She’d exchanged her red traveling gown for a severe dark blue carriage gown Penny must have lent her. With her hair up, a red-gold coronet, she looked every inch a reincarnation of the original virgin queen. At times she had an uncannily regal air; he wasn’t sure she even knew it.
She carried her cloak over her arm. Only he knew the folds concealed her cutlass. She tossed both into the carriage, turned and thanked the staff for their attentiveness, then climbed up.
He caught a glimpse of her boots as she did—her privateer boots, the knee-high ones she’d worn aboard ship. The sight of her in nothing more than a chemise and those boots, striding about the room that morning, the faint light of a candle flickering over her as she’d prepared to take her turn at watch in the sitting room, had ensured he’d got no more sleep.
With a nod for the doorman, he followed her into the carriage. Settling on the seat beside her, he found her hand, linked, his fingers with hers, gently squeezed. He caught her gaze as she looked at him, under cover of the others stowing their bags, murmured, “You are what you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear, whether you do something this way or that. Whether you embroider brilliantly, or raise donkeys instead. Regardless, people see you for the lady you are.” Raising their linked hands, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You never pretend, or prevaricate about yourself—and that’s good, not bad. That’s reassuring and comforting. That’s strong. That’s why people are drawn to you.” Lowering his voice, he touched his lips again to her fingers, smiled. “That’s why I adore you.”
Linnet stared into his eyes, mesmerizing midnight eyes, then rapidly blinked, looked away as the others climbed in.
Damn man—impossible man. He actually understood.
In her heart of hearts, she could admit that her one private vulnerability, a weakness she did her best to hide, was her uncertainty over how others, those in the wider world, saw her. She’d grown up a ship’s brat, but outside her domain she had to be a lady. She had none of the right training; when outside her world, she was never confident of meeting the standards of behavior her station demanded.
Within her own world, she knew who and what she was, knew why she was that way, knew her strengths and weaknesses, and was always utterly confident.
Out of her domain, the uncertainty lingered. And she hated, hated, feeling uncertain.
And somehow, he understood.
That unsettled her more than the rest.
She stared steadfastly out of the window as the carriage rolled unchallenged out of Bath and headed at a spanking pace toward Swindon and Oxford beyond.
As the gray miles and the louring skies passed uneventfully by, her inner turmoil subsided. A large part of the reason she found Logan, his understanding and his comfort—that freely offered, never pushed on her, simply there, at the right time and in the right way, comfort—so unnerving was that she was always the strong one, the one who, comforted others, the one others turned to for strength and support. That was her role; it always had been.
Only Muriel guessed that sometimes she needed comfort, needed strength and support. And Muriel only saw because she cared.…
But now Logan had seen, because he cared, too. Cared enough to look beneath her surface.
She didn’t pretend, was no good at lying, but she did hide her uncertainties, her weaknesses, well. Yet he saw because he looked with the eyes of one who cared.
She dragged in a breath, held it.
He cared. And she loved him.
Not even because he cared—that was the silliness of love in all its glory. She loved him regardless of anything and everything—the impossible man who’d washed up in her cove, woken up in her bed, and changed her life.
He made her want the impossible, too.
She loved him. She was only now learning what that meant, yet given how she’d felt when she’d seen him attacked, when cultists had swung swords at him intending to kill, there was no point avoiding that inescapable conclusion—it was set in stone.
Engraved on her virgin queen’s heart.
She had to face it, because now she had to deal with it.…
No, not now. Later.
After.
Yes, after. With a firm mental nod, she made that her resolution; she wouldn’t think any more about him, her, and any potential future until his mission was over and complete.
The uneventful day was no help.
As Charles had noted, the route they took was no minor road, but a well-traveled highway. They passed through Chippenham, Lyneham, and Wootton Basset; by the time they stopped for lunch at a busy coaching inn in Swindon’s main street, they were all bored beyond bearing.
However, when they paused in the busy inn yard and looked around, they spotted a number of black-scarf-encircled, heads. “Three at least.” Taking her elbow, Logan steered her toward the inn door. “Could be more—difficult to tell with the crowd.”
Over luncheon in a private parlor, the men spread out the map again and pored over it, teasing themselves with the prospect that perhaps an ambush might lie ahead. Eventually, however, the consensus was no. Not today. The road to Oxford was too open, too clear of useful geographical obstacles, too busy—and, as Logan pointed out, too damned far from any port.
If anything, the lack of action preyed even more heavily on Charles and Deverell; both seemed positively itching to be out and doing. Logan wasn’t surprised when they decided to play spy again—to hire horses and circle around to follow their pursuers.
“At least we’ll get a better idea of their numbers,” Charles said.
Logan would have liked nothing better than to be on horseback again, out in the fresh air, even if it carried an arctic chill. But Linnet would remain in the carriage—anything else was too problematical—and he felt compelled to stay by her side.
If by any chance their assumptions proved incorrect and an attack was mounted on the carriage, he would need to be there to defend and protect her; any other option was untenable.
With horses arranged, Charles and Deverell set out, intending to find a spot from which to watch the carriage go by, then slip behind any cultists following. Fifteen minutes later, Logan ushered Linnet back into the carriage, and they set out once more.
