They busied themselves tidying away the rest of the incendiaries, the rifles and pistols. At the next hamlet, David halted long enough for Charles and Deverell to climb down and return to their seats inside the carriage.
“It’s damned cold out there.” Charles stamped his feet, blew on his hands. “But at least we’ve made some impact.”
“We’ve done our duty,” Deverell affirmed, “at least for the moment.”
They all settled back, drew their cloaks closer. Linnet looked out of the window, thought back through the recent engagement.
Reduce numbers, avoid being overwhelmed.
That, apparently, was to be the catchcry of their mission.
The best-laid plans of mice and men were, sadly, subject to the whim of the gods.
The gods’ minions, in this instance, were sheep. Lots of them. The carriage was forced to a halt just beyond the tiny town of Compton Martin by a large flock being moved to, winter pastures. There was nothing for it but to wait for the bleating mob to file slowly past.
When the road was finally clear, David whipped up his horses—only to have to rein them to a halt again just past West Harptree, then again near Sutton Wick.
“It’s like a damned organized migration,” Charles muttered.
By the time they reached Marksbury and headed toward Bath on the last stretch of their day’s journey, although no one said anything, they were all tense and watchful. What advantage they’d gained by their inventive action near Star had been well and truly eaten away by the sheep.
There was every chance the Black Cobra’s men had reached Bath by now; they might even be lurking along the road into town.
Dusk fell, and the shadows thickened. Their tension racked steadily higher the closer they got to the famous spa town; Logan knew little about it beyond its famous waters. They each sat back from their windows, watching, scanning, searching for any telltale black scarves.
That they rattled into the town center without spotting one didn’t materially ease Logan’s concern. The more deadly variety of cultist, the assassins, loomed high in his mind.
David, under orders to drive unremarkably so as to draw no especial attention to their vehicle, eventually halted the carriage outside their chosen hotel, The York House. Streetlamps had been lit, bathing the wide pavement before the hotel in warm welcome. With the hour edging toward dinnertime, there was not a great deal of other traffic about.
After all Logan’s worrying, it felt anticlimactic to step down from the carriage, hand Linnet down, and find an august, liveried doorman waiting to bow them in.
“Logan.”
He turned to see Charles beckoning. His hand on Linnet’s back, he urged her on. “Go in—we’ll follow.”
Leaving her to the deferential care of the doorman, Logan returned to assist Charles and Deverell in packing the rifles, and their other weapons, and hiding the remaining incendiaries while handing their personal bags to the footmen who swarmed out to help.
Brows arched, Linnet watched, saw, then consented to turn and follow the doorman across the wide pavement to the front door. She’d heard of The York House. It had long been the favored haunt of visiting nobility. Running an eye over the elegant façade, she cynically smiled, imagining telling Jen and Gilly—and Muriel and Buttons, too—that she’d stayed there. At least, thanks to Penny and Phoebe, her wardrobe would pass muster.
The doorman had stridden ahead to pull open and hold the heavy brass, etched glass, and polished wood front door, bowing her regally through. Lips curving more definitely, she glided toward the doorway—
Heard the telltale sing of an arrow.
Instinctively she ducked, curling herself into a smaller target, then looking around. The doorman froze, eyes widening, then he whisked around the open door, taking cover behind the thick panel.
With a gasp and a clatter, the footman who’d been following Linnet with her bag hit the ground. Eyes wide with shock, he clutched one arm from which a crossbow quarrel protruded.
She didn’t think, just acted. She’d been in too many battles to panic, was too much a leader not to immediately take charge.
Moving swiftly in a halfcrouch, she turned back, grabbed her bag in one hand, the footman’s uninjured arm in the other, and hauled him to his feet—thanking her stars he wasn’t taller or all that much heavier than she. As more arrows rained down, using the bag to cover their backs, she propelled him through the still open front door.
Halting in the hall, she let the footman go. He collapsed to the tiles. She turned back to the door, taking cover just inside to look out.
The doorman picked his moment between showers of, arrows and rushed in. Shaken out of his rigid control, he nevertheless called for help for his footman, gave orders for others to man the windows, then came to stand behind Linnet, peering past her shoulder as she surveyed the scene.
“No one else is down,” she murmured, for herself as much as the doorman. Logan had been in the carriage, but must have jumped down and been on his way to help her when she’d acted and got herself out of danger. He’d taken cover behind the open carriage door on this side, protected to some extent by the bulk of the carriage. Deverell had been inside and still was. He was working frantically. As she watched, he passed Logan one rifle, then another.
Logan looked toward the rear of the carriage. Called to Charles, who reached around and took the rifle, then returned to his position at the far rear corner of the carriage.
The arrows were still coming in unpredictable fits and starts. They seemed to be coming from the top of a building a little way down the street. Linnet could see all the footmen now huddled in a group at the carriage’s rear, looking longingly at the front door. But David—where was he? He’d been on the box in full view of the enemy. Had he been hit? Was he even now dying?
But then she saw a shadow beneath the carriage, beneath the box itself, and realized he’d taken cover there. As far as she could tell, he was uninjured, just temporarily stuck in a cramped space.
