He waved at the map. “So all of this is really designed to force Ferrar into acting, tripping, and getting caught?”

“Exactly.” Charles tapped the map. “And following that logic, I’d say it’s certain that Delborough and Hamilton, like you, are carrying decoy letters. The original will come in last—with Carstairs.”

Logan studied the map with new interest. “So where will Rafe land?”

Deverell pulled a face. “If Ferrar isn’t caught tomorrow, then he’ll have to rush west again to stop us getting through from Bedford to Elveden, but any engagement to halt us is most likely to occur between Cambridge and Elveden, somewhere on the Cynsters’ patch.” Deverell considered the map, then volunteered, “For my money, Royce will have Carstairs come in at one of the eastern ports—Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Felixstowe or Harwich.”

“So Ferrar will have to hie east again … unless we catch him.” Linnet looked at the men.

“True,” Charles said. “But the thing with Royce is you never can tell. For all anyone knows, he might already have Carstairs safe and sound at Kings Lynn, just waiting for the right moment to head south.”

Deverell nodded. “Will Royce play a bluff, or a double bluff? There’s no way to predict which way he’ll jump, or what he has planned.”

After a moment, Logan raised Wolverstone’s missive again, turned a page. “There’s more. Our orders. We’re to proceed to Bedford tomorrow, where further orders will reach us at the Swan Hotel. He—Wolverstone—doesn’t expect us to encounter any serious opposition tomorrow, but he warns we should be prepared for a major ambush the next day. He suggests we leave early and try to ensure any action occurs beyond Cambridge. The Cynsters will be holding themselves ready to assist from the environs of Cambridge on.”

Charles nodded. “Just as we thought.”

Logan laid down Wolverstone’s letter, stared at the map. After a moment, he said, “There’s just one thing. I’ve learned the hard way never to trust the Black Cobra. Royce is assuming Ferrar needs to be present to direct any major action, and while I admit I’ve never known cultists to act independently of some higher command—presumably Ferrar—in all the months we spent in the field fighting them, none of us caught so much as a whiff of Ferrar himself.”

“That suggests”—Linnet continued his deduction—”that Ferrar has henchmen he can trust—some at least—to direct others in the field, so he can give orders and have them carried out even if he isn’t there. So it’s possible he might already have put plans in place for dealing with us—not us specifically, but any courier coming in from this direction.”

Logan nodded, met Deverell’s eyes. “We have eight men following us—doing nothing but following us. It’s plain there’s an ambush up ahead somewhere, but where? Will it be this side of Bedford, or this side of Cambridge? If I were Ferrar, I wouldn’t want it to be later. And even though Del and company reduced his numbers in this area by fourteen, Ferrar has many more men than that.”

“On the ships we incapacitated,” Linnet said, “there were at least thirty cultists, and most of them would have survived.”

“Put yourself in Ferrar’s shoes.” Logan looked at Charles and Deverell. “He now knows, or at least suspects, that the couriers are all heading toward Elveden, that area at least. He knows he’s facing couriers coming from the south and, southeast, and that chances are one will come from the west. He has unlimited men.” He waved at the map. “If you were he, where would you station a body of men to stop a courier from the west?”

Both Charles and Deverell looked at the map, then Deverell pointed. “Somewhere here—west of Cambridge.”

Charles nodded. “You’re right. They won’t stop us tomorrow, not before Bedford. It’s only once we leave there that we become an active threat—on our last day of travel to Elveden. He doesn’t want us to reach Elveden, so he’ll step in and stop us decisively—before Cambridge.” Leaning his forearms on the table, he frowned at the map. “But Royce wants us to avoid them until after Cambridge.”

“That’s not my primary concern.” When the others all looked at him, Logan said, “As you noted, Ferrar will have only one aim—to stop us, crush us, before we reach Cambridge. The group he’ll have left to accomplish that will be large. He’ll have set it up along his usual pattern—massive numbers to smother the opposition and so be certain, absolutely certain, of victory.” He met Deverell’s gaze, then glanced at Charles. “As experienced as we are, we cannot face a force like that and win, not before we make contact with the Cynsters.”

Charles pulled a face, looked down at the map.

Long moments passed as the four of them studied the predicament they faced. “Even if we remove those eight cultists tonight …” Deverell grimaced. “Unlikely we can, not without risking our lives prematurely.”

Charles nodded. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We can’t take out all eight at once.”

Her eyes on the map, Linnet leaned forward. “We don’t need to. Tomorrow, all we need to do is remove the four keeping us in sight.”

Deverell frowned. “The other four will simply take their place.”

“Not if they don’t know which way we’ve gone, or where we plan to spend tomorrow night.” Linnet looked at Logan, then at, the other two. “They can be reasonably certain we’re heading to or past Cambridge, but they can’t know we’re going via Bedford.” She placed her finger on the map. “We’re here, at Oxford. Eventually, we need to pass here—Cambridge or just south of it. As you said, that’s where they’ll have stationed their main body of men. But we need to spend one night on the road between here and there—we could be planning to halt at Stevenage, Luton, Dunstable, Letchworth, Baldock, Hitchin, or any number of smaller towns. They don’t know which, and they can’t tell—which is why we have eight men just following us. They want to make absolutely certain they know where we’ll be, and, most importantly, which road we’ll be taking to Cambridge.”

“Granted,” Logan said.

“So if tomorrow we get rid of our four followers at a point before our destination becomes obvious, and get on and out of sight before the other four realize and ride hard to find us, then they simply won’t know which way we’ve gone, and they’ll have to keep their force where it is, spread out and waiting until they learn where we are, which way to turn.”

Deverell was nodding. “And if we leave before dawn the next day, we’ll have a chance to race past and into Cambridge before they can get their troops into position.” He smiled at Linnet. “That might work.”

“Indeed.” Charles leaned closer, looking down at the map. “All we need now is to find the right site to remove our four faithful followers.”

In the end, it was, once again, Linnet who came up with the best plan.

Late night
Bury St. Edmunds

“I still can’t believe it!” Alex strode, all sleekly suppressed violence, into their bedroom.

Daniel followed and closed the door. He paused, then, said, “It is … something of a shock.” He focused on Alex, now pacing before the fire. “I had no notion Roderick could be so … unbelievably stupid.”

Arms folded, Alex paced violently. “Clearly he can—clearly he has been. I can not get over him using our real names—putting them on paper in black and white—and then forgetting the fact completely, focusing solely on the threat to him, on the fact he was also stupid enough to seal the Black Cobra’s letter with his personal seal!”

His own head in a whirl, Daniel walked to the bed and sat down. Alex might think much faster than he, yet sometimes it paid to state the facts clearly. “We still need Roderick. Assuming he manages to get all four copies of the letter back, as he’s promised—and he’s already successfully secured the copy Delborough was carrying—”

“Thank the gods!” Alex swung around, pinned Daniel with an icy gaze. “If he hadn’t, we, you and I, my dear, wouldn’t have had the first inkling of the danger in which, thanks to Roderick, we now stand.”

“True. However, he now has one of the four copies and will hie off tomorrow with enough men to make sure of seizing the second from Hamilton.” Daniel inclined his head at Alex’s pointed stare. “And yes, I’ll be at his side to ensure he keeps his mind fixed firmly on what now must be our primary goal—seizing all copies of that letter.”

“Good. You, I trust. Roderick …” Alex’s eyes glittered coldly. “I have to confess I’m having serious second thoughts about our dear half brother.”

“Let’s wait until we have all the letters back—then, I admit, we need to rethink.” Daniel caught Alex’s cold gaze. “Just you and me … that would be so much easier. But eliminating Roderick now is too dangerous—not here in England. After this manic time is over and we’re back in India, safe and secure in the bosom of the cult, then we can reassess.”

Alex’s lips thinned. The silence lengthened.

Then Alex stated, voice coldly precise, “We came here to support Roderick, thinking it was only his neck at risk. Now, we discover that if anyone who knows of us, of our link with him, sees that letter, even just a copy, they’ll recognize the implication and, far more than dear Roderick’s, it will be our heads in the noose.”

Daniel was still coping with that realization himself; he had no difficulty understanding Alex’s fury. Barely restrained savagery seemed appropriate. But … he forced his mind to push through the shock, to revisit the details. “We’ve been careful, you and I. I can’t think of anyone other than our sire likely to be shown the letter, copy or otherwise, who would instantly comprehend our part in the cult.”

After a long moment, Alex slowly nodded. “True.”

“If Roderick proves himself worthy of our support by retrieving all four copies of the letter, then we can be magnanimous and let him live.” He met Alex’s icy gaze. “For now.”

A tense moment passed, then Alex blew out a breath. Nodded. “For now.”

Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Daniel flopped back on the bed. Stared at the canopy overhead.

Another moment passed, then Alex appeared in his line of vision, halting at his feet to look down at him.

Daniel arched his brows.

“When this is all over, Roderick will pay.”

Daniel’s smile was genuine. “Oh, he will. We’ll make sure of it.”

Alex nodded, eyes on his. “Take off your clothes.” Daniel’s smile took on a lascivious edge. “With pleasure.”

Fifteen

December 20, 1822

They left Oxford in good time, driving out into a constant drizzle; at least the wind had eased. As per Linnet’s plan, rather than heading direct to Bedford by the road through Buckingham and Newport Pagnell, they took the more southerly route through Aylesbury. They paused in that town for an early luncheon, and to confirm they still had their eight pursuers with them. That done, they set out once again, heading northeast to Linsdale.

Linnet sat in the carriage, her cloak snugged about her, the map open on her lap. As they bowled along, she went over her plan for the umpteenth time, but could see no further improvements she might make.

She glanced at Logan seated beside her, idly watching the scenery flash past. Charles sat opposite him, slouched in his corner, eyes closed, apparently relaxed. A pile of swords—Logan’s and Charles’s sabers and her cutlass—lay on the seat alongside Charles, together with the two finger-thin but stout ropes they’d had David buy in Oxford that morning. Deverell, already armed, was riding on the box beside David, keeping his eyes peeled for the spot she’d chosen for their ambush.

Another minor road with a signpost flashed past; turning her head, she caught the name, looked down at the map. While she’d been fairly confident the three men—enlightened as they generally were and so thoroughly focused on winning through to their mutual goal—would see the merit in her plan, she’d been far less certain that they’d follow her orders, rather than rework them.

But no. They’d liked the plan, appreciated it, and had shown no sign of taking over. They’d accepted her orders—even, apparently, accepted the part she intended to play in the plan’s execution.

They’d said nothing when, at Aylesbury, she’d taken her bag from the carriage, begged the use of a room from the landlord, and changed into her breeches. She’d wrapped herself tightly in her cloak so no one had seen the scandalous attire, not until she was safely in the coach again. Charles and Deverell had merely raised their brows resignedly.

Logan’s lips had thinned, but he, too, had made no comment, leaving her to jettison her carefully prepared defense that it was simply impossible to properly wield a sword of any kind in skirts.

“Linsdale ahead,” Deverell called down. “I can just see the bridge beyond it, but only because I’m up here.” After a moment, he added, “It looks perfect for our purposes.”

David slowed the carriage as they entered the small country town. Inside, Linnet, Logan, and Charles quickly got ready, buckling on sword belts, checking knives. Linnet doffed her cloak. Glancing out of the window, she saw the town square to one side. “It’s market day.”

“An added bonus,” Logan said. “It’ll slow the four behind us, and the other four behind them, just a bit more, which won’t hurt.” They’d confirmed at Aylesbury that their pursuers were adhering to the same pattern as the day before.

David had to tack through the crowded street bordering the square, but then he was through. Linnet, Logan, and Charles all stood, settling weapons, Logan and Charles grabbing up the two ropes as David followed his orders, whipped up the, horses, and drove out of the small town to the bridge beyond as fast as he possibly could.

“Almost there,” Deverell called down, “and I still can’t see our followers.”

“Good,” Linnet replied. That was critical for their plan to succeed.

Abruptly the carriage slowed. Charles went out of one door, sword on his hip, rope in one hand. On the other side of the carriage, Deverell dropped down from the box. Linnet saw him come out of his crouch and run toward the pillar at the town end of the bridge’s stone side.

The horses lunged forward. Linnet and Logan clung to the racks as the carriage rocked across the narrow bridge, then once again David reined the horses in.

Logan met her eyes as he turned to the far door. “Good luck.”

“And you.” Linnet grasped the handle of the door on her side, opened it, stepped down onto the carriage step, waited until the carriage had slowed just enough, then dropped down to the road.

The pillar at this end of the bridge was mere paces back; she raced for it as David flicked the reins and the horses leaned into the traces again. There was a curve just ahead; David would drive on as if nothing had occurred, and halt once he was around it, out of sight of the bridge.

Under the bridge, the River Ouzel ran swiftly, full and tumbling, its noise masking all other mundane sounds. The banks sloped steeply down from the pillared ends of the bridge’s stone sides, but were thick with dock, bracken, and grasses. Beside her pillar, Linnet looked across the river and could barely see Deverell crouched by the pillar on the other side, and then only because he had his back to her.

A short whistle jerked her attention across the road. Frowning at her, Logan sent the rope he’d carried snaking across. She grabbed the end, and swiftly, keeping as low as she could, looped it around the stone pillar, then cinched it, tight with a sailor’s knot. The free end in his hand, Logan sank down out of sight by his pillar.

Linnet did the same, crouching in concealing bracken. She strained her ears, trying to hear over the river’s incessant burbling.

One thing she hadn’t foreseen.

But then she heard the sharp clop of galloping hooves on the bridge’s flags. Immediately after came a shriek and a clatter.

Glancing up, she glimpsed a rider above her, looking back.

Knew before she saw his shocked face that the two cultists riding behind, sent flying from their saddles by the rope Charles and Deverell had abruptly raised, were being dispatched.

The first pair, already on the bridge, wanted to help their comrades, but the bridge was too narrow for them, riding abreast and now pushed on by their comrades’ freed mounts, to turn. They had to get off the bridge first. As she’d predicted—hoped—they yelled and spurred their horses on.

Logan jerked the rope he’d held up and tight, just high enough to pass over the horses’ heads and sweep the second pair of cultists from their saddles.

They hit the ground and their horses raced on, followed by the horses of their comrades; the cultists curled up tight to avoid being trampled.

The instant the horses were past, Logan was on the bridge, hauling his cultist up and manhandling him onto the road. The cultist yelled, struggled, but was no match for Logan. He used the hilt of his saber to knock the man out, then lifted him, swung around, and slung him toward the second cultist who, sword in hand, was facing off against Linnet.

The pair went down in a tangle of limbs. Linnet picked her moment, stepped in and with her cutlass hilt neatly clouted her cultist—the one still struggling—over the head.

Reaching the slumped bodies, Logan hefted one and turned to the river. Taking a few careful steps down the, bank, he hoisted the unconscious cultist up and flung him into the middle of the swiftly moving water. The current caught the body all but instantly, swirled it, then carried it swiftly off. Turning, he found Linnet dragging the other body to him.

He lifted the limp form and sent it the way of the first. Charles and Deverell had already done the same with the pair they’d taken down. Grabbing up their rope, they came pelting over the bridge. The rope Logan had used already in her hands, Linnet turned and started running after the carriage.

Regaining the top of the bank, Logan glanced swiftly around. No blood, no mess. Nothing to trigger alarm in the other four cultists, those currently off-duty, when they shortly rode along.

Satisfied Linnet’s plan had worked like a charm, Logan grinned as the other two joined him, and they set off at a run after Linnet.

They caught her up as she reached the carriage. Logan yanked open the door, held it while she climbed up and tumbled in, then followed her.

Charles and Deverell came through the other door.

David didn’t wait for the doors to close before he whipped up the horses. The cultists’ four horses had already thundered past; it didn’t matter where the loose horses went as long as they were out of sight of the road.

Slumped on the carriage seat waiting to catch his breath, Logan knew he was grinning widely; he saw the same jubilant expression on Charles’s and Deverell’s faces. Even Linnet was smiling as she shook out the map, glanced over it, then raised her head to shout up to David, “Left—meaning north—at the crossroads in Leighton Buzzard, David—hold steady on the course we discussed.”

“Aye, aye, capt’n ma’am,” came floating down from above.

Linnet laughed, and then they were all laughing, exhilaration and exuberance bubbling free.

Their action—”the bridge outside Linsdale” as Charles took to calling it—proved a total success. As they rattled on through the fading light, they detected no hint of continuing pursuit.

Even after they reached Bedford and the Swan Hotel, and Charles and Deverell hung back to keep an eye on the road to see if the latter four cultists had succeeded in picking up their trail, no pursuers of any stripe appeared.

They were all in excellent spirits as they sat down to dine in the private parlor Wolverstone had reserved for them. They had a pair of large rooms on the inn’s first floor, one on either side of a corner. One room overlooked the banks of the river, the Great Ouse, while the other boasted an excellent, uninterrupted view of Bedford High Street.

They’d opted to dine early, intending to set out before dawn the next day. Although they weren’t about to celebrate what each of them knew was merely a temporary reprieve, their mood was relaxed as they satisfied their appetites with the inn’s excellent fare, then, when a well-stocked cheese platter and bowl of fruit had been set before them, and the men supplied with glasses of an excellent port, they settled to discuss the orders from Wolverstone that had been awaiting them.

“So.” Tonight Charles was doing the honors, reading from Wolverstone’s dispatch. Sitting back in his chair, he took a sip of port, then focused on the pages in his hand. “As usual, the latest happenings first, up to this morning, when Royce wrote this. Yesterday’s action at Ely resulted in Delborough and the Cynsters tripping their trap, and although Larkins, Ferrar’s man, was killed, presumably by Ferrar himself, the villain got away unseen, with Delborough’s copy of the letter, a decoy as we’d surmised.”

Logan nodded. “As I said, Ferrar’s clever, and careful never to be seen. That said, it sounds like a close call for him. It might have rattled him.”

“We can but hope.” Charles read further, then continued, “Hamilton and company reached Chelmsford last night, and will be heading north today with at least eight cultists bringing up the rear. Royce, Delborough, and the Cynsters plan to be in Sudbury by lunchtime to assist, assuming any major ambush will occur after that, on the more open stretch to Bury.”

Charles frowned. “Royce writes that he’s asked Hamilton, who is traveling with a lady, a Miss Ensworth—”

“Miss Ensworth?” Logan looked stunned.

“Who’s she?” Deverell asked.

“The Governor of Bombay’s niece. She was visiting from England—she was the lady MacFarlane was escorting from Poona, the reason he was there and found the letter—and she was the one who brought it on to Bombay when MacFarlane stayed behind.” Logan shook his head. “What the devil’s she doing with Gareth?”

Charles raised an eloquent shoulder. “Possibly the same thing Linnet’s doing with you.” He smiled at Linnet. “Got involved too far to be safely left behind.”

Linnet pulled a face at him. She was hardly some delicate governor’s niece.

“Anyway”—Charles returned to their orders—”Royce has asked Hamilton to make another copy of the decoy letter Hamilton’s carrying, so that if necessary Hamilton can sacrifice his scroll-holder plus decoy copy, but Royce and the others at Elveden will still be able to study the letter and assess its contents. With Delborough sacrificing his copy, Royce has yet to read this oh-so-important letter.”

Deverell grinned. “That won’t have made Royce happy. An ex-spymaster denied the vital piece of intelligence.”

“Indeed, but he writes that as he will have a copy through Hamilton, we can, if necessary, sacrifice our copy should there be an advantage in so doing. He notes that the Cobra appears to be behaving as expected and going after all the copies, as he can have no notion which of the four couriers, is carrying the original.” Charles paused, then read on, “Our specific route tomorrow is exactly as we’d expected—from here straight to Elveden via St. Neots, Cambridge, and Newmarket. About sixty-five miles, apparently, and he advises us not to halt, but to come straight on. The Cynsters will be lurking around Cambridge and beyond, but depending on the enemy’s movements, we might not see them.”

Charles looked at Linnet. Smiled. “We’d better order a luncheon hamper.”

She raised her brows haughtily, by now unruffled by his teasing.

“That’s it.” Straightening, Charles tossed the missive on the table. “So it looks as if our notion to leave before dawn and go hard for Cambridge is indeed our wisest course.”

They all agreed. Deverell pointed out that with their early departure, their consequently early appearance in Cambridge, about thirty or so miles on, might catch the Cynsters unawares.

Charles considered, then shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. We have to leave early—there’s no question about that—but even if we fly straight through and our escort misses us, they’re unlikely to miss any cultists who give chase.” He grinned. “Knowing the Cynsters involved, they’ll be happy to mop up.”

Deverell nodded. He left to confirm their departure time with David and order the required hamper. Logan got to his feet, prowled to the window, and stood looking out.

When Deverell returned and shut the door, Logan swung back, halted by the table. “We’ve lost our pursuers, but the cultists will be hunting us. With luck they won’t find us before we leave, but I’ve learned never to take the Black Cobra for granted. He always has plenty of men, and previously when pressed, he’s shown a tendency to do the utterly unexpected—to act in ways so outrageous we would never think of them, much less make preparations to counter them.” He met the others’ eyes. “We still need to set pickets.”

“Agreed.” Charles pushed back from the table. “But given our early start, we only need three watches—why don’t you and Linnet take the first, I’ll take the middle, and Deverell can take the last?”

They all nodded in agreement.

“At least,” Logan said, as Linnet rose and led the way to the door, “in such a solid building, with the general dampness plus the river so close, we don’t need to fear them setting the place alight.”

Bury St. Edmunds

“You do understand that he had to die, don’t you?” In the drawing room of the house they’d made their headquarters in Bury St. Edmunds, Alex topped up Daniel’s glass from the decanter of fine brandy Roderick had liberated from the locked sideboard.

How very apt, Daniel thought, as he took a healthy swallow. As usual, Alex was abstemious, but tonight was also sipping from a glass.

“Poor Roderick.” With a shake of the head, Alex replaced the decanter on the sideboard. “So … sadly ineffectual.”

“Indeed.” Daniel took another swallow. He was still a trifle shocked, although not by Roderick’s death itself—that had been coming for some time, and it was his idiot half brother’s lack of thought for consequences that had landed the three of them in this mire after all. Still, he hadn’t seen it coming—hadn’t seen Death in Alex’s eyes until the dagger had slid home.

But Alex had been right. Roderick had had to die, then and there, in that moment. Thanks to Alex’s quick thinking, the pair of them had got clean away.

Daniel raised his glass, locked eyes with Alex, now seated on the sofa nearby. “To Roderick—the idiot—who was convinced to the last that our sire would always save him. He was a fool, but he was our brother.” He drank.

Alex sipped. “Half brother.” Alex’s lips curved. “Sadly, he missed the better half—the cleverer half.”

Daniel tipped his glass in acknowledgment, but said nothing. He and Alex shared a father, but their mothers had been different, so the cleverer half Alex alluded to he had missed as well. He looked at his glass, and decided he’d better stop drinking.

“But Roderick no longer matters, my dear. We do.” Alex’s voice was low but clear, as always compelling. “And we need to take steps to ensure our necks remain free of the hangman’s noose.”

“Indubitably.” Setting down his glass, Daniel met Alex’s eyes. “As ever, I’m yours to command, but I suspect I’d better go and check on Monteith. We need his copy of the letter.”

Alex nodded. “While you’re doing that, I’ll organize another move. Sadly, here, we’re too close to where Roderick met his end. Our opponents might think to search. I’ll have somewhere else organized—not too far away—by the time you get back with Monteith’s letter.”

“And then we’ll need to get a welcome in place for Carstairs.”

“Indeed.” Alex’s eyes glittered. “I’ll start work on that tomorrow, too. Now we know he’s coming down the Rhine, and at speed, then it’s all but certain he’ll pass through Rotterdam. I’ve already sent orders to all those on the other side of the Channel to ensure he runs into a very warm reception. But given that the other three have all come this way, what are the odds, do you think, that he’s making for either Felixstowe or Harwich? They are, after all, the closest and most convenient ports to this part of the country.”

“He’ll be carrying the original, won’t he?”

Alex nodded. “Just the fact he’s coming in on the most direct route … our puppetmaster isn’t trying to draw out cultists with him, but to give him the shortest and safest road, the best possible chance of reaching the puppetmaster. That’s why he’s the last, and also why Monteith is coming in from the opposite direction.”

“So Carstairs won’t be long.”

“No, but what I have planned in Rotterdam will at least slow him down, which is all we need.” Alex looked at Daniel. “You take care of Monteith, and leave me to put our welcome for Carstairs in place. By the time you get back with Monteith’s letter, all will be set.” Alex smiled, viciously intent. “Whoever our puppetmaster is, I guarantee Carstairs will never reach him.”

