Esme nodded. “We must hope the river doesn’t freeze.”
Rafe could only pray. If the river froze, the roads would be impassable, too. He wouldn’t be able to get through. He would have to leave Loretta and Esme….
He cut off the thought, shook aside the vision. It was only mid-December. The weather wasn’t that cold and, he thought, unlikely to get that cold this side of January. He made a mental note to check with the innkeeper.
At least the nippier temperatures had Esme and Loretta walking on briskly. Without further conversation, they retraced their steps along the cobbled embankment and down the quay to the Beau Rivage.
The fog remained, steadily thickening with wood smoke and the sulphurous taint of coal fires.
The next morning, seated at a table with breakfast spread before her, Esme peered out of the inn’s dining room window at the dismal excuse for a day. “Is it always like this in winter?”
The innkeeper set a platter of pork sausages in front of Rafe. “Sadly. It is the forests, you see. They are all around, and so stop the wind from blowing the smoke away.” He gestured at the scene beyond the window. “It hangs.”
Which, Loretta felt, glancing out of the window, was appropriate. She was hanging, too—vacillating over, not if she would act, but when. Last night, every time she’d turned toward her door intending to open it and go to Rafe’s room, she’d hesitated. Not because of him, or her, but because of his mission.
It was important; it would affect the well-being of many people. If she precipitated the next step only to discover that he and she didn’t suit … her subsequent retreat might affect his ability to complete that mission. Did she have the right to potentially jeopardize it?
She didn’t feel she did. More, when she’d consulted her feelings she’d discovered a strong commitment of her own to helping him succeed.
Of course, once they took the next step, if they were not suited, despite all he’d said she might yet persuade him that in the circumstances a marriage based solely on honor wasn’t wise. He might agree to part with no fault on either side … then again, if the next step proved them incompatible in her eyes, she could simply not tell him, pretend all was well, and use his mission to avoid further incidents until they reached England and his mission was complete, and only then break the news to him that she wasn’t going to marry him.
Scandalous and deceitful, yes. But any scandal wouldn’t occur until they were back in England, and she couldn’t findit in her to care. As for the deceit, if it ensured his mission’s success, she would consider it justified.
Her Michelmarsh side was clearly growing stronger with every passing day.
“The cathedral, dear boy, is the one place I really must insist we visit.” Sipping her tea, Esme fixed her eyes on Rafe. “Besides, you can’t expect us to spend all day confined to our rooms when we haven’t had any real excursion on land for nearly a week.”
Rafe had hoped, but … lips setting, he nodded. “The cathedral, then. But just there and back.”
He changed his mind an hour later, after their party had ambled down the fog-laden streets, through ancient squares lined with medieval buildings, and, skirting the town’s center, found their way to the gothic splendor of the cathedral, then spent twenty minutes studying the fine carvings inside and out.
“No cultists.” Halting beside Hassan halfway down the nave, Rafe watched Loretta examine a choir stall. “I’m not sure if we simply haven’t seen them because of the fog, or …”
“If they had spotted us yesterday, they would have attacked the inn last night.”
“True.” Rafe scanned the side chapels, searching for any sign of potential attackers.
Hassan slanted him a glance. “The last cultists we saw were in Vienna, and they did not see us.”
Rafe nodded, his gaze on the ladies as they started back up the nave. “It would be helpful to know if our disguise works … and here and now is a reasonable place to test it.” He and Hassan had fought together for so long they usually thought along similar lines.
“The fog … we could use it to our advantage.”
“And if the worst came to be, we could flee by carriage. The highways are good from here.” Rafe straightened as the four women approached. He glanced around, confirmed no others were close, then faced them. “We’ve decided to seewho else is in town. Remember, if you see any black scarves, don’t react. Pretend you don’t know what the sight of a cultist means.”
“Excellent idea!” Esme claimed Rafe’s arm. “Always a good policy to know the enemy’s strength. And even more helpfully their weaknesses.”
Rafe glanced at Loretta and saw her lips quirk, but they were all as intent and alert as he could wish when they filed out of the cathedral and descended the stone steps.
With Esme on his arm and Loretta strolling on his other side, he led the way down the street toward the main avenue of shops and businesses. From the smell, the fish market lay somewhere to their left. The fog was dense, distorting sounds as they walked deeper into the isle on which the town stood. The buildings closed around them, fog cloaking the eaves and hanging so low it was difficult to recognize landmarks and identify exactly where they were.
But as they penetrated deeper into the town, they encountered more and more people on the streets. Most were briskly striding, on their way to somewhere. Few were ambling, but with Esme’s cane identifying her as elderly, their pace didn’t seem out of place. Rafe kept them moving steadily as if they, too, were on their way somewhere, but just walking slowly.
The cultists, when they came upon them in the fog, were more obviously idling. The pair, both in the distinctive turbans, black scarves dangling, but otherwise swathed in European-style cloaks, were openly scanning the people passing by, occasionally searching faces.
They saw Rafe, saw them all, including Hassan walking with Rose to the rear of the group.
The cultists looked, then their gazes passed on to the next couple walking along.
Rafe held his breath as the pair passed by on the outer edge of the pavement.
