After several miles had rolled by in silence, Linnet stirred and glanced at him. “Penny for your thoughts.”
He met her eyes briefly, then admitted, “I was thinking of the others—my three comrades-in-arms.”
When he said nothing more, she prompted, “What of them?”
He hesitated, yet if they were to be man and wife . . . he drew in a breath, said, “Del’s made it through, at least to Somersham Place, and Gareth’s in Boulogne, possibly already in England. But no one’s heard anything about Rafe . . . and of us all, he’s the most risk-loving, the most devil-may-care.” He glanced at her. “His nickname is Reckless, but more than that, he was the closest to James.”
She searched his eyes. “The one who died?”
He nodded. “We all thought of James as our junior, but to Rafe he was more like a younger brother. James’s death hit him the hardest.”
“You’re worried about him—Rafe?”
Logan half grimaced, half smiled. “You’ll understand when you meet him, but all of us—Del, Gareth, and I—will be worrying about Rafe until we lay eyes on him again.”
Somewhat to his relief, she nodded and fell silent again, and he didn’t have to explain that part of his worry was that he didn’t want to face losing another close friend, most especially not to the Black Cobra.
With all prospect of them seeing action of any sort fading with the chill winter light, Linnet found it increasingly difficult to cling to her resolution. No matter that trying to think logically about Logan with him sitting alongside her, one of his hands engulfing one of hers, his solid presence, his elemental masculine warmth constantly impinging on her senses, was a near impossible task, the impulse was a constant temptation.
In the end, she gave up, gave in. Shut her senses to his nearness as best she could, and in light of all she’d learned and now felt, tried to evaluate the pros and cons of marrying him. Until then, she’d been thinking of their marriage on a purely practical plane—how would it work?—but perhaps, with them, there were other aspects to consider. Possibly more important aspects.
She wanted him, and that in itself was unexpected. She’d never wanted any other man, yet she wanted him, yearned to keep him by her side, and not just for the obvious physical benefits. Lust played a part in her want, but it was by no means the sum of it. The prospect of having a strong, reliable, honorable man, one willing to stand at her back or by her shoulder rather than in front of her, to help in whatever way she needed—with the estate, with her wards as they grew older—was temptation beyond measure.
Companionship of a kind she’d never had, enough to banish the loneliness of her private life. A man who understood her better than even her father had—he’d appreciated her wildness, her love of challenges, her adventuring soul, but he hadn’t understood her compulsion to nurture, to grow, to protect on the emotional plane as well as the physical.
Above all, a man she could trust. With her life, with the lives of those she cared about.
Logan encompassed all of that, seemed to grasp all of that—all of her. With him, she might even have a child of her own, a fundamental want she’d buried deep for so many years it ought to have died, but instead, now he was there, now the prospect dangled before her, she’d discovered that want had with the years only grown stronger. More intense, more compelling.
Logan offered her all the critical elements of a relationship, of a love she’d years ago resigned herself to doing without.
A heady temptation, a visceral yearning.
Yet against that stood her reservations. Her lingering fear, no matter what anyone said, of not being a socially appropriate wife for him. Of not being able to measure up, to manage in the ways society, and eventually he, too, would expect. He’d told her she was what he wanted, had assured her those other requirements didn’t matter, but she was not yet convinced. But that was the more minor hurdle.
The major hurdle, the one she could see no simple way around, was the necessity for her to live with him, in Glenluce, Scotland. That was the way things generally happened, yet her leaving Mon Coeur would be close to impossible; she honestly didn’t think she could.
He was an earl’s son—he would have links, deep links, with land, with an estate somewhere; he was that sort of man. The responsibility she’d seen in him would have to have had some cornerstone, some wellspring—some place that mattered fundamentally to him. His home.
But she couldn’t leave hers and share his. And despite him wanting to marry her, she couldn’t see the man she knew him to be cutting ties with his home, happily turning his back on it to come and live with her at Mon Coeur.
