The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”

  They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.

  While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him—the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.

  Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.

  In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons—the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”

  Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.

  “Tomorrow, we will triumph—we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place—into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”

  Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action—from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze—Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”

  Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”

  12th December, 1822

  Morning

  My room at the Perrots’ auberge

  Dear Diary,

  I do not know how it is that quietness and calmness and nothing happening can feel so threatening. But so it is. There is a sense of some great disaster hanging over us, just waiting to crash down on our heads.

  But if the locals are right, we have only this last day to weather. The captain who agreed to take us to Dover spoke with Gareth last night, and confirmed he expects to be able to put out of the harbor tomorrow. If so, we will be away, and no matter that there may be cultists waiting in England, just being home will buoy us all.

  Meanwhile I will spend the day as I have the last two, seeking ways to support Gareth’s efforts. Even if it transpires that we do not need our ragtag army, putting all possible defenses in place just in case is unquestionably wise. The right decision for an experienced commander, and Gareth is nothing if not that. Even if all I do is provide encouragement, that is nevertheless a contribution.

  I cannot recall feeling so personally committed to someone else’s goal as I do with Gareth’s mission. It is as if his goal is somehow now mine—as if my love for him demands I embrace every aspect of his life, even this. While ferrying MacFarlane’s letter to Bombay gave me an interest in seeing justice done, my commitment to seeing the scroll holder to the right hands in England is now predominantly driven by a need to help Gareth succeed, rather than to appease my own feelings.

  Love, I am learning, has broad repercussions.

  Gareth—loving me—is concerned for my safety, yet his concern is nothing to the concern I feel for him. I know what sort of man, what sort of soldier, he is. No less than MacFarlane, he will lead his troops into battle, at their head even be they a ragtag rabble of sailors and farmhands armed with pitchforks and rakes.

  If any attack comes here in Boulogne, Gareth will meet it face-to-face.

  Love, I am learning, can result in fear. I have far more reason to fear for him than he has to fear for me.

  E.

  The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.

  He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.

  As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group—ten youthful lads plus Jimmy—into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.

  After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.

  He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.

  She glanced over the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”

  “It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”

  “Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”

  Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.

  When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”

  Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.

  Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers—mostly old men and young girls—lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.

  Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.

  The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like—and almost walked into a man.

  With an “Oh!” she looked up.

  Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.

  The man on her left—black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin—leered as he pressed close—and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”

  She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife—with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.

  Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man—unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others—glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.

  The third man nodded. The man on her left urged her forward. “Walk quietly. Make no sound and we will let you live. Pray none of your friends notice—if they do, we will have to kill them.”

  She had no choice. Even if she swooned they would simply drag her along. But once they reached the street, someone would see, would notice…

  Her hopes died as they rounded the far corner of the auberge and she saw a dogcart waiting. They half lifted, half pushed her onto the front bench. The man with the knife followed and sat beside her. The third man took the reins and climbed up to sit on her other side, while the other man climbed on behind.

  Wedged between the cultists, the horrendously sharp knife still pressed threateningly to her side, she had to sit silently and be driven out of the lane, into the square, and away.

  Gareth was thinking of calling a halt for luncheon when Dorcas came into the side yard. She looked around. A frown formed on her face.

  When her gaze returned to him, he raised his brows.

  She walked across to him. “Have you seen Miss Emily?”


  “Not recently. She was out here about an hour ago, but went inside again.”

  Dorcas shook her head, looking toward the street. “We can’t find her. No one’s seen her, not since…well, it must be since she spoke with you.”

  A chill coursed through his veins, but Gareth told himself not to leap to conclusions. “If she’s not in her room…is there anywhere else she might go to fill in time?”

  “Not that I can think of. And…well, I don’t want to cause a fuss that might be unnecessary.” Dorcas met his eyes. “There haven’t been any sightings of cultists for days—no one’s come into the common room to say otherwise.”

  “We haven’t seen or heard of anyone lurking around, either.”

