Far from reassuring us, our too-easy success outside Saint Dizier has only made us more edgy, drawing us more tightly together and making us more determined than ever to defeat these villains and gain the shores of England.
Seeing England is a goal we now all cling to.
As for my other goal, I wish I had my sisters to consult. How, precisely, does one wring a declaration from a reticent man?
E.
The following day, they reached Amiens as the light faded from the sky. It was cold and tending crisp as Gareth returned from bespeaking rooms to oversee the unloading of the carriages. Everyone lent a hand, the faster to get out of the biting wind. After spending years in India, even his blood seemed too thin.
Once all the bags were in, the Juneau cousins led the horses off to the stable, and Gareth followed the others into the warmth.
Later, he and Emily dined together. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet time alone with her, a time during which he could air his thoughts, and she would share hers.
Pouring rich custard over his pudding, he murmured, “I’m starting to think we’re being herded.”
She opened her eyes at him as she took in a portion of trifle, then lowered her spoon. “That doesn’t sound good. Herded into what? Do you think they’re planning an ambush?”
He thought, then shook his head. “I can’t see how they could. That’s the beauty of Wolverstone’s route. We could be heading to any of the Channel ports. Even after we head to Abbeville tomorrow, there are still five major ports, in varying directions, that we might make for.”
“So they won’t be able to stage an ambush because they won’t know which road we’ll be taking until we’re on it?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
Dessert finished, Emily laid down her spoon and studied him. “So why ‘herded’? What bone are you gnawing at?”
He gave her the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a certain grimness behind. “That little foray outside Saint Dizier was all for show, just to remind us they’re there, watching us constantly. I suspect they’re hoping to string us out, to wear us down with waiting. It’s an old tactic.”
When he said nothing more, chin propped in one hand, she prompted, “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
His gaze met hers. After an instant, he went on, “Following Wolverstone’s plan will keep the cult’s forces strung out—reaching Boulogne shouldn’t be too hard. But the weather’s worsening. I’m no expert on Channel crossings, but I spoke with Watson. Apparently, if the winds come up badly, as they’re threatening to do, the ports can be closed for days.”
“So getting into Boulogne might be simple, but getting out…?”
“We might be held up there for days.”
Days during which the Black Cobra could come at them, again and again, in force.
Gareth didn’t say the words—he didn’t need to. He could see understanding in her eyes.
Eyes he’d grown accustomed to drowning in every night when she welcomed him into her arms, into her body. Eyes he delighted in watching every morning when in the soft light of dawn she came awake as he slid into her.
Those eyes saw him; they locked on him every time he entered a room she was in.
Now those same eyes studied his face. His expression was stark and grim, but he couldn’t find it in him to laugh and lighten the mood.
Those eyes, and she, had to him grown immensely, almost unbelievably, important. He didn’t understand how that had happened, only that it had.
He couldn’t lose her. His future—something he’d had not the faintest idea about when he’d stood at the railings in Aden harbor—was now crystal clear in his mind. And she stood at the heart of it. Without her…
And, somehow, she knew. Knew she meant much more to him than a lady he felt honor bound to wed.
Yet she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed for any declaration, as other ladies might have. She’d simply been there, been herself…and let him fall in love with her. No. Let him fall more deeply in love with her.
He looked into her eyes, and saw her watching, waiting, and he knew for what, but with infinite patience, infinite understanding, and compassion.
Lifting one hand, he held it out, palm up. Waited until she placed her fingers in his. Closing his hand, feeling her delicate digits within his clasp, he said, “If my theory is correct, then we’re more or less safe until we reach Boulogne.”
Her lips curved in comprehension. Needing no further encouragement, he rose, drew her to her feet, and they went to find the others, to arrange the night watches before retiring to their room, to their bed, and the inexpressible comfort of each other’s arms.
In a deserted woodcutter’s cottage to the north of Amiens, Uncle paced the dirty floor. “There is no question about it.” He glanced around at his assembled troops, letting his confidence show. “It matters not which port they flee to, once they reach it, they will be trapped.” He waved the missive he’d received minutes before. “Our brothers already gathered on the coast have confirmed a great storm is blowing in. Let our prey run like mice for the coast—once they reach it, they will not be able to go further, to cross the water as they must.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “They will have to stop. And wait.”
Facing them all, he raised his arms. “The weather gods, my sons, have arranged for us the perfect opportunity to capture and torture the major and his lady—to the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”
Eyes shining, fists rising, the men echoed his words. “To the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”
“This time we will plan—and this time we will triumph.” Uncle sensed the power flowing, sensed he held them all, even the cynical Akbar, in his palm. “We will wait, and watch, but the instant we know to which town our prey is racing, we will race there, too. And this time we will prepare. No matter that we might follow them to this town, fate has finally thrown her lot in with ours. Have faith, my sons, for, courtesy of fate, we at last have time.”
