The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Where we’ll all meet again.” Loretta picked up the purse. She met Rafe’s eyes, then Hassan’s, then Rose’s. “At the Pelican Inn in Felixstowe.”

  By the time night fell, and they made their way to their respective cabins, Rose and Hassan to Hassan’s, with Rafe following Loretta through the stateroom to hers, the tension had escalated dramatically.

  They’d spent the last hours dicussing various aspects of what might come. Hearing of Loretta’s and Rose’s decision regarding what they would carry with them, Rafe and Hassan had elected to follow suit. They would leave their bags with Julius to send on, and would each carry a shoulder satchel, a visual suggestion that they were town-based messengers rather than travelers.

  Hearing Rafe shut her cabin door, Loretta reached up to pull the pins from her hair; her gaze landed on her trunks, packed and left ready against one wall. A sign of their impending departure, and of the dangerous times looming.

  Their journey along the rivers—their relatively slow passage up the Danube, the increasing pace as they’d come down the Rhine—had all been leading to this, to the rapids as they rushed into the last turbulent days of Rafe’s mission, as they raced into and through the gauntlet of opposition the Black Cobra would amass and hurl against them.

  Hardly surprising they were all on edge.

  That in each of them tension had racked to such a level that it transcended all artifice—stripped away all social veils and left reality revealed in a stark, harsh, uncompromising light.

  Left them unequivocally sure of what they wanted. What they needed.

  Of what was, in the end, important.

  Laying her pins on the bedside table, her hair a rippling veil over her shoulders and back, Loretta turned and saw Rafe shrugging off his coat.

  They hadn’t bothered lighting a lamp. Although diffused by the river fog, the moonlight was strong enough, yet the soft light left Rafe’s eyes and expression shadowed, poorly lit.

  She walked to him. Instantly felt his attention swing to her. Fix on her. Halting before him, she looked into his eyes, met the summer blue darkened with need.

  Holding her gaze, he shrugged off his waistcoat.

  She placed her palms on his chest, felt the latent heat. His gaze lowered to her lips. She pushed her hands up over his chest as she stepped nearer and he lowered his head.

  Stretched up and met his lips as they found hers.

  They kissed, and it was different. Direct, open, unflinchingly honest. No shields, no veils—no time to waste with either.

  Passion was a steady beat in their veins, desire a heat that never truly left them.

  Love a hunger neither wished any longer to deny.

  It swept up and filled them, a tangible force that caught them, commanded them. That made them burn.

  That had her wrapping her arms about his neck and clinging to the ravenous exchange while he pulled her tight against him, then sent his hands racing over her body, quickly, expertly divesting her of gown, petticoat, chemise—then she drew back and, with heat and that hunger a steady flame beneath her skin, returned the favor.

  Until their bodies touched, skin to naked skin. Until their hands claimed, possessed, until their senses reeled, filled with pleasure, with delight, with each other.

  Until their pulses pounded and hunger became a ravening compulsion that sank talons into them both.

  They fell on the bed in a tangle of driven limbs and slick, passion-dewed skin. He flicked the covers over them as urgency whipped, spread her thighs wide as passion ignited. Settled heavily between.

  His eyes locked with hers. From a distance of mere inches he held her gaze as their breaths mingled and their senses clamored.

  His body lay hot and heavy on hers. Hard, hair-dusted muscle and heavy bone held her pinned, captured, beneath him. Then his spine flexed.

  She caught her breath on a gasp, arched beneath him as with one long, smooth thrust, he joined them. Held his gaze, breathlessly clung to the steady blue flame of it as he withdrew and plunged in again. Deeper. Harder. She closed her arms about him as, cradled in his, she opened herself to him, as she raised her knees to grasp his flanks, and abandoned and wild, willful and certain, she gave herself to him and surrendered.

  To the glorious potent power that linked them.

  She drank it in. He settled to a relentless pounding rhythm of thrust and retreat and she rode with him. Lids falling, rocking to his beat, she stretched up and set her lips to his, offered her mouth and lured him to take, to lay claim and plunder.