He didn’t look around, hoped none of the others would, either.
Only when they were around the next corner, did he glanceback and meet Hassan’s eyes—and see the same question that had just occurred to him reflected there.
“Back to the inn.” Rafe turned down the next street leading in the general direction of the quay on which the inn stood.
Halfway back, they passed another pair of cultists, with the same result.
Rafe was certain that if he and Hassan had been by themselves, the cultists wouldn’t have been so patently disinterested.
They reached the inn without further incident. Esme, triumphantly thrilled, ordered a pot of tea. It was served in the inn’s parlor, which at that time of day was deserted but for them.
“So!” Dropping into an armchair, Esme looked brightly up at Rafe. “They don’t recognize you while you’re with us. We"—she waved to include Loretta, Rose, and Gibson—"provide you with effective camouflage.”
“So it seems.” Rafe exchanged another glance with Hassan, then, as Loretta subsided into another armchair, he drew up a straight-backed chair and sat, too. “That, however, raises a question. Clearly the cult hasn’t issued a sufficiently detailed description of me or Hassan to their own members. They’re expecting us to be traveling as a pair—I saw them look more closely at two other men walking by. So"—he glanced again at Hassan—"the cult doesn’t have an effective personal description of us. That being so, how did the locals we assumed they’d hired in Pressburg, in Vienna, and in Linz know to attack us when the cultists themselves can’t identify us?”
Loretta stared at him, as did Esme, Rose, and Gibson. No one rushed to answer his question.
Eventually, Loretta stirred. “Perhaps those incidents were attacks by thieves. If they weren’t cult-inspired, what else could they be?”
He met her eyes. “I don’t know.” After a moment, he grimaced. “As things stand
, we’re left to assume that three different groups of attackers, who attacked this party in three different cities, were nothing more than opportunistic thieves.”
Ten
Evening came and went. Later still, Rafe kept the first watch, seated on the inn’s main stairs below the right-angle turn, from where he could see the front door.
He had plenty of time to think and brood.
In the chill small hours Hassan came to relieve him. Rafe stood, stretched, then, dropping a hand on Hassan’s shoulder as the big Pathan settled on the stair, Rafe turned and went up. Reaching the first floor, he headed down the corridor toward their rooms.
The cult had yet to get wind of them. It seemed increasingly likely they wouldn’t, at least not in Strasbourg.
He hadn’t imagined they would be so lucky. If the gods remained willing and continued to steer him clear of any cultist who could recognize him, it seemed possible he might even gain England’s green shores before encountering an assassin.
The old Reckless would have chafed at that, at the lack of action. Instead, with Loretta, Esme, Rose, and Gibson with him, Rafe would simply be grateful.
Reaching his room, he opened the door—and instantly came alert.
Light spilled from the lamp. It was turned low, but he hadn’t left it burning.
Slowly, silently, he slipped past the door’s edge, swiftly surveyed the room. No one. He exhaled, then quietly shut the door. Maybe the maid had come in to tidy.
He’d taken two steps deeper into the room before his gaze penetrated the shadows beyond the lamp’s glow and he saw the figure lying on his bed.
Sable silk spilled across his pillow.
He hesitated, then walked closer, until he stood by the bed’s side looking down at Loretta. She was in her nightgown—not a good thing—but the warm robe she wore over it was tightly belted; much better. Her slippers were on her feet. She lay on her side on the couterpane, her head on the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
From the slow, steady rise and fall of her breasts she was deeply asleep.
His mouth had dried. He moistened his lips, then compressed them, trying to think of how best to handle this. How best to handle her.
His initial impulse was to leave her where she was, undisturbed, and slink away to sleep somewhere else. Her bed, for instance.
But then Rose would go to waken her in the morning, and find either an empty bed, or him; either scenario would lead to difficult questions, ones with even more difficult answers.
So … he drew in a deep breath—and the subtle perfume that was simply her wreathed through his brain.
He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect. Waited … shored up his control. “Loretta.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He tried again, louder. “Loretta?”
Not so much as a flicker of an eyelash. He didn’t dare say her name more forcefully.
Steeling himself, he reached for her shoulder. Stopped. He stood between her and the lamplight. Waking to see him, a large, dark, masculine shadow leaning over her … she might react badly.
Girding his loins, he eased down to sit alongside her on the bed. He couldn’t help but notice the delicate curves of her cheek, her jaw, the long, evocative line of her throat. Her skin showed porcelain white through the black veil of her hair, and tempted his fingers. Drew them.
Abruptly his senses were swamped by her—by tactile memories of her softness, of the curves he already knew, alluring recollections of her warmth, her scent, her lips. Her taste.
Shutting out the distraction, refocusing on what he had to do, meant to do, took effort. He shifted so the light from the lamp struck his face. Mentally gritting his teeth, ensuring his expression was as blank as he could make it, he reached for her shoulder. Closing his hand over the quintessentially feminine curve, he gripped lightly and shook. “Loretta? Loretta, sweetheart, wake up.”
He didn’t realize what he’d said until she eased over onto her back and opened her eyes.
