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

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 decr
ee—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.”