The Elusive Bride

  Gareth swooped and covered her lips with his, drank her cry, her scream of pure pleasure.

  Felt everything that was male within him exult.

  Felt the primitive possessive being within him purr with a satisfaction that sank bone deep as he held still for an instant and savored the evocative ripples of her release, felt her sheath contract and grip.

  Felt anticipation and blind need claw…

  He surrendered and took, gorged, and filled his senses.

  Eyes closed, he lost himself in her.

  27th November, 1822

  Early evening

  My room in the inn at Marseilles

  Dear Diary,

  My actions last night met with success. Not that I expected all that much resistance, but now I must wait and see if the lure sank deeply enough.

  The day went in making our final preparations. Thanks to the Juneaux, our hosts, all is as sound and complete as might be, and everything lies in readiness for us to depart tomorrow morning on our race to Boulogne. That is the port Gareth’s instructions stipulate he should use. I must admit that while I will be happy to see it, and indeed, to look upon England’s shores once more, I view this last leg as a succession of opportunities—chances to prompt Gareth into recognizing and declaring his love.

  Preferably of the enduring variety.

  Preferably before we see the green fields of England.

  I wait on tenterhooks to see if my ploy of last night will yield the desired outcome—the first step in my campaign.

  As ever, I am hopeful.

  E.

  His day had been a distracting round of last minute checks and solutions. Nevertheless, as he climbed the stairs that night, Gareth felt quietly sure that they’d done all they could—that, indeed, courtesy of the Juneaux and Emily’s recruiting of them, their party was better placed to succeed in their mad dash north to the Channel than he’d dared hope they would be.

  Reaching the upper corridor, he was conscious of a certain tension, familiar, almost reassuring—the tension that came on the night before a battle, when the certainty of being fully prepared warred with the inevitability of having to wait until morning to act.

  He was too experienced to let it trouble him. Indeed, he embraced it.

  But the other tension sliding through him, coiling beneath the first, was something else entirely.

  That tension was wholly due to her—to Emily, and her appearance last night in his room. More, her performance, their activities, in his bed. He would have preferred it to be otherwise, but he couldn’t deny it—couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel expectation rise as he neared his door.

  That anticipation didn’t leap as he closed his hand about the knob.

  Already half erect, his heart already thudding that telltale touch faster, he opened the door and went in. His gaze went directly to the bed.

  It was empty.

  In the dimness, his eyes scanned again, just to make sure, but he hadn’t missed any alluring body.

  She hadn’t come.

  Closing the door, he stood and stared at the bed.

  One part of his brain had already skittered off into recriminations—last night he’d done something she didn’t like, or he’d failed to do something she’d expected. Or—

  The more rational part of his mind shut out the tirade of unhelpful suggestions. The part of him that was the experienced commander recalled and coolly evaluated.

  Why hadn’t she come? That was the question he needed to answer.

  It took some moments before he thought back far enough to recall the particular deliberation with which she’d entered his room last night. And then to connect that with the assessing glances she’d thrown his way throughout the day, and especially that evening.

  Last night, she hadn’t come to his room on a whim—she’d come with a plan. As part of a plan. And that plan was…?

  He swore.

  Lips setting, he walked to the window, looked out at the empty street, then shook his head and started to pace.

  He shouldn’t do it—he shouldn’t give in. She knew he wanted to—intended to—marry her, and that was enough. If he went to her now, tonight…that would say a little more.

  Reveal more.

  All of it true, but his need of her was something he would far prefer to hide, especially from her.

  While on the xebec, there’d been no question of his joining her at night, and here…it had seemed wiser to keep his distance. For him to keep their future, and her, at a distance, at least until they reached England, whereupon he would have all manner of accepted practices behind which to hide.

  To conceal just how deeply his feelings for her ran.

  He didn’t even know how those feelings had come to be—what they were due to, or when they’d afflicted him and sunk to his marrow—but they were there now, an obvious vulnerability, at least to him.