For an instant, wide-eyed, she looked into his face. His heart stopped for that instant, then started to beat again as her lids lowered and her lips curved.
“Oh. Good. I’ve been waiting for you.” A sleep-tousled siren, she stretched, all slow, sinuous suppleness, then delicately patted away a yawn. “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Yes, you did. And now it’s exceedingly late and you need to go back to your bed and fall asleep there.” He started to rise—to put distance between them—but she caught his sleeve.
“No. Stay. I wanted to talk to you. I need to tell you something—”
“Loretta—”
“—and yes, I know it’s the height of impropriety to come to your room like this, let alone fall asleep in your bed, but"—releasing him, she pushed herself up to sit against the headboard—"that I did should convey to you how set on talking to you I am.”
She was entirely awake now. Lamplight fell on her face,revealing the stubborn line of her chin. Her gaze met his, held it, belligerent determination etched in periwinkle blue.
He narrowed his eyes, his own jaw setting.
She narrowed hers back. She folded her arms. Her expression took on a mulish cast; from experience with Esme, he knew what that meant.
“Very well.” His tone was ungracious. He didn’t care. “Talk. I’m listening.” Even as he said the words, he knew capitulation was a mistake.
How big a mistake … he was sure she would teach him.
Loretta considered him for a moment, then simply stated, “I came to tell you that whatever it is that’s growing between us, I feel it, too, just as much as you, and I need to know what it is.”
Unfolding her arms, she shifted forward the better to look into his face. “I need to learn more—about it, about what feeds it. Enough to know why I feel as I do.” She searched his eyes. “What we discussed on the observation deck that day? You insist I must think, and weigh, and make a rational decision, yet I can’t make any decision on that subject at all—not until I know.” She gestured between them. “About this. About what it is, why I feel it. And that you feel the same. For the same reasons.”
He held her gaze, but his eyes, his face, were unreadable. A long moment passed, then he said, “I don’t have the answers.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
“Then why are you here?”
He knew. She could see him steeling himself to deny her. She wasn’t having that. Holding his gaze, she reached out and sank her fingers into his cravat. Clutched. Slowly drew him closer as she shifted forward.
She saw his summer blue eyes flare. She didn’t give him a chance to think of how to stop her. She dropped her gaze to his lips. “I’m here to learn those answers.”
Lids falling, she kissed him.
Brushed, stroked, pressed her lips to his, then parted them. Lured.
And he came. Reluctant, unwilling, but she’d expected that. Expected to have to take the lead in this, to make her demands plain. She did, boldly, her tongue touching his, tempting, caressing, until she felt his response. Tasted the hunger he tried so hard to hide.
Once she had, she knew there would be no turning back. Not for her, not in this, not tonight. She could see her goal mentally before her, burning bright. She wanted to explore his hunger. Wanted to learn of it, experience it, wallow in it.
Wanted to feel it devour her.
One hand remaining sunk in his cravat, she sent the other skating up to cup his nape, to hold him to the kiss that was steadily growing hotter, to the melding of their mouths that grew, heartbeat by heartbeat, more erotic.
More primitive, more provocative.
She wanted.
Him. This.
More.
Yet even as her body tensed and she tried to tip backward, taking him with her to the billows of his bed, she felt him holding back, hardened muscles all but quivering beneath iron restraint.
How to break it, rupture it?
How to conquer him?<
br />
She allowed their lips to part only enough to breathe, “If you want me in your future, don’t deny me now.” She kissed him again, harder, openly, brazenly challenging, then drew back just enough to meet his eyes. “I need to learn, and you’re the only one who can teach me.”
Their breaths mingled, laced with rising passion. Eyes locked on his, she spoke to the summer blue, to the heat that simmered behind it. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to learn from.” She dropped her gaze to his lips. “And I need to learn about you, about me, about us. About this. Now.”
She closed her lips on his, poured every ounce of need she felt into the kiss. Into him.
Gloried when he broke. When he shifted, when he effortlesslyseized control of the kiss, and his hands rose and closed about her shoulders.
The tenor of the kiss changed. From hungry to greedy to ravenous.
To an exchange so primitively evocative, so searing, it curled her toes.
She leaned back and he followed. Lips locked, she fell back on the bed and he shifted and followed her down, pressing her down, caging and holding her.
Every sense she possessed sang with delight at the promise implicit in the rock-hard body suspended over hers. Thrilled, expectant anticipation poured through her, heated her, excited her. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she poured all she felt into the kiss, pressed the heady mix on him.
Rafe groaned. Drew her in, drank her in, and reached for more.
Deny her? Had he really thought he could? He couldn’t find the strength to draw back from the kiss, to even mute it. Her demands, her wants, her encouragement combined into a potent elixir. He was addicted and couldn’t get enough.
He was lost. He knew it. He was hers to command. Tonight she’d discovered that.
She’d already learned that much.
And he couldn’t find it in him to deny her the rest. To let her see the rest. Explore the rest. Experience it.
Some primitive self he barely recognized wanted her with a passion beyond taming, a passion beyond reason, or civilized restraint.
A passion that burned in his gut, in his heart. That burned just for her, that only she could ignite.
The Reckless Bride Page 21