One element in life, above all others, mattered to people like him and her—place, roots, home. Regardless of how much he wanted her, she couldn’t see that want being sufficient to trump his need of his home.
Blinking, she refocused on the gray day outside, felt the numbing dullness sink to her bones.
The carriage rumbled on.
Eventually the spires of Oxford appeared, rising above the mottled brown of skeletal trees.
She stirred, and remembered her earlier conclusion, that whatever he gave her, she would take. That for however long their liaison lasted, she would give herself to it, give to him as he gave to her, take all she could and store up the memories until, with the end of his mission, he would realize the difficulties, face the insurmountable hurdle she’d already seen, and, with regret perhaps, yet regardless, he would agree that they should part.
That earlier course still seemed the wisest.
The carriage wheels hit cobbles.
Releasing her hand, Logan glanced out, then stretched. Relaxing again, he scanned the buildings and pavements as David guided the carriage to the hotel Wolverstone had nominated, the University Arms, one of the older, well-established hotels in Oxford High Street. “No sign of any cultists thus far. I can’t see any reason Ferrar would have sent men to Oxford, so presumably the only ones here will be those following us.”
He glanced at Linnet. He’d thought he’d made a fair stab at easing her concerns that morning, but she’d been so quiet . . . then again, so had he. An old soldier’s habit, a suspension of mind and thought while on a march with no enemy in sight.
She met his eyes, yet he couldn’t read her mood. Then the carriage rocked to a halt, and her lips wryly curved. “So we should be safe enough going inside—no hail of arrows likely.”
“Thank God.” Reaching for the door, he opened it and stepped down. After a quick glance confirming there were no cultists lurking, he moved aside and offered Linnet his hand.
He helped her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smoothly escorted her inside.
As before, a suite had been bespoken. As he followed Linnet up the stairs, Logan wondered how the other two had fared.
E qually uneventfully, as it transpired.
“There are eight of them. They’re taking it in turns, four at a time, to keep the carriage in view.” Charles speared a slice of roast beef from the dish on the table. He and Deverell hadn’t turned up until night had fallen. They’d walked into the suite half an hour ago, but chilled and damp, they’d gone to their room to wash and change before joining Logan and Linnet for dinner.
The servers had placed the silver dishes on the table, seen to all their needs, then withdrawn, leaving them free to speak without restraint.
“We followed them from just outside Swindon.” Deverell shook his head. “The four on duty did nothing but plod along in your wake, a good distance back. All they wanted was to keep you in sight.”
“When you stopped here, they halted at the corner.” Charles tipped his head toward the Swindon end of the street. “They watched you go in, saw the bags taken in, then two of them left to get rooms at the tavern back down the street, leaving the other two to watch this place.”
“We considered removing them permanently, but”—Deverell reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, placed it on the table, t
apped it with his finger—“we knew Royce’s latest orders would be waiting for us here. It was possible he might want us to lead them further on, or that it might prove prudent to give them no hint that we’re aware they’re following us.”
Logan nodded at the missive. “Have you read it?”
“Just glanced at it. There’s news that’ll make more sense to you than me.” Deverell nudged the packet Logan’s way. “Read and explain.”
Logan picked up the packet, unfolded the stiff sheets. Scanned them. “He’s given us the news first. Delborough reached the Cynsters at Somersham Place on the fifteenth, managing to reduce cult numbers by fourteen between London and Somersham. Now he and the Cynsters are planning to spring a trap on Ferrar, or at least his man Larkins, at Ely”—he glanced at the date at the head of the letter—“Wolverstone says tomorrow, but this was written yesterday, so that must mean today. After said trap is sprung, Del and Devil are under orders to transport whoever they catch to Elveden.”
Charles looked up. “So it’s possible Ferrar’s already been caught?”
Logan shook his head. “I’d be shocked were that so. Ferrar’s been too clever and cautious for years to suddenly fall into some trap. I can’t see that happening.”
“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Deverell said. “Royce would send word hotfoot if they succeeded, because our mission’s objectives would then change.”