Daniel nodded and stood. “I’d better get going if I’m to join the men tonight.”

“Where exactly are they?”

“In a deserted barn outside a village called Eynesbury. I left them with strict orders to keep watch for Monteith and make sure he doesn’t reach Cambridge. They’ll know where he’s spending the night.” Daniel smiled, envisioning carnage. “I believe I’ll pay Major Monteith a midnight visit.”

Alex understood what he was planning. “Very good. And who knows what possibilities tomorrow might bring? Take care, my dear—I’ll see you later tomorrow, once you have Monteith’s copy.”

Daniel saluted. “Until then.”

He turned away and strode for the door, and so didn’t see the way Alex watched him.

Didn’t feel the cold, piercing weight of those ice-blue eyes.

After he’d passed through the open doorway and disappeared, Alex sat staring at the vacant space.

Debating.

Several minutes ticked past.

Then Alex turned and looked toward the doorway at the far end of the room. “M’wallah!”

When the fanatical head of Alex’s personal guard appeared, Alex coldly said, “Have someone saddle my horse and lay out my riding breeches, jacket, and my heavy cloak. I expect to be out all night.”

Turning, Alex looked again at the door through which Daniel had gone.

Daniel was, Alex knew, entirely trustworthy.

Yet sometimes trust wasn’t enough.

Alex had a very bad feeling about what was going on. About the quality of their opponents.

Pale eyes still fixed on the doorway, Alex rose, set down the barely touched glass of brandy. “I do hope I’m wrong, my dear. I do so hope I’m wrong.”

Once bitten, twice shy. Alex left the room to change and ride out.

December 21, 1822

The Swan Hotel, Bedford

Linnet sat beside Logan on the top step of the main stairs on the hotel’s first floor. All about them the house was quiet, settled, already in slumber. Darkness enveloped them; rather than keep a candle burning, marking their position, they’d let the night embrace them and let their eyes adjust.

The clocks in the town had tolled midnight a little while before, yet the hotel had been quiet for longer. In this season, there were no guests looking to revel into the night. Most of those she’d seen appeared to be travelers, on their way to some other place.

Like them.

In her case, however, she was no longer sure where she was going. To Elveden later that day, but after that? Where would life take her? Back to Mon Coeur to live out her life alone, surrounded by her people?

She shook free of the circling, distracting thoughts, ran her hand along her thigh, the soft leather beneath her palm familiar and reassuring. She’d changed into a gown for dinner, but then changed back into her breeches. If the cult came for them, now or later that day, she couldn’t run or fight anyone in a gown. Not effectively. And while she was with Logan, fighting alongside him, she needed to be at her most effective.

Her movement had caught Logan’s attention; even through the dimness she could feel his gaze.

Elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped between them, he studied her profile for a moment, then said, “Today … I shouldn’t say it was fun, but it was. So much better than just sitting in a coach, rolling along, waiting for the Cobra to strike. Sitting and waiting isn’t something that comes easily to either of us—or the other two, for that matter. Your plan was inspired, and your help with the execution much appreciated.”

She turned her head and met his eyes. Forced herself to seize the moment, the opening. “I know you mean to reassure me that you’re not repulsed by me wielding a sword.” She put a hand on his arm, squeezed gently. “I know it doesn’t matter to you—that you don’t think less of me because of it. But …” Through the shadows she tried to read his eyes—an impossibility. “Believe me, others—lots of others, indeed, most of society—will see it differently. No—don’t argue, don’t try to tell me otherwise, for that I do know.” She held his dark gaze. “I am not, and never will be, an appropriate wife for the son of an earl. Yes, I know Penny likes to ride wearing breeches, and she would probably love to wield a sword, but that’s not the point. She’s not just gently born but well brought up—she’s able to do all the things I cannot. The social things, doing the pretty in duchess’s drawing rooms, going to balls, knowing what to say.”

Pausing, she drew breath, softly said, “I am who I am, and I cannot change—not just because I would find it hard but because to be who I need to be for all the others who depend on me, I need to be who, and what, I am now.”

He’d opened his mouth once, but at her command had shut it and let her speak without interruption, had listened as closely, as intently as she could wish. He continued to look down at her, a slight frown between his brows.

Logan forced his hands to remain relaxed, lightly clasped. She’d just given him the perfect introduction to declare the, truth of his birth, but … she hadn’t yet seen all he wanted to show her before he told her the truth. She hadn’t seen, so didn’t know, all the factors that, to his mind, would convince her beyond all question that marrying a well-born bastard was what she should do.

He told himself he should speak now, regardless, yet … simple fear, for all its simplicity a cold, iron-clad vise, held him back. He couldn’t risk it. Just the thought of failing to convince her chilled him. Shook him. He needed her as his—his wife—too much.

“I don’t want you to change.” He held her gaze with his. “I want you exactly as you are—the buccaneering female privateer, the virgin queen of Mon Coeur. I value all you are now, as you are now, and the truth, the real truth, is that I would fight anyone who tried to force change upon you.”

She sighed, her lips twisting resignedly. “How’s that going to work? How will I meet the needs you’ll have once you take up your rightful position?” She spread her arms. “How am I, me, as I am, going to fit the mold of your wife?”

“There isn’t a mold.” He felt his jaw firm. “And if there is, I’ll break it.” Turning to her, he framed her face between his palms. Searched it, let his gaze linger on each now-beloved feature. Eventually looked into her eyes. “I’ll shatter any mold and re-form it—to fit you. Only you. You are the lady I want. You are all and everything I want. All and everything I will ever need, now and forever. I know you can’t yet see how that can be, how and why that—you and me, married, a team forever—will work, and I can’t explain it here, now. I will once we’re through and safe, and we have time at Elveden.” He held her gaze relentlessly, hoping to impart his certainty, impress it on her with his gaze and his words. “Trust me—you are the lady I want. I won’t have anyone else, and I’ll never stop wanting you. Only you.”

He searched her eyes. “I’ll never stop needing you. Only you.” Slowly, he bent his head, tipped her face, brought her lips to his. Whispered across them, “Like this.”

Then he kissed her.

And for once let his warrior’s shield fall. Let all he felt for her that he normally hid—not the passion and desire but the tenderness, the love, the yearning—rise up and be known, let those softer yet no less intense feelings color his kiss. Let them shine, glow.

Let her see.

Linnet saw. Enthralled, fascinated, she saw, and felt giddy. Raising a hand, she clasped it over the back of one of his—a necessary anchor. She sensed, felt to her bones the gentleness within him.

And, in that instant, believed.

In that instant knew she’d fight for this, to keep this—him and his love, for what else could this be?—forever.

Fathoms deep, oceans wide, she sensed it as something that knew no limits, no bounds.

That encompassed all he was, and was infinite in its promise.

Her lips moved beneath his, softly, as gentle as his had been, returning that promise. That tenderness. That revelation of infinite, unending love. For long moments, that reality held them in its palm. Then a sound reached them.

They broke apart, instantly alert, both too much the warrior to resist the call for so much as a second.

They looked about, searched, scanned the shadows. Listened, intent.

Eventually, Logan breathed, “Any ideas?”

Linnet shook her head as, slowly, silently, they both got to their feet.

Again they listened, turning, heads tilting.

Scrapes—something moving against the outer walls. A thump, a soft, sibilant sound.

She frowned. “It’s after midnight and icy cold. What on earth would anyone be doing outside?”

On the words, they heard a sharp crack. Then another.

Seconds later, they both smelled smoke.

Eyes wide, Linnet stared at Logan. “The cult?”

Frowning, he grasped her hand and started toward their room. “Even for them, this is ridiculous—the building’s mostly stone, and what isn’t is thoroughly damp. It’s not going to burn down. What the hell do they think to achieve?”

As if in answer, someone outside yelled, “Fire!”

And pandemonium broke out.

Sixteen

From the mouth of an alley on the opposite side of Bedford High Street, Daniel Thurgood watched his assembled cultists carry out his orders with their customary zeal. Mounted atop his black horse, he watched the flurry of activity about the hotel with growing anticipation.

An hour ago, he’d ridden into the camp near Eynesbury to discover that his careful planning had borne fruit. While the men following Monteith and his guards had lost their trail, the man he’d stationed in Bedford had already ridden in to report that the major, some woman, and the major’s two guards were passing the night at the Swan Hotel.

He’d brought his own guard of twelve—eight assassins and four fighters, all more experienced than the general run of cultists—with him. Although they’d lost men in their pursuit of Delborough and Hamilton, and many were still scattered along the south and southeast coasts, and Alex retained a significant number to deploy in the east, plus a personal guard much like his, he had more than enough cultists in Bedford that night to accomplish his mission—to seize Monteith and his scroll-holder.

His guard were restless, keen to join in any fun. All twelve were currently on foot behind him, concealed in the deep, shadows of the narrow alley. The rest of the cultists, working in groups of eight, had surrounded the hotel, situated at the end of the block, and on the three sides—the street front, the side facing the river, and the rear that gave onto the mews—had set smoking fires flanking every door, and below every window.

Even now the smoke was thickening, billowing up to engulf the building.

He held no illusions of burning the place down—solid stone and slate wouldn’t burn. But it was winter in England; there’d been plenty of split wood and coals neatly stacked in sheds at the hotel’s rear. And all he and his men needed was smoke.

Enough smoke to cause panic and have everyone in the hotel rushing out.

Scenting victory in the smell now permeating the air, thin lips curving in cruel anticipation, Daniel lifted the black silk scarf he’d wound about his neck, resettling it so it concealed his features, and watched the clouds of dirty gray and dense white swell and swallow the hotel.

A hundred yards further up Bedford High Street, further away from the river and the Swan Hotel, Alex, ahorse, hugged the shadows at the corner of a lane and studied the activity along the hotel’s front façade.

In jacket and elegant riding breeches, wrapped in a heavy coat, with a hat pulled low and a thick muffler obscuring all features, Alex managed the large chestnut M’wallah had commandeered without conscious thought, all attention locked on the front door of the hotel as it slammed opened and confused and panicked residents poured out.

Considering those in nightshirts and robes now flapping and coughing in the street, noting the way the smoke was rushing in through the opened front doors, Alex wondered if Daniel had stationed men at all the hotel’s exits. Looking up and, despite the darkness, seeing billowing plumes rising on the hotel’s other two accessible sides, Alex’s lips curved, approvingly. Daniel hadn’t overlooked the secondary doors.

Assessing Daniel’s plan, gauging the likely outcome, Alex increasingly approved. It appeared that this attack, in Daniel’s more capable hands, would succeed.

Regardless, Alex’s purpose tonight wasn’t to assist.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Cloaked in darkness, closely observing the action, Alex’s sole aim was to make certain that, this time, nothing went wrong.

It was the attack Logan had feared, yet he couldn’t see the point. Not even deluded cultists could imagine they could turn the Swan Hotel into a raging inferno.

He and Linnet had raced around the first-floor gallery, knocking on doors as they’d passed. Linnet had rushed on down the corridor, knocking and yelling, leaving him to rouse their friends.

Reaching Charles and Deverell’s room, he thumped on the door, yelled “Fire!” then went into the room he and Linnet had shared. Rummaging through his bag, he grabbed the scroll-holder, tucked it into his belt at the back so it rode along his spine, hidden by the fall of his coat. He already had his dirk in his boot. He buckled on his saber, loosened the blade, then grabbed Linnet’s cloak and her cutlass, and strode out.

The gallery was filling with smoke and disoriented people, jostling and coughing, some shrieking. Logan turned to the others’ door just as it opened and Deverell came out, followed by Charles, both fully dressed and armed.

They swiftly looked around, didn’t bother asking what was going on.

Hotel staff appeared from below, while others stumbled down from the attics above. All were panicked, but did their best to hurry patrons downstairs and out of the front door.

Someone had flung the front double doors wide, allowing more smoke to rush in and up the funnel of the stairwell. Stepping to the gallery’s rail, Logan squinted down through, the gushing clouds, saw more smoke pouring through the doors of the dining room and the hotel’s front parlor, adding to the thickening miasma now filling the foyer, and rising.

Coiling and billowing, and with every new gust of air gushing up to fill every available space.

Linnet returned, coughing, nearly choking. Glancing at the thick cloud below, she dragged her kerchief from her neck, quickly folded it, and retied it over her nose and mouth.

The others did the same, not that it helped much.

Linnet accepted her saber and cloak from Logan, buckled the first on, threw her cloak over her shoulder. “Come on.” She started around the gallery.

Logan and the others followed. He was still thinking, assessing, trying to see.…

Reaching the stairs, Linnet went to step down, and he suddenly knew—suddenly saw the danger. “No!”

Grasping her arm, he drew her back.

Surprised, Linnet let him. “What?”

Behind his kerchief, his expression was grim. “That’s what this is for—to flush us out. There’s no real threat of fire—there can’t be.”

Deverell joined them. “They’re using smoke to panic people into rushing ouside. They’ll be waiting for us to appear.”

“Exactly.”

They looked around, listened. Most people had already gone down. A few stragglers stumbled past them and hurried down the stairs. They could hear rushing footsteps on the ground floor, and shouts and wails from outside.

“Let’s take a look outside.” Going to the door of a room overlooking the front of the hotel, Charles threw it open and strode straight to the window.

The smoke was roiling and boiling upward, casting an increasingly dense pall over the street.

“They must have men feeding the fires beneath that,” Deverell said.

“Presumably close against the building.” Logan squinted down. “We can’t see them from this angle.”

“No—but we can see the archers on the roofs across the street.” Charles pointed. It took a moment to distinguish the shapes against the night sky, but the fluttering ends of the scarves about the figures’ heads left little doubt as to who and what they were looking at.

“Ambush of a different sort,” Deverell said. “We need to reconnoiter before we move. Charles?”

Charles nodded, and the pair left the room.

Linnet stayed beside Logan, peering down at the scene below. Beneath the shifting clouds, the hotel’s patrons and staff were milling about in confusion. Townsfolk, roused, were bringing flares, creating an eerie golden glow beneath the thickening pall. “When they try to put the fires out, they’re only going to create more smoke—at least in the short term.”

Logan nodded. “That’s assuming the cultists will give up their fires without a fight.”

“They’re actually down there, aren’t they—in full view.” She’d spied darker figures through gaps in the smoke.

“Yes, and that means this is an all-out assault. They’re going to do anything and everything necessary to catch us and take the scroll-holder.” Logan considered the scene, then tugged her arm. “Come on.”

They stepped into the smokier gallery.

Charles appeared from their left. “There’s no way out on this side—the hotel abutts the next building. No alley, no windows.”

Deverell emerged from a room along the right-hand side of the gallery. He shook his head as he came jogging up. “They’ve men along the riverbank, too. Under the trees, watching like hawks, plus others feeding fires against the walls on that side.”

Around them, the smoke was steadily thickening, rising and filling the upper levels of the hotel. They all coughed; Linnet’s eyes were stinging.

Deverell shook his head. “Regardless of the absence of flames, we can’t stay here.”

“Smoke can kill just as easily as fire.” Charles tightened his kerchief.

Grimly, Logan nodded. “Let’s see if we can get out the rear entrance.”

Coughing, doubled over, they ran around the gallery, trying to avoid the worst of the smoke. Logan found the back stairs and started down, Linnet at his back, Charles and Deverell behind her.

They descended half a flight into rising smoke, then Logan abruptly halted. He nodded at the window set into the wall beside him. “Look.”

From his tone, Linnet knew what she would see when she did. He stepped down; she did, too, letting Charles and Deverell look out as well.

Cultists were ranged behind barrels and carts in the inn’s rear yard. She counted ten.

Grimly shaking his head, Charles straightened and met Logan’s eyes. “I don’t fancy those odds. We might be able to best those we can see, but if there are more within hailing range, which seems likely, we’ll be in big trouble.”

And they had Linnet with them.

Logan heard the unsaid words loud and clear; they were already ringing in his head. He looked past Charles to Deverell. “Charles said the building against the fourth side abutts the hotel, so it’ll have to be the roof.”

No one argued.

Deverell turned around. “I think the hotel is the highest building in the area. With luck, the archers across the road won’t be able to see us.”

As quickly as they could, they went back to the first-floor gallery. “This way.” Linnet took the lead, heading for the door through which the hotel staff had come down from the attics. Beyond the door they found the attic stairs, blessedly less smoky. They climbed quickly up and Deverell shut the door behind them.

Once in the attics, they spread out, searching. The air was clearer, but the smoke seeped steadily in. From the street, below, they heard shouts, then yells, a building ruckus. Linnet tried to look out of the attic windows, but the balconies below blocked her view.

“Sounds like a melee,” Deverell said. “As if the townsfolk have taken exception to foreigners setting their hotel alight.”

“More power to their right arms,” Charles replied. “Unfortunately, we can’t risk going out and joining in.”

Logan finally found the right door. “This way.”

He waited until they were all assembled. “We go up and out, and with luck, there won’t be any cultists waiting, but be prepared—they might have thought of the roof.”

Logan turned and climbed the stairs. Linnet moved to follow, but Charles caught her shoulder and drew her back. “Ladies to the rear, this time.”

He pushed past her, and so did Deverell, before she could think of any reply. With a humph, she seized the moment to swing her cloak about her shoulders and tie it firmly at her throat, then she loosened her cutlass in its scabbard, and followed.

Logan opened the door at the top of the narrow flight, gently eased it wide, giving thanks to whoever had kept the hinges oiled. Silent as a wraith, keeping low, he slipped out, through the drifts of smoke scanned the roof. It was largely flat, with no protrusions of sufficient size to hide a cultist.

And it was empty.

“All clear,” he murmured, straightening as Charles joined him. The noise from what sounded like a pitched battle below would mask any sound they made.

Charles glanced back as Deverell, then Linnet emerged. He pointed to the side of the roof away from the river—the side beyond which the adjoining building lay.

Swiftly, they crossed to the waist-high stone parapet. The air was somewhat clearer, slightly fresher there, and now the thick smoke worked to their advantage, wafting up the hotel’s walls and screening them from watching eyes.

Deverell had been right. The neighboring building was, shorter than the hotel, its roof lower, but thankfully not too low. And that roof, too, was empty of cultists.

“They’ve positioned all their archers across the street,” Charles murmured.

“Luckily for us.” After one glance at the archers, Logan took advantage of a thicker gust of smoke to swing one leg over the parapet, then the other, then he dropped lightly down to the lower roof.

Charles and Deverell helped Linnet to do the same, then they followed.

Keeping low—they were now at a level where, if they stood upright too close to the edge, the archers on the roofs opposite might see them—they scouted, but could find no access to the building below. No way to get down.

Logan signaled. “Next one along.”

The next building’s roof was lower still, but this time by barely a step. Even more carefully, they spread out and searched its roof for some way to get inside, but neither it, nor the next two adjoining buildings, all of similar height, had any direct way to get into the buildings below.

Moving on, they looked down at the roof of the next building, which was smaller and lower, two storeys but with a many-gabled roof. From above, they studied it, searched, then Linnet pointed. “There—that covered porch.” A small, single-storey structure, it was built onto the back of the building. “We can go down that waterpipe from the roof, onto the porch roof, and then down into the little yard at the rear.”

The building beyond the one with the gabled roof was significantly higher; climbing up to its roof would be a problem. Logan glanced back. They were sufficiently far from the hotel to risk going down into the lane that ran along the rear of the buildings. More, the small square yard into which they would drop didn’t open directly to the rear lane, but was joined to it via an alley some ten yards long. Unless a cultist came to the alley’s mouth and looked in, their party wouldn’t be seen by the cultists watching in the lane.

And the longer they remained on the roofs, the more risk that they’d be seen. He nodded. “Let’s go.”

Although the smoke was still thickening about the hotel, it was much thinner, a bare veil, where they now were. The flares in the street were largely concentrated outside the hotel, but every now and then some townsman would run past with a brand, on their way to join the fracas outside the hotel, throwing light up onto the wall down which they had to climb.

They tried to pick their times, dropping down to the roof one after another, then making their way cautiously over the gables to the pipe that let them ease down to the porch roof.

Within ten minutes, they were within reach of the ground.

Daniel cursed. “Damned meddling gits! Why couldn’t they keep their noses out of things?”

None of the men at his back volunteered an answer.

Still cloaked in the alley’s shadows, they watched as the fight in the street swelled to an all-out brawl. More townsmen came charging up to join in; as the minutes ticked by, more of those arriving waved weapons—pitchforks, spades, whatever they could lay hands on.

He’d overlooked the fact that the common English were not the same as the run-of-the-mill Indian—that they were more likely to react with belligerence than cower. His fault, his mistake; he knew it.

The instant the gathering townsfolk and those flooding out of the hotel had comprehended that the source of the fires threatening the building was a group of foreigners, who were continuing to diligently feed the flames, they’d cursed, bellowed, and fallen on the cultists’ backs. For their part, the cultists expected anyone whose house they were burning down to cower; they’d struck back, expecting instant victory. Before Daniel could think of any way to intervene, battle had been joined.

There were enough cultists to keep the smoke billowing, and roiling up, but the ranks of the good townsfolk of Bedford were constantly increasing.

A shot rang out.

Daniel jerked his reins tight, caught his horse before it could bolt. Astride its back as it pranced, he cursed some more. The cultists hated guns—as fighters that was their one true weakness. Even the men at his back, far better trained, had flinched. Their edgy tension had ratcheted up several notches.

More shots sounded, more than likely fired over the crowd.

An instant later, three cultists fled past the alley mouth, heading away from the fight.

Daniel ground his teeth. “Where the devil is Monteith?” Despite all distractions, he’d kept his eyes on the hotel’s front door. He had men stationed all around the building, watching every exit. If Monteith had gone out any other way, he should have heard of it by now.

Should have been informed that the troublesome major had been seized. Heaven knew he’d assembled enough men to be sure of accomplishing that.

Could Monteith be thinking to hole up in the hotel? As soon as the smoke faded sufficiently, Daniel would send in his assassins to scour the place.

His mount stirred, as restless as he. Another local man came running down the street from the left, a flaming brand held high, a pitchfork in his hand; the light drew Daniel’s gaze.

Up above the street, the light from the brand fleetingly silhouetted an object—one that fell from one roof to the next. A man-sized object; a crouching man. Daniel stopped breathing, watched. The man didn’t come to the front of the roof. He must have gone …

“With me!” Daniel snapped out the order. Loosening his reins, digging in his heels, he plunged out of the alley. Wheeling left, away from the melee before the hotel, he thundered up the road.

His assassins running as a group just behind, Daniel could, almost taste success as he rounded the block, drew rein, drew his sword, and turned into the lane than ran along the rear of the buildings.

Logan dropped to the cobbles in the narrow yard. He swiftly scanned the cramped space. Stacked crates and empty barrels clogged the entrance to the alley leading to the rear lane. The yard was dark and relatively quiet, the high walls all around cutting off much of the sound and fury from the street. Even the smoke had barely penetrated there.

Straightening, he reached up and helped Linnet down. While she untied the ends of the cloak she’d knotted across her waist, he checked the scroll-holder, resettled it against his spine.

While Charles, then Deverell, joined them, Logan found the back door tucked inside the porch and tried it. Not only was it locked, it was also solidly bolted from inside. No access, no even temporary place to hide.

He looked back down the alley. The walls were plain brick, unadorned, and vertical all the way to the neighboring roofs, no doors or windows. He glanced up and around. There was no other way out.

“At least the archers across the street can’t see us.” Catching the others’ eyes, he tipped his head down the alley. “We’ll have to go that way.”

They nodded, resettled their coats and weapons, then he led the way forward, Charles behind him, then Linnet, with Deverell bringing up the rear.

They’d barely cleared the stacked crates and stepped into the alley proper when a dense shadow loomed at its end. As one, they halted.

The shadow resolved into a horseman in a black coat, breeches, and riding boots, astride a black horse.

Men moved behind the horse, forming up two by two and following the rider as he walked his mount slowly, clop by clop, down the alley toward them.

The sound echoed eerily off the alley’s high brick walls, a portentious drumbeat.

As if responding to the drama, the moon sailed free high above; it beamed down into the alley from behind them, bathing the approaching figure and his retinue, highlighting every line in icy-cold silver light.

Silver light that glinted on multiple naked blades.

