Sitting up, he caught her other hand, with his eyes on hers, raised first one hand, then the other, to his lips. “Marry me, and we’ll make it ours—make it something more.”
Her hands clasping his, she looked into his eyes, smiled mistily. “Yes.”
He held her gaze. Softly stated, “You make me whole, complete, in a way I never imagined could be.”
Her heart lifted, soared. “You do the same for me.”
Alex sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the small manor house outside Needham Market that M’wallah and Creighton had found and commandeered. The family had, apparently, decamped for Christmas, leaving the house shut up, the furniture swathed in holland covers.
M’wallah and his helpers had been busy. The holland covers were all gone, and with evening closing in, a fire crackled cheerily in the grate.
Alex stared into the flames. The past already lay behind, done and gone if not yet buried. Ahead lay one last throw of the dice. The question was, did Alex need to play?
There were alternatives. Even if the last letter reached the puppetmaster, even if he, whoever he was, showed it to Shrewton, there was nothing to say that Shrewton, typical old tyrant that he was, would realize the part Alex had played. If Shrewton didn’t point his stubby digit at Alex … the way lay open to take all that was left of the cult and retreat to India, there to continue to amass wealth and power, albeit in more subtle and secretive vein.
Or, if not that, there was no reason not to stay in England, to take all the money that was left and fade into the background once more.
Alex’s lip curled. The thought of retreating once again into obscurity, becoming a nonentity, wasn’t to be borne.
No. The only true question was whether to make a bid for the fourth and final letter, or to let it—along with the associated risk of tangling more deeply with the unknown puppetmaster and his minions—slide past.
Yet that decision, too, hinged on whether Shrewton could be counted on to mentally dismiss Alex as he always had, and not think to link Alex with Roderick and Daniel in any meaningful way.
The odds, when it came to it, weren’t reassuring. Shrewton was a vindictive bastard who had just been dealt a major personal wound; he would be seeking to lay blame at someone’s door, to lash out.
So … no going back. No slipping away into the shadows, not yet.
At least with the cult’s reins in Alex’s hands alone, there was no need to pander to anyone else’s ego, and matters would proceed with greater efficiency, and commensurately greater succcess.
Despite the hurdles, the unavoidable sacrifices, three of the four letters had been destroyed. Seizing the last would eliminate any possible threat, leaving the way open to return to India and the rule of terror that delighted and satisfied on so many levels.
Alex’s lips curved. Decision made.
Stretching out one arm, Alex lifted a small brass bell and rang it. A second later, M’wallah appeared. A tall, lanky man of indeterminate age, with a walnut-colored face and long gray beard, he’d been Alex’s houseman for the last three years and had proved his devotion in every conceivable way.
“Fetch Saleem,” Alex ordered. “I wish to go through our preparations for welcoming Carstairs.”
M’wallah bowed low and disappeared without a word, reappearing minutes later with the captain of Alex’s guard. Saleem was a tall Pathan, and a frighteningly vicious man; he lived to inspire fear and terror—in Alex’s view, he thrived on those emotions, needed them like a drug.
Addicts were sometimes useful, especially when the addiction was coupled with rigid control.
Alex waved the pair to footstools arranged for the purpose of holding court, waited until they’d sat, waited a dramatic moment more, then commenced, “I have determined, that Carstairs—unlike the three who have gone before—will not be allowed to escape our vengeance. And in that, the other three passing safely through will work to our advantage. They will expect the captain to do the same … but he will not.”
With icy composure, Alex regarded M’wallah and Saleem. “He will not because, this time, it will be I who will marshal our troops and lead them in the field. I intend to play an active role in apprehending and torturing the captain.”
Both men nodded, murmured, “This is wise.”
Alex smiled coldly. “Indeed. So let us revisit what we have already put in place, and decide what more we need to do to ensure the good captain does not slip through our net.”
With rigid attention to detail, they reviewed the dispositions of cult members, confirming the numbers amassed on shore nearby, in specific locations Alex had earlier decreed, and, most importantly, confirming the number of vessels already commandeered and actively patroling the waters off the east coast.
“This time,” Alex concluded, “we will not wait for Carstairs to make landfall in England. We strike before, and strike hard, enough to knock him off-course. Then we follow and strike again. But once the captain lands in England, it will be me and my guards he will face—you, Saleem, will lead the elite. We will not rely as we have in recent times on the lower orders of the cult—they are not sufficiently effective in this land.”
