The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

  Carruthers swore beneath his breath—he couldn’t catch enough breath to curse aloud. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed. He managed to get his feet under him, then caught hold of the slats of a stall door and hauled himself up.

  Hunched over, he shuffled as fast as he could, clutching the stall doors to keep from falling. Reaching the open space at the end of the aisle, he drew in a slow, pained breath, let go of the last stall, and propelled himself forward. Forced his legs to move.

  Eyes locked on his goal, he made it to the side of the open door, gasped as he lunged and grabbed the rope dangling from the stable bell. It clanged as he slumped against the door frame. Clanged again as, his grip weakening, the rope tugged free and he slid slowly down to collapse on the floor.

  With his ear to the ground, he heard the sound he’d hoped for—the heavy thud of flying hooves. Smiling was beyond him, but he smiled inside.

  It seemed like only seconds, then Demon was there, crouching down beside him, hard hands gentle as his employer helped him up to sit against the door frame.

  Demon peered into Carruthers’s eyes, saw he was in pain, but conscious. “What the devil happened?”

  Other horses thundered up; the string had followed Demon back to the stable.

  Carruthers wet his lips. “Was in the tack room. Heard a sound. Came out and found some blighter saddling up The Gentleman. Asked him what he was about—told him he had, to leave. I tried to stop him when he led The Gentleman out. He lashed out, struck me. Couple of times.”

  Demon took in the contusions forming under Carruthers’s mottled skin.

  “Then when I fell, he kicked me.”

  “What?” Demon stared, then swore. “Never mind—I heard. Stay here and get better. Leave the bastard to me.”

  Swinging around and rising, Demon pointed to Jarvis, Carruthers’s lieutenant. “Take care of him.” Demon was already moving, grabbing up the spyglass kept in a holder by the door; it was usually used to watch horses training.

  Striding outside, he put the glass to his eye, scanned the heath in the direction the horse thief had to have gone; he hadn’t passed Demon or the string coming in, so he had to have gone toward Bury.

  The heath appeared flat, but in reality was full of gentle dips and rises, an ocean of green with low, widely spaced waves. A rider might be quite close but momentarily hidden, then reappear as they rode up the next rise.

  Even as he picked out the smoky hide of The Gentleman, happily galloping east over the heath, Demon was inwardly connecting possibilities. What chance his horse thief had something to do with the mission he and his cousins were assisting with? Ferrar, thought to be the Black Cobra, had been found murdered in Bury just yesterday.

  Demon shifted the glass, adjusting to bring the rider into sharper focus. Wolverstone and Devil would flay him—verbally at least—if he didn’t at least try to get a good look at the man’s face.…

  There. Rider and horse had to turn slightly, the rider coming into full profile. For one instant, through the glass, Demon got a good view. And managed at the last to get a glimpse of the man’s hands. They were deeply tanned.

  Demon lowered the glass, then whirled back to the stable. “Go!” He pointed and waved the string on. “Get after him—follow him. Grab him if you can. I’ll catch up.”

  The jockeys, shocked and furious at the treatment meted, out to their old trainer, needed no further urging. In a thunderous clatter of hooves, they set off.

  Back in the stable, Demon grabbed the reins of his mount. He’d left the gathering at Somersham Place and had come over for the training session; because his wife, Flick, hadn’t been able to get over for the last few days, he’d taken out her usual mount, The Mighty Flynn. The Flynn loved Flick, but would tolerate—make do with—Demon. Although retired now, the big horse was a stayer. Demon couldn’t have picked a better mount for riding down a horse thief.

  Yet looking at Carruthers, now in the hands of Jarvis and two stableboys, he paused.

  Carruthers saw him looking and glared as well as he could. “What’re you waiting for? Go get the bastard, and bring The Gentleman back!”

  Demon grinned, saluted, vaulted to the saddle, and went.

  Daniel was pleased with his new mount. A very good horse, with very nice paces. Despite the impulse to flee in a flat-out gallop, he was too wise to attract attention like that, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by locals on very fast horses.

  Locals who, for all he knew, might recognize his stolen horse.