  To sink his tongue into her softness to the same primitive, driving rhythm with which their bodies joined.

  Rafe locked his lips on hers, sank into the heady sweetness of her, the provocative lushness of her mouth, the scalding slickness of her sheath. And savored.

  Clung to the promise embodied in the act, the shatteringjoy of possessing such bounty freely offered, touched, clutched at both the wonder and the hope.

  The hope that having discovered this, recognized and claimed this, seized and acknowledged this, that having linked himself so irrevocably body and soul to her no earthly entity would ever be powerful enough to wrench them apart.

  Their climax roared down on them. Their senses expanded and it swept in and filled them, effortlessly caught them, harried and pushed them, rushed and whipped them up the highest of highest peaks, then wracked them and wrecked them.

  Shattered them, then succored them.

  Filled them with a glory so unutterably wondrous it sank to their souls.

  And left them floating in bliss, at peace.

  Left him slumped over her, holding her close, pressing his lips to her temple in wordless promise.

  Eventually, he lifted from her, and they settled to sleep, her head on his shoulder, one hand spread protectively over his heart, his arms around her, his cheek against her hair.

  He dropped one last kiss on the dark silk, then closed his eyes, one hope for the looming dangerous days a whisper in his mind.

  He hoped. He prayed. That fate protected lovers.

  That those who loved freely fate would shield under her wing.

  That hope was a distant memory when, with his hand locked around Loretta’s, Rafe stood on a deserted dock alongside Hassan and Rose and watched the Loreley Regina slip away.

  Fog closed around them, so dense that within just a few yards the boat was a mere ghost. A few yards more and it disappeared altogether.

  It was early evening, but the dock in one of Rotterdam’s trading basins was already silent, devoid of other life. The warehouses fronting it were all shut; the navvies had long ago trudged back to their homes in the narrow streets of the dockside quarter. The only sounds to reach the four of them were the distant echoing blare of a passing barge’s horn and the constant slap-slap of the river against the pylons. The area was weakly lit by the shrouded glow of lights on boats bobbing at the dock or anchored nearby; larger flares shone dim and hazy in the streets beyond.

  Rafe glanced at Loretta. Tendrils of fog curled around them both, icy fingers reaching beneath their cloaks. She shivered.

  He looked at Hassan, then held out his hand; his old friend gripped it. “Take care. And Godspeed.”

  Hassan nodded solemnly. “And you.” Their hands parted. “We will see you in Felixstowe.”

  Loretta and Rose embraced, hugged hard, then releasing Rose, Loretta tugged Hassan near and hugged him, too. “Be careful, both of you.”

  Releasing Hassan, she stepped back.

  Rafe gave Rose a quick hug. “Take care of him,” he whispered. “Don’t let him do anything daft.”

  “I won’t,” Rose whispered back. More loudly she said, “You just make sure you both make it to Felixstowe in one piece.”

  Rafe looked from her to Hassan, then gave a last nod, took Loretta’s hand, turned and walked away.

  At the end of the dock, he and Loretta paused and glanced back, but could see nothing but fog.

  He gripped her hand a touch more tight
ly. Met her eyes as she glanced his way. “The trick is not to worry about things you can do nothing about. From now until Felixstowe, it’s just you and me, and we need to concentrate on staying alive.”

  She regarded him for an instant, then, lips firming, nodded.

  Gripping his hand back, she turned to the street before them, and by his side, walked into Rotterdam.

  They found one of the taverns Julius had recommended. It was still early; the main room wasn’t crowded. Trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, Loretta allowed Rafe to settle her at a small table not far from the door, tucked back against the front wall. The table was beyond the circle of light thrown by the lamps suspended above the bar; they both clung to the shadows. A serving girl came and they ordered pies and ale. Loretta was quite keen to try the brew, but it proved so bitter she wrinkled her nose and, once Rafe had emptied his mug, swapped hers for his.

  He accepted the exchange with a look, but no comment. This wasn’t the sort of tavern in which one could order wine.