The rider wore a black scarf wound about his head, concealing nose and chin; his eyes coldly observed them from above its upper edge as he halted—just far enough away to be safe from any attack from Logan or Charles, now standing shoulder to shoulder across the entrance to the small yard. Both had drawn their sabers. Logan couldn’t remember doing so; the hilt had suddenly been in his palm, his fingers locked in the grip, the blade held down by his side.

His every sense, every instinct, remained locked on the rider, even when two of the cultists moved up to stand on either side of the black horse.

Both cultists, like their fellows behind them, held naked blades in both hands.

“Those,” Logan murmured, “are cult assassins.”

“Ah,” Charles replied, and uncharacteristically left it at that.

Linnet, behind Logan, heard the exchange. Looking over his shoulder, she finally comprehended just what had driven him and his friends to battle so hard, for so long, to face so many dangers to bring it down. To defeat it.

True evil.

It stared back at her, not from the cult assassins’ dark, unflinching eyes but from the shadowed eyes of the rider. He … somehow, he made the hair on her nape lift, made her skin pebble and crawl; when his gaze found her, and, as if intrigued, rested on her, she had to fight to quell a wholly instinctive shiver.

An instinctive reaction.

An instinctive fear.

He wore a black coat, he rode a black horse, he had black hair. Yet it was his soul that was blackest; she knew that to her bones.

Her cutlass was already in her hand; she tightened her grip on the hilt. Not a single thought—not even a fleeting one—of fleeing entered her head. She’d come to fight alongside Logan and she intended to do just that.

Yet the odds … were by any estimation hopeless. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be overcome. She counted twelve assassins, but the biggest threat was the mounted man. He carried an unsheathed sword, held lightly balanced across the front of his saddle.

If they could get rid of him …

The rider had shifted his gaze to Logan. After another long, studied silence, he said, “At last we meet, Major Monteith.”

His voice was educated, very English, his diction only lightly muffled by the scarf.

When Logan said nothing, the rider’s eyes smiled. “I believe you know what I want. Please don’t waste time by telling me you haven’t got it—that you aren’t carrying it on your person at this moment.”

Opportunity. Possibility … Leaning forward, Linnet whispered to Logan, loudly enough for the rider to hear, “Give it to him. It’s no use to us if we’re dead.”

She knew it was a decoy, no use to anyone anyway. But the rider didn’t know that, and if he could be fooled into taking it and leaving, they had a chance of surviving even this attack.

Logan shifted, frowned. Made every show of reluctance, grateful to Linnet for giving him that chance. Whoever this man was, he’d know immediately that the letter was a decoy if Logan simply offered it up.

He waited, hoping that the man would make some threat—preferably against Linnet—to further excuse his surrendering the document he’d fought to ferry over half the world.

But the rider’s gaze remained locked on him and didn’t, again shift to Linnet. Eventually, the rider arched a brow, as if growing bored.

Who the devil was he? He wasn’t Ferrar, yet from the color of his hands he’d been in India, and not long ago. He clearly commanded cult assassins, so he was, at the very least, a close associate of the cult leader. Coat, breeches, boots, and the horse were all of excellent quality, and the rider wore them, rode the horse, with the unthinking air of one long accustomed to such luxuries.

Logan allowed his frown to deepen. “Who are you?” He saw no reason not to ask.

The rider’s gaze took on an edge. “My name is not something you need to know. All you need to understand is that I am, in this moment, in this place, the Black Cobra.”

“The Black Cobra’s Ferrar.”

“Really?” The rider’s smile returned; he seemed genuinely amused. “I believe you’ll discover you’re mistaken. However”—his voice hardened, along with his gaze—”the one thing you should note is that I am here, Black Cobra or not, to retrieve the letter that inadvertently fell into your hands.” His gaze flicked to the others, then returned to Logan’s face. “And I’m willing to barter for it—your lives for the letter.” When Logan didn’t reply, the rider drawled, “Word of a gentleman.”

Logan managed not to scoff. Not to react at all. The offer was the best he could hope for, not that he believed it; he knew better than to trust the Black Cobra in whatever guise. Still … moving slowly, he withdrew the scroll-holder from the back of his belt, held it up for the rider to see.

The rider’s gaze turned superior. “Yes, but is there anything inside?”

Letting his saber hang from its lanyard, Logan slowly opened the holder, then tipped it so the man could see the parchment inside.

The rider sighed theatrically and beckoned. “Give me the letter itself—I’m not going to cede you your lives in exchange, for a plain sheet of paper. You can keep the scroll-holder as a souvenir.”

Inwardly, Logan sighed, too. He didn’t expect the rider to allow them to live, to call off his assassins—no one from the Black Cobra hierarchy would ever be so forgiving—but if the rider had taken the scroll-holder and ridden off, they might have had a fighting chance.

While reaching into the holder and drawing out the rolled parchment, he was planning, plotting, evaluating the closest assassins, imagining how a fight would commence; the opening minute would be crucial.

Drawing out the letter, he tossed it to the nearest assassin. The man caught it in his right hand and passed it up to his master.

Logan kept the empty scroll-holder, its brass end open and flapping, in his left hand, slid his right hand into the guard of his saber, gripped the hilt.

Beside him, he felt Charles shift slightly, also tensing for action.

The rider had, as Logan had feared he would, unrolled the parchment. He angled it to the moonlight; it was bright enough for him to confirm the letter was a copy.

The rider flipped the parchment over, confirming the absence of any telltale seal, and once again the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled in a smile.

Logan blinked. A smile? It was a decoy copy. The rider, if he’d been the one directing the campaign to keep Logan from reaching Elveden, had lost countless men—and all for a copy? He should be furious.

If anything, the rider’s smile lines deepened as he folded the letter, tucked it into his inner coat pocket, then he looked up, inclined his head. “A pleasure doing business with you, Major.”

Raising his reins, the rider backed his horse. His men parted to let the beast through, but they didn’t fall back; they held their ground, reforming as the horse retreated beyond them.

Once free of his men, the rider turned his horse; the alley was just wide enough to allow it. Then he walked the horse up the alley.

For one instant, Logan wondered … yet he still couldn’t believe it.

The rider halted in the mouth of the alley, looked back at them, over the heads of his men saluted them. Then what they could see of his face leached of all expression, and something coldly sinister took its place. “Kill them.”

The order was given in a flat, even tone.

Instinct prodded, and Logan called, “I thought you were a gentleman.”

The rider laughed, a chilling sound. Abruptly he sobered. “I was born a bastard—I’m simply living up to my birth.” With that, he spurred away. At the first clack of hooves, the assassins attacked.

Alex had been about to turn and flee the debacle Daniel’s plan had degenerated into when Daniel had suddenly spurred out of his hiding place down the street, opposite the hotel, much closer to the writhing mass of cutlists and townspeople. Alex had drawn back into hiding, watched Daniel ride up and turn down the opposite half of the same street Alex hovered in. A little way along, Daniel reined in, unsheathed his sword. With his guard close behind him, he proceeded slowly down the lane behind the buildings facing the street—the lane that, Alex felt sure, ran all the way along the block to the back of the hotel.

What had caught Daniel’s attention? What had he gone to take care of?

Alex hoped, sincerely hoped, the answer was Monteith.

But as the minutes ticked by with no further sign of Daniel, and the melee down the street increasingly turned the townspeople’s way, the compulsion to quit the scene grew. Alex didn’t want to be caught there—a stranger watching the action, and at such an hour. Difficult to adequately explain.

Alex dallied, and dallied—was lifting the reins, about, to leave, when Daniel rode out of the lane. Sheathing his sword, he looked up, but he couldn’t see Alex tucked deep in the shadows across the road and further down the side street.

Alex watched Daniel walk his horse back to the High Street. Halting, he tugged down his scarf and looked back down the street at the now faltering melee. Then he smiled.

Slowly, Alex smiled, too.

Daniel, his expression tending toward triumphant, turned his horse away from the fight and rode unhurriedly out of the town.

Back in the shadows, Alex relaxed, felt tension drain from muscle and tendon. Daniel had succeeded. He’d got Monteith’s letter, and that was all that mattered.

In increasingly buoyant mood, Alex toyed with the notion of riding after Daniel, catching him up, and joining him in a jubilant race back to Bury, but … how to explain? Daniel wasn’t a fool like Roderick had been. Daniel would instantly see that Alex’s secretive presence in Bedford demonstrated a very real lack of trust.

Which it did. But letting Daniel know that wouldn’t serve the cause.

After several moments’ cogitation, Alex realized that Daniel’s guard, all twelve of them, had yet to come out of the lane. Which almost certainly meant they were engaged—which suggested Alex should leave before some worthy citizen stumbled on some grisly sight and raised a hue and cry.

Urging the chestnut into a slow trot, Alex headed up the High Street, taking the same route Daniel had.

The chestnut was a stronger, more powerful beast than the black Daniel was riding; easy enough, at some point along the way, for Alex to overtake Daniel without him seeing, and so reach Bury ahead of him, to be there, ready and willing to be graciously rewarding, when Daniel arrived, victorious, to lay his prize at Alex’s feet.

Smiling in anticipation, Alex rode on.

The fighting in the yard at the end of the alley was fast, furious, bloody, and desperate.

Somewhat to Logan’s surprise, he, Linnet, Charles, and Deverell were all still alive.

Cut, bruised, scraped, slashed, yet still alive, still on their feet.

They’d managed to turn the alley’s narrowness to their advantage. The instant the cultists had moved, Charles and Deverell had whipped their pistols out. They’d fired at close range, and the first two cultists had crumpled.

The smoke from the pistols hadn’t even dissipated—the other cultists hadn’t recovered from their instinctive recoil—when Linnet had caught his belt and yanked. “Get back!”

He’d stepped back, and she’d sent a pile of crates tumbling half across the end of the alley. Charles had seen, and done the same on the other side.

Knowing it would mean death to leave the higher ground to the assassins, Logan had leapt up to the top of the crates and wildly slashed at the cultist who’d been scrambling to climb over his fallen comrade’s body to claim the advantage.

He hadn’t held back his swing, so that cultist, too, had joined the debris before the crates.

Charles had claimed the top of the crates on the other side, hacking at the cultist who’d come at him. Deverell had worked with Linnet to shore up the wobbling crates with others, until both Logan and Charles had had solid platforms from which to work.

The advantage was incalculable. Added to that, their longer swords, greater reach, and the narrowness of the alley, which meant that no more than two assassins could face them, come at them, at once, meant they had a chance.

They fought to make the most of it.

To Logan’s utter relief, Linnet didn’t try to claim a place on the crates. In such a confined space, the strength behind each blow, behind every block, was critical; she couldn’t face opponents like this, in such a place.

She remained behind him, not safe but safer, yet by no means cowering. When an extra assassin pushed in alongside the one fighting Logan and slashed at his legs—with both saber and dirk engaged, he couldn’t block the strike—Linnet caught the assassin’s blade with her knife before it reached Logan’s thigh, then her cutlass flashed forward, striking hard and deep across the cultist’s exposed wrist.

Blood spurted. The cultist’s blade fell. In the turmoil, Logan couldn’t see what was happening to the assassin, but he doubted the man would live to fight further.

Then he took a thrown dagger in his upper arm. Deverell tapped him on the shoulder and they smoothly changed places.

Before Logan could think, Linnet grabbed him, seized the dagger, yanked it out, clamped her fingers around the wound, staunching the flow, then, wadding her neckerchief over the cut, she slid a belt—her cutlass belt—up around his arm, then cinched it tight.

He looked into her face, saw on it the same expression he knew would be on his. In battle, you stayed alert, did what needed to be done, and pushed all emotions deep.

She arched a brow at him.

He flexed the arm. As a field dressing, it would do. He nodded. “Thank you.” Then he turned back to the fight.

He replaced Charles when he took a slash to his thigh, not incapacitating but bad enough to need tending.

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 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.

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 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.

Carruthers 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.

Daniel 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 listened 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.

From 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.

By the time Daniel heard them coming well enough to distinguish the sound from that of the other exercising strings he was passing, it would be too late.

He wouldn’t escape them. He’d be taken up as a horse thief.

Bad enough, but he had the letter—copy or original—on him.

What odds that vital document would find its way into the hands of the puppetmaster, that nebulous man Alex was learning to respect, and more, fear?

Alex’s mount shifted restlessly. Eyes desperately scanning the heath, Alex reined it in without thought. Had no thought to spare.

What to do? What to do?

There! One chance, just one, one way forward, and no other.

If Alex was game to grasp it.

If …

With a vicious curse, Alex set heels to the chestnut’s sides and raced down the rise on a course that would intersect with Daniel’s at one particular spot. A place just beyond another rise, a little higher than most, that sheltered a wide dip hosting a short line of firs and pines with thick, heavy branches—one of the few effective screens on the winter heath.

Daniel’s line of travel would see him pass a little way beyond the northern end of the line of trees.

Alex reached the east side of the trees with just enough time to calm, to settle the chestnut, ease its prancing edginess. To breathe in, out, and plaster on a welcoming, expectant expression.

Daniel appeared beyond the end of the trees.

Alex hailed him and waved.

Hearing, seeing, Daniel smiled confidently and wheeled his stolen mount.

Alex waited, outwardly calm and assured, as Daniel slowed, then walked his horse nearer, eventually halting alongside the chestnut.

His knee brushing Alex’s, Daniel smiled. “I got it.”

“I know.” Lips curving in response, Alex held out an imperious, demanding hand. “I can tell by your smile.”

Daniel laughed. Reaching into his coat, he drew out the letter and laid it across Alex’s palm.

Alex flicked it open, checked. “The same as the other two—a copy.”

“Which means there’s only one more to seize. The original Carstairs must be carrying.”

“Indeed.” Folding the letter, sliding it into a pocket, Alex looked up, into Daniel’s eyes. Smiled brilliantly. “Excellent.”

Reaching up and across with one elegantly gloved hand, Alex cupped Daniel’s nape and drew his face near.

Kissed him.

Lovingly, lingeringly.

Bit Daniel’s lip lightly as the blade slid between his ribs, directly into his heart.

Alex drew back, released Daniel, left the knife where it was.

Met his eyes, the velvety brown already clouding.

Saw death sliding in to claim him.

The look on Daniel’s face, the utter shock and disbelief, pricked even Alex’s conscience.

“You’d been seen. They’re after you—can’t you hear? I couldn’t allow—”

Daniel slumped forward, over his saddle.

The roan shifted, getting nervous.

Face tightening, Alex grabbed Daniel’s hat—it had his name on the band—stuffed it into one of the chestnut’s saddlebags, gathered the big horse’s reins, then paused.

Paused.

Reaching out one gloved hand, Alex gently, for the last time, ruffled Daniel’s black hair. Then, lips thinning, features shifting into a granite mask, Alex drew back, sharply slapped the roan’s rump, and sent the horse leaping.

The instant it sensed the odd weight in its saddle and found its reins free, it took off, heading south.

Alex drew in a quick breath, blew it out. Refocused and listened, gauging the escalating thud of the pursuing horses’ hooves; they were nearing the rise to the west.

Following impulse, Alex spurred the big chestnut on, heading north, cutting directly across the oncoming riders.

Alex cleared the trees and was fifty yards further on when the mob broke over the rise, and slowed.

Alex kept riding north unhurriedly, outwardly unconcerned.

Heard the jockeys’ voices as they circled on the rise, searching for their quarry. With luck, the trees would conceal the roan’s flight for some considerable way.

Then another voice, a deeper, more authoritative voice, joined the chorus.

It took Demon a good minute to accept what his men were telling him. The Gentleman and his rider were indeed nowhere to be seen.

Another rider, a man wrapped in a heavy winter coat, with a fashionable hat pulled low and features protected from the wind by a muffler, was cantering along on a big chestnut just north of where they milled.

If the horse thief had gone this way …

“Hello!” Demon raised his voice, raised a hand in salute.

The other rider glanced back, slowed, raised a hand to show he’d heard.

“Did you see a man—dark coat, dark hat, dark hair, tanned features—riding out on a roan?”

The rider hesitated, then turned and pointed to the east of northeast. There was another rise that might have concealed the rider some way on.

“Thank you!” Demon swung The Flynn in that direction and thundered down the rise. His jockeys and their mounts followed.

The rider watched for a moment, then continued unhurriedly on.

Stone-faced, Alex rode on, listening until the thunder of hooves faded.

Soon, the silence of the wide and empty heath returned. Alex embraced it.

After a while, thought impinged on the odd emptiness in Alex’s mind, rose up through the unexpected shock.

Survival, after all, was reserved for the fittest.

After further cogitation a plan formed. Head north for a little while longer, enough to get well and truly out of the way of any further searching, then circle around, stop at Bury long enough to alert those left there, then head on to the new house—the new cult headquarters—that M’wallah and Creighton between them had found.

Creighton might be a problem now his master was dead, but M’wallah and Alex’s guard were exceptionally good at resolving all problems Alex faced. Creighton could be left to them.

As the sun slowly rose, Alex, alone, cantered steadily on.

Just after dawn, Demon finally halted.

They’d reached a strip of heath still crisp from the frost, and it was transparently obvious no rider had crossed it that morning.

“We’ve lost him.” Turning The Mighty Flynn, he pulled out the spyglass, and scanned all the heath that he could see.

“But how could we have?” one of the jockeys asked. “We was on his heels—well, a few minutes behind at most—and then … he just wasn’t there.”

Frowning, Demon thought back. Shutting the spyglass, he slipped it back into the saddle pocket. “You had him in sight until he went over the rise where you stopped—the rise where we asked the other rider?”

All the jockeys nodded.

Demon knew every dip and hollow on the heath; he’d, been riding there since he was a child. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisaging … if that other rider had been mistaken, or …

Opening his eyes, he wheeled The Flynn back toward Newmarket. “Let’s head home, but we’ll spread out in a line north-south, and go at a slow canter. Yell if you see any sign.”

The horses were tiring, skittish; they needed to get back to their stable, into the warm, and be tended. The run had broken their usual routine.

Demon directed his men into a line, and they started back.

He wasn’t sure what to think. He was deep in weighing up the possibilities when Higgins, to the far south of the line, gave a hie.

“Over there! Isn’t that The Gentleman?”

Demon reined in, hauled out the spyglass, and put it to his eye.

And there was The Gentleman—with a suspicious-looking lump in the saddle. The Gentleman was well to the south, reins dragging as he lazily cropped coarse grass, then ambled on a little way, the lifeless lump on his back swaying with his gait.

Demon drew in a breath, let it out on a sigh. Stuffing the glass back in his saddlebag, he nodded. “That’s him. Let’s go.”

As one, he and his men changed course, and closed on the wandering horse.

The Gentleman’s head came up as they neared, but then he scented his stablemates and went back to his grass. The lump on his back didn’t move.

“Hold up.” Demon waved to his jockeys to rein in a little way away. Their horses sensed the wrongness of the slumped form on The Gentleman’s back and grew yet more skittish.

At a walk, Demon approached The Gentleman. The Flynn was an old hand; he would trust completely and go wherever Demon steered him.

But, yes, that was a dead body. It looked like their horse thief had met his end.

Glancing back at the restless, high-spirited horses, Demon waved them off. “Go on to the stables. I’ll be behind you. No more training this morning. They’ve had a good run. Get them inside and rubbed down.”

The younger jockeys had paled; they nodded and went. The older ones hestitated, but then nodded and headed in.

Leaving Demon to draw closer to The Gentleman, lean down and grab the trailing reins, then edge nearer and, without any real hope, check for a pulse at the side of the man’s neck. Finding none, he bent low and peered at the dead man’s face—enough to confirm that, yes, he was their horse thief.

And judging from his hands and the tanned line at his throat, until recently he’d been somewhere sunny, like India.

Straightening in his saddle, Demon frowned at the corpse. “Who the devil are you? And what the hell’s going on?”

Seventeen

Demon led The Gentleman and his grisly burden back to the stables. It took him and two of his men to lift the man free of the saddle; they laid him out in the back of a hay cart.

Carruthers came hobbling out of the tack room, where he’d been imbibing medicinal brandy. He looked down at the man, nodded. “That’s him. Cheeky, vicious sod. Not so cheeky now. Looks like retribution caught up with him pretty quick.” He glanced at Demon. “Any idea who did it?”

Demon thought of the other rider they’d seen, but could anyone slide a dagger through a man’s heart, and within minutes appear so unconcerned? He shook his head. “No idea. But he was out of our sight for a good while. No saying who he might have met up with.”

“Strange-looking dagger, that.” Carruthers eyed the hilt that protruded from the man’s chest.

“It’s ivory.” Demon bent and looked more closely at it, and any doubt this man was involved with the Black Cobra vanished. The hilt was the same as the daggers that had put paid to first Larkins, then Ferrar, whom they’d originally thought was the Black Cobra. The sound of riders approaching, followed by a shout, “Ho! Cynster!” had Demon straightening, then striding quickly out of the front doors to the area before the stable.

Logan dismounted as Demon appeared. For the first time in days, Logan grinned.

Demon’s gaze reached him and his old friend’s face lit. “Logan Monteith! Sorry—Major Monteith. You are definitely a sight for sore eyes—even if you’re half covered in … what? Soot? “

“We escaped a fire, and a few other inconveniences, hence our sorry sartorial state. But I hear you’ve grown sober.” Logan offered his hand, and it was crushed in Demon’s long-fingered grip.

“Not a bit of it!” Demon thumped him on the back and wrung his hand. “As I heard it, it’s you who’ve been getting serious these past months—and into serious danger, too.”

“Sadly, that’s true. Apropos of which …” Releasing Demon, Logan turned to the other three, who by now had dismounted and stood watching them with varying degrees of humorous understanding. “Allow me to present Captain Linnet Trevission, captain of the Esperance, out of Guernsey.”

Linnet gave Demon her hand. “A pleasure, sir.”

Grasping her fingers, Demon bowed gracefully. “The pleasure is all mine.” Straightening, he eyed Linnet’s breeches. “I warn you, my wife, Flick, will be after your tailor’s direction.”

Brows faintly arching, Linnet inclined her head, and Logan continued the introductions.

Although Demon hadn’t met Charles or Deverell before, he knew of their mission.

“So,” Logan asked, “what’s been going on?”

“You’ve heard Delborough’s through safe and sound, but sacrificed his scroll-holder in a trap we hoped might capture Ferrar, but his man, Larkins, got caught instead, and then Ferrar killed him and got clean away?”

When Logan nodded, Demon went on, “Yesterday, Hamilton came up from Chelmsford via Sudbury. The fiends, had set up an ambush outside Sudbury, but we were there in force, too, and Miss Ensworth, who’s traveling with Hamilton, managed to leave the scroll-holder and tempt Ferrar to take it, which he did. While my cousins and I dealt with the cultists at the ambush site, others”—Demon nodded at Charles and Deverell—”Wolverstone and some of your erstwhile colleagues, followed Ferrar, hoping to find his lair, but then he was murdered in the old abbey ruins at Bury St. Edmunds, and all that was found was his body.”

“Ferrar’s dead?” Logan’s face, and that of the others, showed their shock.

Grimly Demon nodded. “As of yesterday afternoon.” Shrewd blue eyes surveyed them. “I know you were expected in today from Bedford—dare I assume the reason you’re here now, so bright and early and in such sartorial straits, is because you were chasing a man, tallish, black hair, black coat, a gentleman at first glance?”

“You’ve seen him?” Logan asked.

“He’s dead, too.” Demon tipped his head toward the stable. “Come and take a look.”

Demon led them to the cart. Logan stood at the cart’s foot, Linnet by his side, and looked down at the man they’d last seen riding out of the alley in Bedford.

Charles examined the dagger, the wound. “This happened recently.”

“Less than an hour ago.” Demon told them all he knew of the man’s actions to the point where he’d found him slumped dead in his saddle.

He sent a stable lad to fetch the man’s horse. While they waited, he asked, “Incidentally, how did you know to come here? Did you actually track him this far?”

Logan shook his head. “I tracked him out of Bedford, and we got sightings on this side of Cambridge, but we lost him approaching Newmarket. But when we rode into the town, it was buzzing with the news that someone had dared steal a horse from your stable. That seemed too great a coincidence—we know these people appropriate goods, horses, anything they need, as they wish. People in town pointed out the way here.”

Demon waved at the black horse the stable lad led up. “The blighter left this one when he took ours.”

Logan, Deverell, and Charles studied the horse; they all nodded. “That’s the one he was riding at Bedford,” Deverell said.

“So he was riding this way,” Charles said, “not because he was fleeing us, because he thought he’d left us soon to be dead in Bedford, but for some other reason.”

