The Reckless Bride

  “Minerva sent him.” Royce had to wonder why.

  “There’s nothing happening here,” Devil pointed out. “You may as well go and hear what Kilworth has to say.”

  After a second’s consideration, Royce nodded and rose. Leaving Deverell to watch beside Devil, he made his way back through the wood.

  Kilworth heard him as he stepped into the clearing. The viscount whirled. His face lit with relief. “Thank God!”

  “Indeed. What is it?”

  Kilworth grimaced. “Well, that’s just it, you see. I’m not sure it’s anything important at all, but Her Grace, Lady Letitia, and Lady Clarice all insisted I had to come and tell you.” He spread his long arms. “So here I am.”

  Royce hung on to his temper. If Minerva and Letitia and Clarice thought he needed Kilworth’s information. … “Just tell me what you told them.”

  “Well, that’s another problem. It’s …” Kilworth met Royce’s eyes, then drew a quick breath and let it out in a rush of words. “It happened long ago and I have no idea whether it’s true or not …”

  His expression like stone, his temper reined with steel, Royce waited.

  “I was at a ball,” Kilworth said. “Years ago, when I was much younger. Looking about, you know, and I saw this young lady across the room, and she saw me and … well, I asked m’mother to introduce us, but Mama took one look, then scoffed and said that there was no more point introducing me to that one than in introducing me to Lavinia. Lavinia’s m’youngest sister. I thought that was a strange thing to say … well, I understood the implication, but I knew m’mother exaggerated things, especially things to do with m’father. So at another ball I approached the young lady and asked her for a dance. She just looked at me—she really didn’t need to do anything else, you see—then she smiled slyly and said she really didn’t think that was a good idea.”

  Royce frowned. “Why didn’t she need to do anything else but look at you—and from all of that, what did you deduce?”

  “It was the eyes, you see.” Earnest animation filled Kilworth’s face. “Same as Roderick’s—same as m’father’s. No mistaking those chill blue eyes. But that’s all I know—not exactly proof, is it? And there’s no point asking the old man, because he won’t say, but all in all, I’m fairly certain she’s another of m’father’s bastards.”

  He was missing something. Royce knew it. “Kilworth, why are you telling me this now?”

  Kilworth looked at him. “Didn’t I say? Her name is in that letter of yours.”

  “Your father denied he had any other bastards named in that letter.”

  “Bastard sons. He only mentioned sons. She’s not a son. Well, he only focuses on his sons at the best of times, but a bastard daughter—”

  “What’s her name?” Royce managed not to roar.

  Kilworth snapped to attention. “Mrs. George Campbell—Alexandra Middleton as was.”

  “Aside from her eyes, what does she look like?”

  “Tallish, slender. Hair like Papa and Roderick—very pale blond.”

  Royce swore, swung on his heel, and raced back through the wood.

  Rafe tucked his watch back in his pocket and reached to take the reins of his horse from Logan. He met Logan’s eyes. “Wish me luck.”

  Handing over the reins, Logan slapped his arm. “You’ve that and more.” He waited while Rafe swung up, then settled in the saddle. Looking up, Logan grinned. “Reckless rides again. Just take care.”

  Rafe dragged in a breath. They both knew walking into the Black Cobra’s arms was literally dicing with death—especially for him, the last and vital courier. Jaw setting, Rafe inclined his head. Turning the horse, he nudged the gelding into a trot and started schooling himself—his expressions, his reactions—to those he would have had were he simply returning from conducting some business; that was the story he and Loretta had settled on to explain his absence.

  He’d ridden into danger many times in his life, beneath cannonades where one errant shell could blow a man to kingdom come. He’d faced death in foreign lands times beyond counting. That he might face death in an inn parlor in the quiet English countryside had never featured in his expectations.

  As he trotted up the inn’s drive, the sound of the horse’s hooves on the gravel a sharp tattoo ringing clearly in the otherwise unbroken quiet, every instinct he possessed was awake, alive, alert—and screaming of danger. In the field he’d always had a type of sixth sense as to where, in which direction, immediate threat lay—and it was insisting imminent danger lurked beyond the inn’s front door.