8th December, 1822
Early morning
Our room at Amiens
Dear Diary,
I am huddled under the covers waiting for Dorcas to appear. It is still dark and, worse, sleeting outside. Gareth has already dressed and gone down. Today we set off on the penultimate leg of our mad dash for the coast—to Abbeville. From there, one more day of racing will see us at Boulogne, and the Channel. Although the expectation of being almost there is intense, I have taken Gareth’s warning to heart and, am preparing myself for the frustration of having to wait some days for a crossing.
As long as he shares my bed every night, holding me safe in his arms as I sleep, and allowing me to do the same in return, I will face all hurdles with the stoicism proper to an English lady.
E.
They departed from Amiens amid flurries of snow. Their tension had already been high, yet Gareth could feel that tension racking higher with every mile.
Yet, as he’d predicted, nothing occurred during the daylong journey. The Juneau coachmen continued to perform with outstanding skill, whipping their horses along. Bleak winter fields stretching endlessly under a louring gray sky flashed incessantly past.
Despite their relative speed, they didn’t reach Abbeville until evening. Their routine was well established. In less than half an hour, they were all inside and warm, the others sitting down to dinner in their hotel’s bar while he and Emily dined in reserved splendor in the great dining room.
Outside the wind howled, and hail rattled against the windows.
All of them retired early to their beds. Gareth, as he usually did, took the early-morning watch, between two and four o’clock. That way, he could fall asleep with Emily in his arms, and wake with her beside him, too.
She was already snuggled beneath the thick down coverlet when he reached their room, a fair-sized chamber at the end of one corridor. The fire had been built high, then banked for the night. With all the curtains drawn, the
room seemed cozy.
It wasn’t warm.
He stripped quickly, and joined her between the sheets, leaving the candle on the bedside table burning.
He shivered as the cold sheets touched his skin. Relaxed again when Emily wriggled and settled, all warm, silken, and blatantly female, against him. Gathering her close, he turned to face her. “I can’t remember England being this cold.”
“It isn’t often.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she slid her hands into his hair, fingers riffling as beneath the covers she fitted herself to him, her curves cradling his heavier bones and harder frame. “But after India, this is doubtless a shock to your system.”
His system was heating up quite nicely.
He looked into her eyes. For a long moment he drank in the assurance in the mossy hazel, the quiet confidence, the calm anticipation with which she regarded him.
Her lips were lightly, gently, curved.
Slowly he lowered his head and covered them with his.
The flames rose at their calling, steady and sure. More experienced now, there was less urgency, less immediate desperation—more time to savor each moment, to string out each inexorable step on the path to completion.
Knowing they would reach it, knowing that passion, satisfaction, and the ultimate satiation would be theirs, that ecstasy was assured no matter what route they took to reach it.
No matter how long, how tortuous, and drawn out that route might be.
This time, they took a longer road. He kept the pace slow, deliberate, intent.
Focused.
Emily surrendered to the insistent drumbeat, the measured tattoo driving each heavy caress. Wonder bloomed as, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she watched his face as he paid homage to her breasts. Glancing up, he saw her watching, briefly met her eyes, then, still moving so slowly her nerves tightened, taut with anticipation, he lowered his head, and possessed.
Thoroughly, with a devotion to detail that ripped her wits away, that sent her senses spinning.
Every little touch seared like a brand. Fingers, mouth, lips, teeth, and tongue, he used them all in concert, playing, orchestrating, until her body sang, until passion and desire rose up in sweet symphony and buoyed her on their tide.
And swept her away into the heated moment, flooded her veins, flushed her skin.
She was eager and aching, filled with fiery longing when he finally parted her thighs, settled heavily between, and filled her.
Head back, she caught her breath, then sighed. Reached with her whole body, with her arms, her legs, her all, reached for him and wrapped him in her welcome.
Held him there as, head bowed, his ragged breath a song by her ear, he moved on her and in her, the long planes of his back flexing powerfully as he thrust repeatedly, giving them both what they wanted.
What they needed.
Even as his body strove for release, strove to pleasure hers and claim the ultimate prize, some part of Gareth’s mind watched and wondered—was filled with wonder, with a form of silent awe.
Things had changed since they’d left Marseilles, since at her insistence they’d begun sharing a bed every night.
Every night, the pleasure, the assurance, the wonder, grew. Intensified. Became measurably stronger, infinitely more addictive.
The simple act that before had always seemed so straightforward, so momentary and unaffecting, was now so much more. This…was heady, intoxicating. As he thrust deeper into her heated body and felt her clutch, felt her clamp and hold him, felt her arms tight about him, her legs clasping his flanks, her body cradling his…it felt as if she were feeding a part of his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone was hungry.
Yet he was hungry for this—not just the physical pleasure and the aftermath of bliss, but the connection, the togetherness, the blessed release of having someone that close, of having someone…who was his.
The reins slithered from his grasp. As they both, he and she, spiraled out of control, as the demands of their striving bodies overwhelmed their minds and took control of their senses, he raised his head, found her lips and kissed her—claimed her, honored her, thanked her.
And let go.
