The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 th
e 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.”