The Reckless Bride

  That left Rafe and Hassan facing two large attackers each.

  Wide-eyed, Loretta watched the ensuing fight—tried to follow the moves, the clash of blades, tried to anticipate the shifting bodies, the slashes. The attackers fought with two knives each, one in each hand, against Rafe’s and Hassan’s long swords. Time and again, her heart leapt to her mouth—she heard Rose and Gibson, too, suck in fearful breaths—but time and again Rafe and Hassan would duck and weave … they were truly good at this.

  So absorbed were the four of them in watching the fight, none of them noticed that one of the men knocked unconscious at the start had regained his wits and crawled away from the melee.

  They weren’t aware of him until he loomed beside them where they huddled in the doorway. With a knife in one hand, with the other he reached across Rose and Gibson. “Come here, you, and it’ll all be over.”

  Startled, Loretta backed away from that grasping hand, felt Esme beside and a little behind her. Loretta’s hand touched Esme’s where it gripped the head of her cane.

  Setting her jaw, Loretta seized the cane—Esme released it as she did. Lifting it, sliding her hand down its length, she stepped out of the doorway and swung the cane at their attacker.

  The heavy silver-mounted head connected with the man’s elbow with a satisfying crack! With a yelp he dropped the knife, then snarled a curse.

  As she drew the cane back again, Rose and Gibson both kicked hard at the man’s shins, distracting him.

  Loretta raised the cane high and brought it down over his head.

  He howled, then cowered as she swung it again, from the side this time, clipping him over the ear.

  “Excellent, my dear,” Esme called. “But don’t break my cane.”

  Loretta doubted she could; the cane had a silver-plated casing. Regardless, she swung again. The man turned away, trying to protect his head with his arms.

  Gibson and Rose hit him with their fists, kicked him with their boots.

  With a strangled cry the man lurched away, paused to glance back at his companions, then fled.

  Once again in the grip of euphoric victory, cane in hand Loretta whirled to see Rafe knock the last of the attackers out with his sword hilt. Even as the man slumped to join his mates on the cobbles, Rafe looked at her, then at the other three, then beckoned urgently. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Loretta handed Esme her cane, then took her great-aunt’s arm and helped her hurry on down the street. As they did, she glanced at the shops lining the pavements, wondering why no one had come to their aid.

  Then she realized. The men had chosen well. The street was filled with businesses that closed for the midday break, the shopkeepers returning to homes elsewhere for luncheon.

  Rafe had noticed the same thing. He wanted to stop and question the men, but with the women present and multiple cultists in the town, he couldn’t risk dallying there and then.

  But the wharf was close. In less than ten minutes, he and Hassan had the women safely aboard.

  He turned to Hassan. “Stay here, keep watch, and if you get a chance warn the captain. I’m going back to see if I can learn who hired those thugs.”

  Hassan merely nodded.

  Rafe went quickly down the gangplank, then strode off down the wharf, breaking into a run as he turned up the street they’d come down minutes before.

  Loretta watched him go. She’d heard his orders to Hassan, but …

  Walking to stand beside Hassan, she said, “You should go with him. We’re perfectly safe here—the captain’s on board and the crew will see off any would-be attackers.”

  Hassan looked at her, then gently shook his head.

  She frowned and pressed. “Those men might have all woken up by now. If they set on him all at once, who’s to say what might happen? ”

  Hassan smiled. “Do not worry. He will be all right.”

  Folding her arms, she narrowed her eyes at him, but he only held to that gentle smile … he was probably as stubborn as his master.

  She humphed, swung around, and headed for the salon. “He’d better be all right,” she muttered. As for her not worrying … pigs would fly first.

  Rafe returned to the boat in no good mood.

  It was midafternoon when he trudged up the gangplank, then climbed the stairs to the observation deck. He joined Hassan at the rail. “No luck.”

  “They were gone?”

  “Long gone by the time I got back there. But I couldn’t have been far behind them, so I searched the surrounding streets, then trawled through the local taverns.” He shook his head. “Not a sight. They’ve gone to ground, or slunk away to some lair further afield.”