  If he kept his distance, he could cling to the fiction that he was marrying her because they were generally compatible, and he’d weakened and seduced her, ergo marrying her was the necessary outcome, one with which he was comfortable.

  He shouldn’t go to her room, shouldn’t reveal even that degree of need for her.

  He could excuse not going on safety grounds—safer for them all if he wasn’t distracted by having her beside him, let alone beneath him.

  Then again, one very definite, insistent part of him was quick to point out that her safety would be even better assured if she spent the nights in his arms, and he would be far less distracted by thoughts of whether she was safe or not; if she were lying beside him, he would instantly know.

  Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…

  He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.

  To go, or not to go?

  He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…

  Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?

  Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.

  And he discovered her patience was greater than his.

  With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.

  Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.

  She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.

  As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.

  He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”

  Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

  “Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”

  He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”

  Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.

  Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.

  For her lover—her would-be husband—to join her.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.

  Her plan had worked.

  More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.

  She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed,
go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.

  And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.

  She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk—they fell asleep.

  Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed—he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.

  His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.

  Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later—later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.

  Entirely too unwise.

  The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.

  Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.

  In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.

  He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…

  It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.

  God knew, it satisfied him.

  28th November, 1822

  Early morning

  Still abed, scribbling madly

  Dear Diary,

  My fingers are crossed, metapohorically at least. Matters appear to be progressing as I wish—my campaign to encourage Gareth to recognize and declare his feelings for me is under way, and with luck I have laid the groundwork for a continuing engagement. After last night, I am hopeful that he will be sufficiently motivated to join me in my bed at our various halts through France, and with luck, beyond.

  It is no doubt quite wanton to be plotting like this, but needs must. I am committed to hearing his true feelings declared, and with every day that passes, I am more convinced than ever that in order for us to form the true partnership I have always believed marriage should be, then hearing his love acknowledged and declared is a necessity, for both of us.

  I feel as if all I have ever dreamed of in marriage is hovering on our horizon, still out of reach, yet if we both are willing to reach and stretch, all—everything—could be ours.

  Dorcas has just brought up my washing water, and I must rush as we are to leave Marseilles in just over an hour.

  E.

  The small yard behind the inn was a frenzy of activity. Gareth ran his eye over the loaded coaches, watched as Mooktu and Bister handed up pistols, powder, and shot to Mullins, who stowed it with the rifles he’d cleaned beneath first one, then the other, driver’s seat.

  They were as ready as they would ever be.

  Around him, the cobbled yard was awash with Juneaux, young and old, come to wave their two men on their way, and to wish the English and Indian party the garrulous clan had taken under their collective wing God speed.

  He went to extract Emily from a knot of Juneaux. Many were female, and looked at him with bright, assessing eyes. He had little doubt what thoughts were passing through their heads, especially when one old lady whispered loudly that they made a so-handsome couple.

  He pretended not to hear.

  Emily was smiling happily. She looked up as he neared, and her smile changed. Quite how he couldn’t have said, but it softened, became more personal, then she made space for him beside her.

  He filled it, but only to smile generally at the others and remind her, “We must make a start.”

  Or they would be there all day.

  Emily heard the unvoiced phrase, and had to agree. But then his hand brushed the back of her waist and she had to work to suppress a delicious little shiver—something the women around her didn’t miss.

  They beamed encouragingly.

  She had to beam back, had to inwardly acknowledge how very good it felt to be the one Gareth—he of the broad shoulders and so-handsome brown-haired good looks—had come to fetch.

  His hand touched again, a subtle prod. Squelching her reaction, she turned to the innwife and commenced her farewells.

  Exclamations, good wishes, and effusive thanks were shared all around, then with his hand at the back of her waist, Gareth steered her inexorably to the carriages. Finally reaching the door of the first, she turned and waved one last time to the assembled throng, then she took the hand he offered, felt his fingers close strong and warm about hers, and felt that little thrill of delight—of feminine possessiveness—streak through her again. Drawing in a calming breath, she allowed him to help her into the sleek carriage.