  He wasn’t looking forward to meeting it. He was a cavalryman; all his battles had been fought on the field with space enough around him to move. Fighting in constrained spaces, in a room with furniture and, worse, helpless innocents, was not all that far removed from his worst nightmare.

  Regardless, he neither showed nor felt any hesitation in riding into the forecourt, slowing the horse, and swinging down to the ground.

  He was being watched from multiple vantage points in the inn. He glanced around as if expecting a groom to appear and take the horse, then shook his head and tied the reins to the post not far from the front door.

  He had little fear of dying. He never had had. One couldn’t be reckless if one feared. He’d been a soldier all his life, and that’s what soldiers did—gave up their lives if that’s what was needed.

  But this time he didn’t want to die. This time, he actively wanted to live, desperately yearned to survive because now he had a reason for living, a future worth living.

  With Loretta.

  They both had to live.

  For either of them to have the future they now craved, they both had to survive the upcoming engagement.

  Yet if it came to it … he knew he’d give his life for hers, to secure hers. That was the only way he’d die today—if there was no other choice. But if there was no other choice to be made, he’d take that path, in an instant, without hesitation, and certainly with no regrets. She, above all, had to live, had to survive, even if he didn’t survive to be with her.

  She wouldn’t agree, but he wouldn’t be asking her permission.

  The thought settled him. Gave him the certainty, the clear focus he needed, going into this battle. This fight within four walls.

  With his usual nonchalant stride, he walked to the inn’s front door, opened it, and stepped inside.

  Instantly two sword points were leveled at his throat. One from either side, each held by an assassin. He let his expression blank—and hoped they read it as shock. Swiftly scanning, he saw four other assassins hovering in the shadows of the hall.

  Another man—a much harder, more experienced, chillingly brutal-looking assassin—stood directly ahead of him, two paces into the hall.

  He met the man’s eyes. What had Tony said—a captain of the Black Cobra’s guard?

  With one finger, the man tapped his lips, then indicated that Rafe should shut the door.

  Moving slowly, he complied, trying not to think about how solid the door was as it softly thumped shut and cut him off from the others outside.

  The captain—Rafe decided to label him that—smiled, a totally unhumorous, unwarming sight. “Our leader, the Black Cobra, will be especially glad to see you, Captain Carstairs.” To his men, he said, “Take his sword.”

  Rafe didn’t react as the assassin to his right reached for his saber’s hilt, then slowly drew the blade from its sheath.

  The captain jerked his head, and both assassins stepped back, withdrawing their knives, but they didn’t put the blades away. “You will do nothing that might lead us to hurt the young woman presently sitting with the Black Cobra—our illustrious leader calls her Loretta.”

  Lips setting in a grim line, Rafe inclined his head. So the Black Cobra was in the parlor.

  The captain smiled again. “Just so.” He seemed to relish having Rafe at his mercy. Then he glanced at the assassin on Rafe’s left. “Search him.”

  Slowly, Ra
fe obligingly lifted his arms out to his sides. The assassin searched his pockets, his coat lining, patted his clothes, clearly looking for the letter. Rafe waited, but the assassin didn’t search his boots—and so missed the knife he carried there.

  Not that one knife would do him much good in this company.

  The assassin stepped back, shaking his head.

  Softly padding footsteps on the stairs had them all looking that way. An older Indian with a long black beard appeared. Stepping onto the hall tiles, he stared at Rafe and, frowning, came forward.

  The man’s black gaze traveled over Rafe, then returned to his face.

  The Black Cobra’s advisor? It seemed likely. The man wore robes of civilian style. The malevolence in his dark gaze was intense, almost tangible.

  Eventually the advisor glanced at the captain. “I have had them search everywhere upstairs—the letter is nowhere to be found.”

  The captain considered, then looked at Rafe. Met his eyes. “We have not yet searched the young woman.”