  “They have to be locals—they’d picked their ambush site too well.”

  He nodded. “So they’re in hiding. Given I couldn’t ask if they were hired by indians with black scarves, I went further into town, to one of the squares the cultists are patrolling. They’re still there, calmly walking the streets, watching—they clearly hadn’t heard that we’d been located and attacked near the wharves. Sadly, that doesn’t mean they won’t hear about it later tonight, once their hirelings report in.”

  “If they report their failure, and if they were indeed cult hirelings.”

  “Indeed. But while we don’t know whether those men were cult hirelings, we have to assume that by this evening, the cult will know we’re in town.”

  Hassan nodded. “But they still will not know where we are—that we are on this boat and traveling by river.”

  “True. No one followed us when we came back with the ladies, and no one followed me back just now. We’re stillsafe on that count.” After a moment, Rafe added, “I wonder when the captain intends to cast off tomorrow?”

  “I do not know.” Hassan glanced at him. “But you had better go and reassure the ladies that you have returned and are safe.”

  Puzzled, he looked at Hassan.

  Who grinned. “Miss Loretta was worried.”

  He raised his brows. “Was she?” After a moment, he said, “Then I suppose I had better go down and report.”

  Leaving Hassan on watch, he went down the stairs. The murmur of feminine voices led him to the salon. Esme and Loretta were there, seated in two armchairs facing the door. Now that they were the only passengers aboard, the salon was both spacious and private.

  He ducked through the doorway. Even as he straightened and across the salon met Loretta’s eyes, he knew something was wrong.

  Her blue eyes raced over him, as if assuring herself he was unhurt, but when her gaze returned to his face, her expression was carefully, rather rigidly, blank. The way she held herself, sitting very upright in the chair, her body angled toward Esme, suggested that she was unhappy with whatever her outrageous relative was planning.

  In contrast, the instant she set eyes on him, Esme beamed. “There you are, dear boy. Just in time to rejoice in my wonderful news! Loretta and I, and of course you, too, will be attending the Winter Ball at the Hofburg Palace tonight.”

  Halting before the chairs, he simply stared at her, convinced he couldn’t have heard aright. “The Winter Ball?” He glanced at Loretta; her grimace told him the outing hadn’t been her idea, that she’d argued against it, but hadn’t succeeded in dissuading Esme.

  “Indeed!” that incorrigible grande dame continued. “I lived in Vienna for some years and, if I do say so myself, have a great many friends here.” Esme continued to smile delightedly at him. “Naturally, I sent my card to a few of the dearest, explaining that it would be dificult to call andsee everyone given we were not long in town.” She arched a brow at him. “I knew you wouldn’t wish us to be scurrying all over town paying visits. However, one of my dearest friends had the brilliant notion of securing invitations for us for the ball tonight. Every one of my old friends will be there, so I can see them all at once.” She lifted three gilt-edged ivory cards from her lap and waved them. “The invitations arrived while you were out.”

  She was honestly delighted, si
ncerely thrilled.

  All he could see was disaster. “There are cultists in town.”

  “But we’ll be going by carriage, dear boy—they’ll never see you. I’ve already organized to have a coach call here at nine o’clock to take us up.”

  “The entry to the Palace …” Even as he said it, he knew that excuse would never fly.

  Sure enough, Esme laughed. “The cultists won’t be looking for you at a local ball. And they certainly won’t be able to get into the grounds of the palace, much less inside. If there’s one place you can be sure we’ll be safe from the serpent’s minions, it’s surrounded by the cream of Austrian society.”

  He desperately searched for some reason to veto the outing.

  Esme caught his eye. “And of course, regardless of whether you join us or not, I will have to attend.” She waved the gilt-edged cards. “These are not easy to come by at short notice. Now they’ve been secured, I’ll have to appear.” She glanced at Loretta. “And Loretta, too, of course.”

  Meeting Esme’s eyes, he recognized that this was one battle he could not win. There was nothing he could say to dissuade her, and ultimately he couldn’t command her.

