The startled coachman halted his horses, scrambled down from his box, and took cover—bobbing up by the side of the carriage to explain to his master what was happening.
After checking that all was clear in the other direction, Logan looked back and called orders to the huddled footmen; they nodded in reply.
Then Logan eased forward, inching to the edge of the box seat, then crouching to aim his rifle—at what neither Linnet nor the doorman could see.
“This is outrageous,” the doorman huffed. “Such things simply don’t happen at The York House. Not anywhere in Bath!”
Linnet struggled not to let her lips curve. “Sadly, they are. Take heart—no one ever died of a little excitement, and your man”—she tipped her head toward the injured footman—“isn’t badly hurt. Now step aside—I think you’re about to get the rest of your footmen back.”
Logan fired his rifle, then Charles took his shot, too.
In a group, the footmen raced across the pavement and in through the door as Deverell fired out of one of the carriage windows.
Logan and Charles were already tossing their spent rifles back into the carriage; they stepped back with pistols and swords. Deverell emerged, and then the three, all armed to the teeth, separated—Charles and Deverell going around the back of the carriage, then racing, doubled over, across the street. Logan glanced at Linnet, signaled that he was going to circle the cultists’ position—presumably to ensure the enemy had fled.
No more arrows had come slicing down since they’d discharged their rifles.
Linnet nodded, waited, saw Logan race across the street, then, hugging the shadows thrown by the shop fronts, ghost away, out of her sight. Inwardly sighing, she turned and took up the role they’d left her. Tugging off her gloves, she swept up to the heavy desk behind which the manager, somewhat goggle-eyed, stood. She vaguely recalled Deverell saying their rooms had been arranged. “I believe, if you consult your register, that you’ll find a booking in the name of Wolverstone.”
The name worked wonders. Within minutes, she was ushered into one of the hotel’s principal suites.
Luxurious, even opulent in its decoration, the suite had two bedrooms giving off a central sitting room; she claimed the bedroom to the left, leaving the other for the men, but when a footman carried Logan’s bag into the room she’d chosen, she didn’t protest.
Inwardly grimaced; there was no point.
Trailing after the footman, she was in time to stop the maid from unpacking Logan’s bag; the scroll-holder was in it. She felt obliged to allow the maid to unpack her gowns and hang them up instead.
When the maid eagerly asked which gown she should leave out for dinner, Linnet arbitrarily picked one of the evening gowns—one in green silk. The question had reminded her that someone needed to order the meal.
She had little experience in choosing menus—Muriel normally handled such matters—but she had the happy thought to consult the maitre d’hotel, and he was both delighted to have been asked and solicitous in arranging an appropriate repast.
That done, she oversaw the disposition of the men’s weapons, then summoned David up to report, confirmed he was unharmed and well-quartered—and insouciantly thrilled by the action—then she settled to pace—only to have a succession of the hotel’s staff tap on the door to offer this, that, and the other.
By the time her three companions walked through the door, she’d been driven to the edge of distraction by the maids’ offers and by an unaccustomed, yet very real, nagging worry—one that evaporated the instant Logan walked in and her eyes confirmed he was unharmed.
That he looked faintly disgusted was neither here nor there.
Dropping into an armchair, Charles explained the disgust. “They’d fled.”
Arms folded, she looked down at him, then at the other two. Then she turned on her heel and headed for her room. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I’m going to change.”
In these surroundings, even in this company, she felt obliged to play the part of lady, no matter how ill she fitted the role.
The dinner was superb, and served with a smooth, silent efficiency that allowed them to concentrate first on the dishes, then, once the cheese platter arrived and the servers withdrew, on their plans.
“I don’t think there were more than four archers pinning us down out there.” With a tilt of his head, Deverell indicated the front of the hotel. “As there’s bound to be more cultists than that around, I think we can conclude that they reached Bath before us, but then set up ambushes at all the major hotels—there’s not so many of those to cover in Bath.”
Logan nodded. “I think our diversion near Star worked more or less as we’d planned, and by the time they reached here, not knowing we’d been held up, they assumed we were already in residence. Those archers were posted to pick us off if we showed our faces outside. That’s why they were in that position—perfect for when we walked out onto the pavement, but not so ideal when we rolled up in a carriage to go in.”
Charles nodded. “Tomorrow we have an easier day—only about sixty miles in all, along larger, well-surfaced, well-populated roads.” He looked at Logan. “Any insights into what they’re likely to do?”
“This hotel is too solid, too secure, and has too many people in it to attack. They won’t have time to organize anything complicated, like hiring someone local to break into these rooms.” Logan paused, then went on, “I’ve been thinking that our presence here must be causing the cult members stationed in this region some consternation. It’s reasonable to expect that all the cultists in England know by now that three couriers have landed, but there’s one more yet to come. They don’t know where Rafe is going to land, so they have to continue their watch at all the ports. Which means our group currently here—mostly drawn from Bristol—cannot afford to follow us on. They may leave a few to track us—to see where we go and later alert some other group further on, mostly likely much closer to Elveden—but the majority will have to return, might already have returned, to Bristol.”
