The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Talking seemed her best option.

  She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

  He glanced around, arrested, as if surprised she could talk.

  Her expression innocent, she raised her brows. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

  He frowned, straightened, a pair of hot pincers in one hand. “I”—he set his other fist, closed, to his chest—“am a representative of the great and mighty Black Cobra. You are here on my master’s orders, and soon you will die a most painful death—to the great glory of the Black Cobra!”

  She fought to ignore the vision his words conjured, to ignore the heated pincers he held. She forced a confused frown. “You’ll pardon me if I seem a trifle obtuse, but…I’ve never met this Black Cobra person. Why would my death mean anything to him?”

  Uncle blinked at her. “But…” Then he drew himself up. “You were instrumental in delivering the letter a Captain MacFarlane stole in Poona to a Colonel Delborough in Bombay.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “That letter? Was it important? I had no idea. I thought it was a personal message from the captain to his commanding officer.” She did her best to look intrigued. “What’s in it?”

  Uncle hesitated, then said, “I do not know.”

  She frowned harder. “You mean you’ll kill me—and presumably many others—and you don’t even know why?”

  He bridled; his dark eyes lit. “It is my master’s orders.”

  “So he gives orders and you obey—even though you don’t have any idea why?”

  He looked down his nose at her. “That is the way of the cult. It is how cults are.”

  She had no difficulty looking unimpressed. “Regardless, I don’t see how killing me will in any way help your master. I don’t know anything about the letter, and I certainly don’t have it—I gave it to Colonel Delborough months ago.”

  “You may not have it—but Major Hamilton might!”

  “Gareth? Are you sure?” She looked unconvinced. “He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

  “He has it—or a copy. This is why I have been sent.”

  “To find the copy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that you all along—back in Aden and on the Red Sea?”

  He answered, and she knew she was safe for just a little while—as long as relating their journey and the cult’s many actions would take. Like many such men, Uncle was vain enough to want to claim any and all victories he could. She was careful to preserve a suitably innocent mein, encouraging him to impress her with tales of his guile and standing.

  He spoke in ringing tones, declaiming and making grand statements.

  She asked her questions as loudly as she could.

  All the while she listened, strained to hear any activity outside.

  Any sign that rescue had arrived.

  Inwardly, she prayed.

  If the cultists in the chateau saw Gareth’s impromptu army marching up the drive, the first thing they would do was slit Emily’s throat.

  Gareth knew that for an absolute fact. He was consequently unbending in imposing absolute authority over his ragtag forces.

  He’d collected those who knew the chateau’s grounds, and kept them with him at the head of the ranks as they marched in good order out of the town. He halted them all at the bottom of the chateau’s long drive, and impressed on everyone the need for absolute silence from then on.

  With quite remarkable stealth, they crept further up the drive. Those familiar with the place told him how far they could go without being seen from the chateau windows, or even from the roof.

  Seated on a flat rock by the drive’s edge, Mullins was waiting at that very spot. He stood and saluted Gareth. “We caught two of the blighters hurrying back to warn their friends.”

  Mullins whistled—a bird call. An instant later, Bister appeared from one side, then Mooktu came out of the bushes on the opposite side of the drive.

  Gareth nodded. Now came the trickiest part of his plan. He’d spent the march to the chateau juggling options, seeing if any fitted the situation better, but…he glanced at the five “lieutenants” he’d appointed, each leading a group of men. “Here’s what we’ll do.” He assigned each of the five groups their positions—two groups to circle the chateau and attack from the rear, another two to cover the sides and the front, the last to spread out and block any attack from cultists who might still be closer to town and inclined to fall on them from behind. “But before anyone makes so much as a sound, I and my men will go in, and find and rescue Miss Ensworth.”

  “One set of windows in the front are unshuttered,” Bister reported. “Otherwise, all activity’s at the rear.”

  Gareth nodded, and returned his attention to the assembled men. “Three of us will go in and liberate Miss Ensworth.” Knowing the cult’s ways, he felt certain she would still be alive. He prayed she was also unharmed. “Once we have her safe, Bister will signal to Mullins here.” Gareth tipped his head to the grizzled veteran. “Mullins will then give the signal to attack. Once you receive that signal, you can overrun the place. You do not need to hold back—I assure you they won’t. They will fight to the death, because that’s their way. Don’t expect them to fight by our rules—they have their own rules, and they worship death.”

  He swept his gaze over the eager faces, read the determination and resolution beneath. He nodded. “Good luck.”

  Many murmured the same words to him as he turned to the chateau. He glanced at Mooktu. The big Pashtun nodded and joined him.

  Bister was shifting from foot to foot. “We ready?”

  Gareth nodded and waved. “Lead on.”

  Bister turned and went, sliding through the shadows beneath the old trees, leading them up and over the slight ridge that hid the dip where their army was gathered from the chateau beyond.

  The building was a typical rectangular structure in stone. What had once been a wide parterre was overgrown and choked with weeds. Bister led them to the left corner of the building. A raised, paved terrace ran all along the front. With the windows mostly shuttered, they could approach and climb up with little risk of being seen.