  Now he understood the look in Loretta’s eyes. Resignation.

  He narrowed his eyes, all but growled, “Very well.” Turning, he headed for the door. “I’ll have to go into town and find a tailor. I forgot to pack my evening clothes.”

  “Excellent, dear boy. You won’t regret it.”

  In the doorway, he glanced back at Esme, then briefly at Loretta. At least he would get to see her in a ballgown.

  As he headed up the stairs to tell Hassan the news, it occurred to him that, given his current state vis-à-vis her, seeing Loretta Michelmarsh in a ballgown might not advance his cause.

  Half an hour later, Loretta sat at the desk in the stateroom’s sitting room, scribbling frantically. “Wonderful!” she muttered. “A damn ball. Just what I need.”

  Esme was resting in her cabin. Gibson and Rose were in Loretta’s cabin, fussing over her ballgown and the necessary accoutrements.

  Finally setting down her pen, she blotted the page, then reread her piece. “Mountains near and far.” She’d recalled the night on the observation deck, the sight of the distant snowcapped peaks, and had been struck by the idea of using the vision as an analogy for life’s challenges. Mountains as barriers, as hurdles to be overcome.

  Much like Rafe Carstairs—or, more correctly, her reaction to him. She still wasn’t sure what to do about it. What she could do about it, what her options were. Ignoring the phenomenon hadn’t made it go away. And as he was clearly aware of the effect he had on her, and couldn’t control it any more than she could …

  Minutes later, she blinked, and realized she’d been far away, and not on any mountain. She’d been daydreaming. She couldn’t recall daydreaming about a man before.

  Shaking off the unsettling occurrence, she decided she was satisfied with her piece. Sealing it together with the one inspired by Pressburg—"Preserving the Shadows of Destiny"—she penned the direction of her agent on the letter’s face, then rose and headed for her cabin. Rose knew of her secret career; she would ensure the letter was posted.

  While her mistress waltzed around the Hofburg Palace ballroom and tried not to yawn.

  * * *

  It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Rafe, with Loretta beside him and Esme on his arm, reached the top of the main stairs in the Hofburg Palace. The reception line snaked across the tiled landing to the grand doors of the ballroom, where their hosts, the Grand Duke and Duchess, stood waiting to greet their guests. Glancing down the stairs, at the crowd still waiting to ascend, Rafe gave thanks they’d arrived when they had. He’d forgotten what major balls were like—the long wait on the stairs, the crush in the ballroom.

  He’d never been a fan of such so-called entertainments; avoiding them and similar ton social requirements had in part helped steer him into the army.

  “You look extremely impressive, dear boy.” Esme tapped his arm with her furled fan. Leaning back, she eyed his shoulders, encased in black superfine. “And I’m even more impressed that you managed to find a tailor who could cater to your requirements at such short notice.”

  He met her gaze. “Prussian Hussars. There are some stationed at the Prussian consulate here—I asked for their recommendation.”

  Esme laughed. “Clever. Permit me to tell you the effort was worth it.”

  He frowned. “I feel … odd.” He glanced at his sleeve. “I keep expecting my coat to be red.”

  “Ah, well, you’ve sold out now, so there’s no more dashing red coats for you. Only black if you follow Brummel’s line, although as I recall the dear boy did allow that a deep midnight blue was also acceptable for a gentleman’s evening coat.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was baiting him or not, so he humphed and left it at that.

  But the notion of midnight blue suiting had him slanting a glance to his right. Loretta stood beside him, resplendent in a gown of periwinkle blue satin that matched her eyes. Under the light from the chandeliers, her dark hair gleamed, spilling in a fanciful froth of curls from a knot on the top of her head; the uppermost curls were level with his eyes.

  The expanse of creamy, satiny skin revealed by the scooped neckline of her gown made his mouth water. Her eyes, however, said she was absorbed, thinking of something far away, almost as if she were debating with herself. Whatever the subject, her lips were lightly pursed.

  An impulse to kiss them shook him.