“That’s a fair assumption,” Deverell said. “It suggests we won’t face an attack tomorrow as we set out.”
Logan considered it. “Only if we try to leave very early, before there are others about. The Bristol contingent might dally long enough to see if we try to set out before dawn again, hoping to mount an attack outside town, but if we leave later, with other travelers around, I can’t see them trying anything.”
Deverell exchanged a glance with Charles. “No need to leave early.”
“Indeed not.” Charles sighed. “Let’s set our departure for midmorning. Say ten o’clock. We’ll still make Oxford by four o’clock at the latest. And while I would prefer to go hunting tonight, to see if we can locate and eliminate the Bristol group, such an act would make it too obvious the paper we’re ferrying is a decoy. We reduce their numbers every chance we get, but we have to wait for them to come to us.”
His tone made it clear that wasn’t his accustomed modus operandi. Deverell, too, grimaced resignedly.
Logan eyed the pair of them and shook his head. “Wolverstone’s orders made it clear we must behave as if I have the original letter.”
“I know.” Charles sighed. “I can see his point, but letting murderous cultists slip away unchastized goes painfully against my grain.”
Logan’s lips twisted wryly. “The cultists won’t use firearms, so we’re safe from that, unless they hire locals, which it’s possible they might do. And if you find yourself facing a cultist with a blade in each hand, he’ll be an assassin, so expect the unexpected. They fight to the death, to win any way they can.”
“Speaking of the unexpected,” Deverell said, “should we set watches?”
Logan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve learned never to trust logic when it comes to the cult.”
Used to rising before dawn, Linnet claimed the early morning watch, then said her good nights and headed for her room.
Suddenly weary, she stripped, put
on the nightgown the attentive—frankly awestruck—little maid had left out for her, then slumped into the bed and tugged the sheets over her shoulder.
She was half asleep when the bed bowed and Logan joined her beneath the piled covers. She’d turned to the side of the bed, her back to him; he slid near, hard and warm, and spooned around her.
Through her slumberous haze, she sensed him looking down at her, studying her face. Then he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.
“Are you all right? You seem very . . . worn out.”
Not physically, yet since he’d returned with the others, Logan had noted a certain underlying tension, a sense that underneath her competent calm, she was irritated, annoyed . . . bothered over something.
Wrapping one hand over her hip, he leaned closer, brushed his lips across her ear. “I’m sorry if the clashes today bothered you. You can’t have killed that many men before—it can be unsettling.”
She snorted, opened her eyes, and shot him a glare, one he felt even through the shadows. “Don’t be daft. They’re trying to kill us—their deaths are on their heads. That isn’t what’s worn me out.” She narrowed her eyes on his. “And don’t you dare try to leave me out of anything just because you think I’m about to turn into some sort of hysterical female.”
He didn’t; he’d suggested the excuse so he could ask, “What is bothering you, then?”
Her lips thinned. Narrow-eyed, she regarded him, then turned and settled her head back down, facing away. “If you must know, it’s pretending to be a lady that’s driving me demented. Having to watch what I say, what I do, how I behave—and now these sweet innocents have decided I’m some sort of heroine, and I’m not. That’s not me .” She huffed, then in an even lower tone went on, “And on top of that, they all think I’m your wife. Even Charles and Deverell have fallen into the habit of it, so even with them I feel I have to play the role, fit into some mold that’s not me. Frankly, it’s giving me a headache.”
He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he slid down in the bed, laid his head behind hers, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close. Held her. “You don’t understand—you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. The woman I want as my wife is the woman you are—Linnet Trevission, captain and all. And the staff here—the lady they now revere is the lady who, without a thought for her own safety, saved one of them. They don’t care what else you are, what other traits you have—it’s what they saw in that instant, the real you, that has stirred their loyalty.” He paused, stared at the back of her head. “You, as you are, inspire loyalty in a lot of people.”
Him included; he hoped she knew that.
She’d left her hair up. With his cheek, he brushed tendrils of flame from her nape and pressed a soft kiss there. “You, as you are, are the perfect wife for me in every way.”
She wriggled, settling deeper within his arms, but all she said was, “Shush. Go to sleep. You have to get up for your watch in two hours.”
Within minutes, she’d relaxed; her breathing slowed, evened out.
He listened to the sound, comforted by it, yet oddly uncertain. A touch uneasy, just a little concerned.
He wasn’t sure what the problem was—not even if there was a problem at all. If she was wrestling with the mantle of being his wife . . . that was good, wasn’t it?
Sleep claimed him before he could decide.
Fourteen
December 19, 1822
The York House, Bath
A t precisely ten o’clock the following morning, Logan followed Linnet out of the hotel, struggling not to grin as the staff, the patriarchal doorman included, bowed, scraped, and positively fawned as if she were royalty.
She’d exchanged her red traveling gown for a severe dark blue carriage gown Penny must have lent her. With her hair up, a red-gold coronet, she looked every inch a reincarnation of the original virgin queen. At times she had an uncannily regal air; he wasn’t sure she even knew it.