  Gareth turned to the crowd, and with a genuine but faintly strained smile, bowed and, in more formal words, thanked them. Then he turned to the carriage and climbed up, pulled up the steps and shut the door.

  Bister and the coachman were already on the box waiting. Dorcas sat opposite Emily. Gareth claimed the seat beside her as a whip snapped showily, the horses leaned into the traces, and their carriage lurched, then rumbled through the mews and out onto the side street.

  Cheers and farewells echoed, then faded as the houses closed around them. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, confirming that the second carriage, carrying Arnia and Mooktu, Watson and Mullins, with Jimmy currently up with the driver, was following close behind.

  “I assume we’ll need to go slowly through the town.”

  He glanced at Emily, and saw she was peering out of the other window. “Yes—and it might be better to stay back from the windows.”

  “Oh.” She drew back immediately. “The cultists are out there somewhere, aren’t they?”

  He nodded. They’d been able to forget that over the last day and a half. The Juneaux youngsters had taken positions at both ends of the street, keeping watch for cultists. Bister and Jimmy had supervised, but for the time they’d been under the Juneaux’ protection, they’d felt a great deal safer than they had in weeks.

  In Gareth’s case, since leaving the Turkey Cock in Bombay, scroll holder in hand.

  Emily and Dorcas played spot the monument as the two carriages preserved a decorous pace through the busy morning streets. Letting their disconcertingly normal exclamations and chatter wash over him, Gareth allowed himself to do something he hadn’t until that point—he thought of the other three, wondered where they were, how they were faring.

  All four had been through thick and thin together, ridden side by side into battles uncounted. Even though the last years as commanders had seen them spend more of their time in the saddle apart, it hadn’t lessened their connection—that link that had been forged in the heat of battles in the Peninsula more than a decade before.

  By choice, none of them knew what route any of the other three was taking home. He didn’t even know who was carrying the vital original of the document they had to deliver to the Duke of Wolverstone to ensure the end of the Black Cobra’s reign—he only knew it wasn’t him. His was a decoy’s
mission, the parchment in his scroll holder, identical to the other three, no more than a copy.

  But the Black Cobra and the cultists didn’t know that. Given what was at stake, he had fully expected the Cobra to chase him regardless. In that, he hadn’t been disappointed, which was all to the good.

  Yet on this last leg before England, his orders from the man who had for years been known only as Dalziel were specific. He and his party were to do all they could to draw as many of the enemy as possible, and to reduce their numbers as much as fate permitted.

  He’d interpreted those orders as indicating that whoever was carrying the vital original would also pass through the Continent on their way to England. Whichever of his three friends was running that most dangerous of gauntlets, their safety in part depended on him—on how effectively he carried out his mission.

  He’d set out from India with Bister, Mooktu, and Arnia, all of whom—even Arnia—could take care of themselves in a fight. With just those three in his train, he’d been free to engage the enemy whenever and wherever he could.

  But now he had Emily, Dorcas, Jimmy, Mullins, and Watson as well. Mullins could hold his own, but the other four, no matter their resourcefulness, weren’t safe in a fight. All four needed protection, Emily most of all.

  Especially Emily, especially now…now she’d come to mean so much to him.

  So much more than he’d imagined was possible, than he’d known could possibly be.

  As the horses trudged on, he gazed, unseeing, out of the window at the passing streetscapes, and wondered how he was going to carry out his orders while keeping her, and the others who were important to her—all now in his care—safe.

  They’d passed through the town center and were ambling through the northern suburbs, already on the highway that would take them to Lyon and beyond, when he became aware of Emily’s gaze on his face.

  The feminine commentary had ceased. One glance revealed that Dorcas was already nodding, her eyes closed.

  Turning his head, he met Emily’s bright gaze.