  But keeping to a nice steady pace would soon put miles between him and the stable, and few around there paid any attention to a mounted man riding easily by. It would probably be an hour, maybe more, before the old man was found. Daniel hadn’t looked back, but he’d listened intently and had heard no hue and cry.

  He’d already passed two strings out exercising, and hadn’t even been glanced at.

  Entirely pleased—first the letter, now this excellent horse—everything seemed to be falling into his lap—he smiled and rode on.

  From a vantage point on one of the higher rises some way ahead—a significant distance east, and a little to the south from where Daniel now rode—concealed by a twiggy copse, Alex watched the scene unfolding on the heath through a spyglass.

  Horrified. Barely able to believe it.

  All had been going so well, then Daniel’s horse had gone lame. But he’d done the sensible thing and slipped into a stable to exchange it.

  Alex had used the opportunity to get well ahead, then had patiently waited, and sure enough, not too many minutes later, Daniel had ridden out on a different horse.

  All well and good, but … something had happened to alert the stable’s people off exercising the horses, and had brought the trainer and his jockeys flying back to the place.

  Alex had no idea what had summoned them, but the man who’d led the charge back, a gentleman by his dress, had all but immediately come out again, with a spyglass.

  The man had located Daniel.

  Daniel was no longer wearing his black silk scarf. His face was bare, naked, there for anyone to see.

  The man with the spyglass had stood outside the stable, and looked, looked—looked for far too long to have only been interested in identifying his horse.

  Alex knew without a shadow of a doubt that Daniel’s face had been studied and noted.

  And now a thundering herd of men and horses was charging after Daniel—and he still hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t glanced around, hadn’t heard … Alex realized why. The wind, a nice stiff breeze, was blowing directly in Daniel’s face, pushing his dark locks back.

  Alex wanted to shout and point, but Daniel was still too far away to hear. And he’d been seen. He would be recognized.

  The mob of horses was coming up fast, amazingly fast, but was still some way away; the man who had wielded the, spyglass was now following, too, on a massive horse whose long strides seemed to eat the distance.

  By the time Daniel heard them coming well enough to distinguish the sound from that of the other exercising strings he was passing, it would be too late.

  He wouldn’t escape them. He’d be taken up as a horse thief.

  Bad enough, but he had the letter—copy or original—on him.

  What odds that vital document would find its way into the hands of the puppetmaster, that nebulous man Alex was learning to respect, and more, fear?

  Alex’s mount shifted restlessly. Eyes desperately scanning the heath, Alex reined it in without thought. Had no thought to spare.

  What to do? What to do?

  There! One chance, just one, one way forward, and no other.

  If Alex was game to grasp it.

  If …

  With a vicious curse, Alex set heels to the chestnut’s sides and raced down the rise on a course that would intersect with Daniel’s at one particular spot. A place just beyond another rise, a little higher than most, that sheltered a wide dip hosting a short line of firs and pines with thick, heavy br
anches—one of the few effective screens on the winter heath.

  Daniel’s line of travel would see him pass a little way beyond the northern end of the line of trees.

  Alex reached the east side of the trees with just enough time to calm, to settle the chestnut, ease its prancing edginess. To breathe in, out, and plaster on a welcoming, expectant expression.

  Daniel appeared beyond the end of the trees.

  Alex hailed him and waved.

  Hearing, seeing, Daniel smiled confidently and wheeled his stolen mount.

  Alex waited, outwardly calm and assured, as Daniel slowed, then walked his horse nearer, eventually halting alongside the chestnut.

  His knee brushing Alex’s, Daniel smiled. “I got it.”

  “I know.” Lips curving in response, Alex held out an imperious, demanding hand. “I can tell by your smile.”

  Daniel laughed. Reaching into his coat, he drew out the letter and laid it across Alex’s palm.

  Alex flicked it open, checked. “The same as the other two—a copy.”

  “Which means there’s only one more to seize. The original Carstairs must be carrying.”

  “Indeed.” Folding the letter, sliding it into a pocket, Alex looked up, into Daniel’s eyes. Smiled brilliantly. “Excellent.”