“What of your other friends?’ Linnet asked.
Logan refocused on the bold, black script. “Gareth made it safely to Dover and is heading north today. He’s expected at Elveden by tomorrow evening. At this point they’re not sure what might come of his foray, but he and his party are expected to be at Chelmsford tonight with cultists in tow.”
“That sounds familiar,” Charles quipped.
“The locations are interesting.” Deverell set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate. “Elveden is just southeast of Thetford, about ten miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, and roughly thirty miles east of Somersham Place. And between Somersham Place and Elveden lies Newmarket, where Demon Cynster and friends hold sway. So there’s a line of sorts, west to east, between Somersham Place and Elveden, where Royce has a lot of troops, as it were. He’s brought Delborough north from London to Somersham, removing cultists along the way—clearing the west flank. Now he’s bringing Hamilton north from Chelmsford to Elveden—clearing the east flank. Now we’re coming in from the west . . .” Deverell broke off, patting his pockets. “Where’s that map?”
“You left it with us.” Linnet rose and went to fetch it from her room.
Returning, she discovered the three men shifting the dishes and platters to the sideboard, clearing the table. Obligingly she unfolded the map and spread it out. They all retook their seats.
Deverell, a certain eagerness infusing tone and expression, traced the routes Delborough had taken, and Gareth Hamilton was taking, to Elveden.
“And now”—Deverell nodded at their orders—“Royce wants us to make for Bedford. Ferrar will have to deal with Hamilton tomorrow, or risk the scroll-holder he’s carrying getting through, so the Cobra’s attention is going to be fixed to the east while we’re closing in from the west.”
Charles was nodding. “Which suggests we shouldn’t run into any substantial opposition tomorrow. The next day, however . . .” He grinned wolfishly. “Royce really is a master at planning. Ferrar will be crossing and recrossing Royce’s chosen battlefield, back and forth, east to west to east, rushing to stop first Delborough, then Hamilton, then us.”
Logan frowned. “Why is pushing Ferrar so important?”
Charles and Deverell looked at him, then Deverell smiled. “Sorry—I’d forgotten you’ve never run in Royce’s harness before.” He nodded at the map. “From what we’ve put together, it’s certain Royce was never intending to rely on your letter—about crimes committed in faraway India—to prosecute Ferrar, not if he could help it. Make no mistake—if Ferrar doesn’t stumble, Royce will make the best he can of your proof, but how much more convincing if instead he, or one or more of us, captures Ferrar committing some nefarious deed here, on English soil, under straightforward English law?”
Logan’s expression was a study in revelation. He waved at the map. “So all of this is really designed to force Ferrar into acting, tripping, and getting caught?”
“Exactly.” Charles tapped the map. “And following that logic, I’d say it’s certain that Delborough and Hamilton, like you, are carrying decoy letters. The original will come in last—with Carstairs.”
Logan studied the map with new interest. “So where will Rafe land?”
Deverell pulled a face. “If Ferrar isn’t caught tomorrow, then he’ll have to rush west again to stop us getting through from Bedford to Elveden, but any engagement to halt us is most likely to occur between Cambridge and Elveden, somewhere on the Cynsters’ patch.” Deverell considered the map, then volunteered, “For my money, Royce will have Carstairs come in at one of the eastern ports—Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Felixstowe or Harwich.”
“So Ferrar will have to hie east again . . . unless we catch him.” Linnet looked at the men.
“True,” Charles said. “But the thing with Royce is you never can tell. For all anyone knows, he might already have Carstairs safe and sound at Kings Lynn, just waiting for the right moment to head south.”
Deverell nodded. “Will Royce play a bluff, or a double bluff? There’s no way to predict which way he’ll jump, or what he has planned.”