  Gaining the terrace, Gareth caught Bister’s shoulder, leaned close to whisper, “No guards?”

  Bister shook his head. “Seems they’re relying on the pickets. We found six strung out, but only two reported back.”

  Gareth nodded. He studied the open terrace for a moment, listening…a faint murmur of voices reached him. Someone was in the room with the open windows. The faint tang of smoke teased his nose.

  Drawing the primed pistol from his belt, he cocked it, then, holding the weapon ready in one hand, he walked silently, step by step, along the chateau wall toward those open windows.

  There was rubble on the terrace. He was careful to avoid it. He didn’t need to check to see if Mooktu and Bister did the same, or even if they were following. They’d fought together for so long, in situations like this they acted as one.

  Halting two feet from the slightly open window, more accurately a French door, for which he gave thanks, he listened again. Getting into the room would be easy, but he needed to know if Emily was there, and how many men there were.

  An older male voice reached him, the cadences distinctly Indian. “So we knew the major and his party would be trapped on the coast…and so, here you are.”

  A pause ensued, filled with burgeoning malevolence. The hair on Gareth’s nape rose. Was it Emily the unknown man was talking to?

  The voice went on, now cloyingly crooning, “And soon—very soon—the major will arrive, and then you will learn why you are here.”

  “You think to use me—to torture me—to make him give you the letter?”

  Emily, and her voice was strong.

  “Why, yes, dear lady. Don’t you think that will work?”

  Gareth signaled to Mooktu and Bister, then, pistol raised, stepped across the French door, kicked it wide, and went through.

  Emily, at firs
t glance unharmed, was tied to a chair. An older, black-bearded man—the cult commander Gareth had seen in Aden—was standing, stunned, beside a brazier before the hearth.

  Gareth scanned the room, pistol tracking as he searched for guards, and found none. Halting between Emily and the old man, he lowered the pistol. Behind him, Bister and Mooktu worked to cut through the cords binding Emily.

  Slack-jawed, the old man glanced from him to the window. “Where are my men?”

  Emily abruptly stood, massaging her wrists, stamping her feet free of the cords. The old man looked back at them, at Gareth. Realization washed over his face.

  He did something none of them had imagined he would—he shrieked. Not a scream, but a sound of pure rage, one that pierced the walls and echoed down corridors.

  Gareth jerked up his pistol and fired.

  But the man had lunged at the weapons in the brazier; the shot struck him in the shoulder and spun him away. He stumbled back and abruptly sat down before the hearth.

  Just as the door burst open and six cultists stormed in.

  Gareth swore and drew his sword. Mooktu already had his scimitar flashing. Behind them, Bister leapt for the window. Hands to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle, then ducked a slash from a cultist and raced back to Gareth’s flank, drawing his own sword as he swung to face the enemy.

  Trapped behind the three men, Emily gritted her teeth. More blood and knives and wretched cultists. They were more or less in the center of the room. She sensed her men trying to back, being forced back as they strove to prevent any cultist getting behind them. She grabbed the chair to which she’d been tied, went to shove it aside, saw a cultist trying to come around Bister—she heaved and sent the chair crashing into the cultist, knocking him back.

  Bister shifted postion to cover that angle. Both Gareth and Mooktu stepped back.

  Emily couldn’t see much past their shoulders, but she’d fought cultists with these three before—this fighting was different.

  These cultists were stronger, better trained. She remembered Gareth saying the leader would most likely have some of the cult’s feared assassins with him. Mooktu and Gareth shifted. She managed to peek between them, and realized matters were even worse. More cultists were pouring through the door.

  She glanced around wildly, searching for some weapon.

  But there was nothing. Nothing….

  Except for an old, mildewed curtain.

  Two steps took her to it. The windows were tall. She grabbed the curtain with both hands and yanked. The material parted from its anchors and fell, covering her in dust and musty, disintegrating silk, but the cotton lining, although thin, was intact.

  Intact enough. She flung out the curtain, then, arms stretched to her sides, swiftly gathered the fabric in both hands as she hurried up behind Gareth. As she prayed….

  She halted immediately behind him. “Gareth—duck!”

  She waited only to see him start to move, then with all her might she flung the curtain up and out.

  Mooktu leaned away to let the material whip past him. The curtain fell on the three assassins facing Gareth and Mooktu, trapping their blades, enveloping them in its folds.

  Three seconds later, there were three less cultists.

  Four more pushed in, but were hampered by the tangle of bodies.

  Behind the four, another cultist leapt into the air and flung a dagger—at Emily. She yelped and ducked—felt the blade sheer through her sleeve and graze her upper arm, but only shallowly. “I’m all right, I’m all right!”

  Gareth halted his instinctive turning to her. Teeth gritted, he met the cultists before him with renewed ferocity.

  Never had he fought with such unfettered recklessness. Never had fear and fury so controlled him.

  He slashed, countered, and inwardly swore. Bister had risked his life to give the signal. Where the hell were his troops?

  Almost on the thought, he sensed the change—the turning of the tide. Cultists to the rear of the pack pulled back, listened, then rushed for the door.

