He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what all her expectations encompassed. Inclining his head in enigmatic response, he reached for the chair beside her, across from Loretta.
Raising her gaze, she met his eyes, dipped her head. “Good afternoon, sir. I trust you slept well?” Her smile was a touch mysterious, as if she were thinking of other things. Pleasant things.
Letting out the breath he’d unknowingly held, he sat. “I did, thank you.” Eventually. He bit back the urge to ask if she had; at least, this time after they’d shared a kiss, she wasn’t trying to freeze him.
He deemed that progress.
Progress toward what, he wasn’t sure, and wasn’t, at that particular moment in time, all that keen and eager to find out.
There was a time and place for deeper cogitations, and the middle of a mission wasn’t it. Whatever this was that had flared between them, whatever it was that had colored last night’s kiss, whatever came of it, whatever might be, would have to wait until later. Now …
Now he had to keep his eyes peeled for cultists.
Luncheon passed in relaxed and uneventful fashion. After they all rose from the table, he spoke with the captain, then headed up to the observation deck and once again found Loretta embroidering there. He dropped into the deck chair beside her, exchanged an easy smile when she glanced his way, then he stretched out his legs, folded his hands on his chest, and stared out at the river unraveling like a steel-gray ribbon before them.
Gradually, his lids grew heavy, then fell shut.
Loretta heard the change in his breathing, then heard a soft snore.
She glanced at him. Then, softly smiling, she turned back to her embroidery.
Rafe was much more alert the next afternoon, tense and very much on guard as he and Hassan escorted Loretta, Esme, Rose, and Gibson on a short tour of Linz.
The Uray Princep had tied up at the wharf an hour before, the captain declaring they would cast off again early the following morning. So there were only a few hours to fill, and Esme was determined to see the sights and stretch her legs. After two days on board, Loretta was in wholehearted agreement. Between them, they’d given Rafe little choice; Loretta had pointed out that they were sensible females, for which he should be grateful.
The comment had made him blink, then grudgingly agree to their projected outing.
Following Esme down the aisle of St. Martin’s Church, Loretta still wasn’t sure what to do about Rafe, whether to reinstigate her arm’s length policy—which had signally failed at the ball—or to readjust, to flow with the tide and see where it led her. Led them.
The latter impulse had moved her to use the excuse of thanking him for his rescue at the ball to kiss him again. Just to see what she might learn. As had happened previously, the exercise had only left her with more questions.
At Esme’s heels, she dutifully examined the carvings, the ornamental altar, the chapels and the nave, but even though parts of the church were said to date from 799, she found little to inspire her muse. Leaving Esme to explore the choir, she strolled back to wait with Rafe at the head of the nave.
Nearing, she softly said, “I didn’t seen any cultists in town. Did you?”
He shook his head.
Turning to watch Esme, she continued, “Linz isn’t on any of the highways the cult would have expected you to take. They might not have sent any men here at all.”
After a moment he replied, “I’ve learned the hard way never to take the cult for granted. The Black Cobra, Ferrar, has so many men at his disposal, there’s no saying what out-of-the-way places he might have dispatched his minions to.”
Esme had found a curate, and was engaged in earnest conversation. Watching the curate point, and Esme question, Rafe had a sinking feeling they would shortly be on their way somewhere else.
Sure enough, parting from the curate with smiles and thanks, Esme walked briskly up the nave. “I’ve seen all I wish to here. Apparently the other major sight one must see is the pilgrimage church on the hill above town.” She turned to Loretta. “The one whose tower you spotted from the boat.”
Rafe frowned. “That hill looked steep.”
“It is.” Esme smiled her smug smile. “Which is why there are pony traps for hire in the main square.”
Half an hour later, the two pony traps they’d hired halted before the Postlingberg church atop the Postlingberg mountain. Descending from the traps, they paused to admire the view of the river and the surrounding forests, then pushed open the church door and went inside.
They’d been assured by their drivers that the church was always open, but in this season, at this time of day, there were no other visitors, nor custodians to show them around.
As was often the case, a sign in the foyer requested all arms be left there, outside the nave. Grimacing, Rafe divested himself of his saber. Hassan followed suit, laying his scimitarlike blade on the sidetable alongside Rafe’s sword.
The ladies had gone ahead. Rafe followed them in, pacing slowly down the nave while the four women examined the altar, then moved on to admire the ornate pulpit.
From beside him, Hassan murmured, “What is it about these churches that your English ladies find so fascinating? They look much alike to me.”
Rafe thought about it. “It’s the differences, I think—no two are alike—and the artwork. Throughout the ages, the church always had first call on the best artisans. Much of what’s in churches can’t be found anywhere else.”
Noticing numerous side entrances, he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to come up with the women. Hassan halted at the end of the nave before the altar steps and settled to wait. Rafe followed the women around thealtar, listened while they discussed the carved choir stalls, then trailed the group as they circled, eventually heading back toward the nave.
With the women just ahead, he stepped past the altar.
A door to his left flew open. Seven men—not cultists—stormed in.
The men had naked blades in their hands. They raced straight for their party.
Rafe had no weapon. He glanced around. Grabbed one of the two yard-long altar candlesticks.