After a moment, Logan raised Wolverstone’s missive again, turned a page. “There’s more. Our orders. We’re to proceed to Bedford tomorrow, where further orders will reach us at the Swan Hotel. He—Wolverstone—doesn’t expect us to encounter any serious opposition tomorrow, but he warns we should be prepared for a major ambush the next day. He suggests we leave early and try to ensure any action occurs beyond Cambridge. The Cynsters will be holding themselves ready to assist from the environs of Cambridge on.”
Charles nodded. “Just as we thought.”
Logan laid down Wolverstone’s letter, stared at the map. After a moment, he said, “There’s just one thing. I’ve learned the hard way never to trust the Black Cobra. Royce is assuming Ferrar needs to be present to direct any major action, and while I admit I’ve never known cultists to act independently of some higher command—presumably Ferrar—in all the months we spent in the field fighting them, none of us caught so much as a whiff of Ferrar himself.”
“That suggests”—Linnet continued his deduction—“that Ferrar has henchmen he can trust—some at least—to direct others in the field, so he can give orders and have them carried out even if he isn’t there. So it’s possible he might already have put plans in place for dealing with us—not us specifically, but any courier coming in from this direction.”
Logan nodded, met Deverell’s eyes. “We have eight men following us—doing nothing but following us. It’s plain there’s an ambush up ahead somewhere, but where? Will it be this side of Bedford, or this side of Cambridge? If I were Ferrar, I wouldn’t want it to be later. And even though Del and company reduced his numbers in this area by fourteen, Ferrar has many more men than that.”
“On the ships we incapacitated,” Linnet said, “there were at least thirty cultists, and most of them would have survived.”
“Put yourself in Ferrar’s shoes.” Logan looked at Charles and Deverell. “He now knows, or at least suspects, that the couriers are all heading toward Elveden, that area at least. He knows he’s facing couriers coming from the south and southeast, and that chances are one will come from the west. He has unlimited men.” He waved at the map. “If you were he, where would you station a body of men to stop a courier from the west?”
Both Charles and Deverell looked at the map, then Deverell pointed. “Somewhere here— west of Cambridge.”
Charles nodded. “You’re right. They won’t stop us tomorrow, not before Bedford. It’s only once we leave there that we become an a
ctive threat—on our last day of travel to Elveden. He doesn’t want us to reach Elveden, so he’ll step in and stop us decisively— before Cambridge.” Leaning his forearms on the table, he frowned at the map. “But Royce wants us to avoid them until after Cambridge.”
“That’s not my primary concern.” When the others all looked at him, Logan said, “As you noted, Ferrar will have only one aim—to stop us, crush us, before we reach Cambridge. The group he’ll have left to accomplish that will be large. He’ll have set it up along his usual pattern—massive numbers to smother the opposition and so be certain, absolutely certain, of victory.” He met Deverell’s gaze, then glanced at Charles. “As experienced as we are, we cannot face a force like that and win, not before we make contact with the Cynsters.”
Charles pulled a face, looked down at the map.
Long moments passed as the four of them studied the predicament they faced. “Even if we remove those eight cultists tonight . . .” Deverell grimaced. “Unlikely we can, not without risking our lives prematurely.”
Charles nodded. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We can’t take out all eight at once.”
Her eyes on the map, Linnet leaned forward. “We don’t need to. Tomorrow, all we need to do is remove the four keeping us in sight.”
Deverell frowned. “The other four will simply take their place.”
“Not if they don’t know which way we’ve gone, or where we plan to spend tomorrow night.” Linnet looked at Logan, then at the other two. “They can be reasonably certain we’re heading to or past Cambridge, but they can’t know we’re going via Bedford.” She placed her finger on the map. “We’re here, at Oxford. Eventually, we need to pass here—Cambridge or just south of it. As you said, that’s where they’ll have stationed their main body of men. But we need to spend one night on the road between here and there—we could be planning to halt at Stevenage, Luton, Dunstable, Letchworth, Baldock, Hitchin, or any number of smaller towns. They don’t know which, and they can’t tell—which is why we have eight men just following us. They want to make absolutely certain they know where we’ll be, and, most importantly, which road we’ll be taking to Cambridge.”
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