Both men inclined their heads in acquiescence; both pairs of eyes gleamed with fanatical expectation.
“The Black Cobra will be in the field tomorrow.” Alex’s tone was pure ice. “And we all know the Black Cobra is deadly.”
Both M’wallah and Saleem smiled in clear, malevolent anticipation. Neither had appreciated being held back, restrained by the more reserved role Alex had chosen to play in England. Now, however, they were about to be unleashed, and they couldn’t wait to taste blood again.
With a wave, Alex dismissed them.
Rising fluidly, then bowing low, the pair backed from the room.
Leaving Alex alone.
Entirely alone, yet being alone had its advantages.
Dwelling on all that would be gained—imagining Carstairs, and through him the elusive puppetmaster, being served their comeuppance—Alex purposely wove violent, vindictive anticipation into a cloak to keep the chill of the night at bay.
Royce sat at the head of his dining table, extended to accommodate the Cynsters, all six cousins and their wives, Gyles Chillingworth and his wife, as well as all those who had already been sleeping under Royce’s roof. The Cynsters and Chillingworths had arrived en masse, possibly—Royce wasn’t certain—invited by Minerva, at a time when their staying to dine was a foregone conclusion.
Certainly Honoria, Devil’s duchess, had marched into the drawing room, touched cheeks with Minerva, then sat and demanded to be fully briefed on all that was going on.
It wasn’t that Royce minded the company—indeed he valued the men’s support, both physical and mental—but having so many independently minded, strong-willed females all together in one place, a place not that far from real and present danger, was making him edgy.
And not just him.
Still, it seemed that this was one of those crosses that had to be borne in the interests of matrimonial harmony. Over recent years, he’d grown a lot better at simply accepting what had to be.
Of his combined troops, only Christian Allardyce and Jack Hendon, already on the coast waiting for Carstairs to land, and Rafe Carstairs himself, were absent. Royce suspected the three were very much in the minds of many about the table.
Devil, seated at Minerva’s right at the far end, leaned forward, to say, “It doesn’t make sense that the last person—whoever is what’s left of the Black Cobra—isn’t named in that letter.”
“I also find it hard to believe,” Gabriel Cynster put in from midway down the board, “that Shrewton doesn’t know who that person is.”
“Actually,” Gyles Chillingworth said, “that I can believe. However, I do agree that Shrewton could, just as I’m sure we could, find the answer—learn who that other person was—if we had time.”
“Sadly, we don’t have time,” Lucifer Cynster bluntly observed.
Around and around the discussion went.
Royce, Charles, Gervase, and Gareth had reported on their visit to Wymondham Hall. The result had been discussed and picked over, their suppositions reshaped, re-formed, rephrased, yet they constantly came back to the same point, the one inescapable conclusion.
Del returned to it. “Regardless of all else, the one thing that’s certain is that there is someone else out there, and we don’t know who he is.”
“More,” Royce said, reclaiming control, “Carstairs is heading in. He’s expected to reach our shores tomorrow.” It was the first time he’d stated that—that their time frame was that tight. The meal was long over. He pushed back his chair. “I suggest we repair to the drawing room, put our heads together, and string as comprehensive a net as we can across the area.”
Everyone rose with alacrity, and followed Minerva back to the drawing room. When they were all settled, the ladies on the chaises and chairs, the men lounging against walls or furniture, some with hip propped against the back of their lady’s chair, from his customary position before the hearth, Royce scanned their faces. “Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce are already in place—Jack, I understand, is haunting the harbor itself, while Christian is patrolling the town. As soon as Carstairs lands, they’re primed to whisk, him away into hiding, then send word here. This will almost certainly be our last chance to catch the Black Cobra committing any criminal act on English soil.”
“And if we don’t catch him?” The haughty question came from Minerva, sitting in her usual chair to Royce’s right.
He smiled down at her. “If we don’t, then we pursue him by other means.” He looked at the others. “But I won’t disguise the fact that such a pursuit will be more difficult, and a lot less assured of success. Aside from all else, as Gyles pointed out, identifying the remaining villain or villains is going to take time, and they’re not going to wait in England while we do it.”
“So putting everything we can behind capturing our remaining villain—the Black Cobra’s ultimate head—is our preferred option, our best way forward.” Devil arched his brows at Royce.
As Royce nodded decisively, Logan asked, “Which port is Rafe heading for?”