The women fled across the front of the altar into a small chapel beyond. Hassan hurried them on, then grabbed the second candlestick.
Rafe had no time to see more. The first of their attackers was almost on him. Instead of backing away, Rafe stepped forward and swung the candlestick.
The first man went down like a rock.
Another heavy thump and courtesy of Hassan, another attacker was on the floor.
But that still left five. All very intent. They started circling.
Hassan was on Rafe’s right. Rafe was facing the long aisle of the nave. Two attackers with blades stood between him and the foyer, and his and Hassan’s swords.
They couldn’t let the attackers circle enough to reach the women. From the corner of his eye Rafe saw that Loretta had pushed the other three into the chapel proper. They were arming themselves with anything they could find—prayer books, hymnals, altar cushions—whatever came to hand.
None of which would be much good against knives.
One of the men’s eyes flicked to the women.
Abruptly straightening, Rafe let out a cavalry roar, swung the candlestick, and charged the two men facing him.
Surprised, they ducked back from the wildly swinging candlestick.
Rafe sprang past and raced up the nave.
The pair swore and gave chase.
The others cursed and leapt at Hassan.
Nearing the end of the long aisle, Rafe glanced back, then flung his candlestick at the nearest man. It struck the man across the face. He stumbled, then went down.
The second attacker had to leap over him.
Rafe raced into the foyer, seized his saber, turned and swung.
The slash made the oncoming attacker leap back, but Rafe followed up with a quick lunge and thrust, and the man crumpled and fell.
Rafe paused only to swipe up Hassan’s sword, th
en raced back down the nave.
Hassan was desperately fending off two knife-wielding attackers with his candlestick.
The other attacker had gone for the women.
Faces like fury, Loretta and Esme were pelting him with books and cushions; the man had his arms up trying to weather the storm. Further back in the chapel, the two maids were tugging down a long curtain.
Rafe had to relieve them before they ran out of missiles, but first … he let his momentum carry him into one of the two men attacking Hassan.
At the last moment, the man heard him coming and turned. He got his long knife up—Rafe felt it slice across his upper arm as he mowed the man down.
Rafe tossed Hassan his blade, then whirled to face the man who had turned from attacking the women.
The man snarled, beady eyes assessing.
Leaving Hassan to deal with the other man still standing, Rafe beckoned to his opponent, raised his saber.
The man saw the long curved blade, hesitated.
A calvary saber beat a long knife. Always.
Eyes on the saber, the man eased back.
Rose and Gibson stepped silently up behind the man and dropped their appropriated curtain over his head.
Before he could react, Esme and Loretta whipped the curtaincords around him. By the time he started yelling and struggling, they were tying the knots off.
Gibson shoved and the man toppled, tied up like a parcel.
Mentally shaking his head, Rafe swung around. Saw the man he’d mowed down trying to struggle up, his long knife still in his hand.
Rafe stepped closer, kicked the knife away, and knocked the man out with his saber’s hilt.
Looking up, he saw Hassan disarm his opponent, then knock him out, too.
Straightening, Rafe looked around. Seven bodies strewed the church, but not one of them was dead.
“We haven’t killed anyone.” He glanced at Esme and Loretta. “I suggest we leave. Now.”
Both were shaken, yet showed no signs of hysteria. They’d taken in the situation, too. Both nodded.
But the four women paused to gather the fallen books.
Rather than argue, Rafe helped.
They quickly restacked the books and cushions, then the ladies smoothed down their skirts.
Rafe escorted Esme and Loretta up the aisle, steering them past the groaning men. Hassan followed, guiding Gibson and Rose.
In the foyer, the women straightened their coats and cloaks, then, spines straight, heads erect, walked out to where the two drivers waited with their traps, oblivious to the action inside the church.
Esme made a comment about the altar as Rafe helped her into one trap. Loretta responded, equally calmly.
Giving thanks once again for sensible females, Rafe joined them. A minute later, they were heading down the mountain and back to the boat.
Rafe didn’t relax until they were back on the boat. He saw the ladies to their stateroom; although she’d borne up well, he suspected Esme needed to rest and compose herself.
Loretta seemed to agree. Her reserved façade had long slipped away; she was fiercely protective of her great-aunt as she helped her through the stateroom door.
Gibson and Rose had gone in ahead of Esme. Turning to shut the stateroom door, Loretta glanced at Rafe. “Thank you.”
He nodded, appearing distracted, already turning away.
She started closing the door, then saw him look down at his left upper arm. Gripping the sleeve, he tried to shift the fabric, winced.
Frowning, she paused, peered …
“Good God!” She pushed the door open again. “You’re wounded!”
The slash was on the back of his upper arm so she hadn’t noticed the cut in the material, and the dark color of his coat hid the bloodstain.
Grasping his elbow, she angled his arm to look. Taking in the damage, she felt her face set. “That needs tending. Come inside and sit down.”
She tugged, but he didn’t shift.
“It’s not that bad—I can manage.”
She looked up, narrowed her eyes. “How? You can’t even reach it properly, let alone see it.”