“Presumably to deliver the letter he took from us to someone.” Deverell eyed the body. “He hasn’t still got it, has he?”

“Inside coat pocket,” Linnet said. “That’s where he put it.”

Deverell touched the man’s coat, then eased it open enough to feel inside while leaving the dagger in place. “Nothing there.” He patted the man’s other pockets. “Or elsewhere. It’s gone.”

Logan frowned. “I think we can assume that whoever he delivered the letter to rewarded him with that dagger.”

“We were chasing him at the time.” Demon shrugged. “He might have been killed for the same reason Larkins, and presumably Ferrar, were—sacrificed because they’d been seen, and could, almost certainly would, be taken up at some point.”

“And questioned.” Charles nodded. “That makes sense.”

Linnet glanced at Logan. “Do you recognize him?”

Eyes locked on the man’s face, Logan grimaced. “He looks vaguely familiar. I might have seen him in Bombay—we were there for five months. He might have been a friend of Ferrar’s. If he is, Gareth or Del would have a better chance of placing him.”

Demon nodded decisively. “We’d best get his body to Elveden, then. There’s a washroom if you’d like to tend to your accumulated wounds and wash off the worst of the smoke streaks while I get the horses put to, then we can ride on together.”

*  *  *

It was midmorning when the five of them rode up to the sprawling Jacobean manor house hidden away in its extensive park; they’d ridden ahead, leaving the wagon carrying the body to follow as fast as it could. Crisped by the recent frost, snow still lay in pockets beneath the trees; Demon had mentioned there’d been a heavy fall a few days before.

Emerging from the forest into the graveled forecourt, Linnet studied the rambling house with its many gables and haphazard wings, and sensed it was ancient; an aura of permanence, of long-established peace, seemed to emanate from it. Courtesy of the dull day, lamps were lit inside; through the many paned windows, the interior of the house seemed to glow with warmth and welcome.

A warmth and welcome that came tumbling out to greet them. Phoebe and Penny were already in residence; they must have been sitting in a window somewhere, for they came rushing out to embrace their husbands, disregarding residual smoke streaks and bloodstains to exclaim over various scratches and gashes, then they whirled on Linnet and embraced her, then Logan, too.

A slender yet statuesque blond, assured and serene, had followed the two ladies outside. She proved to be Minerva, the great Wolverstone’s duchess.

Introduced, Linnet would have curtsied, but Minerva prevented it, clasping both Linnet’s hands instead and smiling warmly. “Welcome to Elveden, Linnet—we tend not to stand on ceremony here, so please call me Minerva. The other ladies will be delighted to meet you. And please don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything I can arrange to make your stay more comfortable.” She glanced back into the house as many footsteps approached. “Ah—here comes the other side of the coin.”

A small army of men appeared on the front steps, led by a man Linnet instantly identified as Wolverstone. He was tallish, although not the tallest there, black-haired and lean-cheeked, with a certain predatory cast to his austere Norman features. Power hung about him like an invisible mantle, yet, it was the look he exchanged with Minerva, one of male resignation overlaying an infinitely deep pool of affection, that settled it.

Smiling, Minerva introduced Linnet, then Logan.

Wolverstone greeted them with sincere pleasure and open approval, then insisted the whole party—which had swollen considerably as more and more gentlemen and ladies came out—adjourn to the warmth of the house.

In the large, wood-paneled hall—glancing around, Linnet thought it must originally have been the main manor hall—Wolverstone, who went by the name of Royce among friends, introduced them to the small army of others.

Two of the men, soldiers by their bearing, were among the first to greet Logan. Royce stood back as, with huge smiles, the three wrung each other’s hands and clapped shoulders, then Logan introduced the pair to Linnet. “Derek Delborough and Gareth Hamilton. You’ve heard me speak of both.”

Linnet shook hands, exchanged smiles, noting the closeness between the three men—that of long-standing brothers-in-arms, men who had fought shoulder to shoulder, back to back, whose friendship had been forged in the heat of battle.

Delborough and Hamilton were as surprised to see her as Logan was to see the ladies each of them had by their sides. “Miss Ensworth?” Logan shook the brown-haired lady’s hand. “I heard you’d traveled with Gareth, but … how did that come about?”

The lady smiled sweetly, yet Linnet instantly recognized a core of steel. “Emily, please. And it’s a long story.” She glanced at Hamilton. “We’ll tell you later.”

Hamilton arched his brows.

Delborough—Del—introduced them to the striking brunette beside him. “Deliah Duncannon. Not knowing of our mission, my aunts had arranged for me to escort Deliah north, so I had to bring her with me.”

“Not that he wanted to, of course,” Deliah said, a definite glint in her green eyes, “but then I rescued him from certain death, and he couldn’t deny me.”

Del laughed. “That’s a long story, too, one for later. For now, it’s your story we need to catch up with.”

“Let’s finish the introductions first,” Royce said. “Then we can get down to business.”

He guided Logan and Linnet on. Within minutes, Linnet’s head was whirling. She struggled to keep track of all the additional names. Gervase and Madeline, Tony and Alicia, Letitia, Jack and Clarice, Tristan and Lenore, and Kit. Letitia’s husband Christian, and Kit’s husband, another Jack, were apparently on the east coast waiting for Rafe Carstairs to land.

While Logan spoke with the men, redheaded Kit shifted closer to Linnet and murmured, “You are not leaving this house without telling me where you got those.” She dropped bright, openly covetous eyes to Linnet’s breeches.

Madeline strolled up, smiling. “I was about to ask the same thing. They look just the thing—so practical.”

Linnet gave up trying to ignore what she had thought to be her inappropriate attire. “Not so much in the height of summer, but for most of the year, yes. They give much better protection than cloth, or even buckskin.” Linnet glanced from one to the other. “Do you know Flick—Demon’s wife?”

“Yes, indeed—and she’s another who will tie you down and torture you if you don’t tell,” Madeline said.

Linnet laughed. “I’ll tell—I’ve already told Penny. I get them from a leatherworker in Exeter.”

“We’ll extract the directions later,” Kit said. “But did I hear Royce say you captain your own ship?” When Linnet nodded, Kit vowed, “I am so deeply jealous. I’ve wanted to sail my own ship for forever, but Jack always claims the wheel. You’d think with a husband in shipping I could have just one tiny yacht of my own.”

Linnet’s brain made the connection. “Jack Hendon—of Hendon Shipping Lines?”

Kit nodded. “The very same. Why?”

“I own Trevission Ships. He’s a competitor.”

“Just wait until he hears. He’ll probably make you an offer.”

“I might just make one back,” Linnet said.

Kit hooted. “Oh, please make sure I’m there when that conversation takes place.”

There’d been a knock on the door. Demon and Wolverstone had gone to look out. Now Wolverstone turned back to the room. “Hamilton, Delborough. If you would—there’s a body here we need you to see if you can identify.”

Naturally, within two minutes, everyone was in the forecourt again, gathered around the hay cart. Everyone looked at the body; Royce had drawn down the tarpaulin, so they could all see the dagger. Glancing at the faces, Linnet noted that while each was deadly serious, not one had paled, let alone flinched.

Returning her gaze to the dead man’s graying face, she felt a sense of shared purpose, of people coming together in pursuit of a common goal. For the first time, felt a part of that whole. She’d been committed to helping Logan, but that had been personal. Now she, too, was a part of this group devoted to seeing justice done and the Black Cobra exposed.

Royce glanced at Delborough and Hamilton. “Any idea who he is?”

“He was an associate of Ferrar’s in Bombay, but I never knew his name.” Del glanced at Gareth. “Do you know?”

Gareth stared at the man for a long moment, then said, “Thurgood. Daniel Thurgood.” He looked up at the waiting faces. “He was a friend of Ferrar, one of his circle.”

“A close friend?” Tristan asked.

Gareth grimaced. “No closer than others I could name, at least in public. In private?” Gareth shrugged. “Who’s to know?”

“Indeed.” Royce looked at the dagger. “Same type of dagger, same style of blow—from very close. He was killed by someone he trusted implicitly.”

“And that someone is still out there,” Logan said.

Royce nodded. “We haven’t yet succeeded in beheading, the Black Cobra. Whether they were a group of equals or a tiered hierarchy, the head, the real power, the most dangerous of these villains, is still at large.”

“And not far away,” Jack Warnefleet said.

Royce glanced around the circle. Many of the other men did, too. Despite the weak winter sun’s valiant attempts to break through the clouds, it was still chilly and cold, and they’d all come out without coats.

“Let’s go inside,” Royce said. “We can discuss this latest twist and hear Logan’s report in comfort. In the drawing room,” he added, as if to assure the ladies they would not be excluded.

Royce stepped back; all the other men shifted as if to fall in with his directive.

But not one of the ladies moved. Minerva flapped an absentminded hand. “Wait a minute.” She was studying Daniel Thurgood’s face. She nudged Letitia, beside her. “Is it just my imagination, or is there a resemblance to Ferrar?”

Letitia, who had also been staring at Thurgood’s face, slowly nodded. “It’s the bones—the browline, set of the eyes, the chin. Imagine him with Shrewton’s pale eyes and fairer hair and … he’s very like Ferrar.”

Clarice, beside Letitia, arched her brows. “For my money, he’s even more like Shrewton himself.”

Deverell frowned. “He—Thurgood—said something about being a bastard.” He glanced at Logan. “What did he say exactly?”

Linnet, beside Logan, answered. “When he broke his word—a word he’d sworn on his honor as a gentleman—and ordered his men to kill us, Logan prodded him about being a gentleman. Thurgood laughed and said he’d been born a bastard, and was simply living up to his birth.”

Everyone stared at the body. Royce murmured, “What if he’d meant the phrase ‘living up to his birth’ to mean behaving, not like a bastard, but like a Ferrar—one of Shrewton’s get?”

“That Shrewton sired bastards is common knowledge,” Clarice stated, “but their actual identity isn’t widely known. Given the resemblance, and I do think it’s strong, then Thurgood’s parting shot sounds like a typical piece of Ferrar arrogance.”

“Overweening, maliciously superior arrogance has been a hallmark of the Black Cobra cult from its inception,” Delborough said.

Everyone looked at Royce. Gaze locked on Thurgood’s body, face hardening, he slowly nodded. “I believe we should deliver this body, too, to the earl at Wymondham Hall.”

“Indeed,” Minerva said briskly. “You may proceed to do so after luncheon.” She looked at Charles, Deverell, Logan, and Linnet. “I assume you four missed breakfast, which means you must be famished.” Spreading her arms, Minerva gracefully waved everyone to the door. “Let’s go in, and I’ll have you shown to your rooms. You can wash and refresh yourselves, then we can all sit down to an early luncheon, and over the table we can learn the details of your adventures.” She met her husband’s eyes. “And add the recent revelations to all else we know, and see where we now stand.”

Minerva gestured again, and everyone obeyed, moving in orderly fashion back indoors.

Royce’s lips twisted wryly, then he turned to Demon. Del, Gareth, and Logan also hung back.

“I won’t stay,” Demon said. “If I don’t return to Somersham there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll carry this latest news”—with his head he indicated Thurgood’s body—”and the suspected connection to Devil and the others.”

Royce nodded. “Do.”

Demon saluted, stepped back. “We’ll be ready and waiting should you need us.”

Royce met his eyes. “Hold yourselves ready—I’ve a strong premonition I’m going to need you all before this mission ends.”

Demon nodded to the other three, then headed for his horse, took the reins, fluidly mounted, then, with another salute, rode away.

“They’re good men—the Cynsters,” Del said. “Good fighters,” Gareth added. “Good friends,” Logan echoed.

“Indeed.” Royce looked at Logan and smiled. “But you’d better get inside to be shown to your room, or my duchess will be displeased.”

That no one in the house would want Minerva to be displeased didn’t need to be stated.

Gareth tossed the tarpaulin back over Thurgood’s body. Leaving the cart in the forecourt, the four men went inside.

Half an hour later, they were all seated around the long table in the dining room. Linnet, in a pale blue gown Penny had loaned her, and Logan, as brushed and as neat as he could be, had been steered to chairs on either side of Wolverstone’s carver, so that when they spoke the whole table could hear.

They, Charles, and Deverell were allowed to assuage their appetites first, while the rest of the company nibbled and chatted about less consequential matters. Children, Logan noted, were a source of much comment.

“At least the nursery windows don’t overlook the forecourt,” Kit said. “If they realized there was a dead body in that cart, my eldest two would be clambering all over it.” She paused, then added, “Most likely pulling out the dagger, just to see.”

“Royce found them a set of tin soldiers,” Jack said. “I was up there earlier, checking on our two, and your eldest two, aided by a bevy of the others, I might add, were not even halfway through Waterloo—they’ll be engaged for hours yet.”

From various comments, Logan gathered that Minerva, she who must not be displeased, had taken advantage of the mission her husband had undertaken to invite all the families of the ex-comrades he’d drawn into the mission to spend Christmas there, at Elveden.

The house was, consequently, awash with young children. As each family had also brought nannies and governesses, the children were not much in evidence, not least because, as far as Logan could understand, the children were familiar with each other, and could be relied on to play together, albeit sometimes with less than desirable results.

He’d never been a part of such a gathering—one so openly relaxed and comfortable, with so many adults as well as children, all at ease with one another. He glanced at Linnet, across the table, and found her chatting with Alicia, who apparently also had older children, not hers, but brothers who were her wards. Even as he watched, Madeline and Gervase joined in. Madeline, too, was guardian of her younger half brothers, and Gervase had three younger sisters under his wing.

Letting his gaze wander the table, it seemed to Logan that every possible construction of “family” was represented, and all were happy and content. He noted Del and Gareth likewise watching, listening, taking it all in; they, like him, had yet to forge their families—this was what lay ahead for them.

As shining examples, he felt they couldn’t have found better.

These men were like them, warriors to the core, their ladies their equals in every way. As for the families they’d created … there was so much joy, so much pride in their faces as they talked of their children.

Even Royce and Minerva, the most august and powerful pair present, shared the same sort of connections, with each other, with their children, with the other married couples around their table.

Each couple had found their way into marriage, and forged a strong partnership and a life worth living. The prospect dangled before Logan’s nose. He glanced at Linnet, even more determined than before to seize it, secure it. To have this sort of future for his own.

His plate empty, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his wineglass.

At a signal from Minerva, footmen materialized to silently whisk away the used plates.

Once the platters had been replaced with bowls of nuts and plates of cheese and dried fruits, Royce glanced at Logan, at Charles, Deverell, then Linnet. “If you’re ready, might I suggest you start at the beginning.” His gaze returned to Logan. “From when you left Bombay.”

Logan nodded, and obliged, paring the story to the bare bones. Even so, when he described the wreck off Guernsey, nothing could hide how close he’d come to death.

He passed the story baton to Linnet for a while, then took it back once she reached the point where he’d remembered all. Succinctly he described the journey to Plymouth, the attack by the three other ships, the result, then their joining Charles in the tavern, beating off yet more cultists before taking refuge at Paignton Hall.

Deverell helpfully took up the tale, filling in the details of their journey to Bath, then Oxford, with Charles concisely outlining how they’d got rid of their followers before turning for Bedford. “But they must have had a watcher stationed in the town.”

Logan nodded. “They were taking no chances.” He described how he and Linnet were on watch when the smoke started outside the hotel, how they’d been trapped with the cult waiting outside to pounce the instant they emerged. He told of their escape over the roofs, then the unexpected clash in the small yard.

Recounting the incident brought the details into sharper focus; in the heat of the moment, he’d had no time to analyze. Exchanging a glance with Charles and Deverell, Logan concluded, “I’ve fought cultists many times, but with that number of assassins … we were lucky to escape with our lives.”

The other two men nodded. Linnet said nothing at all.

Logan met her gaze, steady, calm, assured. He continued, “We didn’t wait to see the outcome of the battle between the cultists and the townsfolk, although the townsfolk seemed to be winning.”

“My coachman will be able to fill us in—he’s following, with the carriage and our bags,” Deverell said. “He should be here shortly.”

“So Thurgood took the letter and headed this way.” Royce leaned forward. “Then on the heath, his horse went lame, and he made the mistake of exchanging it for one from Demon’s stable.”

“Attacking Demon’s old trainer when the old man tried to stop him,” Charles put in. “A man old enough to be Thurgood’s father.”

Royce arched his brows. “Then Demon saw, gave chase … what then?”

“The trainer raised the alarm, Demon raced in, saw Thurgood making off over the downs.” Deverell recounted the story as Demon had told it. “Demon sent his men, who were already mounted on the horses they were exercising, straight after Thurgood, but he himself paused to check that the old man was all right before going himself. He caught up with his men just as they lost sight of Thurgood. They came over a rise, and he simply wasn’t ahead of them anymore. There was another rider, a man apparently out for a constitutional—well-dressed, good horse. Demon hailed him, described Thurgood and the stolen horse, and asked if the man had seen him. The rider pointed onward, and Demon and the others rode on. But they found no sign of Thurgood that way. They turned back and rode in a sweep, and that’s when they discovered the horse with Thurgood’s body still in the saddle.”

After a moment, Royce asked, “Did they see any other rider—anyone other than the rider they spoke with—who might, conceivably, be Thurgood’s killer?”

Deverell shook his head. “Demon said it could have been the rider he spoke with, or, given the time Thurgood was out of their sight, someone else entirely. He inclined toward the latter, because the rider he spoke with gave no indication of any hurry or concern, and—most telling to Demon—his horse didn’t either.” Deverell glanced around the table. “We all know how hard it is to hide emotions from our mounts. If, the rider they saw had killed Thurgood, then he could only have just done so, and should have still been keyed up and tense, at the very least.”

Royce grimaced. “So—we have Thurgood, like Ferrar, killed by person or persons unknown, but in exactly the same way, so we’re looking at the same killer or killers.” Straightening, Royce reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “Let’s see how this latest information fits with what we already have.”

From further down the table, Emily Ensworth leaned forward. “Is that my copy of the letter?” When Royce nodded, she said, “I’m certain Thurgood is one of those mentioned in the social chatter in the first half.”

“I thought I’d read the name.” Unfolding the sheet, Royce glanced at Logan. “Emily made a copy of the letter so I could study its contents—which gained greater pertinence when Ferrar was noticeably happy to seize Hamilton’s copy, even though it was a copy. Now you’ve told us Thurgood, too, was pleased to lay his hands on a copy. More, Thurgood came after you, and set the cultists on you in an all-out attempt to wring that copy from you—all after Ferrar was dead.”

Laying the letter on the table before him, Royce stated, “Clearly the threat of his family seal exposing Ferrar no longer applies.” He tapped the letter with the tip of one long finger. “And Thurgood is indeed mentioned, although how we could have guessed—”

Royce broke off. He stared at the letter. “Of course. If we’d shown a copy of the letter to Shrewton, asked him if he recognized anyone named in it, anyone who might have had reason to kill his son …” He looked at Clarice. “I take it Shrewton is aware of his by-blows’ identities?”

Clarice nodded. “He’s a tyrant, so I’d say that’s a certainty.”

“So if, as we suspect, Thurgood is Shrewton’s bastard, then Shrewton would have known to point the finger at Thurgood—”

“And given Roderick was his favorite child, his golden, boy,” Letitia said, “Shrewton would have done it—handed over his bastard son—too. Thurgood was right to fear that.”

Royce nodded. “Which is why he, at least, was so keen to seize every last copy.”

“But you already have a copy,” Linnet said.

“Yes, but the Black Cobra—whoever they are—doesn’t know that.” Royce flashed Linnet a brief smile. “I have three copies on their way to me—why would I ask one of my couriers to make yet another copy?”

Linnet smiled briefly back. “They didn’t allow for your thoroughness.”

Royce inclined his head. “However, the question we’re left with is this—are the remaining member or members of the group who controlled the Black Cobra cult mentioned in this letter, too?”

“Yes,” Delborough said. “They must be. One of them at least.”

Royce arched a brow. “I’m not disagreeing, but why so certain?”

“Because Thurgood was taking the letter to someone. He had to have met someone on the heath—why else would he stop? He was on a strong horse, he wasn’t shot—in fact, the way he was killed, given he was still in his saddle … he had to have approached his killer very closely.”

Royce blinked. “You’re right. I forgot about him being in the saddle. Whoever killed him …”

“They had to have embraced.” Charles met Royce’s eyes. “That’s the only way it could have been done.”

Royce nodded. “Perhaps in celebration—which, yes, given the letter wasn’t left on Thurgood’s body but taken, fits with the notion that at least one more person who commands the cult is named in this letter.”

“In Bedford, Thurgood didn’t exactly claim to be the Black Cobra,” Logan said. “He said he was the Black Cobra at that time, in that place—as if he was a representative with direct authority, but not the ultimate head.”

“So we’re looking for at least one more.” Royce read out the names mentioned, men and women both, then looked at Logan, Gareth, and Del. “Any ideas which one it might be?”

All three exchanged glances, then regretfully shook their heads. “We couldn’t even pick Thurgood out of that,” Gareth pointed out. “There’s five other men named, and no way of knowing which one might be Thurgood’s accomplice-turned-killer.”

“If I might point out,” Minerva said from the foot of the table, “in light of your inability, even if that person is named in the letter, then who is going to recognize their involvement enough to point the finger?” She caught her husband’s dark eyes, arched a brow. “Who do they fear? Or is Shrewton still the key? Is he the one the true Black Cobra fears you might show the letter to?”

“An excellent question.” Royce glanced around the table. “Any thoughts?”

Everyone considered, but when no one spoke, Jack Warnefleet said, “It’s a place to start. And Shrewton is close at hand.”

“Indeed.” Royce pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen—I believe we have a body to deliver.”

Royce took Charles, Gervase, and Gareth with him, deeming a duke and two earls, plus a major with direct knowledge of the Black Cobra’s villainy, sufficient to impress on Shrewton the gravity of their inquiries.

It was midafternoon when they reached the earl’s country house, Wymondham Hall, near Norwich. They’d been in the drawing room for less than five minutes when the door opened, and Shrewton’s eldest son, Viscount Kilworth, appeared.

“Your Grace.” Kilworth bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet heard back from those I queried regarding Roderick’s friends.”

Royce waved that aside. “Sadly, there’s been more violence, and another death. I have more questions to place, before your father, and there’s another body that I believe he’ll wish to see.”

Kilworth, a lanky gentleman with dark floppy hair and plain brown eyes, paled. “Another body?”

Royce merely asked, “The earl?”

Kilworth shook aside his shock. “Yes, of course. He’s in the library. I’ll …” He looked at Royce, nearly winced. “I expect you’ll want to come with me.”

Royce inclined his head and waved Kilworth on.

He led them to a large library with high shelves stocked with leather-bound tomes. A massive desk sat across one end. The man sitting behind it looked up as they entered—then scowled from under beetling gray brows.

Kilworth gestured. “His Grace wishes to speak with you, sir.”

Royce inwardly smiled a smile he would never let a sensitive soul like Kilworth see. The viscount had used Royce’s honorific as a reminder to his father to toe a civil line. For all his apparent ineffectual niceness, Kilworth was a sane and sensible man. There was steel of a sort beneath the softness.

When Royce halted, waited, the earl rose to his feet, stiffly inclined his head. “Wolverstone. What brings you back here, then? I’ve told you all I know—which was, and still is, nothing. This is a house in mourning. Can’t you leave us to our grief?”

“Would that I could, my lord. Sadly, however, matters beyond these walls continue to unfold. Matters in which your son, Roderick, was definitely involved, at least in the earlier stages.”

“He’s dead now.” The earl looked positively fretful, unable to keep his hands still. With an ungracious wave, he indicated chairs, managed to wait until Royce took his before collapsing back into the chair behind the desk. “Can’t you leave it be?”

Both tone and expression were querulous. If the death of a son could leach the father of life, of energy and purpose, Royce judged that had happened to Shrewton. The earl appeared, to be noticeably diminished in presence from only the day before.

“Before you ask.” Smoothly Royce introduced Charles, Gervase, and Gareth, giving each their full title, and waiting for Shrewton to acknowledge each of them. Then he sat back. “I’m here because there’s been another murder related to this business. I’ve brought another body I believe you’ll want to see.” Shrewton opened his mouth to bluster. Royce calmly continued before he could, “This man was a known associate of your son’s in Bombay. Has Roderick ever written to you of a friend by the name of Daniel Thurgood?”

“What?” The earl’s shock was writ plainly on his face. He looked staggered. “Thurgood?” Royce nodded. “Were you acquainted with Daniel Thurgood?”

The earl looked down at his blotter.