She carried her cloak over her arm. Only he knew the folds concealed her cutlass. She tossed both into the carriage, turned and thanked the staff for their attentiveness, then climbed up.
He caught a glimpse of her boots as she did—her privateer boots, the knee-high ones she’d worn aboard ship. The sight of her in nothing more than a chemise and those boots, striding about the room that morning, the faint light of a candle flickering over her as she’d prepared to take her turn at watch in the sitting room, had ensured he’d got no more sleep.
With a nod for the doorman, he followed her into the carriage. Settling on the seat beside her, he found her hand, linked his fingers with hers, gently squeezed. He caught her gaze as she looked at him, under cover of the others stowing their bags, murmured, “You are what you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear, whether you do something this way or that. Whether you embroider brilliantly, or raise donkeys instead. Regardless, people see you for the lady you are.” Raising their linked hands, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You never pretend, or prevaricate about yourself—and that’s good, not bad. That’s reassuring and comforting. That’s strong. That’s why people are drawn to you.” Lowering his voice, he touched his lips again to her fingers, smiled. “That’s why I adore you.”
Linnet stared into his eyes, mesmerizing midnight eyes, then rapidly blinked, looked away as the others climbed in.
Damn man—impossible man. He actually understood.
In her heart of hearts, she could admit that her one private vulnerability, a weakness she did her best to hide, was her uncertainty over how others, those in the wider world, saw her. She’d grown up a ship’s brat, but outside her domain she had to be a lady. She had none of the right training; when outside her world, she was never confident of meeting the standards of behavior her station demanded.
Within her own world, she knew who and what she was, knew why she was that way, knew her strengths and weaknesses, and was always utterly confident.
Out of her domain, the uncertainty lingered. And she hated, hated , feeling uncertain.
And somehow, he understood.
That unsettled her more than the rest.
She stared steadfastly out of the window as the carriage rolled unchallenged out of Bath and headed at a spanking pace toward Swindon and Oxford beyond.
As the gray miles and the louring skies passed uneventfully by, her inner turmoil subsided. A large part of the reason she found Logan, his understanding and his comfort—that freely offered, never pushed on her, simply there, at the right time and in the right way, comfort—so unnerving was that she was always the strong one, the one who comforted others, the one others turned to for strength and support. That was her role; it always had been.
Only Muriel guessed that sometimes she needed comfort, needed strength and support. And Muriel only saw because she cared. . . .
But now Logan had seen, because he cared, too. Cared enough to look beneath her surface.
She didn’t pretend, was no good at lying, but she did hide her uncertainties, her weaknesses, well. Yet he saw because he looked with the eyes of one who cared.
She dragged in a breath, held it.
He cared. And she loved him.
Not even because he cared—that was the silliness of love in all its glory. She loved him regardless of anything and everything—the impossible man who’d washed up in her cove, woken up in her bed, and changed her life.
He made her want the impossible, too.
She loved him. She was only now learning what that meant, yet given how she’d felt when she’d seen him attacked, when cultists had swung swords at him intending to kill, there was no point avoiding that inescapable conclusion—it was set in stone.
Engraved on her virgin queen’s heart.
She had to face it, because now she had to deal with it. . . .
No, not now. Later.
After.
Yes, after. With a firm mental nod, she made that her resolution; she wouldn’t think any more about him, her,
and any potential future until his mission was over and complete.
The uneventful day was no help.
As Charles had noted, the route they took was no minor road, but a well-traveled highway. They passed through Chippenham, Lyneham, and Wootton Basset; by the time they stopped for lunch at a busy coaching inn in Swindon’s main street, they were all bored beyond bearing.
However, when they paused in the busy inn yard and looked around, they spotted a number of black-scarf-encircled heads. “Three at least.” Taking her elbow, Logan steered her toward the inn door. “Could be more—difficult to tell with the crowd.”
Over luncheon in a private parlor, the men spread out the map again and pored over it, teasing themselves with the prospect that perhaps an ambush might lie ahead. Eventually, however, the consensus was no. Not today. The road to Oxford was too open, too clear of useful geographical obstacles, too busy—and, as Logan pointed out, too damned far from any port.
If anything, the lack of action preyed even more heavily on Charles and Deverell; both seemed positively itching to be out and doing. Logan wasn’t surprised when they decided to play spy again—to hire horses and circle around to follow their pursuers.
“At least we’ll get a better idea of their numbers,” Charles said.
Logan would have liked nothing better than to be on horseback again, out in the fresh air, even if it carried an arctic chill. But Linnet would remain in the carriage—anything else was too problematical—and he felt compelled to stay by her side.
If by any chance their assumptions proved incorrect and an attack was mounted on the carriage, he would need to be there to defend and protect her; any other option was untenable.
With horses arranged, Charles and Deverell set out, intending to find a spot from which to watch the carriage go by, then slip behind any cultists following. Fifteen minutes later, Logan ushered Linnet back into the carriage, and they set out once more.
As predicted, they rolled briskly on through the gloomy afternoon, through Faringdon and on toward Oxford, without challenge. Without sighting any cultists, much less Charles and Deverell.
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