Rafe hated, positively hated, being fussed over. He blamed his mother and elder sisters. He met Loretta’s eyes, a flippant response on his tongue.
Her expression gave him pause.
Judging by her eyes and the set of her jaw, the fierce protectiveness she’d earlier displayed over Esme had transferred its focus to him.
As if to confirm that, she crisply ordered, “Don’t argue.” Her jaw firmed; her fingers tightened about his elbow. She tugged more forcefully. “Now come in!”
Rose, returning to the door, had overheard; concern in her face, she held the door wide.
Rafe found himself towed into the stateroom’s sittingroom and pushed to sit on the window seat before the forward windows.
“A basin and some towels,” Loretta directed. “We’ll need to dampen the coat and shirt to get them free.”
They set upon him, Rose rushing to get the required basin, Gibson coming to confer with Loretta, Esme reclining on her bed in her cabin observing from a distance and issuing instructions.
By the time they’d eased him out of his coat, he was ready to bolt. “Hassan and the crew can help—”
“Shut up.” Loretta didn’t even look up from where she was applying a damp towel to the dried blood plastering his sliced shirt sleeve to the wound. “You rescued us, so we get to tend your wound.”
He glanced at Rose and Gibson, then without much hope at Esme, but they were all as grimly determined as Loretta.
So he had to sit and suffer their ministrations.
Hassan looked in. Rafe tried to claim his support in escaping, but the women would have none of it. His loyal henchman grinned, and left him to their mercies.
Once the material was freed from the wound, they unpicked the shirt shoulder seam and removed the sleeve, baring his arm. The slash, once fully revealed and thoroughly cleaned, was deep enough to need stitches. He couldn’t see it well enough to argue, so he sat with teeth gritted, biting back his curses while Gibson neatly sewed him up.
Finally, Loretta and her handmaidens stood back.
She frowned. “We really should have some salve for that.” She glanced at Gibson, who shook her head.
“Didn’t bring any of that sort. And it should be properly bandaged, too.”
“Indeed.” Loretta turned away. “Wait there. I have something we can use.”
He twisted and contorted, trying to see the wound.
Loretta returned from her cabin, a pile of soft material in her hands. “I cut up one of my petticoats.”
He blinked. Sat perfectly still while she wound the soft white material around his arm, then briskly tied it off.
“There.” She stood back with the others to admire her handiwork.
He seized the moment to get to his feet. He’d reached his limit; he had to escape.
Loretta’s gaze tracked up to his face. She studied it for a moment, then nodded. “That’s the best we can do for the moment.” She stepped out of his way, turning to accompany him as, almost afraid to hope, he walked toward the door.
He paused as he reached it, then turned back and swept them all a deep bow. “Thank you, ladies.”
Rose and Gibson smiled.
Loretta merely nodded and opened the stateroom door. “Now don’t forget to bring us your shirt and coat. We’ll have them washed and repair the damage.”
He nodded obediently and stepped into the corridor. “Thank you.”
Then he fled.
Loretta watched his retreating back, then humphed and shut the door.
Now that they were the only passengers on board, meals were much quieter, comfortable, and private. Even the crew seemed more relaxed.
Over dinner that evening, Loretta took stock. Esme, as always, kept the conversation flowing. After the excitement of the afternoon, she had plenty to exclaim over and relive.
Loretta did
her share of reliving, too, but in her case the notable moments were not confined to the church. Admittedly, the shock that had lanced through her when she’d realized that—impossible though it seemed—they were being attacked in a pilgrimage church had left an indelible mark on her mind. Balancing that, however, was the knowledge of how they’d fought, of Rafe’s and Hassan’s unflinching bravery in their defense, and their own resourcefulnessin assisting as they could. All straightforward enough.
It was Rafe’s wound—her reaction on realizing he’d been wounded—that disturbed her. She was relieved they’d all survived the incident, but was simultaneously so … exercised that he’d been hurt.
She couldn’t adequately identify the emotions she’d felt—still felt—over that.
Later, after she, Esme, Rose, and Gibson had retired to the stateroom, and subsequently each to their own cabins, the thought of Rafe’s wound had her shrugging into her pelisse and heading up to the observation deck.
She should at least check that it was no longer bleeding.
As she’d expected, he was standing guard by the rail; he had heard her on the stairs and turned. He watched as she crossed the deck.
“I wanted to check your wound—how does it feel?” Halting beside him, she studied his face.
“It’s …” He shrugged, moved his wounded arm slightly. “As to be expected.”
Was the blue of his eyes a little brighter? “You’re not running a fever, are you?” She was tempted to place a hand across his forehead, but restrained herself.
He smiled faintly and turned to look out at the night. “I’m all right.”
She turned to look out as well, grasping the rail beside him. “Did you ask the captain to put out onto the river again?”
“After hearing what happened in the church he was happy to accede to my request.”
“I still can’t believe these men are attacking us in churches.”
“The cult wouldn’t recognize such prohibitions.”
She frowned. “But those men were locals, weren’t they?”
“Indeed.” His voice took on a grim note. “It seems that the cult has hired locals to keep watch and attack in the smaller towns.”
She considered that, after some moments asked, “Do the cultists always wear black head scarves?”