Relief slid through her; she’d known David for all of a day, mostly as a voice and a presence guiding the horses, yet she thought of him as one of their small band. Refocusing on the continuing danger, she saw a town carriage rumbling down the street toward them. Charles stepped out, waved his arms, called orders—then ducked back, most likely swearing, as another flight of arrows rained down.
The startled coachman halted his horses, scrambled down from his box, and took cover—bobbing up by the side of the carriage to explain to his master what was happening.
After checking that all was clear in the other direction, Logan looked back and called orders to the huddled footmen; they nodded in reply.
Then Logan eased forward, inching to the edge of the box seat, then crouching to aim his rifle—at what neither Linnet nor the doorman could see.
“This is outrageous,” the doorman huffed. “Such things simply don’t happen at The York House. Not anywhere in Bath!”
Linnet struggled not to let her lips curve. “Sadly, they are. Take heart—no one ever died of a little excitement, and your man”—she tipped her head toward the injured footman—”isn’t badly hurt. Now step aside—I think you’re about to get the rest of your footmen back.”
Logan fired his rifle, then Charles took his shot, too.
In a group, the footmen raced across the pavement and in through the door as Deverell fired out of one of the carriage windows.
Logan and Charles were already tossing their spent rifles back into the carriage; they stepped back with pistols and swords. Deverell emerged, and then the three, all armed to the teeth, separated—Charles and Deverell going around the back of the carriage, then racing, doubled over, across the street. Logan glanced at Linnet, signaled that he was going to circle the cultists’ position—presumably to ensure the enemy had fled.
No more arrows had come slicing down since they’d discharged their rifles.
Linnet nodded, waited, saw Logan race across the street, then,
hugging the shadows thrown by the shop fronts, ghost away, out of her sight. Inwardly sighing, she turned and took up the role they’d left her. Tugging off her gloves, she swept up to the heavy desk behind which the manager, somewhat goggle-eyed, stood. She vaguely recalled Deverell saying their rooms had been arranged. “I believe, if you consult your register, that you’ll find a booking in the name of Wolverstone.”
The name worked wonders. Within minutes, she was ushered into one of the hotel’s principal suites.
Luxurious, even opulent in its decoration, the suite had two bedrooms giving off a central sitting room; she claimed the bedroom to the left, leaving the other for the men, but when a footman carried Logan’s bag into the room she’d chosen, she didn’t protest.
Inwardly grimaced; there was no point.
Trailing after the footman, she was in time to stop the maid from unpacking Logan’s bag; the scroll-holder was in it. She felt obliged to allow the maid to unpack her gowns and hang them up instead.
When the maid eagerly asked which gown she should leave out for dinner, Linnet arbitrarily picked one of the evening gowns—one in green silk. The question had reminded her that someone needed to order the meal.
She had little experience in choosing menus—Muriel normally handled such matters—but she had the happy thought to consult the maitre d’hotel, and he was both delighted to have been asked and solicitous in arranging an appropriate repast.
That done, she oversaw the disposition of the men’s weapons, then summoned David up to report, confirmed he was unharmed and well-quartered—and insouciantly thrilled by the action—then she settled to pace—only to have a succession of the hotel’s staff tap on the door to offer this, that, and the other.
By the time her three companions walked through the door, she’d been driven to the edge of distraction by the maids’ offers and by an unaccustomed, yet very real, nagging worry—one that evaporated the instant Logan walked in and her eyes confirmed he was unharmed.
That he looked faintly disgusted was neither here nor there.
Dropping into an armchair, Charles explained the disgust. “They’d fled.”
Arms folded, she looked down at him, then at the other two. Then she turned on her heel and headed for her room. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I’m going to change.”
In these surroundings, even in this company, she felt obliged to play the part of lady, no matter how ill she fitted the role.
The dinner was superb, and served with a smooth, silent efficiency that allowed them to concentrate first on the dishes, then, once the cheese platter arrived and the servers withdrew, on their plans.
“I don’t think there were more than four archers pinning us down out there.” With a tilt of his head, Deverell indicated the front of the hotel. “As there’s bound to be more cultists than that around, I think we can conclude that they reached Bath before us, but then set up ambushes at all the major hotels—there’s not so many of those to cover in Bath.”
Logan nodded. “I think our diversion near Star worked more or less as we’d planned, and by the time they reached here, not knowing we’d been held up, they assumed we were already in residence. Those archers were posted to pick us off if we showed our faces outside. That’s why they were in that position—perfect for when we walked out onto the pavement, but not so ideal when we rolled up in a carriage to go in.”
Charles nodded. “Tomorrow we have an easier day—only about sixty miles in all, along larger, well-surfaced, well-populated roads.” He looked at Logan. “Any insights into what they’re likely to do?”