  “She doesn’t have it.” Rafe uttered the words in his usual drawl.

  Unsurprised, the captain raised his brows. “So where is the so-important letter, Captain?”

  Rafe held his gaze. “I’m the only one who knows where it is. That shouldn’t surprise you. Perhaps it’s time you took me to meet your illustrious leader, so that he and I can discuss what he’s willing to cede in exchange for the proof—such absolute and incontrovertible proof—of his villainy.”

  The captain considered him for a long moment, then glanced at the advisor, who had been studying Rafe through narrowed eyes.

  Some wordless communication passed between the pair, then the advisor glanced again at Rafe, and nodded. “I will go and inquire.”

  Turning, he headed for the parlor door.

  Royce reached the fallen tree behind which he’d left Devil and Deverell to find that Tony Blake had joined them.

  Before Royce could say a word, Tony informed him, “Carstairs has arrived. He’s going in.”

  “What?”

  Tony blinked. “It seemed the sensible thing to do—as he pointed out, we’re at a stalemate. We can’t move until they do, and they won’t until he walks in. So he’s going in. Any minute now.”

  Devil was staring at Royce. “What did Kilworth want?”

  “He wanted to tell us who the Black Cobra is.” Royce heard the cutting edge to his voice.

  “Who?” three voices asked.

  His gaze on the parlor window, on the scene inside, Royce felt a steely, warrior-calm take hold. “We’ve been watching the Black Cobra for the last half hour.” He nodded to the scene in the parlor. “The blond. She’s it.”

  The other three stared.

  As had happened in other times, in other places, Royce suddenly knew exactly what to do. “We haven’t much time. Tony—do another circuit at speed. Go to those watching in the lane first—send Charles to me here, with the rest to join Christian at the front of the inn. Tell Christian his men are to wait until they hear a commotion, then come in quickly and hard—I need his force to take down all the cultists in the front hall and in any corridors, or upstairs.” Royce paused, then went on, “You join our men at the rear, and take the kitchen—again tell all there not to hold back. You need to account for all the assassins in the kitchen and free the Shearers as well. Then hold the room. Whistle like a warbler as soon as you’re in position with those at the rear. Now go.”

  Tony went.

  Royce glanced at Devil and Deverell. Gyles and Del were nearby. Charles would soon be joining them. “That leaves six of us to storm the parlor. We’ll have to go through the window—luckily it’s big enough.”

  Devil was already sizing up the window. “Big enough for two or even three of us at a time—we’ll need to get inside quickly.”

  Royce nodded and hunkered down, intently watching the scene inside the parlor.

  The parlor door opened and an older Indian appeared.

  “Carstairs must have gone in,” Royce murmured. “Tony will be in position within a few minutes. Once we hear his signal …”

  Devil glanced at him. “We go in?”

  Royce shook his head. “No. Then we wait. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that timing is everything.”

  Loretta was discussing the latest Parisian fashions with Mrs. Campbell when a tap on the door interrupted them.

  “Come.” Somewhat surprised that Mrs. Campbell had spoken the word at the same time she had—this was her private parlor after all—Loretta glanced curiously at the other woman, then looked back at the door.

  Just as it opened, and a frightening apparition slid into the room.

  An Indian man in robes. He was old, but how old was anyone’s guess. His face was the color of walnuts, deeply lined, his hair, those strands that had escaped his black-silk-encircled turban, a straggling gray. In contrast, his equally scraggly beard was mostly black. A dead black. As for his eyes … when they met Loretta’s across the room, her skin crawled.

  His eyes were black windows through which a coldly malicious evil looked out upon the world and plotted pain and mayhem.

  After the merest glance—enough to freeze Loretta—the apparition’s gaze moved on to Mrs. Campbell.

  The apparition bowed—deeply, in obeisance.

  Loretta’s jaw dropped. With an effort, she shut it, and turned her head to stare at her companion.

  The old man straightened; at some point he had closed the door behind him. “The captain has arrived, illustrious one. We have searched him, and also searched everywhere else in this place.”

