The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  One need, one want.

  One passion, one desire.

  One overwhelming craving.

  Gareth had expected that—the age-old need to crown death’s defeat with a celebration of life, of the pinnacle of living.

  Loving.

  Loving her—and having her love him. The knowledge invested his every touch, made every caress she gifted him with one of precious delight.

  Clothes drifted to the floor. Incoherent murmurs rose and fell as they uncovered, discovered, and feasted. As they fell on the bed and skin met skin, and passion rose and desire sparked, arced and drew them in.

  Into the familiar whirlpool of sensation, into the hungry, greedy joy.

  Into the delight, the pleasure, the giving.

  That night they loved.

  Loved in a way they hadn’t before, at a deeper, more concerted, more attuned level, one where the sharing was richer, more vibrant, more vivid, and every moment resonated with a more powerful meaning.

  Alive, wondrously so, naked they wrestled, taking, giving, wanting, yearning, gasping, and surrendering.

  She took him in and rode him, wild and abandoned, her pearly skin kissed by the silvery moonlight, her breasts full and peaked as she rose and slid down, concentration etching her features as she pleasured him, pleasured him.

  Loved him, loved him…

  On a groan, he rose up and tipped her, rolled with her, sinking again into her welcoming warmth as her arms closed about him and he returned the pleasure.

  The loving.

  The love.

  Until their bodies were filled, full and cresting, until passion was spent and desire razed and their blood pounded and their senses imploded and ecstacy rushed in, seized them, took them, shattered them.

  Wracked them.

  Bound them together with silken strands and slowly lowered them back to earth, back to the rumpled sheets, and the haven of each other’s arms.

  They lay there, tangled, unable to move, unwilling to part, even just an inch. Hearts thundering, skin damp, breathing labored, they clung and quietly, carefully, held tight.

  The moment was too precious, too new, too revealing to risk shifting and ending it just yet.

  Yet time ticked on and the night closed around them. Muscles relaxed; satiation slipped in and soothed them, reassured them. Eventually she sighed, and he reached down and drew the covers up and over them both, tucking her against his side—where she now slept, where she now belonged.

  Where he needed her to be from now on.

  One arm bent behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, the other arm holding her close. After a moment of comfortable silence, he ventured, “So…does that mean: Yes, you’ll marry me?”

  He felt her lips curve against his chest. “Perhaps. My answer is still perhaps.”

  He didn’t want to ask, but…“Why perhaps?”

  “Because…I want something more.”

  He didn’t ask what more she wanted—he knew. I love you. He hadn’t given her the same, or even equivalent words. He’d answered her truly—he’d felt cowed. Awed by her confidence in uttering them—those infinitely powerful three little words. He’d heard women were like that—strong in such things, confident in their feelings.

  Men—especially men like him…

  Even now he had to quell a shudder at the thought of letting those words pass his lips. It was bad enough that he knew they were real. That his inner self, his heart—it seemed his very soul—had already accepted that reality.

  Yet all he’d ever need to make him shy from saying those words was to remember how he’d felt earlier that day. When he’d heard she’d been taken, he’d felt…eviscerated. As if someone had reached into his chest and stolen his heart—literally. He’d felt empty there, hollow, as if he’d lost something so vital he’d never know warmth or happiness again.

  The feeling had been profound, absolute, unshakable.

  If anything could make him wary of love—of admitting it out aloud—it was that. He’d barely been able to function as he’d needed to, to take command as he’d had to, to get her back.

  He’d been a soldier all his adult life. Never before had he felt vulnerable. Today, instead of the habitual invincibility essential to all good commanders, that sense of being protected by impenetrable armor even though one knew that wasn’t true, he’d felt…as if someone had carved a hole in his armor directly over his heart.

  That vulnerable feeling hadn’t left him, not until he’d had her in his arms, not until he’d known that all danger to her had passed.

  Even then…

  She’d fallen asleep. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing, marveled at how soothing he found it. How reassuring the soft sound was, how he recognized it, knew it, at some level he couldn’t explain.

  He was on the cusp of sleep himself when a stray truth wafted through his mind.

  Today, she had been first and foremost in his thoughts—he hadn’t thought of the scroll holder and its safety. Hadn’t really thought of his mission per se.

  For days—weeks—she’d been highest in his mind. She, her safety, and even more, her happiness.

  He was a man of duty—he lived by that code, and always had.

  Yet he put her above his duty—to his comrades, to his country, to his king. And he always would.

  And that, he thought, as sleep dragged him down, said it all.

  “We must strike tomorrow—we will get no other chance.” Akbar sat amid the ruins of the kitchen of the old mansion and looked at his second, then at the other two cultists who had been watching the road and had escaped with them.

  “What about Uncle?” one of the pair asked. “Surely we should free him?”

  “It was Uncle who led us to our terrible defeat.” Akbar flung out his arms. “How many comrades have we lost—has he lost—in this campaign?”

  After a moment, he folded his arms and went on, “We should remember that the Black Cobra demands absolute obedience—and our orders do not include rescuing Uncle. He deserves nothing but our master’s punishment, but that is not for us to deliver, not tomorrow—not while the major is still on this side of the water, yet to board his ship.”