  Grim determination gripped him. With Mooktu at his shoulder, Bister close on his left, he redoubled his efforts, beating back the assassins.

  He and Mooktu simultaneously felled the pair before them, then looked up, and realized all the others were at the door, rushing out. The last in line was the old man, moving surprisingly swiftly.

  In the doorway he turned, features contorted, dark eyes blazing.

  He raised a hand and threw a knife. Not at Gareth. Past him.

  Gareth flung himself back and to the side, connecting with Emily and taking her to the floor.

  He felt the impact of the knife. A second passed, one of sheer horror and desperation, before pain bloomed and he realized the blade was embedded in his shoulder, not in her.

  He sagged. “Thank God.” Head hanging, he almost wept with relief.

  She was wriggling, exclaiming, pushing at him.

  Slowly, he eased back from her, then sat up.

  “My God! The bastard hit you!” She sounded as if she wanted to tear the old man limb from limb. She looked up at Mooktu and Bister. “What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

  Mooktu and Bister were only too ready to rush after the assassins.

  “No!” Gareth’s firm order had them halting on their way to the door. His left arm held tight against him, he propped himself up on his right. “We don’t know if there are any others lurking. We need to remain here, and let the others finish it. Let them do what they came to do, what they’ve trained to do. What they need to do to salvage the honor of their town.” He paused to breathe in through the pain. Managed to keep his voice steady to say, “We’ll wait here until they’re done.”

  Mooktu and Bister understood. They turned and came back.

  Emily glared at him, then, lips tight, looked up at Mooktu. “In that case, you can help me get this out.”

  By the time the sounds of battle finally died away, Gareth was sitting on a wobbly chair Bister had found in another room, the wound in his upper arm tightly bound. Mooktu had jerked out the dagger—a long, fine krislike blade that, luckily, hadn’t struck anything vital. His arm still worked.

  Before he’d allowed anyone to tend to him, he’d insisted on looking at Emily’s wound. Impatient, she’d jigged while he’d widened the tear in her sleeve, but the skin beneath it, although scratched, wasn’t broken.

  Of course, his wound had bled. Emily had cursed and, using strips torn from her petticoat’s flounce, had bound it tightly. “We need to get that cleaned as soon as possible.” Standing beside the chair, she’d scowled down at him. “As we’re doing nothing here, can’t we leave?”

  He’d looked up at her, smiled, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you. But not yet.”

  She’d humphed, but had left her hand in his.

  They were still like that, she standing beside him, her hand in his, when the door opened wide and Mullins strode in. The grin on his face told them all they needed to know, but he snapped off a salute, and reported as the others—the Perrots, father and sons, the various seamen, farmhands, and most of their ragtag group—crowded in behind him.

  Many were sporting injuries, some more than minor, but all looked thoroughly delighted. Victorious.

  The gist of Mullins’s report was that, as expected, most of the cultists had fought to the death. There were only three survivors—two young men who were clearly very low on the cult tree, and the old man.

  “They called him Uncle,” Emily said. “He was their leader.”

  Perrot asked, “Should we bring him in?”

  Gareth thought, then rose to his feet. “No. Better we interrogate him in town.”

  At his suggestion, Perrot and the other elders organized a detail to bury the dead, and another to escort the three prisoners to town. That done, and with the more critically wounded sent ahead, the rest of them trailed back down the drive and onto the road.

  With Emily beside him, her arm twined with his, her han
d beneath his on his sleeve, her fingers gripping, Gareth discovered that no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop smiling.

  Around them, excited tales of cultists defeated and dispatched, of acts of derring-do, circled, but in that moment only one fact had any purchase in his mind.

  She was with him. Alive, well, and unharmed.

  And he was still alive to rejoice over that.

  To him, at that point, nothing else mattered.

  Smiling, he ambled by her side down the road.

  The light was fading and evening was closing in when, back at the inn, with Gareth’s arm washed and rebound, with all explanations made and exclamations done, a court of the interested crowded the auberge common room to hear him interrogate their prisoners.

  As he’d expected, the younger two were little more than terrified boys. They knew nothing, so had nothing to tell. At Perrot’s suggestion, they were escorted away to be handed over to the gendarmes for attacking various locals.

  The cult commander, Uncle, was an entirely different subject. Gareth elected to sit back and let Mooktu question him.

  Defeated, the wound in his shoulder roughly bound, Uncle was cowed, confused, and clearly unable to believe he and his men hadn’t triumphed, yet malevolence rolled off him, and something that struck the gathered listeners as the distillation of pure evil ran beneath his answers.

  Mooktu led him to describe his mission, and all that he’d done in following Gareth’s party. Uncle readily related what he saw as his clevernesses, yet revealed nothing they didn’t already know, or hadn’t already surmised. With every word out of his mouth, Uncle drew the noose tighter; he didn’t seem to understand that his listeners didn’t share his opinion of his greatness, much less his belief in his right to do whatever he chose in the Black Cobra’s name.

  Often the crowd shifted uneasily, exchanging glances.

  Convinced that Uncle had no information of any value to them, Gareth turned his mind to what to do with the man.