Royce met his eyes. “Felixstowe.”
Logan was asleep, his arm around Linnet, when an unexpected sound dragged him from slumber.
The sound was distant, yet … he lifted his head the better to hear.
Linnet stirred, then stilled—listening, too.
The sound resolved into thudding hoofbeats. As the seconds passed, it became clear the rider was heading for the house.
Logan pushed back the covers.
“That can’t be good,” Linnet muttered, and slipped from the bed. Grabbing the coverlet, she wrapped it around her nightgown.
Buttoning his breeches, Logan stepped into his boots, roughly tugged them on, snagged his shirt from the chair as he went past. His face was grim as, shrugging on the shirt, he opened the door.
Linnet followed him into the corridor. Other doors were, opening, both gentlemen and ladies venturing out in various states of undress.
No one asked what was happening, or who it was. Grimfaced, they all headed for the main stairs.
No one imagined it was good news.
They halted on the stairs and in the gallery above, all looking down into the front hall. Candles were burning on the central table. As they watched, Minerva lit a lamp. Royce was already at the door, tugging the bolts back.
Hamilton, Royce’s personal butler, arrived in his butler’s black just in time to swing the door wide.
They all saw the rider, exhausted and worn, trudging up the front steps.
Royce spoke with him, voice too low for any of them to hear, then he drew the man inside, Hamilton closed and bolted the door, and Royce consigned the drooping rider into his care.
Everyone saw the letter Royce held in his left hand. Minerva joined him, holding the lamp high as Royce raised the missive, broke its seal, unfolded the sheet.
Read.
They all held their breath. Waited.
Only Minerva was close enough to see her husband’s face. She laid a hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”
Royce looked at her, then up at all of them. A moment passed, then he said, “Carstairs has disappeared. He failed to meet his guards at Felixstowe, but two others of his party—his man and some lady’s maid—made it to the rendezvous. As matters now stand, no one knows where Carstairs, and the young English lady apparently traveling with him, are.”
Silence stretched.
Eventually, Charles broke it, putting their collective thoughts into words. “Carstairs is out there somewhere, and we still don’t know who the Black Cobra is.”
Look for the next installment in
The Black Cobra Quarter
The Reckless Bride
Coming November 2010
From
AVON BOOKS
Turn the page for an excerpt from
The Reckless Bride
November 24, 1822
Danube Embankment, Buda
Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days hence, in his pocket.
He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.
Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly European-style winter coat he now wore. “The last two tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger, and the boat’s too small for them to stow away or join the crew at the last minute.”
Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of his friend without his headdress.
They’d reached Buda two nights before. The first thing they’d done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for European garb. Throughout their journey they’d constantly changed clothes to better blend in with the natives. Now, in the wellcut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck, with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and Prussian, merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan’s hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots, fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads had turned as they passed; no one paid them any heed.
The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair, he especially would have had difficulty passing unnoticed through Italy and France.
The second place they’d visited yesterday had been a gunsmith’s. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and shot. The cultists’ one true weakness was a superstitious fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.
They still wore their swords and bore the knives they’d feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over, pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their weapons.
Rafe had also found a cartographer’s studio; he’d bought the best maps available of the areas through which they planned to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon studying their prospective route, then had sought information from the innkeeper and patrons of the inn’s bar on which shipping company to approach.
Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the street. “Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will likely not think of it.”
Rafe nodded. “At least not immediately.” In India, rivers were not much used for long-distance travel, not like the Danube and Rhine. And as th
e majority of cultists couldn’t swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels and inns on land. “According to the shipping clerk, our journey, via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a day to spare—no need to schedule any other halts to align us with Wolverstone’s timetable.”
“We have seen no cultists here yet,” Hassan said. “None around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east.”
Following Hassan’s gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft large and small, then lifting his eyes to the stone bridge linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the opposite bank, Rafe murmured, “If they had cultists in Constanta, there’ll be cultists here. We need to remain on guard.”
He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in beside him. They headed toward the small inn where they’d taken rooms.
“The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major town along the highways,” Rafe said. “Here, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the rivers, we’ll avoid most of those. On our first leg along the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can’t avoid, but for the rest it’s as we thought—the river towns are smaller, and most lie away from the major highways.” That had been the reason they’d decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”
They’d reached an intersection where a narrow, cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.
“No! “
The shrill female protest had them halting and looking up the street.
In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.
The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material Page 117