“This hotel is too solid, too secure, and has too many people in it to attack. They won’t have time to organize anything complicated, like hiring someone local to break into these rooms.” Logan paused, then went on, “I’ve been thinking that our presence here must be causing the cult members stationed in this region some consternation. It’s reasonable to expect that all the cultists in England know by now that three couriers have landed, but there’s one more yet to come. They don’t know where Rafe is going to land, so they have, to continue their watch at all the ports. Which means our group currently here—mostly drawn from Bristol—cannot afford to follow us on. They may leave a few to track us—to see where we go and later alert some other group further on, mostly likely much closer to Elveden—but the majority will have to return, might already have returned, to Bristol.”
“That’s a fair assumption,” Deverell said. “It suggests we won’t face an attack tomorrow as we set out.”
Logan considered it. “Only if we try to leave very early, before there are others about. The Bristol contingent might dally long enough to see if we try to set out before dawn again, hoping to mount an attack outside town, but if we leave later, with other travelers around, I can’t see them trying anything.”
Deverell exchanged a glance with Charles. “No need to leave early.”
“Indeed not.” Charles sighed. “Let’s set our departure for midmorning. Say ten o’clock. We’ll still make Oxford by four o’clock at the latest. And while I would prefer to go hunting tonight, to see if we can locate and eliminate the Bristol group, such an act would make it too obvious the paper we’re ferrying is a decoy. We reduce their numbers every chance we get, but we have to wait for them to come to us.”
His tone made it clear that wasn’t his accustomed modus operandi. Deverell, too, grimaced resignedly.
Logan eyed the pair of them and shook his head. “Wolver-stone’s orders made it clear we must behave as if I have the original letter.”
“I know.” Charles sighed. “I can see his point, but letting murderous cultists slip away unchastized goes painfully against my grain.”
Logan’s lips twisted wryly. “The cultists won’t use firearms, so we’re safe from that, unless they hire locals, which it’s possible they might do. And if you find yourself facing a cultist with a blade in each hand, he’ll be an assassin, so expect the unexpected. They fight to the death, to win any way they can.”
“Speaking of the unexpected,” Deverell said, “should we set watches?”
Logan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve learned never to trust logic when it comes to the cult.”
Used to rising before dawn, Linnet claimed the early morning watch, then said her good nights and headed for her room.
Suddenly weary, she stripped, put on the nightgown the attentive—frankly awestruck—little maid had left out for her, then slumped into the bed and tugged the sheets over her shoulder.
She was half asleep when the bed bowed and Logan joined her beneath the piled covers. She’d turned to the side of the bed, her back to him; he slid near, hard and warm, and spooned around her.
Through her slumberous haze, she sensed him looking down at her, studying her face. Then he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.
“Are you all right? You seem very … worn out.”
Not physically, yet since he’d returned with the others, Logan had noted a certain underlying tension, a sense that underneath her competent calm, she was irritated, annoyed … bothered over something.
Wrapping one hand over her hip, he leaned closer, brushed his lips across her ear. “I’m sorry if the clashes today bothered you. You can’t have killed that many men before—it can be unsettling.”
She snorted, opened her eyes, and shot him a glare, one he felt even through the shadows. “Don’t be daft. They’re trying to kill us—their deaths are on their heads. That isn’t what’s worn me out.” She narrowed her eyes on his. “And don’t you dare try to leave me out of anything just because you think I’m about to turn into some sort of hysterical female.”
He didn’t; he’d suggested the excuse so he could ask, “What is bothering you, then?”
Her lips thinned. Narrow-eyed, she regarded him, then turned and settled her head back down, facing away. “If, you must know, it’s pretending to be a lady that’s driving me demented. Having to watch what I say, what I do, how I behave—and now these
sweet innocents have decided I’m some sort of heroine, and I’m not. That’s not me.” She huffed, then in an even lower tone went on, “And on top of that, they all think I’m your wife. Even Charles and Deverell have fallen into the habit of it, so even with them I feel I have to play the role, fit into some mold that’s not me. Frankly, it’s giving me a headache.”
He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he slid down in the bed, laid his head behind hers, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close. Held her. “You don’t understand—you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. The woman I want as my wife is the woman you are—Linnet Trevission, captain and all. And the staff here—the lady they now revere is the lady who, without a thought for her own safety, saved one of them. They don’t care what else you are, what other traits you have—it’s what they saw in that instant, the real you, that has stirred their loyalty.” He paused, stared at the back of her head. “You, as you are, inspire loyalty in a lot of people.”
Him included; he hoped she knew that.
She’d left her hair up. With his cheek, he brushed tendrils of flame from her nape and pressed a soft kiss there. “You, as you are, are the perfect wife for me in every way.”
She wriggled, settling deeper within his arms, but all she said was, “Shush. Go to sleep. You have to get up for your watch in two hours.”
Within minutes, she’d relaxed; her breathing slowed, evened out.
He listened to the sound, comforted by it, yet oddly uncertain. A touch uneasy, just a little concerned.
He wasn’t sure what the problem was—not even if there was a problem at all. If she was wrestling with the mantle of being his wife … that was good, wasn’t it?
Sleep claimed him before he could decide.
Fourteen
December 19, 1822
The York House, Bath
At precisely ten o’clock the following morning, Logan followed Linnet out of the hotel, struggling not to grin as the staff, the patriarchal doorman included, bowed, scraped, and positively fawned as if she were royalty.