As predicted, they rolled briskly on through the gloomy afternoon, through Faringdon and on toward Oxford, without challenge. Without sighting any cultists, much less Charles and Deverell.
After several miles had rolled by in silence, Linnet stirred and glanced at him. “Penny for your thoughts.”
He met her eyes briefly, then admitted, “I was thinking of the others—my three comrades-in-arms.”
When he said nothing more, she prompted, “What of them?”
He hesitated, yet if they were to be man and wife … he drew in a breath, said, “Del’s made it through, at least to Somersham Place, and Gareth’s in Boulogne, possibly already in England. But no one’s heard anything about Rafe … and of us all, he’s the most risk-loving, the most devil-may-care.” He glanced at her. “His nickname is Reckless, but more than that, he was the closest to James.”
She searched his eyes. “The one who died?”
He nodded. “We all thought of James as our junior, but to Rafe he was more like a younger brother. James’s death hit him the hardest.”
“You’re worried about him—Rafe?”
Logan half grimaced, half smiled. “You’ll understand when you meet him, but all of us—Del, Gareth, and I—will be worrying about Rafe until we lay eyes on him again.”
Somewhat to his relief, she nodded and fell silent again, and he didn’t have to explain that part of his worry was that he didn’t want to face losing another close friend, most especially not to the Black Cobra.
With all prospect of them seeing action of any sort fading with the chill winter light, Linnet found it increasingly difficult to cling to her resolution. No matter that trying to think logically about Logan with him sitting alongside her, one of his hands engulfing one of hers, hi
s solid presence, his elemental masculine warmth constantly impinging on her senses, was a near impossible task, the impulse was a constant temptation.
In the end, she gave up, gave in. Shut her senses to his nearness as best she could, and in light of all she’d learned and now felt, tried to evaluate the pros and cons of marrying him. Until then, she’d been thinking of their marriage on a purely practical plane—how would it work?—but perhaps, with them, there were other aspects to consider. Possibly more important aspects.
She wanted him, and that in itself was unexpected. She’d never wanted any other man, yet she wanted him, yearned to keep him by her side, and not just for the obvious physical benefits. Lust played a part in her want, but it was by no means the sum of it. The prospect of having a strong, reliable, honorable man, one willing to stand at her back or by her shoulder rather than in front of her, to help in whatever way she needed—with the estate, with her wards as they grew older—was temptation beyond measure.
Companionship of a kind she’d never had, enough to banish the loneliness of her private life. A man who understood her better than even her father had—he’d appreciated her wildness, her love of challenges, her adventuring soul, but he hadn’t understood her compulsion to nurture, to grow, to protect on the emotional plane as well as the physical.
Above all, a man she could trust. With her life, with the lives of those she cared about.
Logan encompassed all of that, seemed to grasp all of that—all of her. With him, she might even have a child of her own, a fundamental want she’d buried deep for so many years it ought to have died, but instead, now he was there, now the prospect dangled before her, she’d discovered that want had with the years only grown stronger. More intense, more compelling.
Logan offered her all the critical elements of a relationship, of a love she’d years ago resigned herself to doing without.
A heady temptation, a visceral yearning.
Yet against that stood her reservations. Her lingering fear, no matter what anyone said, of not being a socially appropriate wife for him. Of not being able to measure up, to manage in the ways society, and eventually he, too, would expect. He’d told her she was what he wanted, had assured her those other requirements didn’t matter, but she was not yet convinced. But that was the more minor hurdle.
The major hurdle, the one she could see no simple way around, was the necessity for her to live with him, in Glenluce, Scotland. That was the way things generally happened, yet her leaving Mon Coeur would be close to impossible; she honestly didn’t think she could.
He was an earl’s son—he would have links, deep links, with land, with an estate somewhere; he was that sort of man. The responsibility she’d seen in him would have to have had some cornerstone, some wellspring—some place that mattered fundamentally to him. His home.
But she couldn’t leave hers and share his. And despite him wanting to marry her, she couldn’t see the man she knew him to be cutting ties with his home, happily turning his back on it to come and live with her at Mon Coeur.
One element in life, above all others, mattered to people like him and her—place, roots, home. Regardless of how much he wanted her, she couldn’t see that want being sufficient to trump his need of his home.
Blinking, she refocused on the gray day outside, felt the numbing dullness sink to her bones.
The carriage rumbled on.
Eventually the spires of Oxford appeared, rising above the mottled brown of skeletal trees.
She stirred, and remembered her earlier conclusion, that whatever he gave her, she would take. That for however long their liaison lasted, she would give herself to it, give to him as he gave to her, take all she could and store up the memories until, with the end of his mission, he would realize the difficulties, face the insurmountable hurdle she’d already seen, and, with regret perhaps, yet regardless, he would agree that they should part.
That earlier course still seemed the wisest.
The carriage wheels hit cobbles.