When his father said nothing, Kilworth, who had moved to stand behind and to the left of his father’s chair, cleared his throat. When Royce glanced at him, he rather carefully asked, “Are you saying that the dead body you’ve brought here today is that of Daniel Thurgood?”

Royce looked back at the earl. “Yes.”

Still the earl refused to look up.

The silence stretched.

Somewhat to Royce’s surprise, it was Kilworth who broke it. Looking down at his father, he asked, his tone even, “Are you going to tell them? Or shall I?”

The earl slowly shook his head from side to side. From what little Royce could see of his expression, his face had set in mulish lines—lines of denial. The earl grumbled, “The man was nothing to me.”

Kilworth sighed, straightened, and looked Royce in the eye. “Thurgood was my father’s natural son.”

Royce nodded. “So both Roderick and Daniel Thurgood were your father’s sons.” He made the comment a statement. While visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons was commonplace, enough, the reverse operated just as well. Just as damagingly.

Neither Kilworth nor the earl responded.

After a moment, Royce continued, “We gave the body we believe to be that of Daniel Thurgood into the keeping of your servants. They should have laid the body out by now. I would ask you to view it, now, in our presence, and confirm that it is indeed the body of your natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”

The earl glanced up briefly, met Royce’s eyes, then reluctantly nodded. “Very well.”

He rose and led the way out. Kilworth stood back and waved the others ahead of him, bringing up the rear as the earl led Royce to the old stone laundry. Roderick’s body, now shrouded and wrapped for burial, lay on one bench; in the dimness behind lay the body of Larkins, likewise prepared, but less expensively wrapped.

The earl’s steward had had Daniel Thurgood’s body laid out on the bench at right angles to Roderick’s. As per Royce’s instructions, the dagger had been left in place, and the small room well lit with multiple candelabra.

The earl stood alongside the bench looking down at a face that, Royce had to admit, looked more like the earl’s than even Roderick’s had. A moment ticked by, then the earl dragged in a not entirely steady breath. “Yes.” He nodded. “This is the body of my natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”

Standing a little back from the bench, Royce asked, “Have you any idea what it was your sons were engaged in in India?”

“No. I told you. I had no idea.”

“Have you any recollection of Roderick ever mentioning anyone he was particularly close to, here or in India, other than Thurgood?”

“He never mentioned Thurgood!” The earl’s lips compressed; his color heightened. “Damn it—I had no notion they even knew each other. And if I didn’t know that … clearly, I would know nothing else of consequence.”

“Do you have any other sons of whom I would be unaware?”

“No.” The earl waved at the two bodies. “My sons are dead.” He paused, then tipped his head toward Kilworth, standing a pace away on his other side. “Well, except for him, and I’ve never thought he’s mine.”

Kilworth rolled his eyes, but didn’t otherwise react to the implied insult; from what Minerva, Clarice, and Letitia had told him, Royce gathered it was an old refrain to which no one in the ton paid the slightest heed. What the earl meant was that Kilworth took after his mother in both looks and disposition, and therefore lacked the viciousness that otherwise ran in the family.

Ignoring the comment as beneath his notice, Royce drew out his copy of the letter. “Oblige me, if you will, and cast your eyes over this.” He held out the letter.

The earl hesitated, but curiosity won out and he took the sheet, angled it so the candlelight fell on the page. Kilworth shifted so he could read over his father’s shoulder.

Royce gave them a minute, then asked, “Is there any name you recognize? Anyone you know, or have heard Roderick mention as a friend?”

The earl continued to read. Royce watched his face harden as his eyes perused the lower paragraphs, those detailing the Black Cobra’s dealings with Govind Holkar.

When he reached the end, the earl drew a deep breath. The hand holding the letter shook, although from what emotion—fury, fear, or shock—Royce couldn’t tell. Then the earl met his eyes. “Is this what Roderick was doing?

Why he died?”

“Indirectly, yes. It was about the money, but even more about the power.”

The earl held out the letter, and he now looked truly ill. Not just shocked, but as if something inside him had broken.

Royce took the letter. “The names?”

Slowly, his gaze distant, the earl shook his head. “I didn’t recognize any of the men named.”

His eyes on his father’s face, Kilworth looked concerned.

Refolding the letter, Royce tucked it back into his pocket, nodded to the earl, then Kilworth. “Thank you. That’s all I need to know at this point.”

Turning, Royce led the way out. Grooms were walking their horses in the forecourt. They reclaimed them, mounted, and rode away, leaving the earl to bury his illegitimate, as well as his legitimate, son.

Eighteen

At Minerva’s suggestion, Linnet and Logan took advantage of the hours waiting for Royce and the others to return from Wymondham to refresh themselves and catch up on some sleep.

Retiring to the bedchamber she’d been assigned, Linnet discovered a steaming bath waiting, with a little maid laying out towels and scented soaps, and mentally blessed Minerva. “Thank you.” Her tone was so heartfelt the maid grinned. “I’m Ginger, ma’am.” The little maid bobbed. “Her Grace said as for sure you’d need this. Let me help you with that gown, and then I’ll unpack your bag, shall I?”

“Her Grace is a mind reader. If you’ll help with the laces, and then by all means unpack what there is—I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting the journey, so have had to borrow much of what’s there from Lady Penelope.”

“Never you mind, miss—we’re used to strange happenings in this household. Anything you need, just ask.”

Linnet hid a grin as Ginger bustled about, helping her off with her gown, then flitting about the room.

“Now you just settle in there—the hot water will do you good—and then you can rest.” Ginger flitted off to fetch Linnet’s bag from where it had been deposited by the door. “I take it our coach and driver—David—arrived in good, order?” Relaxing back against the tub’s edge, Linnet nearly groaned with pleasure. “Aye, ma’am. All’s well there.”

Linnet closed her eyes. Scented steam rose and wreathed around her. For the first time in more hours than she could count, it felt as if warmth was reaching her bones.

Ginger remained, but was quiet. The respite was just what Linnet needed. She roused herself eventually, and made good use of the soap and flannel. Ginger helped her wash her hair, roughly dry it, then wind it in one of the waiting towels. By the time the water had cooled, and Linnet reluctantly rose and stepped out, and toweled her body dry, she was warm and clean and truly relaxed.

“I’ll just leave the bath until later, miss.” Ginger waved at the bed, turned down and inviting. “You go on and have a nice little nap. His Grace isn’t expected back until nearly dinnertime, and Her Grace said as that’s to be at seven o’clock tonight, seeing as how you all had an early luncheon. Now”—Ginger paused for breath—”is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Ginger.” Linnet smiled. “I’ll ring if I need anything else.”

With a satisfied smile, Ginger bobbed and departed.

Swathed in a big bath sheet, Linnet tugged the damp towel from her head. Her hair tumbled down, a riot of curls. Walking to the hearth, she raked her fingers through the damp mass of hair, then bent and let the tresses cascade almost to the floor, letting them warm in the heat from the fire Ginger had, of course, restoked before she’d left.

A large, thick rug lay before the hearth. Linnet knelt on it, the better to dry her hair. The copper bathtub stood beyond the rug, its polished side reflecting the heat thrown out by the fire, warming the air above the rug even more.

The door cracked open. Straightening, Linnet peeked over the tub and saw Logan look in. He scanned the room, then spotted her. Coming inside, he closed the door, then walked across to her.

He was in breeches and shirt, and was rubbing his black hair with a towel. “My room’s next door.” He glanced around. “Yours is much bigger.”

“You’re a man.” Linnet’s lips twitched. “And I seriously doubt Minerva imagined you’d be sleeping in the bed in that room.”

Logan sighed and dropped down to sit on the rug beside her. “She’s just a little frightening, Wolverstone’s duchess.”

“I have sound evidence she’s a mind reader.”

Still rubbing his damp hair, Logan raised his brows. His midnight eyes danced. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She smiled, for one long moment, lost in his eyes, rejoiced that he and she were there, alive, scathed perhaps, but yet hale and whole.

That they’d reached the end of the journey, and now …

His expression changed. Setting aside the towel, he drew a deep breath. “Linnet—”

“No. Wait. I need to speak first.” Sitting on her ankles, she pushed back her hair, used the moment to gather her wits, her courage, her words. As he had, she drew in a breath, then lifted her chin and fixed her eyes on his. “You said you wanted to marry me—is that still the case?”

“Never more so.”

“Good. Because I want to marry you.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken, when, his face lighting with a joy she couldn’t mistake, he reached for her. She held him with her eyes, spoke with her heart. “I want to be your wife. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, by your side. I want you by my side. I want … all the things I never thought I could have—and I want those things with you.” She dragged in another breath, let it out on the words, “And I’m willing to do whatever I must to have them, and you.”

Before he could interrupt, she hurried on, “You know I didn’t believe before—not your commitment itself, but that it would prove sufficient to trump the problems I could see. I kept focusing on the practical difficulties. I didn’t, at that time, understand—appreciate—that love isn’t about such, things. That love takes no notice, makes no allowance, for such things. Such minor impediments. Love is”—with one hand, she gestured broadly—”all emotion. It’s need and want and desire.” She trapped his eyes. “It’s a hunger like no other, and once in love, there is no other choice but to own it and go forward.”

Shifting closer, she brought her hands to frame his face, looked deep into his midnight eyes. “I knew I’d fallen in love with you, but I didn’t realize, not until this morning in that little yard, all that loving you meant. If I underestimated your love for me, I barely saw my love for you—I had no appreciation of love’s strength and power. I didn’t realize that because I loved you, my heart had already made up its mind, given itself to you and would remain yours regardless of anything and everything. I didn’t realize that I am now, already, inextricably linked with you, no matter what I say or do—that you are, now, forever and always, all I want, all I need. All I will ever desire.”

The next breath she drew shook, yet buoyed by the hope, the understanding, the love shining in his eyes, she smiled mistily and went on, “So yes, Logan Monteith, I’ll marry you and gladly. I’m not yet sure how our lives will work, how we’ll deal with my practical difficulties, but I understand now that I have to trust in our love, put my hand in yours, and go forward together so we can find the answers.”

She searched his eyes, let her love color her own. “You’ll want to live in Scotland, and I accept that, but you’ll understand that I can’t leave Mon Coeur completely, not for all of the year. I’ll have to return for at least a few months—”

“Stop.” Logan grasped her hand, squeezed, then gentled his hold. He knew his expression had turned serious, sober—how could it not? She’d just offered to give up her life—her virgin queen’s crown—to be with him. To be his wife. “I …” He searched her green eyes. “You humble me with your courage. Stagger me with your love. I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you—but on Guernsey. At Mon Coeur.”

When she blinked, surprised, he let his lips twist. “I love you—beyond words. I need you more than I can say. And I don’t want to live in Scotland.”

“But …?” She looked thoroughly confused.

“My turn to explain.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, calm his heart, order his revelations. “From the beginning would be easiest, I suppose.”

One brown brow arched, faintly haughty, and he fleetingly grinned. He tugged her down so she sat on the hearth rug before him, so they were face-to-face.… He drew in a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m a bastard. Yes, I’m an earl’s son, and my mother was of good family, too, but I’m bastard-born, born out of wedlock, however you want to put it. I’m”—it suddenly struck him; his lips twisted—”just like Thurgood in that respect.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are not like Thurgood in any way. Regardless of your birth, you’ve lived a life that shows how little that distinction matters—and he did the opposite. He lived up to the worst possible expectations of his birth in every way.” She shifted closer. Looked into his eyes. “So?”

He searched the clear green eyes gazing up at him, then let his lids fall. Felt an incredible weight, an unvoiced fear, lift from his shoulders. Felt giddy with relief. Opening his eyes, he met hers. “You don’t care.”

She flung up her hands. “Of course I don’t care. You’re still you, aren’t you? The circumstances of your birth don’t matter. The kind of man you are does. And if I’ve learned anything over the past weeks, ever since you washed up in my cove, it’s what sort of man Logan Monteith is.”

He blew out a breath. “Well, that was the point of my campaign. Good to know it was successful.”

Her brows rose, haughty again. “You had a campaign?”

He grinned. “From the moment I decided I had to persuade you to have me as your consort. The virgin queen’s consort. That was the position I wanted, but before I declared myself—before I told you of my birth and formally offered for your hand—I wanted to show you what manner, of man I was so, when it came to this moment, you would know me so well that my birth wouldn’t matter.”

Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair, flaming like fire and glinting like gold in the flickering firelight. “I wanted to show you at least enough for you to get some idea of what I’d made myself into. I started life as the bastard son of the Earl of Kirkcowan. He acknowledged me from the first, sent me to school, to Hexham, then later bought me my commission in the Guards. Beyond that, however, I have nothing from him—I have no estate, no house. No home.”

He lifted his gaze to her eyes. “I fought for years in the Peninsula campaigns. Made friends like Del, Gareth, and Rafe, and later James, and the Cynsters. Then we five went to India. With the other four, aside from our pay as officers, we learned about trade, went into various ventures, and ended as nabobs. I’m wealthy, well able to afford a wife and family. Yet as I set sail for England, I knew I had no one—no family and no home—to come back to.

“Then I was washed up on Guernsey, and saved by an angel. And I found a family, and a home—one I wanted to be a part of. One I wanted to join.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face, looked into her eyes. “I never intended to ask you to leave—just to let me stay. To let me be your virgin queen’s consort. To live by your side and protect you and yours. I don’t even care if you’d rather we didn’t formally marry—if you feel that would make things difficult for you in the community, on Guernsey, with the shipping company. I don’t really care how—I just want to live the rest of my life with you.” His lips twitched. “I’ll even herd your donkeys.”

Her face didn’t just light up; her features glowed with transcendent joy. She laughed, an exuberant, glorious sound, then flung her arms about his shoulders and kissed him.

A kiss that lengthened, lingered, that unexpectedly didn’t lead to a frenzy of urgent need but slid smoothly, seamlessly, into a long exchange of hopes and wishes, of shared wants and needs.

Of love.

It was she who bore him back onto the rug. He let her, smiled and helped her divest him of his clothes, then she flung away her towel and rose up and took him in, and loved him.

He held her, supported her, marveled at the way the firelight gilded her curves, shadowed her hollows. Marveled that he was there, that she was with him, that they were alive and free and able to grasp this, the future they both wanted.

Passion was there, but it no longer possessed the giddy, urgent need of a newfound, newly birthed emotion. What bound them now had grown, matured into a river that was infinitely deeper, infinitely slower, and infinitely more powerful.

The desire it fed still caught them, its ultimate need still wracked them, but now, fingers linked, gazes locked, when ecstasy shattered them and flung them into the void, they were aware to their souls of their deep and abiding union.

The togetherness. The closeness.

The reality that linked two hearts and forged a unified soul.

Later, after, when she’d collapsed upon him, her hair a warm veil spread over them both as they lay boneless and gloried, waiting for their breathing to even, their pounding hearts to slow, he shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured, “I never understood my parents before—now I think I do.”

“Hmm.” She shifted her head, dropped a kiss on his chest.

“Tell.”

“They fell in love quite young. They wanted to marry—my mother was a Gordon, her birth as good as my father’s. But then my grandfather, the old earl, died, and my father inherited the title, and learned that the earldom was deep in debt. He suddenly had the responsibility for the welfare of countless people, including his younger siblings. He had to marry for money—there was no other way.” He was silent, for a moment, then went on, “When I was younger, I couldn’t understand that—couldn’t grasp how responsibility could force someone to give up something they truly wanted. Now, of course, I do.”

Held safe and warm within his arms, Linnet smiled. “Your middle name could be Responsibility. I daresay you get it from him.”

He humphed, then continued, “He tried to break with my mother, but she wouldn’t have it. She loved him, knew he loved her, and for her, that was enough—she didn’t care where she lived, that she would never be his wife, his countess. But she held his heart, and he held hers, and that, for her, was all. You’ve heard the phrase ‘counting the world well lost for love’—she lived it. Her family disowned her, cut her off completely, but I swear that to her deathbed she refused to care. If that was the price to be able to love my father, she paid it and gladly. She never looked back. My father bought her a house in Glenluce, and he visited often. I have no idea what his wife, his other family, thought—they never intruded, he saw to that. My mother and I never wanted for anything.”

“Except you didn’t have a father,” Linnet murmured.

“Yes, and no. In retrospect I can see that he was as good a father as circumstances allowed him to be. He spent what time he could with me—he didn’t try to pretend it was normal or even the way it should be, but he did what he could. He didn’t interfere when my uncle, one of my mother’s brothers, decided to break with the family line. Edward eventually came to live with us in Glenluce. He was a scholar and a gentleman, and he loved sailing. He was independently wealthy by then, so could thumb his nose at the family—he was something of a black sheep, too. He filled in what my father could not—he taught me to sail, and so much more.”

Moving his head, Logan brushed his lips to Linnet’s hair. “My mother died shortly after I finished at Hexham—a fever. Later, my father sat down with Edward and me and asked me what I wanted to do with my life. Edward and I had already discussed the army, so I asked for a commission in the Guards. My father agreed. I think he was … bothered that he couldn’t do more for me, but that was all I wanted, and although the earldom’s coffers had recovered somewhat, he was still not wealthy.

“I lost touch through the Peninusla campaigns. When I returned to London, I learned he’d died, and by then Edward had died, too.” He tightened his arms around Linnet. “So, you see, I no longer have any family to return to. But I want a family—I want to build one with you. Children …”

When he let the word trail away, a quiet question, she smiled and nipped his chest. “Yes, please. Lots.”

He shifted so he could look down into her face. “I thought maybe you’d decided your wards were enough.”

“No—they were my compensation.” She held his gaze. “I’ll still have wards, of course. I’ll keep the ones I already have, and, I warn you, more will come with the years. And they’ll still be like children in many ways to me, but they won’t be, can’t be, my own.”

She looked into his eyes, and felt reality—the reality of their joint future—burgeon, grow, and swell with color. “I just never thought I’d have a husband to make children with me.”

Reaching up, she traced a finger down his cheek, along his jaw. Arched a brow. “So you’ll come and live at Mon Coeur?”

“You won’t be able to keep me away.” His lips curved. “As long as you and the others will have me.”

“Oh, we’ll have you.” She spread the fingers of one hand and swept them across the width of his chest. “I’m sure we can find ways to put these broad shoulders and all these lovely muscles to good use.”

He laughed, caught her hand, shifted beneath her.

She slid to the side and sat up, pushed onto her knees. She gave him her hand, tugged him up as she said, “We’ll start with what we already have at Mon Coeur, and add to it. Build on it.”

Sitting up, he caught her other hand, with his eyes on hers, raised first one hand, then the other, to his lips. “Marry me, and we’ll make it ours—make it something more.”

Her hands clasping his, she looked into his eyes, smiled mistily. “Yes.”

He held her gaze. Softly stated, “You make me whole, complete, in a way I never imagined could be.”

Her heart lifted, soared. “You do the same for me.”

Alex sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the small manor house outside Needham Market that M’wallah and Creighton had found and commandeered. The family had, apparently, decamped for Christmas, leaving the house shut up, the furniture swathed in holland covers.

M’wallah and his helpers had been busy. The holland covers were all gone, and with evening closing in, a fire crackled cheerily in the grate.

Alex stared into the flames. The past already lay behind, done and gone if not yet buried. Ahead lay one last throw of the dice. The question was, did Alex need to play?

There were alternatives. Even if the last letter reached the puppetmaster, even if he, whoever he was, showed it to Shrewton, there was nothing to say that Shrewton, typical old tyrant that he was, would realize the part Alex had played. If Shrewton didn’t point his stubby digit at Alex … the way lay open to take all that was left of the cult and retreat to India, there to continue to amass wealth and power, albeit in more subtle and secretive vein.

Or, if not that, there was no reason not to stay in England, to take all the money that was left and fade into the background once more.

Alex’s lip curled. The thought of retreating once again into obscurity, becoming a nonentity, wasn’t to be borne.

No. The only true question was whether to make a bid for the fourth and final letter, or to let it—along with the associated risk of tangling more deeply with the unknown puppetmaster and his minions—slide past.

Yet that decision, too, hinged on whether Shrewton could be counted on to mentally dismiss Alex as he always had, and not think to link Alex with Roderick and Daniel in any meaningful way.

The odds, when it came to it, weren’t reassuring. Shrewton was a vindictive bastard who had just been dealt a major personal wound; he would be seeking to lay blame at someone’s door, to lash out.

So … no going back. No slipping away into the shadows, not yet.

At least with the cult’s reins in Alex’s hands alone, there was no need to pander to anyone else’s ego, and matters would proceed with greater efficiency, and commensurately greater succcess.

Despite the hurdles, the unavoidable sacrifices, three of the four letters had been destroyed. Seizing the last would eliminate any possible threat, leaving the way open to return to India and the rule of terror that delighted and satisfied on so many levels.

Alex’s lips curved. Decision made.

Stretching out one arm, Alex lifted a small brass bell and rang it. A second later, M’wallah appeared. A tall, lanky man of indeterminate age, with a walnut-colored face and long gray beard, he’d been Alex’s houseman for the last three years and had proved his devotion in every conceivable way.

“Fetch Saleem,” Alex ordered. “I wish to go through our preparations for welcoming Carstairs.”

M’wallah bowed low and disappeared without a word, reappearing minutes later with the captain of Alex’s guard. Saleem was a tall Pathan, and a frighteningly vicious man; he lived to inspire fear and terror—in Alex’s view, he thrived on those emotions, needed them like a drug.

Addicts were sometimes useful, especially when the addiction was coupled with rigid control.

Alex waved the pair to footstools arranged for the purpose of holding court, waited until they’d sat, waited a dramatic moment more, then commenced, “I have determined, that Carstairs—unlike the three who have gone before—will not be allowed to escape our vengeance. And in that, the other three passing safely through will work to our advantage. They will expect the captain to do the same … but he will not.”

With icy composure, Alex regarded M’wallah and Saleem. “He will not because, this time, it will be I who will marshal our troops and lead them in the field. I intend to play an active role in apprehending and torturing the captain.”

Both men nodded, murmured, “This is wise.”

Alex smiled coldly. “Indeed. So let us revisit what we have already put in place, and decide what more we need to do to ensure the good captain does not slip through our net.”

With rigid attention to detail, they reviewed the dispositions of cult members, confirming the numbers amassed on shore nearby, in specific locations Alex had earlier decreed, and, most importantly, confirming the number of vessels already commandeered and actively patroling the waters off the east coast.

“This time,” Alex concluded, “we will not wait for Carstairs to make landfall in England. We strike before, and strike hard, enough to knock him off-course. Then we follow and strike again. But once the captain lands in England, it will be me and my guards he will face—you, Saleem, will lead the elite. We will not rely as we have in recent times on the lower orders of the cult—they are not sufficiently effective in this land.”

Both men inclined their heads in acquiescence; both pairs of eyes gleamed with fanatical expectation.

“The Black Cobra will be in the field tomorrow.” Alex’s tone was pure ice. “And we all know the Black Cobra is deadly.”

Both M’wallah and Saleem smiled in clear, malevolent anticipation. Neither had appreciated being held back, restrained by the more reserved role Alex had chosen to play in England. Now, however, they were about to be unleashed, and they couldn’t wait to taste blood again.

With a wave, Alex dismissed them.

Rising fluidly, then bowing low, the pair backed from the room.

Leaving Alex alone.

Entirely alone, yet being alone had its advantages.

Dwelling on all that would be gained—imagining Carstairs, and through him the elusive puppetmaster, being served their comeuppance—Alex purposely wove violent, vindictive anticipation into a cloak to keep the chill of the night at bay.

Royce sat at the head of his dining table, extended to accommodate the Cynsters, all six cousins and their wives, Gyles Chillingworth and his wife, as well as all those who had already been sleeping under Royce’s roof. The Cynsters and Chillingworths had arrived en masse, possibly—Royce wasn’t certain—invited by Minerva, at a time when their staying to dine was a foregone conclusion.

Certainly Honoria, Devil’s duchess, had marched into the drawing room, touched cheeks with Minerva, then sat and demanded to be fully briefed on all that was going on.

It wasn’t that Royce minded the company—indeed he valued the men’s support, both physical and mental—but having so many independently minded, strong-willed females all together in one place, a place not that far from real and present danger, was making him edgy.

And not just him.

Still, it seemed that this was one of those crosses that had to be borne in the interests of matrimonial harmony. Over recent years, he’d grown a lot better at simply accepting what had to be.

Of his combined troops, only Christian Allardyce and Jack Hendon, already on the coast waiting for Carstairs to land, and Rafe Carstairs himself, were absent. Royce suspected the three were very much in the minds of many about the table.