  “So there’s no reason to suppose anything dreadful has occurred.” Dorcas looked across the yard, then drew in a breath and rushed on, “But to go off somewhere without telling you, or me, especially now, when we’re all so on edge…that’s very unlike Miss Emily. Still, perhaps—”

  “No.” Grim, Gareth caught her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re right. She wouldn’t vanish of her own accord. Which means—” He cut off the thought, instead said, “We search. Find whoever you can, and search thoroughly upstairs. I’ll get Bister and our recruits to check outside, while Mooktu and I will talk to the Perrots and search the ground floor. We’ll meet in the common room as soon as we’re done.”

  Eyes wide, Dorcas nodded and hurried back to the auberge.

  Grim-faced, Gareth turned to the men in the yard.

  The search didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, Gareth strode into the common room to find Dorcas already there, the normally stoic maid wringing her hands, a worried Arnia standing beside her.

  “She is not upstairs,” Arnia said.

  Gareth turned as Perrot, who had gone himself to check his basement while his sons checked the stables and outbuildings, joined them.

  The auberge keeper spread his hands. “There is no sign.”

  “All our carriages and horses are still here,” one of the sons added.

  Mooktu arrived from the kitchens and storerooms. Grimly, he shook his head.

  Watson and Mullins rose from the table where they’d been waiting.

  The front door crashed open and Bister barreled in, Jimmy on his heels. “She’s been taken by three men in a cart. They headed south.”

  Gareth strode toward them. “Who saw them—and when?”

  Bister was nearly out of breath. “Two old geezers outside. About an hour ago. And yes, they’re sure—they noticed because they thought it odd that in this weather she had just a shawl on over her gown—no cloak—while the three men in the cart were well wrapped up. Hoods drawn an’ all, so no one saw their faces.” Bister looked at Dorcas. “They said she was wearing a pink gown and had a purple shawl. Brown hair up.”

  Dorcas paled. “It was a lavender gown.”

  Bister nodded. “Like they said—pink.” He looked at Gareth. “It was her.”

  Tight lipped, Gareth nodded. “Any advance on ‘south’?”

  “Bister and I ran to the end of the street,” Jimmy put in. “There were lads at the corner, lounging about—they remembered and showed us the road the cart took. It’s not a main road—seems it goes south along the coast a ways.”

  An angry rumble had been growing from the locals. Shock was quickly giving way to outrage. Now someone called out, “That’s the Virgejoie road.”

  Gareth glanced at Perrot.

  The auberge owner clarified, “It is the road that leads to one of the old aristo-family homes—a chateau.”

  “Who lives there now?”

  Perrot spread his hands. “No one. It has been deserted since the family fled during the Terror.”

  “What condition is the chateau in—is it liveable?”

  Numerous local men pulled faces, tilted their heads, then one vouchsafed, “The outbuildings and barn are derelict, but the main house still has walls, shutters and doors, and most of its roof.”

  “Fireplaces, too,” another put in. “One could shelter there even in this weather. Gypsies sometimes do.”

  Gareth exchanged a glance with Mooktu as the exclamations and rumblings rose anew. “That’s where they’ll be.”

  Mooktu nodded. “They’ve taken her so you will come for her—they will wait until you do.”

  He meant “wait before they do anything drastic” the cult was well known for forcing men to watch as they tortured their loved ones. His heart like lead, Gareth nodded—tried to push his reactions, his emotions down enough to think.

  He had to think or he’d lose her.

  He wasn’t going to lose her.

  Perrot tugged his sleeve. “You have to let us help.” The auberge owner gestured to the crowd thronging the common room as the locals who’d come in for lunch were joined by a steady stream of others, alerted by yet others who’d gone out to spread the news. “This cult—they have played us for fools. They have attacked and carried off the lady while she was here, under my roof, and we scoffed and thought you were safe.” Like an aging bantam, Perrot stuck out his chest. “You must let us expunge this stain on our honor by letting us help you get her back.”

  Many locals, young and old, cheered and clamored in Perrot’s support.

  Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, waiting, ready for action, to one side, then he raised his hands and waved to quiet the crowd. Into the ensuing silence he said, “Everyone who wishes to assist—we’ll gladly accept your help. But”—he spoke strongly over the swelling cheers, silencing them once more—“we must do nothing that puts Miss Ensworth’s life at risk. So.” He paused, felt the familiar yoke of command settle on his shoulders, combined with a sharply threatening imperative. His mind raced. After a moment, he knew. “Here’s what we have to do.”

  He sent Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins to circle past the cult’s pickets. “They’ll have more than one or two along the road into the estate, close enough to town to have time to race back and warn those at the chateau of our approach. Take positions between them and the chateau, as close to the chateau as possible without being seen from the building, and stop any messenger, any warning, getting through. We’ll meet you there once we’ve gathered our forces.”

  The three nodded and went.

  Dorcas and Arnia followed, dispatched to find the priest and get his church bell tolling.

  Gareth looked at Watson, met the older man’s eye. “You need to stay here—you know what to do.”

  Watson nodded. “I do. I will.”

  Turning back to the gathering rabble—older locals as well as an increasing number of sailors and others who had days before formed part of their impromptu militia—Gareth waved at the door. “Let’s take this outside. Form up, and I’ll tell you exactly what we must do.”

  Must do. Exactly. He needed these men, but if he didn’t control them, neither Emily nor he would see England again.

  Sixteen

  Tied securely to a once-elegant chair in the middle of a dusty half-derelict drawing room, Emily stared wide-eyed at the old Indian man her captors had delivered her to. Garbed in traditional Indian dress of dun-colored trousers and tunic, with a colorful woven vest, hat, and a shawl in deference to the cold, he appeared almost kindly, until one looked into his eyes and saw the fanatical light gleaming in the darkness.

  She wasn’t sure he was entirely sane.

  He was, however, indisputably in charge. The three who had brought her there, the knife pricking her side all the way, had bowed and scraped and looked thrilled to receive just a word in reward.

  The old man—Uncle, they’d called him—was the commander Gareth had suspected existed, the one charged with halting Gareth’s mission.

  As she’d been marched through the chateau, she’d seen many cultists, ready, battle-primed, some sharpening their knives. They’d glanced at her as she’d passed, but their dark gazes had slid away—they were already thinking of other things. Of killing.

  Killing G
areth and the others—she knew he, and all the rest, too, would come after her.

  That, it seemed, was the old man’s plan.

  What horrified her, held her stupefied with terror, was how he apparently planned to fill in the time.

  His back to her, he was tending a collection of implements, perfectly ordinary implements from kitchen, smithy, and barn, the sight of which caused not the slightest alarm—not until they lay heating on a bed of red-hot coals in a brazier set before a crumbling hearth.

  If that weren’t bad enough, to one side a once-superb gaming table displayed an array of knives. Not ordinary, run-of-the-mill knives. Many she’d seen only rarely, on docks, at the fishmonger’s or the butcher’s. Filleting knives. Flaying knives.

  Her blood had run cold long ago. She looked at the knives and felt sick.

  She didn’t know what to do. With her feet tied and her arms lashed at elbow and wrist to the chair arms with old curtain cords, she was helpless to move, but she wasn’t going to simply sit and be burned and cut.

  It took effort to force her mind to work—to think of what might distract this man—Uncle—from his grizzly entertainment, at least long enough for Gareth to reach her.

  She couldn’t think beyond that point. She didn’t need to. Once Gareth reached her, nothing would stop them. Together they would win through.

  But what could she do to gain time?

  Was there any way she could make it easier for him to find her, so he could reach her more quickly?

  She recalled the chateau as she’d seen it from the drive. Most of the windows were shuttered, except for this room. Because of the fumes from the smoking fire in the hearth and the brazier, they’d opened the shutters and set the windows ajar. As with all the front rooms on the ground floor, those windows opened to a paved terrace that ran the length of the house.