  By the time they’d finished their meal, the tavern had started filling. Rafe closed his hand over hers on the table, gently squeezed. “Stay here, and keep your eyes down. Stare into the empty mug, and don’t meet any man’s gaze. I need to speak with the barkeep.”

  She nodded. Grateful for the shadows, she raised her eyes just enough to track him as he made his way through the increasing press of bodies to the bar. He hailed the barkeep, asked for another mug of ale, then leaned on the bar and engaged the man in what appeared to be an open and animated conversation.

  Eventually, the barkeep nodded, then turned to attend to some other customer.

  Rafe made his way back to the table. Setting down his freshly filled mug, he reclaimed his seat.

  She leaned close, her shoulder brushing his. “What did you learn?”

  “That Julius and crew steered us well—according to the barkeep, at least three different English fishing captains are likely to drop by tonight. They’re regulars.” He sipped his ale, then met her eyes. “I don’t want to tell more people than necessary about our need to cross the Channel, let alone to where, so I told the barkeep that I was thinking of contracting for a specific supply of fish, and asked what he knew of the three captains, how experienced they were, what their vessels were like—whether they were solely fishermen or sometimes engaged in other trade.”

  He paused, then went on, “I chose the oldest—not that old, only middle-aged, but he runs his own small fleet and has never been known to engage in goods shipping, let alone passenger ferrying.”

  “So no one would expect one of his boats to be carrying passengers?”

  Eyes on his mug, he nodded. “The barkeep’s agreed to send the man my way when he arrives.”

  “So all we have to do is wait?”

  “Wait, and be patient.”

  Not so easy when their nerves leapt every time the door opened. Every time a chilly gust blew in, Loretta expected to see a mahogany face beneath a black-silk-encircled turban peering her way. The face pressed to the window of the Loreley Regina, dark eyes fanatically gleaming, remained in her mind.

  An hour ticked past. Only the steady pressure of Rafe’s hand on hers allowed her to bear it without shifting, standing, doing something that would draw attention their way. But if he could sit slouched in the shadows, so still he seemed barely sentient, she could do her part.

  Eventually, he shifted, straightening in his seat. “Here he comes.”

  A grizzled, rather stern-looking man wearing a captain’s cap shouldered through the now dense crowd. He halted before their table, a brimming ale mug in one hand. He nodded to Rafe, then his gaze shifted to her.

  Forgetting Rafe’s instructions, she met the man’s gaze—saw a frown slowly form in his deep-set eyes, remembered and looked down.

  Rafe stirred, drawing the man’s attention. “You’re Johnson?”

  The man met his gaze, then slowly nodded. “Aye. Walthar at the bar said you wanted to speak to me about some fish.”

  Rafe swiftly assessed all he could see in the man’s face, all he could read in his expression and his stance. The risk seemed worth taking. “That’s what I told Walthar. However"—with his boot, he pushed out a chair he’d kept by their table—"if you’re a loyal Englishman, I’d ask you to sit down, listen to my tale, and see if you can help me with what I really need.”

  Johnson considered him for a long moment, then, moving with slow deliberation, he set down his ale mug, drew out the chair, set it down opposite Rafe, and sat.

  Folding his arms on the table, leaning on them, he met Rafe’s eyes. “I was in the navy for ten years—got out in ‘13. Went back with my own boat in ‘15 to assist with getting the troops to Waterloo. I was in the thick of it at Corunna, way back then.” He eyed Rafe, then raised his mug. “You?”

  “I was there—both at Corunna, and at Waterloo.”

  Johnson sipped, nodded. “You’ve the look of a cavalry man. Guards, was it?”

  When Rafe nodded, Johnson pursed his lips, then set down his mug. “So. What’s landed you here—and what can I do for you?”

  Rafe told him, in sufficient detail for Johnson to grasp the importance of his mission, the danger posed by the Black Cobra cult and its members, and the urgency of his and Loretta’s situation.

  His reading of Johnson proved sound. When he heard of Loretta’s involvement, he sent her a look part awe, part disapproval, part pending paternal protectiveness. But he made no comment. He listened until Rafe fell silent. Then he stared at the table for some minutes, before fixing Rafe with a direct look. “How do I know any of this is true?”