  Loretta glanced at the man in time to catch a lascivious glance thrown her way—realized with a sickening jolt that no one had searched her.

  “But,” the apparition continued, gaze again shifting to Mrs. Campbell, “we have found neither the letter nor its holder. The captain has suggested he should meet with you so that you may discuss the situation.”

  Loretta stared at Mrs. Campbell—at the woman who, until mere seconds ago, she’d believed was much like her or her sisters. Even as her mind scrambled to consciously accept that the conclusion her instincts were screaming was real—was the deadly truth—something in the woman’s face changed.

  As if a veil had fallen, revealing the true nature of what lay beneath.

  “My God.” Loretta was barely aware of the words that escaped her.

  Mrs. Campbell turned her head and smiled—and there was nothing, not a shred, of feminine humanity remaining. “Yes, indeed, Miss Michelmarsh. I am your …” Pausing, she raised her brows. “And the captain’s, most deadly enemy.”

  Transferring her gaze to the old man, she said, “How accommodating of the captain. I’m positively looking forward to discussing matters with him. Have Saleem bring him in. Two guards. And leave the door open.”

  “As you will it, oh illustrious one.” The old man bowed even lower, then withdrew.

  Loretta tried to will her all but palpitating heart to slow, to calm. If Rafe had returned … had he met with his guards? Was his appearance part of some plan?

  Or were he and she on their own, facing … the Black Cobra.

  It was so hard to take that in.

  The door opened again and the old man reentered. He walked to stand by Mrs. Campbell’s right, blocking what little heat came from the fire in the hearth behind him.

  Loretta was suddenly very conscious of a chill.

  Another man, a hardened soldier by the look of him, came in next—presumably Saleem. Behind him …

  Rafe walked in.

  Her eyes instantly met his, then she sent her gaze streaking over him, searching … but he walked with his usual sure-footed stride, moved with his customary horseman’s grace. She could see no evidence of injury anywhere on him. Unharmed, her brain reported, almost giddy with relief.

  And they hadn’t even bound his hands, or restrained him in any way.

  Two cultists—just a glance and she knew t
hey must be those Rafe and Hassan labeled assassins—followed him into the room.

  Saleem halted three paces in front of and a little to the right of the door. He put out a hand, halting Rafe beside and a fraction behind him. Saleem glanced over his shoulder, said something Loretta couldn’t catch. In response the assassins took up positions on either side of Rafe, but behind him. From the way they held their arms, she guessed they were holding knives, poised to stab him if he made a wrong move.

  Through the open door, she could see more assassins all but blocking the front hall. The attention of every assassin remained locked on Rafe.

  Hardly surprising they hadn’t bothered restraining him. They could kill him before he took a step.

  The Black Cobra cult had taken over the inn while she’d been sitting and chatting with Mrs. Campbell. Despite the very real fear slithering icily down her spine, Loretta threw the other woman a distinctly black look.

  Rafe saw, and wondered, but he was too busy searching the room for the Black Cobra.

  But …

  Eventually, he brought his gaze to the only person in the room he couldn’t place. He looked at the woman—the blond Tony had said had come from a nearby manor, who they’d assumed was a hostage … the woman Loretta did not like.

  No hostage.

  He knew the instant he met her eyes. No one seeing those ice-blue eyes, seeing the pure, undiluted, malicious malevolence that openly shone within them, could fail to mark their owner as evil.

  Across his inner eye, his memory flashed a vision of James MacFarlane, beaten, tortured, and oh, so very dead, lying in the back of a cart in faraway Bombay. His jaw clenched. The cold fire of true hatred streaked through his veins.

  That she was a woman became incidental. If he’d had his saber in his hand, he would have cut her down.

  Sensing his comprehension, the Black Cobra smiled. Relaxing against the sofa, she considered him—as a cat might a particularly juicy mouse. “Welcome, Captain. We’ve been awaiting your arrival. And I’m glad to see that explanations are redundant, that you have realized that I am, indeed, the one you and your colleagues have been so assiduously seeking.”