  His second nodded. “Our orders are clear. They always have been.”

  Akbar nodded. “We must stop the major and retrieve the scroll holder he carries, whatever the cost.”

  The other two nodded. “You are right. So how will we do this?”

  They discussed, and discussed, until the truth became clear.

  “We cannot do both,” his second stated. “We can stop the major, or get the scroll holder, but with only four of us…we cannot do both.”

  Akbar hated to choose, but…he nodded. “If we kill the major and his woman, the Black Cobra will be pleased, and those waiting in England will have a better chance of retrieving the scroll holder.”

  Seventeen

  13th December, 1822

  Morning

  Our room in the Perrots’ auberge

  Dear Diary,

  I am almost there. I can almost taste the ultimate victory—the joy I will feel when Gareth finally, finally, tells me he loves me. In words. Out loud.

  He told me the truth last night, not in words, but in actions. Actions that spoke far too loudly for me to mistake his message.

  So yes, he is now and forever my “one,” and yes, we will marry. While he is pondering how to give me that “more” that I require before agreeing to the inevitable, I find myself wondering what our union will be like, how it will work. Not in the specific but in general terms. What manner of marriage do I want? What form will be right for us?

  Four months ago, I hadn’t even known such questions might be asked.

  It’s really quite exciting, this new life unfolding before me.

  E.

  The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into an event. News had spread, and by nine-thirty that morning, when Gareth’s party needed to leave the auberge and board their ship, th
e narrow streets were lined with well-wishers, all smiling and clapping and cheering them on.

  The sheer numbers of locals ensured no cultist would be likely to get close.

  Gareth sent the baggage, then the others in twos and threes ahead. Their route lay straight down the street opposite the auberge, which led to the main quay, then to the left a short way, and out along one of the lesser wharves. Captain Lavalle’s ship was berthed midway along.

  The skies were gray, but neither sleet, snow, rain, nor gales threatened. The streets were damp, if not dry, and the breeze was blowing offshore.

  At the last, after much touching of cheeks, slapping of backs and shaking of hands, he and Emily took their leave of the Perrots, and emerged from the inn.

  Smiling, nodding to those in the crowd they recognized, they walked briskly down the street, onto the quay, and out along the wharf.

  They were within a hundred feet of Lavalle’s ship, had paused to farewell a group of sailors, and were just moving on, when Gareth heard a telltale shi-ing.

  He grabbed Emily, pushed her back and down, covering her body with his—but not before that first arrow sliced across her forearm. The next arrow thudded into the wharf beside her.

  Two more found their mark in his back, but too weakly to do more than pierce his skin.

  Pandemonium erupted all along the wharf. More arrows rained down, one slicing across his arm, but the archers had misjudged their range; the force behind the arrows was enough to wound, but only by sheer luck could they kill. Realizing that, some sailors seized craypot lids and other makeshift shields, and formed a protective wall between Gareth and Emily and their ship. Other sailors swarmed aboard the two ships from whose crow’s nests the archers were shooting.

  Hauling Emily to her feet, Gareth rushed her to the gangplank and up it. Gaining the deck, he looked around and saw one cultist-archer dive from one crow’s nest into the harbor, while the other had been subdued and was being manhandled down the mast.

  Captain Lavalle came striding up. The gangplank was already aboard. “We’re away. You’ll be glad to see the last of these attackers—”

  Steel clanged on steel. Lavalle whirled. Looking past him, Gareth saw two cultists in the bow, wet and dripping, swords viciously slashing at sailors armed only with knives.

  He thrust Emily at Arnia and Mooktu. “Tend her wound.”

  With an oath, Lavalle ran for the action. Drawing his sword, Gareth followed, grimly pleased to have a release for the emotions roiling within him, evoked by having Emily hurt, especially while he’d been standing beside her.

  He’d been helpless to protect her more than he had, but he wasn’t helpless now, and one of the cultists paid. Lavalle dispatched the other.

  Duty done, violent feelings appeased, Gareth stepped back, and the sailors moved in. Once the ship cleared the harbor, the bodies would be tipped over the side.

  Gareth turned—and found Emily there. She looked into his eyes, a frown in hers, then, lips tight, locked her fingers in the sleeve of his uninjured arm and tugged. “Come and let me tend those wounds.”

  He frowned. “What about your arm?” She’d obviously ignored the wound; he could see a thin line of blood on the edge of her slashed sleeve.

  “That’s just a scratch.” Jaw firming ominously, she tugged harder. “Come on. Don’t argue.”

  He consented to let her drag him along. “Mine is just a scratch, too.”

  “Mine is a real scratch—it hardly bled at all.”

  He halted. “That’s worse than mine. You—”

  She turned on him, rising up on her toes to, quietly, shriek in his face, “You have two arrows in your shoulder! Don’t talk to me about scratches—you weren’t supposed to get hurt again, remember?”

  He’d forgotten about the arrows. Reaching over his shoulder, he found them, yanked them free of the thick weave of his coat, then brought them around to show her the arrowheads. “See—hardly any blood. They barely broke the skin.”