  He looked ahead, and inwardly frowned. He’d seen that absorbed look before, but given their present location, he had to wonder what subject was strong enough to draw a young lady’s interest from all the fashions and jewelry so abundantly on display all around them.

  Then again, Loretta Michelmarsh was a very far cry from the average young miss.

  They advanced in the reception line, then finally he was bowing before the Duke and Duchess. Esme was greeted as a long-lost friend. Loretta came back from wherever she’d been to smile and touch fingers with their hosts, then Esme drew them on—into the glittering throng.

  For an instant, Rafe knew fear. It had been over a decade since he’d been in a ton crush. It wasn’t the press of humanity that made him nervous but the open avidity in so many feminine eyes as their owners noticed him, and started to plan.

  He’d forgotten about that aspect of ton life.

  Esme released his arm and led the way, forging a path through the crowd. Instinct had him seizing Loretta’s wrist and winding her arm in his. “Don’t you dare desert me.”

  She turned her head and looked at him.

  He glanced at her, and realized he’d managed to drag her from her inward contemplation.

  Jolted from considering a potential vignette on the glamor of the Hofburg Palace, Loretta studied him, surprised by the vehemence in his tone. She’d made a point of not noticing him, of not allowing her mind or her senses to dwell on him; with his bright golden hair freshly washed and shining, his clean-shaven aristocratic features, his patriarchal nose, arresting blue eyes, and thoroughly sinful lips, all atop a bodythat was long, tall, and exuded sensual danger, wide in the shoulders, narrow of hip, and long of leg, he was assuredly the embodiment of many a lady’s dream.

  She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “I thought you were supposed to be guarding us—me in this instance, as Esme clearly needs no help.”

  He glanced ahead to where Esme had claimed a seat beside a lady whose ample bosom was terrifyingly overburdened with gems. “I’ll make a bargain with you. A pact.” Looking back, he caught her eyes. “I’ll guard you if you’ll guard me.”

  She was tempted to scoff, but he sounded deadly serious. She nudged him toward the end of the sofa on which Esme had come to rest. Once they’d taken up station there, backs to the wall, looking out at the other revelers, she caught his gaze. “Who am I supposed to guard you fr … oh.”

  Her “oh” was occasioned by
the sight of an extremely well-endowed lady—not young, but a matron perhaps a few years Loretta’s senior—who was, quite openly, trying to attract his attention.

  He moved closer to Loretta. Lifting her hand, carrying it to his lips, he shifted to face her. “Precisely. Oh. That oh.”

  She glanced again at the lady. Noticed she was but one of several, all of whom appeared to have their eye on him. “There seem to be an abundance of ohs around.”

  “They’re circling. You can’t abandon me to them.”

  There was that hint of panic again. The man had faced down God only knew what dangers; she was fairly certain he would have looked Death in the face at least once in his career—at Waterloo, if nowhere else. Yet fashionable matrons on the hunt sent him running.

  She was inexpressibly curious. “Don’t you have any interest in …?” She gestured.

  “Dalliance? No. Well …” Rafe took a moment to consider his position. “I have no interest whatever in any lady here. Any other lady here. You are a different matter.”

  She arched her brows haughtily. “Indeed?”

  He nodded. “You are not about to whisk me off to some secluded alcove and have your wicked way with me.” He liked women—always had—but he preferred to be the hunter, not the hunted. One thing he would never be was some predatory female’s prey. “You’re my shield, and I’m not letting go of you.”

  She struggled to keep her lips straight, but failed. Miserably. She laughed.

  The look he cast her had frozen subalterns in sheer terror; it had no discernible effect on her. The musicians saved her—or was it him? The opening chords of a waltz rose over the sea of heads.

  “Hell’s bells—you do waltz, don’t you?” If he didn’t lead her onto the floor, some harpy would approach and jockey for him to partner her instead.

  Periwinkle blue eyes considered him. “Not well.”

  “Never mind. You’ll do.” Covering her hand on his sleeve, he led her into the crowd in the direction of a clearing he assumed was the dance floor.