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

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 p
alm 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.