  She studied them, humphed. “Perhaps. Regardless, you will come below now and let me tend your wounds.”

  Looking into her face, registering her tone—determined and one level away from shrill—he nodded, and when she turned and led the way, meekly followed her to the stern companionway.

  Half an hour later, Gareth checked with Lavalle, then, seeing Emily standing at the stern watching Boulogne sink below the horizon, went to join her.

  She didn’t say anything, didn’t look his way, just lifted her face to the breeze, then sighed. “They were nice people—the Perrots and all the others—even if they were French.”

  He smiled. “True.” After a moment, smile fading, he murmured, “However, I doubt I’ll be rushing to return, not in the foreseeable future.”

  “Hmm.”

  A long moment passed, then he quietly said, “I’ve had enough of traveling.” He glanced at her. “How about you?”

  She turned her head, looked into his eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too.” She looked over the water. “I’ve had enough of adventure, of being in danger. Especially now that I’ve found what I was searching for.”

  They both thought of what that was. Of what it would lead to.

  The seas grew choppier and he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her from the worst of the snapping breeze as they watched Boulogne disappear and their past fall behind them, sliding away in the wake of the ship, and consciously let their minds look ahead. To the lives they would lead, and the future they would share.

  13th December, 1822

  Afternoon

  Aboard Lavalle’s ship bobbing in the Channel

  Dear Diary,

  He still hasn’t said he loves me, but I would be foolish indeed to doubt it. Even more than his actions, his motivations, his reasons, his reactions, all of which have remained unwavering for some weeks, speak of his true feelings.

  I can no longer doubt him on that score, so my question now is how much more—what else—should I seek from him in order that our marriage is based from the first on the very best foundation possible?

  Once again, I feel in dire need of my sisters’ advice.

  Regardless, I will persevere.

  E.

  The light was fading as the white cliffs of Dover rose up out of the sea to greet them. With Emily beside him, Gareth stood in the prow and watched the white line expand and draw nearer. The rest of their party were belowdecks, sharing stories of home and hopes for the future.

  For him…the future was not yet.

  Emily, thank heaven, understood. Sliding her arm in his, she leaned against his shoulder. “We’ll be dodging cultists again shortly, won’t we?”

  He nodded. “This is my first sight of England in seven years and…” When she said nothing, just waited, he dragged in a breath and said, “I can’t help thinking how lucky I am, cultists and all. MacFarlane won’t see home again—and I don’t know where the others are, if they’ll make it home, too.”

  Her hand slid into his, and she gripped. “You know what they’re like, those three friends of yours. I saw them, remember? They’re as determined as you. They’ll fight, and win through. They always have, haven’t they?”

  His lips quirked. He inclined his head.

  Eyes on the still distant land, he forced his mind to the immediate future. “The Black Cobra is going to know we’re here soon after we land. Once he does, he’ll come at us with even greater—even more deadly—force. He’ll do everything he can to stop us—to stop the letter I’m carrying getting into Wolverstone’s hands.” He paused, then went on, “Even after that, we—none of us in our party—will be safe. Not until the Black Cobra himself is brought down.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “We will win. We’ll see this through, and after that…”

  Perhaps. His jaw firmed. “When this is all over, we’ll talk about…what’s next.”

  About their marriage. He now knew beyond question that he would do whatever he needed to to en
sure she said yes. To ensure she remained his—his lover, his wife, and more.

  Coming home with her by his side was both a joy and a burden. That he had found her, the only woman he’d ever considered marrying, that she was with him, and one way or another would remain, was all he could ever have dreamed of by way of joyous homecomings. Yet the potential danger she would face setting foot on English soil by his side muted that joy, placed a heavy weight on his shoulders and set a vise about his heart.

  Returning the pressure of her fingers, shifting his to close his hand around hers, he silently vowed that no matter the threat, he would keep her safe. If he wanted a future, he’d have to—without her, he wouldn’t have one.

  They stepped off the gangplank and onto the docks, shrouded in gray drizzle with night rapidly closing in. With heavy coats and thick cloaks wrapped about them, they followed their baggage, loaded on a small cart, out of the harbor and into the town.

  Bister appeared at Gareth’s shoulder. “Cultist on the far corner to the left. He’s seen us.”

  Gareth glanced through the damp veil and saw a shocked brown face staring in their direction. “They didn’t expect us to get through their blockade, which means there’ll be no huge welcome waiting for us around the corner.”

  Bister shivered artistically. “Just as well. We need to get out of this wet before the cold gets into our bones.”

  They’d all forgotten England’s dampness.

  Wolverstone had stipulated they put up at the Waterman’s Inn in Castle Street. They reached it without incident. Giving his name at the counter, Gareth discovered that rooms had already been arranged—the entire first floor of one of the inn’s wings.

  “Arranged by a gen’leman who’s waiting in the tap, sir.” The innkeeper nodded to a doorway to the right. “Him or his friend’s been in every day for a week, now. Would you like me to fetch him, or…?”

  “No need.” Gareth turned, glanced at Emily by his side. “Wolverstone’s guards, I imagine.”