  Reaching up and across with one elegantly gloved hand, Alex cupped Daniel’s nape and drew his face near.

  Kissed him.

  Lovingly, lingeringly.

  Bit Daniel’s lip lightly as the blade slid between his ribs, directly into his heart.

  Alex drew back, released Daniel, left the knife where it was.

  Met his eyes, the velvety brown already clouding.

  Saw death sliding in to claim him.

  The look on Daniel’s face, the utter shock and disbelief, pricked even Alex’s conscience.

  “You’d been seen. They’re after you—can’t you hear? I couldn’t allow—”

  Daniel slumped forward, over his saddle.

  The roan shifted, getting nervous.

  Face tightening, Alex grabbed Daniel’s hat—it had his name on the band—stuffed it into one of the chestnut’s saddlebags, gathered the big horse’s reins, then paused.

  Paused.

  Reaching out one gloved hand, Alex gently, for the last time, ruffled Daniel’s black hair. Then, lips thinning, features shifting into a granite mask, Alex drew back, sharply slapped the roan’s rump, and sent the horse leaping.

  The instant it sensed the odd weight in its saddle and found its reins free, it took off, heading south.

  Alex drew in a quick breath, blew it out. Refocused and listened, gauging the escalating thud of the pursuing horses’ hooves; they were nearing the rise to the west.

  Following impulse, Alex spurred the big chestnut on, heading north, cutting directly across the oncoming riders.

  Alex cleared the trees and was fifty yards further on when the mob broke over the rise, and slowed.

  Alex kept riding north unhurriedly, outwardly unconcerned.

  Heard the jockeys’ voices as they circled on the rise, searching for their quarry. With luck, the trees would conceal the roan’s flight for some considerable way.

  Then another voice, a deeper, more authoritative voice, joined the chorus.

  It took Demon a good minute to accept what his men were telling him. The Gentleman and his rider were indeed nowhere to be seen.

  Another rider, a man wrapped in a heavy winter coat, with a fashionable hat pulled low and features protected from the wind by a muffler, was cantering along on a big chestnut just north of where they milled.

  If the horse thief had gone this way …

  “Hello!” Demon raised his voice, raised a hand in salute.

  The other rider glanced back, slowed, raised a hand to show he’d heard.

  “Did you see a man—dark coat, dark hat, dark hair, tanned features—riding out on a roan?”

  The rider hesitated, then turned and pointed to the east of northeast. There was another rise that might have concealed the rider some way on.

  “Thank you!” Demon swung The Flynn in that direction and thundered down the rise. His jockeys and their mounts followed.

  The rider watched for a moment, then continued unhurriedly on.

  Stone-faced, Alex rode on, listening until the thunder of hooves faded.

  Soon, the silence of the wide and empty heath returned. Alex embraced it.

  After a while, thought impinged on the odd emptiness in Alex’s mind, rose up through the unexpected shock.

  Survival, after all, was reserved for the fittest.

  After further cogitation a plan formed. Head north for a little while longer, enough to get well and truly out of the way of any further searching, then circle around, stop at Bury long enough to alert those left there, then head on to the new house—the new cult headquarters—that M’wallah and Creighton between them had found.

  Creighton might be a problem now his master was dead, but M’wallah and Alex’s guard were exceptionally good at resolving all problems Alex faced. Creighton could be left to them.

  As the sun slowly rose, Alex, alone, cantered steadily on.

  Just after dawn, Demon finally halted.

  They’d reached a strip of heath still crisp from the frost, and it was transparently obvious no rider had crossed it that morning.

  “We’ve lost him.” Turning The Mighty Flynn, he pulled out the spyglass, and scanned all the heath that he could see.

  “But how could we have?” one of the jockeys asked. “We was on his heels—well, a few minutes behind at most—and then … he just wasn’t there.”

  Frowning, Demon thought back. Shutting the spyglass, he slipped it back into the saddle pocket. “You had him in sight until he went over the rise where you stopped—the rise where we asked the other rider?”