Gave himself to her and took her in return.
And no longer knew where one ended and the other began.
The storm took them, wracked them, shattered their senses, left their bodies boneless, floating on passion’s sea.
Left them melded, fused, joined at the heart.
Welded at the soul.
No longer alone. No longer separate.
The notions circled his mind as he drifted back to earth, to the warmth of their bed, to the haven of her arms.
Dreams made real.
She was that to him, and he would never let her go.
They left Abbeville in the dark before dawn. The cold was intense; frost lay heavy on the ground. Their breaths plumed as they bustled in the stable yard, rushing in organized chaos through the flickering shadows cast by the inn’s flares.
They were away before even a glimmer lightened the eastern horizon. Heading north at a cracking pace, they remained alert, on guard, yet Gareth felt certain they would meet with no resistance.
Sure enough, they reached Boulogne-sur-Mer without incident or delay. Courtesy of their early start, it was mid-afternoon when they rattled into the streets of the bustling town. This time, however, they did not stop in the town center.
As they passed the town hall and headed on down a hill, Emily looked inquiringly at Gareth.
“We need an inn close to the docks.” He leaned forward and looked out of the window. “The Juneaux say they know the area around there.”
The further they went, the more traffic there was. The carriages slowed to a crawl as they negotiated the streets around the marketplace, then continued along a fair-sized street until they reached yet another square. The Juneau cousins halted the carriages along one side.
The instant he opened the carriage door, then stepped down to the cobbles, the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea assaulted Gareth’s senses. It hadn’t been particularly windy above, but here the wind gusted, salty and tangy, damp with sea spray, slapping his face and tugging his hair.
Emily paused in the carriage doorway, looking out. “That’s the Channel out there, isn’t it?”
Gareth nodded. Beyond the quays and the harbor basin Napoleon had excavated in prepartion for the invasion of England that he never launched, out beyond the protective arms of the breakwaters and their lighthouses, lay a seething mass of water, waves churning a bilious gray green beneath a leaden sky.
A few gulls bravely wheeled below slate-colored clouds scudding before the wind. Behind them hung the denser, darker roiling mass of an oncoming storm.
That louring, threatening mass assured Gareth that his worst fears had come true; they’d be trapped for days. Looking at the cauldron the Channel had become, he confirmed that not a single ship had ventured out.
One glance at Emily’s face as she stepped down to the ground told him he didn’t need to explain the situation to her.
He turned as Gustav Juneau clambered down from his perch to join them.
“There is an auberge we know—this way.” Gustav pointed with his whip to a narrow street leading away from the square. “It is close to the quay, and the people who run it know us.” He glanced at Gareth. “But come and see.”
Gathering Watson, and with Emily on his arm, leaving the others with Pierre Juneau to watch over the carriages, Gareth walked beside Gustav deeper into the dockside quarter.
The auberge Gustav led them to proved perfect for their needs, not least because its guestrooms were all presently empty. Gareth immediately negotiated to hire the whole of the upper floor. In addition, the auberge was within easy reach of the docks, with a direct route to the main quay, and, situated as it was, its common room was always full of sailors.
The owner and his wife, the Perrots, were delighted to accommodate them. “This weather!” Mo
nsieur Perrot gesticulated. “It is very bad for business.”
“True,” Gareth said, “but before you welcome us, there’s something you should know.”
At his insistence, the Perrots sat down with him, Emily, and Gustav at a table in one corner of the common room As he had in Marseilles, he commenced their tale. And as had happened in Marseilles, Emily—this time aided by Gustav—took over.
The Perrots were understandably horrified, but Emily won their sympathy, while Gustav whipped up their nationalistic fervor, until Perrot slapped the table and declared, “You and your party must come to us. We will aid you in this—and our company”—he gestured to the crowded room—“will be happy to assist in foiling this villain.”
Madame Perrot nodded, a martial light in her eye. “He and his heathens will not be able to set this inn alight—it is built of good sound stone.”
Another of its many attributes. Despite his ongoing concern, Gareth knew a moment’s relief. He couldn’t have wished for a better billet, especially given they would, it seemed, be spending several days there.
Emily and Madame went upstairs to survey the rooms. Gustav, after a word with Perrot, stumped out to look at the stables. Gareth and Perrot reached agreement on the charge. Gareth paid half then and there, the other half to be paid on the morning of their departure. As to when that might be…
Appealed to, Perrot pursed his lips, shook his head. “Three days? It may be more. If you go down to the quay later this afternoon, I can tell you who to ask.”
Smothering his frustration, Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked across the common room as Emily returned down the stairs. “We’ll go and fetch the rest of our party.”
They used the rest of the afternoon to settle in. At Gareth’s suggestion and Emily’s insistence, Pierre and Gustav would remain with them for the night, then start back on their long journey home in the morning.
After checking with Perrot, apparently a connection of a connection of the Juneaux, after lunch, Pierre and Gustav headed for the warehouses to see if there was any merchant with goods he wanted to send south.
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