Devil, seated at Minerva’s right at the far end, leaned forward, to say, “It doesn’t make sense that the last person—whoever is what’s left of the Black Cobra—isn’t named in that letter.”

“I also find it hard to believe,” Gabriel Cynster put in from midway down the board, “that Shrewton doesn’t know who that person is.”

“Actually,” Gyles Chillingworth said, “that I can believe. However, I do agree that Shrewton could, just as I’m sure we could, find the answer—learn who that other person was—if we had time.”

“Sadly, we don’t have time,” Lucifer Cynster bluntly observed.

Around and around the discussion went.

Royce, Charles, Gervase, and Gareth had reported on their visit to Wymondham Hall. The result had been discussed and picked over, their suppositions reshaped, re-formed, rephrased, yet they constantly came back to the same point, the one inescapable conclusion.

Del returned to it. “Regardless of all else, the one thing that’s certain is that there is someone else out there, and we don’t know who he is.”

“More,” Royce said, reclaiming control, “Carstairs is heading in. He’s expected to reach our shores tomorrow.” It was the first time he’d stated that—that their time frame was that tight. The meal was long over. He pushed back his chair. “I suggest we repair to the drawing room, put our heads together, and string as comprehensive a net as we can across the area.”

Everyone rose with alacrity, and followed Minerva back to the drawing room. When they were all settled, the ladies on the chaises and chairs, the men lounging against walls or furniture, some with hip propped against the back of their lady’s chair, from his customary position before the hearth, Royce scanned their faces. “Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce are already in place—Jack, I understand, is haunting the harbor itself, while Christian is patrolling the town. As soon as Carstairs lands, they’re primed to whisk, him away into hiding, then send word here. This will almost certainly be our last chance to catch the Black Cobra committing any criminal act on English soil.”

“And if we don’t catch him?” The haughty question came from Minerva, sitting in her usual chair to Royce’s right.

He smiled down at her. “If we don’t, then we pursue him by other means.” He looked at the others. “But I won’t disguise the fact that such a pursuit will be more difficult, and a lot less assured of success. Aside from all else, as Gyles pointed out, identifying the remaining villain or villains is going to take time, and they’re not going to wait in England while we do it.”

“So putting everything we can behind capturing our remaining villain—the Black Cobra’s ultimate head—is our preferred option, our best way forward.” Devil arched his brows at Royce.

As Royce nodded decisively, Logan asked, “Which port is Rafe heading for?”

Royce met his eyes. “Felixstowe.”

Logan was asleep, his arm around Linnet, when an unexpected sound dragged him from slumber.

The sound was distant, yet … he lifted his head the better to hear.

Linnet stirred, then stilled—listening, too.

The sound resolved into thudding hoofbeats. As the seconds passed, it became clear the rider was heading for the house.

Logan pushed back the covers.

“That can’t be good,” Linnet muttered, and slipped from the bed. Grabbing the coverlet, she wrapped it around her nightgown.

Buttoning his breeches, Logan stepped into his boots, roughly tugged them on, snagged his shirt from the chair as he went past. His face was grim as, shrugging on the shirt, he opened the door.

Linnet followed him into the corridor. Other doors were, opening, both gentlemen and ladies venturing out in various states of undress.

No one asked what was happening, or who it was. Grimfaced, they all headed for the main stairs.

No one imagined it was good news.

They halted on the stairs and in the gallery above, all looking down into the front hall. Candles were burning on the central table. As they watched, Minerva lit a lamp. Royce was already at the door, tugging the bolts back.

Hamilton, Royce’s personal butler, arrived in his butler’s black just in time to swing the door wide.

They all saw the rider, exhausted and worn, trudging up the front steps.

Royce spoke with him, voice too low for any of them to hear, then he drew the man inside, Hamilton closed and bolted the door, and Royce consigned the drooping rider into his care.

Everyone saw the letter Royce held in his left hand. Minerva joined him, holding the lamp high as Royce raised the missive, broke its seal, unfolded the sheet.

Read.

They all held their breath. Waited.

Only Minerva was close enough to see her husband’s face. She laid a hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”

Royce looked at her, then up at all of them. A moment passed, then he said, “Carstairs has disappeared. He failed to meet his guards at Felixstowe, but two others of his party—his man and some lady’s maid—made it to the rendezvous. As matters now stand, no one knows where Carstairs, and the young English lady apparently traveling with him, are.”

Silence stretched.

Eventually, Charles broke it, putting their collective thoughts into words. “Carstairs is out there somewhere, and we still don’t know who the Black Cobra is.”

Look for the next installment in

The Black Cobra Quarter

The Reckless Bride

Coming November 2010

From

AVON BOOKS

Turn the page for an excerpt from

The Reckless Bride

November 24, 1822
Danube Embankment, Buda

Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days hence, in his pocket.

He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.

Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly European-style winter coat he now wore. “The last two tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger, and the boat’s too small for them to stow away or join the crew at the last minute.”

Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of his friend without his headdress.

They’d reached Buda two nights before. The first thing they’d done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for European garb. Throughout their journey they’d constantly changed clothes to better blend in with the natives. Now, in the wellcut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck, with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and Prussian, merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan’s hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots, fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads had turned as they passed; no one paid them any heed.

The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair, he especially would have had difficulty passing unnoticed through Italy and France.

The second place they’d visited yesterday had been a gunsmith’s. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and shot. The cultists’ one true weakness was a superstitious fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.

They still wore their swords and bore the knives they’d feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over, pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their weapons.

Rafe had also found a cartographer’s studio; he’d bought the best maps available of the areas through which they planned to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon studying their prospective route, then had sought information from the innkeeper and patrons of the inn’s bar on which shipping company to approach.

Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the street. “Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will likely not think of it.”

Rafe nodded. “At least not immediately.” In India, rivers were not much used for long-distance travel, not like the Danube and Rhine. And as the majority of cultists couldn’t swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels and inns on land. “According to the shipping clerk, our journey, via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a day to spare—no need to schedule any other halts to align us with Wolverstone’s timetable.”

“We have seen no cultists here yet,” Hassan said. “None around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east.”

Following Hassan’s gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft large and small, then lifting his eyes to the stone bridge linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the opposite bank, Rafe murmured, “If they had cultists in Constanta, there’ll be cultists here. We need to remain on guard.”

He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in beside him. They headed toward the small inn where they’d taken rooms.

“The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major town along the highways,” Rafe said. “Here, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the rivers, we’ll avoid most of those. On our first leg along the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can’t avoid, but for the rest it’s as we thought—the river towns are smaller, and most lie away from the major highways.” That had been the reason they’d decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”

They’d reached an intersection where a narrow, cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.

“No! “

The shrill female protest had them halting and looking up the street.

In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.

There was no one else in the street.

Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the woman’s next cry.

Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly protesting, she fought to beat them off, didn’t notice them approaching until Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.

A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.

Rafe turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”

He’d spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her aging, yet delicately boned face. She was old enough to be his grandmother.

Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.

The lady—Rafe might have been away from society for more than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine, the head rising high, the haughty features—considered him, then said in perfect upper-class English, “Thank you, dear boy. I’m a trifle rattled, but if you’ll help me to that bench there, I daresay, I’ll be right as rain in two minutes.”

Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to understanding her.

Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his arm. “Your accent’s straight from Eton, dear boy. And you look vaguely familiar, too—no doubt I’ll place you in a few minutes. Now give me your arm.”

Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops, equally incensed.

“They’re recovering,” Hassan said.

Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to their feet.

The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.

The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.

“Do you want us to catch them?” one of the locals asked.

The lady waved. “No, no—they were doubtless some layabouts who thought to seize some coins from a defenseless old woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I really do not have time to become entangled with the authorities here.”

Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he needed, too.

He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred, but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously accepted—in German that was significantly more fluent and colloquial than Rafe’s.

When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their businesses, Rafe met the lady’s gray eyes—eyes decidedly too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Rafe Carstairs, ma’am.” He would have preferred to decamp—to run away from any lady who called him “dear boy”—but ingrained manners forced him to ask, “Are you staying nearby?”

The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. “Lady Congreve. I believe I know your parents, Viscount and Viscountess Henley. I’m putting up at the Imperial Hotel, just along from the top of this street.”

Suppressing a grimace—of course she would know his parents—Rafe bowed over her hand, and with the other gestured to Hassan. “We’ll escort you back once you’re ready.”

Lady Congreve’s smile widened. “Thank you, dear boy. I’m feeling quite recovered already, but”—she gripped his hand and Rafe helped her to her feet—”before I return to the hotel, I must complete the errand that brought me this way. I have to collect tickets from an office on the embankment.”

Rafe gave her his arm and they turned down the street. “Which company?”

“The Excelsior Shipping Company.” Lady Congreve gestured with her cane. “I believe they’re just around the corner.”

Half an hour later, Rafe and Hassan found themselves taking tea in the premier suite of the Imperial Hotel in the fashionable castle quarter of Buda. Lady Congreve had insisted. Rafe had discovered that his grande dame-avoiding skills were rusty. There hadn’t seemed any way to refuse the invitation without giving offense, and as he’d learned to his horror that Lady Congreve and her party were among the passengers due to depart on the Uray Princep the following morning, trying to avoid closer acquaintance seemed pointless.

He had to admit the array of cakes that arrived on the tea tray were the best he’d tasted in a decade.

“So you and Mr. Hassan were with the army in India.” Lady Congreve settled back on the chaise and regarded him. “Did you ever meet Enslow?”

“Hastings’s aide?” Rafe nodded. “Poor chap’s usually run ragged. Hastings has a finger in so many pies.”

“So I’ve heard. So you were based in Calcutta?”

“For the most part. In the months before I resigned and departed, a group of us were operating out of Bombay.” Rafe understood she was checking his bona fides, but he wasn’t sure why.

“So you’ve been soldiering for all these years, and have been a captain for how long?”

“Since before Toulouse.”

“And you fought at Waterloo?”

He nodded. “I was part of a compound troop—part experienced regulars, part ton volunteers. Heavy cavalry.”

“Who of the ton fought alongside you?”

“Mostly Cynsters—the six cousins—plus a smattering of other houses. Two Nevilles, a Percy, and one Farquar.”

“Ah, yes, I remember hearing about the exploits of that troop. And now you’ve resigned and are heading back to England?”

Rafe shrugged. “It was time.”

“Excellent!” Lady Congreve beamed.

Every instinct Rafe possessed went on high alert.

“It seems, sir, almost as if fate has sent you to me.” Lady Congreve glanced at Hassan, including him in the comment. “I wonder if I might impose upon you—you and Mr. Hassan—to act as my party’s courier-guide and guard? We left Paris with an experienced guide but sadly had to part with him in Trieste. Knowing we would be traveling on by riverboat once we reached here, I didn’t see any point in securing a replacement, but today’s events have demonstrated my error. It simply isn’t safe for ladies to walk these foreign streets unprotected.” Lady Congreve held Rafe’s gaze. “And as you are going the same way and, indeed, have already secured passage on the same boat, I do hope you can see your way to joining my party.”

By sheer force of will, Rafe managed to keep all reaction from his face.

When he didn’t immediately reply, Lady Congreve continued, “Our meeting does seem fortuitous, especially as you’ve taken the last tickets on the boat, so even if I could find any men as suitable, I wouldn’t be able to secure passage for them.”

Rafe inwardly cursed the clerk at the shipping office, who, of course, had recognized him and commented. Racking his brains for the right form of words with which to decline, aware of Hassan looking at him, waiting for him to get them out of this trap, Rafe opened his mouth … then shut it.

He and Hassan needed some reason that would explain their traveling on the river, some purpose that would make people accept their presence and not look too closely.

“And of course,” Lady Congreve went on, “I’m sure your parents will be pleased to know you’ve been able to extend me this small service. I will, of course, take care of all the, expenses involved and reimburse you for the tickets you’ve already purchased.”

Rafe recognized that she’d rolled out her heavy guns—his parents, no less. His gaze abstracted, distracted by a prospect he was still trying to define, he waved her last words aside. “No need for recompense. If we do as you ask …”

Refocusing on Lady Congreve, he wondered at the wisdom—and the morality—of involving her, however much at arms’ length, in his mission. The cultists throughout Europe would be watching for him and Hassan. As a pair of men traveling together, they were easy to spot—both over six feet tall, one distinctly fair, the other distinctly dark, both with military bearing.

But the cultists would, most likely, not look closely at two men traveling as part of a larger party.

Rafe glanced briefly at Hassan. “It might be possible for us to act as your guide and guard. We’ll be on the same boat regardless, and as you say, you won’t be able to add more passengers to the list.…”

Lady Congreve was clever enough to keep her lips shut and watch him vacillate.

Rafe remembered James MacFarlane’s body.

Remembered the scroll-holder he now carried strapped to his side.

Remembered that the closer he drew to England, the more cultists they would need to slip past.

And Lady Congreve was the sort of lady who, if she knew the details, would wholeheartedly support his mission.

He focused on her face. Should he tell her of his mission?

He opened his mouth, the revelation on his tongue, then remembered the other tickets she’d picked up. “Who else is traveling with you? You have four tickets.”

“As well as myself, there’s my maid, Gibson, who’ve you’ve met.”

The maid had been waiting in the suite and had taken her mistress’s coat and cane, then gone to order the tea. Rafe judged it likely Gibson, a woman of mature years, had served Lady Congreve for decades; there was an unspoken degree of empathy and loyalty between maid and mistress that suggested Gibson would fully support any decision her mistress made. No threat to his mission there. “And the other two tickets?”

“Another lady and her maid.” Lady Congreve tilted her head, regarding him curiously. “They would be included among the people you would guide and guard, if that makes any difference.”

Rafe knew ladies of her ladydship’s generation often traveled in pairs, providing company for each other on the journey, someone to share the sights with, to converse with of an evening. He imagined that any lady Lady Congreve chose to travel with would be much like her. Which meant there was really no reason he shouldn’t explain his mission, and, if subsequently, Lady Congreve stood by her offer of making them her courier-guide and guard, accept.

He drew a breath and met Lady Congreve’s gray eyes. “I’m inclined to accept your offer, ma’am, but first I must tell you what has brought Hassan and me this way.” He glanced at Hassan, who had raised his brows a fraction, but didn’t seem disapproving, then looked back at her ladyship. “If once you’ve heard our story you still wish us to take up the positions of your courier-guide and guard, then I believe we can accommodate you.”

Lady Congreve’s smile was triumphant. “Excellent! Now what’s this secret—?”

She broke off as the knob on the corridor door turned. An instant later, the door opened and a vision in a vibrant dark blue pelisse and a fur hat with a jaunty feather perched atop swirls of lustrous dark hair swept in.

“Esme—” The vision broke off, stared at Rafe, then glanced at Hassan. But her gaze returned to Rafe as he came to his feet, and she simply stared.

He stared back. He was only vaguely aware of another female—presumably the other maid—slipping into the room and closing the door; his entire attention, all his senses, had fixed, unswervingly, on the lady in blue.

The young lady in blue.

She was tallish, slender, and intensely feminine; an aura of suppressed—or was it controlled?—vibrancy all but charged the air around her. Her eyes, large and just faintly tip-tilted, were of an arresting shade of periwinkle blue made only more striking by her royal blue pelisse. Her curves were sleek, yet definite. He’d heard women with such figures likened to Greek or Roman deities; he now understood why. She was Athena, Diana, Persephone, Artemis—she seemed to be those constructs given life, just with sable hair and blue, blue eyes.

He felt as if he’d taken a clout to the head. Just as in battles when he was staring down Death, time stood still.

It took effort to restart his mind, to return to the real world.

To the here and now.

“Esme” she’d said, and meant Lady Congreve. She was the other lady, Lady Congreve’s traveling companion. A young lady her ladyship had taken under her wing.

The goddess had halted at the back of the chaise on which her ladyship sat. Lady Congreve raised a hand and gracefully waved. “Allow me to present Miss Loretta Michelmarsh, my great-niece. The Honorable Mr. Rafe Carstairs and his companion, Mr. Hassan.”

Rafe inclined his head. Stiffly. The goddess was a relative; that made matters worse.

Miss Michelmarsh, her gaze still locked on him, her expression oddly blank, bestowed the barest bob that would pass for civility.

“You’re just in time, Loretta dear, to hear the latest news.” Lady Congreve twisted around to smile at her great-niece. “Mr. Carstairs and Mr. Hassan saved me from two attackers in the street near the shipping office, and at my request, they’ve agreed to fill the positions of our courier-guide and guard.”

Rafe now understood the reason behind Lady Congreve’s triumphant expression and realized the trap he’d fallen into was of quite a different nature than he’d foreseen. He’d forgotten, the principal entertainment grandes dames such as Lady Congreve delighted in: matchmaking, preferably with those of their acquaintance.

Her ladyship knew his parents. She knew her great-niece. But he’d be damned if he’d allow her to matchmake him—even with a vision that brought to mind a pantheon of goddesses.

Aside from all else … dragging in a deeper breath, he forced his gaze from its distraction, and looked down at her ladyship, who was clearly waiting to gauge his response. “Lady Congreve, I regret it will not be possible for me and Hassan to act as courier-guide and guard for you during your upcoming journey.”

Lady Congreve regarded him, a frown forming in her eyes. “I understood, dear boy, that you had already agreed to fill the positions subject to informing me of the reason behind your current journey and my confirmation of the appointments subsequent to that.” She opened her eyes wide. “What on earth happened in the space of just a moment to change your mind?”

She knew. Rafe held her gaze, felt his jaw firm. “Regardless, my lady, on further consideration it will be impossible for me and Hassan to join your party.”

Lady Congreve’s eyes narrowed on him, something her niece couldn’t see. “Surely you aren’t reneging on our agreement because of Loretta?”

Yes, he was. While he’d entertained the possibility of joining forces with Lady Congreve, a lady in the latter years of her life and, he judged, with significant life experience, had been prepared to court the risk that through him she might be exposed to the Black Cobra’s minions, he would not, could not, even in his most reckless mood, countenance putting a young lady like Loretta Michelmarsh in any danger whatever.

He held Lady Congreve’s gaze. “There’s a certain degree of risk involved in being associated with me and Hassan, and while I would have considered, should you have been, agreeable once you were fully informed of that risk, accepting the positions you offered in your train, it would be unconscionable of me to continue with that arrangement while you have a young lady such as Miss Michelmarsh traveling with you.”

Loretta frowned. What was going on? Her first thought on sighting the tall, blond-haired man, clearly a military man—she could tell by his stance, the way he held his broad shoulders—was a simple, albeit dazed: Who was he?

Her mind had stalled at that point, her senses scrambling to fill in details, none of them pertinent to answering that question.

How bright the golden streaks in his sandy blond hair, how unexpectedly soft his eyes of summer blue, how absurdly long his brown lashes seemed, how deliciously evocative the subtle curve of his distinctly masculine lips, how square his jaw, how imposingly tall, how strong and powerful his long body seemed to be … all those observations flashed through her mind, and none helped in the least.

She’d felt adrift, her gaze locked on him, her senses … somewhere else. All thought had suspended and had remained beyond her reach, until he’d spoken.

His deep voice, its timbre, the reverberation that seemed to slide down her spine and resonate within her, shook her—enough to shock her out of her mesmerized state.

Bad enough. But apparently Esme had invited him and his friend to act as their courier-guide and guard.

Her immediate thought—the first rational one after her wits had returned to her—was that Carstairs and his friend were charlatans out to rob Esme … but then he’d refused the position.

Because of her. Why?

She listened as Esme artfully twisted Carstairs’s words, then invoked his honor as an officer and a gentleman, intent on browbeating him into acquiescing to being their courier-guide, apparently all the way back to England. She could have told Carstairs that he didn’t stand a chance of wriggling, out of Esme’s talons, but … the notion of having him squiring her around in the guise of their courier-guide filled her with an odd mix of anticipation and trepidation.

If just the sight of him could make her temporarily lose her grip on her wits, what would prolonged exposure—and closer exposure at that—do?

She couldn’t afford to be distracted, especially not now. She needed to get another vignette off to her agent tomorrow; her editor was waiting on it, holding column space for it.

Over the past six years she’d steadily developed a following with her little pieces published in the London Enquirer, three or four paragraphs of philosophical social commentary, a mix of observation and political satire, all delivered with a highly sharpened pen. The public had taken to her writings, but her abrupt departure from England had put paid to that endeavor; she couldn’t observe London society from abroad. But then she’d had the notion to continue in similar vein with her Window on Europe vignettes, and her public had happily followed her through her brief sojourns in France, Spain, and Italy.

She’d known Esme would halt at Trieste, so had warned her agent, and a letter from her editor had been waiting for her there. Apparently the publisher of the Enquirer was an admirer of her work, and the paper was eager to publish whatever she could send them.

Her agent had also written informing her of the sizeable increase in stipend the publisher was providing for each witty installment.

She’d thought her departure with Esme would spell the end of her secret writing career; instead, it had brought her work more forcefully to the attention of both her publisher and his readers.

Her secret endeavor had taken a highly encouraging turn, but close acquaintance with Rafe Carstairs might well endanger that—in more ways than he imagined.

Yet she couldn’t help but be curious over what, exactly, it was that he seemed so set on keeping away from her.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, taking advantage of a temporary silence, “Mr. Carstairs might explain what this unprecedented danger inherent on being associated with him and Mr. Hassan is?”

Carstairs, who she had to admit was giving Esme a run for her money in the stubborn stakes, and was presently furnishing every indication of being as immovable as a monolith, lifted his sky blue eyes to her. He studied her for a fraught moment, then looked down at Esme. “There is no point continuing this discussion. We cannot—”

“Captain.”

The quiet word came from Hassan, who had retreated to stand by the window; turning, Rafe saw him looking outside.

Glancing up from whatever he’d seen, Hassan met his eyes. “Before you make any decision you should consider this.”

Rafe inclined his head to Esme and her great-niece. “A moment, if you would.”

He crossed to Hassan. Halting alongside, Rafe looked down through the lace curtains to the street below.

To where two Black Cobra cultists were ambling along, looking this way and that.

“They are looking, watching, not searching specifically,” Hassan observed.

“Which means they don’t yet know we’re here.”

“True, but …” Hassan waited until Rafe raised his gaze to his before continuing, “what will happen if they learn we have been here, not just in Buda but here in this room, speaking with these ladies?”

Rafe’s heart sank.

“The cult will not have forgotten that it was an English lady, Miss Ensworth, who brought you and the others the Cobra’s letter. Even if we part from the ladies now, that will not save them—the cultists will reason that they have to be stopped and they and their baggage searched, just in case.”

“Damn!” Rafe all but ground his teeth. After a moment, he murmured, “We shouldn’t go on with them and expose them to danger, but not being their guards might be even more dangerous for them.”

“So I think.”

Rafe sighed and turned—and discovered Lady Congreve just behind him. She’d been peering around his shoulder.

Raising her eyes to his face, she arched her brows. “I think, dear boy, that you had better tell us all.” Swinging around, she led the way back to the chairs. “And as we are, apparently, to be traveling companions all the way to England, you may call me Esme.”

Elegantly sitting, beckoning her great-niece to sit alongside her, she lifted openly curious eyes to his face.

Rafe stifled a groan, but accepting the inevitable, walked to the chair he’d earlier occupied. Once Loretta Michelmarsh sat, he sat, too.

Drawing in a long breath, he started at the beginning. “Several years ago, a man—an English gentleman of noble family—went out to India and, exploiting his position in the Governor of Bombay’s office, devised and created a native cult. The cult of the Black Cobra.”

He had them call in their maids, then related the story in its most abbreviated version, alluding only where necessary and in general terms to the atrocities committed by the cult; those he deemed too ghastly to be described in polite company.

By the time he finished, the sky outside was darkening and evening was closing in.

Esme had listened intently, putting shrewd questions here and there. She hadn’t been all that surprised to learn that the man Rafe and his friends were working to expose as the Black Cobra was Roderick Ferrar, the Earl of Shrewton’s younger son.

Esme’s lips had tightened, her features growing severe. “I never did like that boy—or his father, come to that. Vicious blackguards, the Shrewtons, except for the heir, Kilworth. He’s altogether a different sort.”

Rafe took her word for that. All he cared about was bringing Roderick Ferrar to justice.