  All the jockeys nodded.

  Demon knew every dip and hollow on the heath; he’d, been riding there since he was a child. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisaging … if that other rider had been mistaken, or …

  Opening his eyes, he wheeled The Flynn back toward Newmarket. “Let’s head home, but we’ll spread out in a line north-south, and go at a slow canter. Yell if you see any sign.”

  The horses were tiring, skittish; they needed to get back to their stable, into the warm, and be tended. The run had broken their usual routine.

  Demon directed his men into a line, and they started back.

  He wasn’t sure what to think. He was deep in weighing up the possibilities when Higgins, to the far south of the line, gave a hie.

  “Over there! Isn’t that The Gentleman?”

  Demon reined in, hauled out the spyglass, and put it to his eye.

  And there was The Gentleman—with a suspicious-looking lump in the saddle. The Gentleman was well to the south, reins dragging as he lazily cropped coarse grass, then ambled on a little way, the lifeless lump on his back swaying with his gait.

  Demon drew in a breath, let it out on a sigh. Stuffing the glass back in his saddlebag, he nodded. “That’s him. Let’s go.”

  As one, he and his men changed course, and closed on the wandering horse.

  The Gentleman’s head came up as they neared, but then he scented his stablemates and went back to his grass. The lump on his back didn’t move.

  “Hold up.” Demon waved to his jockeys to rein in a little way away. Their horses sensed the wrongness of the slumped form on The Gentleman’s back and grew yet more skittish.

  At a walk, Demon approached The Gentleman. The Flynn was an old hand; he would trust completely and go wherever Demon steered him.

  But, yes, that was a dead body. It looked like their horse thief had met his end.

  Glancing back at the restless, high-spirited horses, Demon waved them off. “Go on to the stables. I’ll be behind you. No more training this morning. They’ve had a good run. Get them inside and rubbed down.”

  The younger jockeys had paled; they nodded and went. The older on
es hestitated, but then nodded and headed in.

  Leaving Demon to draw closer to The Gentleman, lean down and grab the trailing reins, then edge nearer and, without any real hope, check for a pulse at the side of the man’s neck. Finding none, he bent low and peered at the dead man’s face—enough to confirm that, yes, he was their horse thief.

  And judging from his hands and the tanned line at his throat, until recently he’d been somewhere sunny, like India.

  Straightening in his saddle, Demon frowned at the corpse. “Who the devil are you? And what the hell’s going on?”

  Seventeen

  Demon led The Gentleman and his grisly burden back to the stables. It took him and two of his men to lift the man free of the saddle; they laid him out in the back of a hay cart.

  Carruthers came hobbling out of the tack room, where he’d been imbibing medicinal brandy. He looked down at the man, nodded. “That’s him. Cheeky, vicious sod. Not so cheeky now. Looks like retribution caught up with him pretty quick.” He glanced at Demon. “Any idea who did it?”

  Demon thought of the other rider they’d seen, but could anyone slide a dagger through a man’s heart, and within minutes appear so unconcerned? He shook his head. “No idea. But he was out of our sight for a good while. No saying who he might have met up with.”

  “Strange-looking dagger, that.” Carruthers eyed the hilt that protruded from the man’s chest.

  “It’s ivory.” Demon bent and looked more closely at it, and any doubt this man was involved with the Black Cobra vanished. The hilt was the same as the daggers that had put paid to first Larkins, then Ferrar, whom they’d originally thought was the Black Cobra. The sound of riders approaching, followed by a shout, “Ho! Cynster!” had Demon straightening, then striding quickly out of the front doors to the area before the stable.

  Logan dismounted as Demon appeared. For the first time in days, Logan grinned.

  Demon’s gaze reached him and his old friend’s face lit. “Logan Monteith! Sorry—Major Monteith. You are definitely a sight for sore eyes—even if you’re half covered in … what? Soot? “

  “We escaped a fire, and a few other inconveniences, hence our sorry sartorial state. But I hear you’ve grown sober.” Logan offered his hand, and it was crushed in Demon’s long-fingered grip.