  Rafe pushed aside his cloak, enough to expose the hilt of his saber. Johnson saw, clearly recognized the style of weapon. “Aside from that,” Rafe said, “what possible benefit to me could there be in fabricating such a tale?”

  Johnson grimaced. “There is that.” He drained his glass, set it down with a clack. “Right, then—so how can I help?’

  “We need to get to Felixstowe as quietly as we can, by the evening of the twenty-first at the latest. Can you get us there?”

  Johnson’s gaze flicked Loretta’s way. “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes. Just us. Our party had to split up to avoid detection by the cult.”

  Johnson nodded. “My son—he’s captaining my ship through the winter months—mentioned he’d heard something about foreigners offering large sums for boats, captains, and crews willing to sail under their orders up and down the coast.” Johnson snorted. “Told him I wasn’t interested in taking orders from anyone, much less foreigners. He agreed, but said others had taken the money.” Johnson shrugged. “Understandable—it’s lean pickings for some this time of year.”

  “Those will very likely be the boats we’ll need to avoid.”

  “Aye, well, most on both coasts know my boats—know I deal in nothing but fish. With luck, my boy will get you into Felixstowe in good order.”

  “How soon can we leave?”

  “Ah.” Johnson tugged at his earlobe. “Won’t be tonight, nor yet tomorrow—my boats, along with the rest of the Felixstowe fleet, are in the Channel at present. They’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, but with the tides as they are there’s no way you’ll get a boat out—mine or anyone else’s—until the early tide day after tomorrow.”

  “The twenty-first,” Rafe said.

  “Aye. But if you take that tide, in the small hours it’ll be, you’ll be in Felixstowe before nightfall.”

  Rafe grimaced, but nodded. “That’s all we need. Where and when should we meet you tomorrow?”

  Johnson raised his brows. “Here? The dock I use isn’t far. How about at this time, or so? My boy and I’ll be here, having a drink. We can meet with you, then all leave together.”

  “An excellent plan.” Rafe drained his glass, set it down, and reached for his purse. “Now, what do you usually make from the fish you take in a day?”

  Johnson shook his head. “No need for coin. I�
�ll do it—well, have Ned take you—on the strength of your story.”

  But Rafe insisted, and when Johnson reluctantly named a price, counted out and pushed across double the amount. “You may feel you owe the country, but you don’t owe our cause your son, or your boat, and it will be dangerous.”

  Johnson stared at the coins, then shook his head resignedly and took them. “I can’t say it’ll go amiss, but the boy—he’ll be thrilled to see action. Too young for Waterloo, he was, but he’s always had a hankering for getting involved in some derring-do.”

  Rafe met Johnson’s eyes. “No need to tell Ned, but I’m sure you’ll understand when I hope that our journey will prove entirely uneventful.” He reached for Johnson’s mug. “Let me get you another ale, and we can drink to that, then"—he glanced at Loretta as he rose—"it’ll be time to retire to our lodgings.”

  Loretta smiled up at him, then gave her attention to charming Johnson while Rafe went to the bar.

  “I thought you said we were going to find lodgings? Well, you said ‘retire to our lodgings,’ but I assumed that’s what you meant.” After trudging down innumerable cobbled streets while clinging to Rafe’s arm and doing her best to imitate how she imagined a woman of the docks might behave, Loretta couldn’t keep a certain waspishness from her tone.

  “I thought the same, until we passed the first pair of cultists and I realized that they’re no doubt keeping a close watch on all hotels or inns, and seeking a room above a tavern might well be even riskier.” Not least because drawing attention to her was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Sighting danger ahead, Rafe smoothly drew Loretta to him, ducked his head as he backed her into the alcove before a darkened doorway. Kissed her lustily, pressed her to respond.

  He heard footsteps at his back draw near, pause … he tickled Loretta and made her squirm, the strangled sounds that escaped their fused lips thoroughly misleading. For good measure, through her cloak and skirts he gripped her bottom and squeezed, openly kneaded.