“So let me see if I have this correct.” Somewhat to Rafe’s surprise, Loretta Michelmarsh had seemed as fascinated with his mission as her great-aunt. “You are one of four … for want of a better term, couriers, who left Bombay on the same day, all heading for England by different routes. All four are carrying identical scroll-holders, but only one contains the original letter—and that original letter must reach the Duke of Wolverstone in order for the Black Cobra to be stopped.”

When she paused and opened her blue eyes wide at him, he nodded. “In a nutshell, that’s it.”

“So which do you have—one of the decoys or the vital original?”

Rafe shook his head. “The four of us decided that information shouldn’t be revealed to anyone, not even shared among us.”

“In case this fiend of a snake seizes one of you and tries to coerce the information from them in order to concentrate solely on the one who carries the original?” Esme nodded. “Excellent idea. Don’t tell us. We don’t need to know that you’re carrying the original.”

Expression blank, Rafe stared at her, but Esme only smiled.

“The Duke of Wolverstone.” Loretta glanced at Esme. “He’s something of a secret war hero, isn’t he? A spymaster or some such?”

“At one time. He retired some years ago, then assumed the title, but I seriously doubt he’ll have lost his lauded skills.” Esme met Rafe’s eyes. “If you’re working for Royce, Dalziel—Wolverstone—whatever name he goes by these days, then as loyal Englishwomen it clearly behooves us to do whatever we can to aid your quest.”

Rafe inwardly blinked. If he’d known Wolverstone’s name would have such an effect, he’d have used it sooner.

“Regardless, however, now that we know about your mission and have been seen with you by people the serpent’s, minions might question, then there’s clearly no option other than to join forces.” Esme smiled with satisfaction. “So no more muttering—you, dear boy, henceforth will be our courier-guide and Hassan will be our guard.”

Esme glanced at Loretta, then looked back at Rafe. “Which makes us your charges.” Her smile was triumph incarnate.

Lips thin, Rafe nodded, then with a glance at Loretta, added, “Until we reach England.”

The Reckless Bride

STEPHANIE
LAURENS

The
Reckless
Bride
THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd.
Maps by Paul J. Pugliese
ISBN 978-0-06-179519-0

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Reckless Bride

She tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs had constricted. By sheer force of will she kept her feet moving and managed to climb the steps into the carriage. He released her hand and her senses snapped back into focus.

A second later, the carriage tipped as Carstairs climbed in. He hesitated, then sat alongside her, leaving the place beside Rose for Hassan.

Carstairs’s shoulder brushed hers as he settled.

She couldn’t breathe again. Worse, her wits had scattered. As for her senses, they were flickering and flaring, not in alarm but in a most peculiar way.

Fixing her gaze forward, she forced her lungs to work. It was preferable that Carstairs sat beside her rather than opposite; at least she didn’t have him constantly before her. Bad enough that she could somehow feel him alongside her; his warmth, his solidly muscled strength, impinged on her consciousness as if every nerve she possessed had come alive and locked on him.

She was irritated and utterly mortified.

Prologue

September 15, 1822
North of Bombay, India

The incessant tattoo of his horse’s hooves thundered through his skull. Rafe Carstairs, erstwhile captain in the British Army serving with the Honorable East India Company under the direct command of the Governor-General of India, glanced over his shoulder back along the trail, then urged his mount up the first in a series of low hills that spread across their path.

Riding alongside him, Hassan, his man, more companion than batman, kept pace. The long, lanky, frighteningly fierce Pathan warrior had fought at Rafe’s side for the past five years; without hesitation, he’d accepted Rafe’s invitation to join him in this dangerous flight across half the world.

Rafe’s mission was simple. Ferry the original of a damning letter—evidence enough to hang the Englishman who had spawned and now controlled the Black Cobra cult and who, through the cult’s vicious tyranny, was draining the life from too many Indian villages—back to England and into the hands of a man powerful enough to bring the Black Cobra down.

Simultaneously, Rafe’s three closest friends and colleagues, Colonel Derek Delborough, Major Gareth Hamilton, and Major Logan Monteith, were also heading for England via separate routes carrying inadmissible copies of the vital evidence—decoys to distract the Black Cobra from the one man who had to get through.

Rafe.

Like Rafe, Hassan had seen too much of the Black Cobra’s villany not to seize the chance they now had to bring the fiend to justice.

Drawing rein on the crest of the hill, Rafe wheeled his mount and, through narrowed eyes, searched the wide, flat plain they’d crossed through the morning.

Hassan looked, too. “No pursuers.”

Rafe nodded. “It’s too dusty down there to miss racing horses.” Nerves that had been taut since they’d left Bombay the day before eased a fraction.

“Leaving immediately after your meeting with the other three was wise.” Hassan wheeled his mount and walked on.

Rafe followed suit, then they nudged their horses back into a canter, heading nor’northwest. “If they didn’t pick up our trail yesterday, soon after we left Bombay, it’ll be difficult for them to guess our route.”

“They will expect you to go by water—they will look to the harbor and ships. Even if they think to look inland, there will be no one to point a finger this way. We are just two tribal warriors, after all.”

Rafe grinned and glanced at Hassan, unremarkable in his tribal robes. Rafe was similarly garbed. With his more European build swathed in loose fabric, his blond hair hidden beneath the headdress and attached scarves, and with all visible skin well tanned by years of campaigning, only his blue eyes gave him away.

And one had to get close to see the color of his eyes.

He looked ahead. “Given the cult aren’t hot on our heels, it’s possible we’ll have an uneventful journey, at least until we near the Channel. I just hope the others got away as cleanly.”

Hassan grunted. They picked up the pace and rode on, the rich lands of the Rajputana their immediate goal, with the more dangerous, desolate reaches of the Afghan Supremacy beyond. There was a lot of Asia Minor to be crossed before they reached Europe, let alone the English Channel. They had a long journey before them, and a schedule to meet.

Rafe still felt a sense of deep satisfaction that he’d been the one to draw the scroll-holder containing the original document from the four identical scroll-holders; the other three had contained the decoy missions. His friend and colleague Captain James MacFarlane had given his life to secure the incriminating letter. Rafe had seen James’s body, twisted and tortured by the Black Cobra’s minions. To his soul, Rafe thirsted for vengeance.

The only acceptable vengeance was to ensure the Black Cobra hanged.

Rafe tapped his heels to his mount’s sides. “Onward. With luck and St. George, we’ll win through.”

They would, or Rafe would die trying.

September 18, 1822
The Michelmarsh Residence
Connaught Square, London

“I deeply regret being so disobliging, but I simply cannot accept Lord Eggles’s offer.” Loretta Violet Mary Michelmarsh surveyed her siblings and their spouses disposed on chairs and chaises about the library. She wasn’t entirely sure why her rejection of Lord Eggles’s suit was causing so much more consternation than the seven rejections that had gone before.

“But . . . why?” Catherine, Loretta’s sister-in-law, her elder brother Robert’s wife, spread her hands, her expression one of complete bafflement. “Lord Eggles is everything that could be hoped for—so very eligible in every way.”

Except that he’s a dead bore. And a pompous ass. “I believe I’ve mentioned,” Loretta said, her tone one of the utmost reasonableness, “that I have no wish to marry—well, not at this juncture.” Not until she met the man of her dreams.

“But Lord Eggles was the eighth—the eighth perfectly eligible suitor you’ve rejected!” Catherine’s voice rose to a more penetrating note. “You cannot just keep rejecting suitors—everyone will start wondering why!”

“Will they?” Loretta raised her brows. “I can’t imagine why they would waste the time.”

“Because you’re a Michelmarsh, of course.” Margaret, Loretta’s elder sister, glanced at Annabelle, their middle sister, then with a sigh met Loretta’s gaze. “I hesitate to press you, but in this Catherine’s right—your continuing dismissal of all suitors is bordering on the scandalous.”

“You’re a Michelmarsh female,” Annabelle said, “so it’s expected that you will wed. And while all would grant you’ve affected a quieter style than Margaret or I, or indeed any Michelmarsh young lady in recent memory, that in no way excludes you from that generally held expectation. All Michelmarsh females marry, usually well. Add to that the significant inheritances that will pass to your husband on your marriage and the question of who you will accept as said husband is one a sizeable portion of the ton is in constant expectation of hearing answered.”

Loretta hadn’t missed the subtle emphasis Annabelle had placed on the word “affected.” The look in Annabelle’s blue eyes assured Loretta that Annabelle, two years older than Loretta’s twenty-four and closest to her in age, understood very well that Loretta’s reserved demeanor was indeed an affectation, an adopted façade. And if Annabelle knew, Margaret did, too.

“What your sisters are attempting to explain,” John, Margaret’s husband, said from his position propped against the back of the chaise, “is that your peremptory and immediate dismissal of all suitors brave enough to approach is raising speculation as to whether, rather than the individual suitors, it is the institution of marriage you reject.”

Loretta frowned. She knew precisely what she wanted in a suitor. She just hadn’t found him yet.

Robert, her elder brother and guardian, seated behind the desk to the left of the straight-backed chair Loretta occupied, cleared his throat. Looking his way, Loretta saw color tingeing his cheeks. Embarrassment, she knew, not anger. Anger, after all, was a strong emotion, and Robert, aided and abetted by Catherine, had made a point of being the only Michelmarsh in history to be reserved, staid, prim and proper, as close to emotionless as made no odds.

In his case, that demeanor was no affectation.

Robert was the white sheep in a family of, perhaps not black sheep but at least distinctly brindled. Michelmarshes were, and always had been, the very souls of outrageous vivacity, extroverts to their very toes.

All except for Robert.

Orphaned at the age of twelve and left to Robert’s guardianship, taken into his family and placed under Catherine’s well-meaning but smothering wing, Loretta had quickly realized that affecting a prim and proper façade was the easiest path.

Over the years, following the easiest path had become a habit, one she’d discovered had pertinent benefits, namely shielding her from a social round she found largely unnecessary. Keeping her gaze downcast and her voice at a whisper meant she could stand by the side of a ballroom, or sit in a drawing room or dining room, and think of other things. Of things she’d read, of matters a great deal more stimulating than the company around her.

She’d come to appreciate that there was a great deal to be said for prim and proper behavior. It could be used to avoid all sorts of interactions she didn’t want to be bothered with.

Like paying attention to gentlemen she had no interest in.

Her façade usually worked.

Sadly, some had been attracted to the façade and, given the many years’ practise she’d put into perfecting it, she’d found it well nigh impossible to make them understand that the prim and proper, highly reserved young lady they thought would be perfect as their wife did not exist. At least not in her.

Hence the peremptory and immediate dismissals.

“My dear.” Robert clasped his hands, lowered his chin to his cravat, and regarded her gravely from beneath his thickening brows. “I greatly fear that your current attitude to all suitors who approach cannot continue. You appear, as all here would agree, to be an exemplary paragon of delicate ladyhood and as such are viewed as the perfect match for gentlemen who seek such a wife. Lord Eggles would make you a fine husband. Having given my permission for him to address you—as indeed I have for the previous seven gentlemen—I feel I must press you to reconsider.”

Loretta fixed her eyes on Robert’s. “No.” Irritation and anger swirled; she tamped both down, drew breath, and added in a steady, collected tone, “I cannot believe you would wish me to marry a gentleman for whom I feel nothing.”

Catherine frowned. “But—”

“I am convinced, “ Loretta continued, “that ultimately a suitable gentleman will appear and make an offer for my hand. Until then, I shall, of course, refuse all offers from gentlemen who do not . . .” She hesitated.

“Measure up to your expectations?” her younger brother Chester suggested.

He’d taken the words out of her mouth.

His blue eyes trained on her face, Chester went on, “Your problem, dear sister, is that you—prim, proper, exemplary paragon that you appear to be—attract the wrong sort of gentleman.”

“Nonsense!” Catherine fluffed her shawl, an offended hen. “Lord Eggles is a paragon, too.”

“Precisely my point,” Chester replied.

“I have no notion what you mean,” Catherine said.

She didn’t, but Loretta did. The possibility had occurred to her, but it was a shock to discover that even twenty-one-year-old Chester saw through her façade—and saw the same problem she’d started to suspect.

“Perhaps”—Margaret looked at Robert—“in the interests of giving Loretta a chance to clarify what she wants in a husband, she might stay with us for a few months. The Little Season is about to start, and—”

“Oh, no.” Catherine laid a hand on Robert’s arm; she captured his gaze. “That wouldn’t do at all.” She glanced at Margaret and smiled placatingly. “Besides, I daresay you’ll be atrociously busy entertaining all of John’s political acquaintance. Hardly fair to ask you to chaperone Loretta as well.”

While her sisters tried tactfully to ease her out from under Catherine’s determined wing—a lost cause; Catherine would view Loretta transferring to Margaret’s chaperonage as an admission of failure—Loretta wondered if political circles might indeed hold better prospects for her. She felt certain the man of her dreams existed somewhere—she was a Michelmarsh female, after all—but she had assumed he’d have the good sense to find her, present himself, woo her, and then make an offer which she would then accept.

It was all very clear in her mind.

Sadly, her theory had yet to translate into reality.

And she was increasingly concerned that Chester might be right. She might have to change her tack.

Even if only to avoid more suitors of the likes of Lord Eggles.

But change in what way? To what? And how?

“I’m sure—”

“Truly, it would be no great trouble. Why—”

“I really feel it wouldn’t be right to—”

Focused on defining her direction, letting the arguments—futile—wash over her, Loretta was the only member of the company to hear the sounds of an arrival in the hall. She glanced at the double doors.

Just as they were flung wide, allowing a lady of striking magnificence to sail through.

She was tall, slender, her startlingly white hair superbly coiffed and finished with fine feathers, her gown the very latest Parisian fashion in ecru silk and lace, her jewelry classic pieces of ivory and jet. She wore long gloves and carried a filigree reticule while a velvet mantle in rich dark brown draped from her shoulders.

All conversation died.

The apparition halted, poised in the space midway between the open doors and the chaises, calmly considered the stunned expressions turned her way, then smiled. Delightedly.

Esme, Lady Congreve, spread her elegant arms and declared, “Darlings, I’ve come to steal Loretta away.”

“You knew, didn’t you?” Finally alone in the private parlor of the Castle Inn at Dover, Loretta sat, her back poker straight, in one of the twin armchairs before the hearth and fixed her gaze on her outrageous relative, elegantly disposed in the other armchair.

Until then, Loretta hadn’t had a chance to ask the questions piling up in her head. From the instant of her declaration in Robert’s library, Esme had taken charge. Like an unstoppable force, she’d rolled over all objections, explained in imperious fashion that she had need of a companion to accompany her on her imminent travels and that she’d determined Loretta would suit.

She’d given Robert and Catherine little time to mount any effective defense. Margaret, Annabelle, Loretta, and Chester had exchanged glances, then sat back to await developments.

Esme—she’d always insisted they call her Esme, rather than “Great-Aunt”—was their late father’s oldest aunt, their late grandmother’s elder sister. She was the last of her generation still alive, and therefore entitled to act as matriarch of the family.

A right she’d unexpectedly decided to exercise to the full.

Her husband, Richard, Lord Congreve, a Scotsman and senior diplomat, had passed away fourteen months ago; matters pertaining to the settlement of his considerable estate had kept Esme in Scotland until now. In search of a change of scenery, she’d decided on a form of the Grand Tour—one in which she revisited all the European cities in which she and Richard had held court during his extensive career.

An unusually long and entirely literal trip down memory lane.

When Esme had let fall that she’d already sent orders to Loretta’s maid to pack her mistress’s belongings for a few months’ travel, Loretta had not just seen but read the writing on the wall. She’d slipped out of the room to direct Rose, and take care of a number of other matters made suddenly urgent by the prospect of leaving London forthwith.

As she’d closed the library door behind her, she’d had very little doubt who would win the ongoing argument.

Less than half an hour later, she’d been summoned downstairs—and had left Robert’s house in Esme’s train.

In response to Loretta’s question, Esme arched her finely drawn brows. “If you mean had I heard about the looming scandal your rejection of Eggles is about to cause, then yes, of course. Therese Osbaldestone wrote to me. That aside, however, I was heading your way regardless.”

Loretta frowned. “To see Robert and Catherine?”

“No. To kidnap you.”

“Why?”

“Because I promised Elsie that I would take you under my wing and do what she ran out of time to.”

Elsie was Loretta’s late grandmother. Esme and Elsie had been close. “She asked you to . . . take charge of me?”

“She asked me to ensure that you turned into the young lady you’re supposed to be—a proper Michelmarsh young lady. To make sure you sloughed off this ridiculous reserve you’ve acquired under Robert and Catherine’s tutelage. As well-meaning as they are—and please note I give them due credit for that—they were entirely the wrong people to have been given charge of you. Sadly, with your sisters and Chester too young and Robert so serious about taking on the responsibility of the head of the house, there wasn’t any alternative at the time.” Esme considered Loretta. “Now, however, matters have changed, as I made clear to Robert and Catherine. This entire near-scandal, and it is indeed that as Lord Eggles and his family are not at all amused at the implied insult of your abrupt rejection, is a direct and entirely predictable outcome of attempting to impose on a Michelmarsh young lady such an alien regimen as a prim and proper reserve.”

Loretta eyed Esme with inner disquiet and welling resistance. “I often find a proper reserve very useful.”

“Has it gained you the husband you wish for?”

“No.”

“I rest my case. So now, if you please, you will travel with me and learn to live as a true Michelmarsh. And then . . .” Esme’s words trailed away. A martial light gleamed in her eyes. “And then we’ll see.”

Loretta wasn’t at all sure she liked the gleam in Esme’s eyes. “You’ve never done this before, have you—acted as chaperone for a young lady?”

Esme, her gaze still dwelling assessingly on Loretta, shook her head. “No. No children, no grandchildren. I have to admit that until now I hadn’t seen the attraction, but I do believe Therese Osbaldestone might be right—this will indeed be very like the facilitating one does as a diplomat’s wife.” Esme suddenly smiled. She met Loretta’s eyes. “I do believe I’m going to enjoy transforming you into a fitting testament to your heritage, then parading you temptingly beneath the right gentleman’s nose.”

Loretta frowned.

Undeterred, Esme flicked her fingers at Loretta’s skirts. “Apropos of which, I can only give thanks that our first stop will be Paris.”

October 10, 1822
Caravanseri outside Herat, Afghan Supremacy

Rafe crossed his forearms on the weathered earthen wall and looked out across the desolate landscape eerily lit by the waning moon. Behind him, in the rectangular compound protected by the walls, a large trading caravan lay sleeping, the camels picketed to one side, the wagons staggered across the open gap that provided entry into the caravanseri. Tents and rude shelters lay deeper in the compound, protecting the caravan’s people from the intensifying chill.

Out across the flat plain, nothing moved. Not robber, not cultist.

Standing on the narrow walkway hugging the inner face of the walls, Rafe stared out at the emptiness, at the rock-strewn plain unbroken by trees, with barely a stick of brush to soften the stark lines.

A zephyr whispered past, then faded. Died.

Rafe heard soft footsteps approaching. Hassan. They’d taken positions as guards with the trader who owned the caravan. It was the best camouflage they’d been able to find for crossing this too open, too uninhabited land.

“Still no sign of pursuit,” Rafe murmured as Hassan halted beside him.

“There is no way the cult could trace us in such barren territory.”

“No. So the next time we see them, they’ll be ahead of us, waiting for us to come along. I wonder where?”

Hassan said nothing. A moment later, he walked on, circling the compound in the achingly cold silence.

Rafe drew his long cloak closer, and wondered where his friends, his three brothers-in-arms, slept tonight. Wherever they were, he suspected they’d be warmer than he, but were they safer?

He and Hassan had been lost to the cultists from the moment they’d ridden out of Bombay’s northern gate. He doubted the other couriers had been so lucky.

Nearly a month into his mission, yet it had yet to truly start. Impatience niggled; he was a man of action—of facing enemies he could see, meet, and defeat.

Around him lay nothing. Not even a hint of a threat on the wind.

How long would it be before this hiatus ended and his final battle at last began?

November 3, 1822
Villa in Trieste, Italy

“We need to start for home—for England—now.” Loretta folded her arms, her gaze on Esme’s face. “You said you’d promised we’d be home for Christmas. If we don’t start now, we’ll never make it, and the weather will assuredly turn against us, too.”

Reclining on a daybed before the windows of the drawing room of the villa she’d hired for their extended stay, Esme arched her brows. Consideration seeped into her otherwise relaxed expression, then she wrinkled her nose. “You’re right. I do so hate traveling in slush.”

Relief shot through Loretta; her trial was nearing an end. “So we’ll head back to Venice, then via Marseilles to Paris?”

Frowning, Esme studied her, as she often did, assessingly. “Hmm . . . I’m not quite finished with you. You’ve learned to be more forthright, and we’ve rectified your wardrobe, thank heavens.”

By “losing” all the demure and decorous clothes she’d brought from London. Loretta didn’t bother glancing down at the periwinkle blue gown she wore, the color matching her eyes, the delicate fabric clinging lovingly to curves she would prefer remained hidden.

“And you can now laugh, converse, and dance with the best of them—not that I ever doubted you could.” Esme wagged a finger at her. “But your flirting needs work, and you’ve declined to indulge in even one small fling. Your overall attitude still leaves much to be desired.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with my attitude. If I happen to meet a man I find interesting, you may be sure I’ll pay him due attention.”

“Yes, well, therein lies the rub. You need to be interesting first, enough to make him draw near. Gentlemen—certainly those of the sort you’ll find interesting—are like elusive game. They have to be tempted to draw close, so they can fall into the pit.”

“You make it sound like hunting.”

“Good gracious, girl, that’s precisely what it is. You can’t expect them to know what’s best for them—they need to be persuaded to take the bit. But before we start bandying further metaphors, the fact remains that my work with you is not yet done. I have, therefore, decided that we will return to England by a different route. We’ll head to Buda—Richard and I spent a pleasant few months there before the Treaty of Vienna. From there, we can take the rivers back to the Channel—much less chance of our plans being disrupted by the weather.”

The latter consideration stilled any protest Loretta might have made.

Esme sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Different cities—fresh fields.”

That was what Loretta feared. However. . . . “If we’re traveling to Buda, now that we’ve lost Phillipe we’ll need to hire outriders as well as a coach ourselves.” The courier-guide Esme had hired in Paris to see to their party’s needs through the journey had fallen victim to a local contessa. The contessa had captured him and whisked him off to her isolated castle; Esme had confirmed that Phillipe would not be traveling on with them. Loretta frowned. “Or should we try to find another courier-guide?”

Esme considered, then shook her head. “If we’re to go by boat from Buda on, we’ll have no need of one.”

“In that case”—Loretta straightened—“I’ll go into town now and make the arrangements.”

And send off another Window on Europe vignette to her agent. The readers of the London Enquirer had, apparently, become quite addicted to her latest reports.

November 20, 1822
Hillside above Drobeta-turnu-Severin,
at the southwestern tip of the Transylvanian Alps

Rafe blew on his hands, stamped his feet, then crouched to hold his hands to the tiny blaze of their campfire. “I still can’t believe the Black Cobra stationed men in Constanta.”

He didn’t expect a reply to his grumble; Hassan had heard it before. After seeing not so much as a hair of a cultist all the way through Persia and Turkey, they’d taken a ship from Samsun across the Black Sea to Constanta—and found cultists waiting for them in the first narrow street they’d tramped down.

They’d fought their way out of that ambush, but only just. Both he and Hassan were sporting fresh scars. They’d immediately hired horses and raced out of town, but in this much different landscape, with its mud, slush, and snow, it was impossible to hide their trail, and the cultists were, by and large, excellent trackers.

“They are still following,” Hassan eventually said.

Rafe nodded. Huddling in the thick woollen coat he’d bought in Turkey, he stared into the fire. “Our mission is to avoid being taken at all costs, which sadly means we shouldn’t engage, not if we can avoid it.”

The necessity bit at him. He’d much rather turn and savage their pursuers, but the scroll-holder he carried, the one containing the crucial evidence that had to get to the Duke of Wolverstone in England, put paid to that. He was having second thoughts over how pleased he was to have drawn the critical mission.

But duty was duty, and he knew where his lay. If running and hiding was the price he had to pay to see the Black Cobra hang, he’d pay it.

Anything to avenge James MacFarlane.

Moving slowly, careful not to let the wind, knife-edged with ice, slice through his outer wrappings, he drew out the map he’d bought in Constanta and unfolded it. Hassan shifted to look over his shoulder.