Releasing her hand, Logan glanced out, then stretched. Relaxing again, he scanned the buildings and pavements as David guided the carriage to the hotel Wolverstone had nominated, the University Arms, one of the older, well-established hotels in Oxford High Street. “No sign of any cultists thus far. I can’t see any reason Ferrar would have, sent men to Oxford, so presumably the only ones here will be those following us.”
He glanced at Linnet. He’d thought he’d made a fair stab at easing her concerns that morning, but she’d been so quiet … then again, so had he. An old soldier’s habit, a suspension of mind and thought while on a march with no enemy in sight.
She met his eyes, yet he couldn’t read her mood. Then the carriage rocked to a halt, and her lips wryly curved. “So we should be safe enough going inside—no hail of arrows likely.”
“Thank God.” Reaching for the door, he opened it and stepped down. After a quick glance confirming there were no cultists lurking, he moved aside and offered Linnet his hand.
He helped her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smoothly escorted her inside.
As before, a suite had been bespoken. As he followed Linnet up the stairs, Logan wondered how the other two had fared.
Equally uneventfully, as it transpired.
“There are eight of them. They’re taking it in turns, four at a time, to keep the carriage in view.” Charles speared a slice of roast beef from the dish on the table. He and Deverell hadn’t turned up until night had fallen. They’d walked into the suite half an hour ago, but chilled and damp, they’d gone to their room to wash and change before joining Logan and Linnet for dinner.
The servers had placed the silver dishes on the table, seen to all their needs, then withdrawn, leaving them free to speak without restraint.
“We followed them from just outside Swindon.” Deverell shook his head. “The four on duty did nothing but plod along in your wake, a good distance back. All they wanted was to keep you in sight.”
“When you stopped here, they halted at the corner.” Charles tipped his head toward the Swindon end of the, street. “They watched you go in, saw the bags taken in, then two of them left to get rooms at the tavern back down the street, leaving the other two to watch this place.”
“We considered removing them permanently, but”—Deverell reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, placed it on the table, tapped it with his finger—”we knew Royce’s latest orders would be waiting for us here. It was possible he might want us to lead them further on, or that it might prove prudent to give them no hint that we’re aware they’re following us.”
Logan nodded at the missive. “Have you read it?”
“Just glanced at it. There’s news that’ll make more sense to you than me.” Deverell nudged the packet Logan’s way. “Read and explain.”
Logan picked up the packet, unfolded the stiff sheets. Scanned them. “He’s given us the news first. Delborough reached the Cynsters at Somersham Place on the fifteenth, managing to reduce cult numbers by fourteen between London and Somersham. Now he and the Cynsters are planning to spring a trap on Ferrar, or at least his man Larkins, at Ely”—he glanced at the date at the head of the letter—”Wolverstone says tomorrow, but this was written yesterday, so that must mean today. After said trap is sprung, Del and Devil are under orders to transport whoever they catch to Elveden.”
Charles looked up. “So it’s possible Ferrar’s already been caught?”
Logan shook his head. “I’d be shocked were that so. Ferrar’s been too clever and cautious for years to suddenly fall into some trap. I can’t see that happening.”
“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Deverell said. “Royce would send word hotfoot if they succeeded, because our mission’s objectives would then change.”
“What of your other friends?’ Linnet asked.
Logan refocused on the bold, black script. “Gareth made it safely to Dover and is heading north today. He’s expected at Elvede
n by tomorrow evening. At this point they’re not sure what might come of his foray, but he and his party are, expected to be at Chelmsford tonight with cultists in tow.”
“That sounds familiar,” Charles quipped.
“The locations are interesting.” Deverell set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate. “Elveden is just southeast of Thetford, about ten miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, and roughly thirty miles east of Somersham Place. And between Somersham Place and Elveden lies Newmarket, where Demon Cynster and friends hold sway. So there’s a line of sorts, west to east, between Somersham Place and Elveden, where Royce has a lot of troops, as it were. He’s brought Delborough north from London to Somersham, removing cultists along the way—clearing the west flank. Now he’s bringing Hamilton north from Chelmsford to Elveden—clearing the east flank. Now we’re coming in from the west …” Deverell broke off, patting his pockets. “Where’s that map?”
“You left it with us.” Linnet rose and went to fetch it from her room.
Returning, she discovered the three men shifting the dishes and platters to the sideboard, clearing the table. Obligingly she unfolded the map and spread it out. They all retook their seats.
Deverell, a certain eagerness infusing tone and expression, traced the routes Delborough had taken, and Gareth Hamilton was taking, to Elveden.
“And now”—Deverell nodded at their orders—”Royce wants us to make for Bedford. Ferrar will have to deal with Hamilton tomorrow, or risk the scroll-holder he’s carrying getting through, so the Cobra’s attention is going to be fixed to the east while we’re closing in from the west.”
Charles was nodding. “Which suggests we shouldn’t run into any substantial opposition tomorrow. The next day, however …” He grinned wolfishly. “Royce really is a master at planning. Ferrar will be crossing and recrossing Royce’s chosen battlefield, back and forth, east to west to east, rushing to stop first Delborough, then Hamilton, then us.”
Logan frowned. “Why is pushing Ferrar so important?”
Charles and Deverell looked at him, then Deverell smiled.