“We’re here.” Rafe pointed. “Just ahead is the pass they call the Iron Gate, where the Danube flows through a gap in the mountains. We’ll reach there tomorrow, and if the snow holds off we should be able to pass through and out into the plain beyond.” He shifted the map the better to examine the area beyond the pass. After long moments of silent considering, he exhaled. “It’s as I thought. Once we get onto the plain, we have to make a decision. Do we keep heading directly east, cutting through the Slavic lands to northern Italy, then into southern France, and from there turn north for Rotterdam, or do we take the other route and head north on the plain, then follow the rivers—the Danube and then the Rhine—east to Rotterdam, and so to Felixstowe?”

“It is Rotterdam that we must reach to get a boat to Felixstowe?”

“That’s the Channel crossing we’re supposed to take. There’ll be guards waiting for us at Felixstowe, to escort us on from there.”

They studied the map, then fell to discussing the cities, the roads. There seemed little real difference between the two routes. “Either should see us to Felixstowe by the date Wolverstone stipulated. We’re earlier than expected thus far, so we’ll have to go slowly, or pause at some point, but other than that . . .” Rafe shrugged. The routes seemed much of a muchness.

Until Hassan asked, “As we cannot risk standing and fighting, which way will be better for us to avoid notice?”

Brows rising, Rafe stared at the map. “With that in mind, there’s only one choice.”

One

November 24, 1822
Danube Embankment, Buda

Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days hence, in his pocket.

He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.

Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly European-style winter coat he now wore. “The last two tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger, and the boat’s too small for them to stow away or join the crew at the last minute.”

Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of his friend without his headdress.

They’d reached Buda two nights before. The first thing they’d done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for European garb. Throughout their journey they’d constantly changed clothes to better blend with the natives. Now, in the well-cut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck, with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and Prussian merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan’s hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots, fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads had turned as they’d passed; no one paid them any heed.

The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair, he, especially, would have had difficulty passing unnoticed through Italy and France.

The second place they’d visited yesterday had been a gunsmith’s. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and shot. The cultists’ one true weakness was a superstitious fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.

They still wore their swords and carried the knives they’d feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over, pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their knives.

Rafe had also found a cartographer’s studio; he’d bought the best maps available of the areas through which they planned to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon studying their prospective route, then had sought advice from their innkeeper and the patrons of the inn’s bar on which shipping company to approach.

Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the street. “Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will likely not think of it.”

Rafe nodded. “At least not immediately.” In India, rivers were not much used for long-distance travel, not like the Danube and Rhine. And as the majority of cultists couldn’t swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels and inns on land. “According to the shipping clerk, our journey via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a day to spare—no need to schedule any other halts to align us with Wolverstone’s timetable.”

“We have seen no cultists here yet,” Hassan said. “None around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east.”

Following Hassan’s gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft large and small, then lifting his gaze to the stone bridge linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the opposite bank, Rafe murmured, “If they had cultists in Constanta, there’ll be cultists here. We need to remain on guard.”

He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in beside him. They headed toward the small inn in which they’d taken rooms.

“The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major town along the highways,” Rafe said. “Here, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the rivers, we’ll avoid most of those. On our first leg along the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can’t avoid, but for the rest it’s as we thought—the river towns are smaller, and most lie away from the major highways.” That had been the reason they’d decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”

They’d reached an intersection where a narrow cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.

“No!”

The shrill female protest jerked them to a halt. They looked up the street.

In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.

There was no one else in the street.

Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the woman’s next cry.

Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly protesting, she fought to beat them off, knew nothing until Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.

A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.

Rafe turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”

He’d spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her ageing, yet delicately boned, face. She was old enough to be his grandmother.

Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.

The lady—Rafe might have been away from society for more than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine, the head rising high, the haughty features—considered him, then said in perfect upper-class English, “Thank you, dear boy. I’m a trifle rattled, but if you’ll help me to that bench there, I daresay I’ll be right as rain in two minutes.”

Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to understanding her.

Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his arm. “Your accent’s straight from Eton, dear boy. And you look vaguely familiar, too—no doubt I’ll place you in a few minutes. Now give me your arm.”

Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops, equally incensed.

“They’re recovering,” Hassan said.

Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to their feet.

The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.

The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.

“Do you want us to catch them?” one of the locals asked.

The lady waved. “No, no—they were doubtless some layabouts who thought to seize some coins from a defenseless old woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I really do not have time to become entangled with the authorities here.”

Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he needed, too.

He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred, but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously accepted—in German that was significantly more fluent and colloquial than Rafe’s.

When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their businesses, Rafe met the lady’s gray eyes—eyes decidedly too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Rafe Carstairs, ma’am.” He would have preferred to decamp—to run away from any lady who called him “dear boy”—but ingrained manners forced him to ask, “Are you staying nearby?”

The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. “Lady Congreve. I believe I knew your parents, and I know your brother, Viscount Henley. I’m putting up at the Imperial Hotel, just along from the top of this street.”

Suppressing a grimace—of course she would know his family—Rafe bowed over her hand, with the other gestured to Hassan. “We’ll escort you back once you’re ready.”

Lady Congreve’s smile widened. “Thank you, dear boy. I’m feeling quite recovered already, but”—she gripped his hand and Rafe helped her to her feet—“before I return to the hotel, I must complete the errand that brought me this way. I have to collect tickets from an office on the embankment.”

Rafe gave her his arm and they turned down the street. “Which company?”

“The Excelsior Shipping Company.” Lady Congreve gestured with her cane. “I believe they’re just around the corner.”

Half an hour later, Rafe and Hassan found themselves taking tea in the premier suite of the Imperial Hotel in the fashionable castle quarter of Buda. Lady Congreve had insisted. Rafe had discovered that his grande-dame-avoiding skills were rusty. There hadn’t seemed any way to refuse the invitation without giving offense, and as he’d learned, to his horror, that Lady Congreve and her party were among the passengers due to depart on the Uray Princep the following morning, trying to avoid closer acquaintance seemed pointless.

He had to admit the array of cakes that arrived on the tea tray were the best he’d tasted in a decade.

“So you and Mr. Hassan were with the army in India.” Lady Congreve settled back on the chaise and regarded him. “Did you ever meet Enslow?”

“Hastings’s aide?” Rafe nodded. “Poor chap’s usually run ragged. Hastings has a finger in so many pies.”

“So I’ve heard. So you were based in Calcutta?”

“For the most part. In the months before I resigned and departed, a group of us were operating out of Bombay.” Rafe understood she was checking his bona fides, but he wasn’t sure why.

“So you’ve been soldiering for all these years, and have been a captain for how long?”

“Since before Toulouse.”

“And you fought at Waterloo?”

He nodded. “I was part of a compound troop—part experienced regulars, part ton volunteers. Heavy cavalry.”

“Who of the ton fought alongside you?”

“Mostly Cynsters—the six cousins—plus a smattering of other houses. Two Nevilles, a Percy, and one Farquar.”

“Ah, yes, I remember hearing about the exploits of that troop. And now you’ve resigned and are heading back to England?”

Rafe shrugged. “It was time.”

“Excellent!” Lady Congreve beamed.

Every instinct Rafe possessed went on high alert.

“It seems, sir, almost as if fate has sent you to me.” Lady Congreve glanced at Hassan, including him in the comment. “I wonder if I might impose upon you—you and Mr. Hassan—to act as my party’s courier-guide and guard? We left Paris with an experienced guide, but sadly had to part with him in Trieste. Knowing we would be traveling on by riverboat once we reached here, I didn’t see any point in securing a replacement, but today’s events have demonstrated my error. It simply isn’t safe for ladies to walk these foreign streets unprotected.” Lady Congreve held Rafe’s gaze. “And as you are going the same way and, indeed, have already secured passage on the same boat, I do hope you can see your way to joining my party.”

By sheer force of will, Rafe managed to keep all reaction from his face.

When he didn’t immediately reply, Lady Congreve continued, “Our meeting does seem fortuitous, especially as you’ve taken the last tickets on the boat, so even if I could find any men as suitable, I wouldn’t be able to secure passage for them.”

Rafe inwardly cursed the clerk at the shipping office, who, of course, had recognized him and commented. Racking his brains for the right form of words with which to decline, aware of Hassan looking at him, waiting for him to get them out of this trap, Rafe opened his mouth . . . then shut it.

He and Hassan needed some reason that would explain their traveling on the river, some purpose that would make people accept their presence and not look too closely.

“And of course,” Lady Congreve went on, “I’m sure your brother will be pleased to know you’ve been able to extend me this small service. I will, of course, take care of all the expenses involved and reimburse you for the tickets you’ve already purchased.”

Rafe recognized that she’d rolled out her heavy guns—his brother, no less. His gaze abstracted, distracted by a prospect he was still trying to define, he waved her last words aside. “No need for recompense. If we do as you ask . . .”

Refocusing on Lady Congreve, he wondered at the wisdom—and the morality—of involving her, however much at arm’s length, in his mission. The cultists throughout Europe would be watching for him and Hassan. As a pair of men traveling together, they were easy to spot—both over six feet tall, one distinctly fair, the other distinctly dark, both with military bearing.

But the cultists most likely would not look closely at two men traveling as part of a larger party.

Rafe glanced briefly at Hassan. “It might be possible for us to act as your guide and guard. We’ll be on the same boat regardless, and as you noted, you won’t be able to add more passengers to the list. . . .”

Lady Congreve was clever enough to keep her lips shut and watch him vacillate.

Rafe remembered James MacFarlane’s body.

Remembered the scroll-holder presently strapped to his side.

Remembered that the closer they drew to England, the more cultists they would need to slip past.

And Lady Congreve was the sort of lady who, if she knew the details, would wholeheartedly support his mission.

He focused on her face. Should he tell her of his mission?

He opened his mouth, the revelation on his tongue, then remembered the other tickets she’d picked up. “Who else is traveling with you? You have four tickets.”

“As well as myself, there’s my maid, Gibson, whom you’ve met.”

The maid had been waiting in the suite, and had taken her mistress’s coat and cane, then gone to order the tea. Rafe judged it likely that Gibson, a woman of mature years, had served Lady Congreve for decades; there was an unspoken degree of empathy and loyalty between maid and mistress that suggested Gibson would fully support any decision her mistress made. No threat to his mission there. “And the other two tickets?”

“Another lady and her maid.” Lady Congreve tilted her head, regarding him curiously. “They would be included among the people you would guide and guard, if that makes any difference.”

Rafe knew that ladies of her ladyship’s generation often traveled in pairs, providing company for each other on the journey, someone to share the sights with, to converse with of an evening. He imagined that any lady Lady Congreve chose to travel with would be much like her. Which meant there was really no reason he shouldn’t explain his mission and, if subsequently Lady Congreve stood by her offer of making them her courier-guide and guard, accept.

He drew breath, met Lady Congreve’s gray eyes. “I’m inclined to accept your offer, ma’am, but first I must tell you what has brought Hassan and me this way.” He glanced at Hassan, who raised his brows a fraction, but didn’t seem disapproving, then looked back at her ladyship. “If once you’ve heard our story you still wish us to take up the positions of your courier-guide and guard, then I believe we can accommodate you.”

Lady Congreve’s smile was triumphant. “Excellent! Now what’s this secret—”

She broke off as the knob on the corridor door turned. An instant later, the door opened, and a vision in a vibrant dark blue pelisse, with a fur hat with a jaunty feather perched atop swirls of lustrous dark hair, swept in.

“Esme—” The vision broke off, stared at Rafe, then glanced at Hassan. But her gaze returned to Rafe as he came to his feet, and she simply stared.

He stared back. He was only vaguely aware of another female—presumably the other maid—slipping into the room and closing the door; his entire attention, all his senses, had fixed, unswervingly, on the lady in blue.

The young lady in blue.

She was tallish, slender, and intensely feminine; an aura of suppressed—or was it controlled?—vibrancy all but charged the air around her. Her eyes, large and just faintly tip-tilted, were of an arresting shade of periwinkle blue made only more striking by her royal blue pelisse. Her curves were sleek, yet definite. He’d heard women with such figures likened to Greek or Roman deities; he now understood why. She was Athena, Diana, Persephone, Artemis—she seemed to be those constructs given life, just with sable hair and blue, blue eyes.

He felt like he’d taken a clout to the head. Just as in battles when he was staring down Death, time stood still.

It took effort to restart his mind, to return to the real world.

To the here and now.

“Esme” she’d said, and meant Lady Congreve. She was the other lady, Lady Congreve’s traveling companion. A young lady her ladyship had taken under her wing.

The goddess had halted at the back of the chaise on which her laydship sat. Lady Congreve raised a hand, gracefully waved. “Allow me to present Miss Loretta Michelmarsh, my great-niece. The Honorable Mr. Rafe Carstairs, and his companion, Mr. Hassan.”

Rafe inclined his head. Stiffly. The goddess was a relative; that made matters worse.

Miss Michelmarsh, her gaze still locked on him, her expression oddly blank, bestowed the barest bob that would pass for civility.

“You’re just in time, Loretta dear, to hear the latest news.” Lady Congreve twisted around to smile at her great-niece. “Mr. Carstairs and Mr. Hassan saved me from two attackers in the street near the shipping office, and at my request they’ve agreed to fill the positions of our courier-guide and guard.”

Rafe now understood the reason behind Lady Congreve’s triumphant expression, realized that the trap he’d fallen into was of quite a different nature than he’d foreseen. He’d forgotten the principal entertainment grandes dames such as Lady Congreve delighted in. Matchmaking. Preferably with those of their acquaintance.

Her ladyship knew his family. She knew her great-niece. But he’d be damned if he allowed her to matchmake him—even with a vision that brought to mind a pantheon of goddesses.

Aside from all else . . . dragging in a deeper breath, he forced his gaze from its distraction, and looked down at her ladyship, who was clearly waiting to gauge his response. “Lady Congreve, I regret it will not be possible for me and Hassan to act as courier-guide and guard for you during your upcoming journey.”

Lady Congreve regarded him, a frown forming in her eyes. “I understood, dear boy, that you had already agreed to fill the positions subject to informing me of the reason behind your current journey and my confirmation of the appointments subsequent to that.” She opened her eyes wide. “What on earth happened in the space of just a moment to change your mind?”

She knew. Rafe held her gaze, felt his jaw firm. “Regardless, my lady, on further consideration it will be impossible for me and Hassan to join your party.”

Lady Congreve’s eyes narrowed on him, something her niece couldn’t see. “Surely you aren’t reneging on our agreement because of Loretta?”

Yes, he was. While he’d entertained the possibility of joining forces with Lady Congreve, a lady in the latter years of her life and, he judged, with significant life experience, and had been prepared to court the risk that through him she might be exposed to the Black Cobra’s minions, he would not, could not even in his most reckless mood, countenance putting a young lady like Loretta Michelmarsh in any danger whatever.

He held Lady Congreve’s gaze. “There’s a certain degree of risk involved in being associated with me and Hassan, and while I would have considered, should you have been agreeable once you were fully informed of that risk, accepting the positions you offered in your train, it would be unconscionable of me to continue with that arrangement while you have a young lady such as Miss Michelmarsh traveling with you.”

Loretta frowned. What was going on? Her first thought on sighting the tall, blond-haired man, clearly a military man—she could tell by his stance, the way he held his broad shoulders—was a simple, albeit dazed: Who is he?

Her mind had stalled at that point, her senses scrambling to fill in details, none of them pertinent to answering that question.

How bright the golden streaks in his sandy blond hair, how unexpectedly soft his eyes of summer blue, how absurdly long his brown lashes seemed, how deliciously evocative the subtle curve of his distinctly masculine lips, how square his jaw, how imposingly tall, how strong and powerful his long body seemed to be . . . all those observations flashed through her mind, and none helped in the least.

Adrift, her gaze locked on him, her senses . . . somewhere else, all thought had suspended, and had remained beyond her reach, until he’d spoken.

His deep voice, its timbre, the reverberation that seemed to slide down her spine and resonate within her, shook her—enough to shock her out of her mesmerized state.

Bad enough. But apparently Esme had invited him and his friend to act as their courier-guide and guard.

Her immediate thought—the first rational one after her wits had returned to her—was that Carstairs and his friend were charlatans out to rob Esme . . . but then he’d refused the position.

Because of her. Why?

She listened as Esme artfully twisted Carstairs’s words, then invoked his honor as an officer and a gentleman, intent on browbeating him into acquiescing to being their courier-guide, apparently all the way back to England. She could have told Carstairs that he didn’t stand a chance of wriggling out of Esme’s talons, but . . . the notion of having him squiring her around in the guise of their courier-guide filled her with an odd mix of anticipation and trepidation.

If just the sight of him could make her temporarily lose her grip on her wits, what would prolonged exposure—and closer exposure at that—do?

She couldn’t afford to be distracted, especially not now. She needed to get another vignette off to her agent tomorrow; her editor was waiting on it, holding column space for it.

Over the past six years, writing as A Young Lady About London, she’d steadily developed a following with her little pieces published in the London Enquirer, three or four paragraphs of philosophical social commentary, a mix of observation and political satire all delivered with a highly sharpened pen. The public had taken to her writings, but her abrupt departure from England had put paid to that endeavor; she couldn’t observe London society from abroad. But then she’d had the notion to continue in similar vein with her Window on Europe vignettes, and her public had happily followed her through her brief sojourns in France, Spain, and Italy.

She’d known Esme would halt at Trieste, so had warned her agent, and a letter from her editor had been waiting for her there. Apparently the publisher of the Enquirer was an admirer of her work, and the paper was eager to publish whatever she could send them.

Her agent had also written informing her of the sizeable increase in remuneration the publisher was providing for each witty installment.

She’d thought her departure with Esme would spell the end of her secret career; instead, it had brought her work more forcefully to the attention of both her publisher and the public.

Her secret endeavor had taken a highly encouraging turn, but close acquaintance with Rafe Carstairs might well endanger that—in more ways than he imagined.

Yet she couldn’t help but be curious over what, exactly, he was so set on keeping her away from.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, taking advantage of a temporary silence, “Mr. Carstairs might explain what this unprecedented danger inherent on being associated with him and Mr. Hassan is?”

Carstairs, who, she had to admit, was giving Esme a run for her money in the stubborn stakes and was presently giving every indication of being as immovable as a monolith, lifted his sky blue eyes to her. He studied her for a fraught moment, then looked down at Esme. “There is no point continuing this discussion. We cannot—”

“Captain.”

The quiet word came from Hassan, who had retreated to stand by the window; turning, Rafe saw him looking outside.

Glancing up from whatever he’d seen, Hassan met his eyes. “Before you make your decision you should consider this.”

Rafe inclined his head to Esme and her great-niece. “A moment, if you would.”

He crossed to Hassan. Halting alongside, Rafe looked down through the lace curtains to the street below.

To where two Black Cobra cultists were ambling along, looking this way and that.

“They are looking, watching, not searching specifically,” Hassan said.

“Which means they don’t yet know we’re here.”

“True, but . . .” Hassan waited until Rafe raised his gaze to his before continuing, “What will happen if they learn we have been here, not just in Buda but here in this room, speaking with these ladies?”

Rafe’s heart sank.

“The cult will not have forgotten that it was a young English lady, Miss Ensworth, who brought you and the others the Cobra’s letter. Even if we part from the ladies now, that will not save them—the cultists will reason that they have to be stopped and they and their baggage searched, just in case.”

“Damn!” Rafe all but ground his teeth. After a moment, he murmured, “We shouldn’t go on with them and expose them to danger, but not being their guards might be even more dangerous for them.”

“So I think.”

Rafe sighed and turned—and discovered Lady Congreve just behind him. She’d been peering around his shoulder.

Raising her eyes to his face, she arched her brows. “I think, dear boy, that you had better tell us all.” Swinging around, she led the way back to the chaise. “And as we are, apparently, to be traveling companions all the way to England, you may call me Esme.”

Elegantly sitting, beckoning her great-niece to sit alongside her, she lifted openly curious eyes to his face.

Rafe stifled a groan, but, accepting the inevitable, walked to the chair he’d earlier occupied. Once Loretta Michelmarsh sat, he sat, too.

Drawing in a long breath, he started at the beginning. “Several years ago, a man—an English gentleman of noble family—went out to India and, exploiting his position in the Governor of Bombay’s office, devised and created a native cult. The cult of the Black Cobra.”

He had them call in their maids, then related the story in its most abbreviated version, alluding only where necessary and in general terms to the atrocities committed by the cult; those he deemed too ghastly to be described in polite company he left out.

By the time he finished, the sky outside was darkening and evening was closing in.

Esme had listened intently, putting shrewd questions here and there. She hadn’t been all that surprised to learn that the man Rafe and his friends were working to expose as the Black Cobra was Roderick Ferrar, the Earl of Shrewton’s younger son.

Esme’s lips had tightened, her features growing severe. “I never did like that boy—or his father, come to that. Vicious blackguards, the Shrewtons, except for the heir, Kilworth. He’s altogether a different sort.”

Rafe took her word for that. All he cared about was bringing Roderick Ferrar to justice.

“So let me see if I have this correct.” Somewhat to Rafe’s surprise, Loretta Michelmarsh had seemed as fascinated with his mission as her great-aunt. “You are one of four . . . for want of a better term, couriers, who left Bombay on the same day, all heading for England by different routes. All four are carrying identical scroll-holders, but only one contains the original letter—and that original letter must reach the Duke of Wolverstone in order for the Black Cobra to be stopped.”

When she paused and opened her blue eyes wide at him, he nodded. “In a nutshell, that’s it.”

“So which do you have—one of the decoys, or the vital original?”

Rafe shook his head. “The four of us decided that information shouldn’t be revealed to anyone, not even shared among us.”

“In case this fiend of a snake seizes one of you and tries to coerce the information from them in order to concentrate solely on the one who carries the original?” Esme nodded. “Excellent idea. Don’t tell us. We don’t need to know that you’re carrying the original.”

Expression blank, Rafe stared at her, but Esme only smiled.

“The Duke of Wolverstone.” Loretta glanced at Esme. “Isn’t he something of a secret war hero? A spymaster or some such?”

“At one time. He retired some years ago, then assumed the title, but I seriously doubt he’ll have lost his lauded skills.” Esme met Rafe’s eyes. “If you’re working for Royce, Dalziel—Wolverstone—whatever name he goes by these days, then as loyal Englishwomen it clearly behooves us to do whatever we can to aid your quest.”

Rafe inwardly blinked. If he’d known Wolverstone’s name would have such an effect, he’d have used it sooner.

“Regardless, however, now that we know about your mission and have been seen with you by people the serpent’s minions might question, then there’s clearly no option other than to join forces.” Esme smiled with satisfaction. “So no more muttering—you, dear boy, henceforth will be our courier-guide, and Hassan will be our guard.”

Esme glanced at Loretta, then looked back at Rafe. “Which makes us your charges.” Her smile was triumph incarnate.

Lips thin, Rafe nodded, then with a glance at Loretta, added, “Until we reach England.”

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. The Untamed Bride is her fortieth work, and the first in The Black Cobra Quartet. The Elusive Bride is her forty-first work and the second in The Black Cobra Quartet. The Brazen Bride is her forty-second work and the third in The Black Cobra Quartet.

Readers can contact Stephanie via e-mail at slaurens@vicnet.net.au.

For information on all Stephanie’s books, including updates on novels yet to come, visit Stephanie’s website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Other Books by Stephanie Laurens

Bastion Club Novels
MASTERED BY LOVE • THE EDGE OF DESIRE
BEYOND SEDUCTION • TO DISTRACTION
A FINE PASSION • A LADY OF HIS OWN
A GENTLEMAN’S HONOR • THE LADY CHOSEN
CAPTAIN JACK’S WOMAN

Cynster Novels
TEMPTATION AND SURRENDER • WHERE THE HEART LEADS
THE TASTE OF INNOCENCE • WHAT PRICE LOVE?
THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE • THE IDEAL BRIDE
THE PERFECT LOVER • ON A WICKED DAWN
ON A WILD NIGHT • THE PROMISE IN A KISS
ALL ABOUT PASSION • ALL ABOUT LOVE
A SECRET LOVE • A ROGUE’S PROPOSAL
SCANDAL’S BRIDE • A RAKE’S VOW
DEVIL’S BRIDE

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE UNTAMED BRIDE. Copyright © 2009 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Adobe Digital Edition September 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-196001-7

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE ELUSIVE BRIDE. Copyright © 2010 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © December 2009 ISBN: 978-0-06-196615-6

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Copyright

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Copyright © 2010 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd.
ISBN 978-0-06-179517-6
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © SEPTEMBER 2010 ISBN: 978-0-062-00008-8

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