She’d known Esme would halt at Trieste, so had warned her agent, and a letter from her editor had been waiting for her there. Apparently the publisher of the Enquirer was an admirer of her work, and the paper was eager to publish whatever she could send them.
Her agent had also written informing her of the sizeable increase in stipend the publisher was providing for each witty installment.
She’d thought her departure with Esme would spell the end of her secret writing career; instead, it had brought her work more forcefully to the attention of both her publisher and his readers.
Her secret endeavor had taken a highly encouraging turn, but close acquaintance with Rafe Carstairs might well endanger that—in more ways than he imagined.
Yet she couldn’t help but be curious over what, exactly, it was that he seemed so set on keeping away from her.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, taking advantage of a temporary silence, “Mr. Carstairs might explain what this unprecedented danger inherent on being associated with him and Mr. Hassan is?”
Carstairs, who she had to admit was giving Esme a run for her money in the stubborn stakes, and was presently furnishing every indication of being as immovable as a monolith, lifted his sky blue eyes to her. He studied her for a fraught moment, then looked down at Esme. “There is no point continuing this discussion. We cannot—”
“Captain.”
The quiet word came from Hassan, who had retreated to stand by the window; turning, Rafe saw him looking outside.
Glancing up from whatever he’d seen, Hassan met his eyes. “Before you make any decision you should consider this.”
Rafe inclined his head to Esme and her great-niece. “A moment, if you would.”
He crossed to Hassan. Halting alongside, Rafe looked down through the lace curtains to the street below.
To where two Black Cobra cultists were ambling along, looking this way and that.
“They are looking, watching, not searching specifically,” Hassan observed.
“Which means they don’t yet know we’re here.”
“True, but …” Hassan waited until Rafe raised his gaze to his before continuing, “what will happen if they learn we have been here, not just in Buda but here in this room, speaking with these ladies?”
Rafe’s heart sank.
“The cult will not have forgotten that it was an English lady, Miss Ensworth, who brought you and the others the Cobra’s letter. Even if we part from the ladies now, that will not save them—the cultists will reason that they have to be stopped and they and their baggage searched, just in case.”
“Damn!” Rafe all but ground his teeth. After a moment, he murmured, “We shouldn’t go on with them and expose them to danger, but not being their guards might be even more dangerous for them.”
“So I think.”
Rafe sighed and turned—and discovered Lady Congreve just behind him. She’d been peering around his shoulder.
Raising her eyes to his face, she arched her brows. “I think, dear boy, that you had better tell us all.” Swinging around, she led the way back to the chairs. “And as we are, apparently, to be traveling companions all the way to England, you may call me Esme.”
Elegantly sitting, beckoning her great-niece to sit alongside her, she lifted openly curious eyes to his face.
Rafe stifled a groan, but accepting the inevitable, walked to the chair he’d earlier occupied. Once Loretta Michelmarsh sat, he sat, too.
Drawing in a long breath, he started at the beginning. “Several years ago, a man—an English gentleman of noble family—went out to India and, exploiting his position in the Governor of Bombay’s office, devised and created a native cult. The cult of the Black Cobra.”
He had them call in their maids, then related the story in its most abbreviated version, alluding only where necessary and in general terms to the atrocities committed by the cult; those he deemed too ghastly to be described in polite company.
By the time he finished, the sky outside was darkening and evening was closing in.
Esme had listened intently, putting shrewd questions here and there. She hadn’t been all that surprised to learn that the man Rafe and his friends were working to expose as the Black Cobra was Roderick Ferrar, the Earl of Shrewton’s younger son.
Esme’s lips had tightened, her features growing severe. “I never did like that boy—or his father, come to that. Vicious blackguards, the Shrewtons, except for the heir, Kilworth. He’s altogether a different sort.”
Rafe took her word for that. All he cared about was bringing Roderick Ferrar to justice.
“So let me see if I have this correct.” Somewhat to Rafe’s surprise, Loretta Michelmarsh had seemed as fascinated with his mission as her great-aunt. “You are one of four … for want of a better term, couriers, who left Bombay on the same day, all heading for England by different routes. All four are carrying identical scroll-holders, but only one contains the original letter—and that original letter must reach the Duke of Wolverstone in order for the Black Cobra to be stopped.”
When she paused and opened her blue eyes wide at him, he nodded. “In a nutshell, that’s it.”
“So which do you have—one of the decoys or the vital original?”
Rafe shook his head. “The four of us decided that information shouldn’t be revealed to anyone, not even shared among us.”
“In case this fiend of a snake seizes one of you and tries to coerce the information from them in order to concentrate solely on the one who carries the original?” Esme nodded. “Excellent idea. Don’t tell us. We don’t need to know that you’re carrying the original.”
Expression blank, Rafe stared at her, but Esme only smiled.
“The Duke of Wolverstone.” Loretta glanced at Esme. “He’s something of a secret war hero, isn’t he? A spymaster or some such?”
“At one time. He retired some years ago, then assumed the title, but I seriously doubt he’ll have lost his lauded skills.” Esme met Rafe’s eyes. “If you’re working for Royce, Dalziel—Wolverstone—whatever name he goes by these days, then as loyal Englishwomen it clearly behooves us to do whatever we can to aid your quest.”
Rafe inwardly blinked. If he’d known Wolverstone’s name would have such an effect, he’d have used it sooner.
“Regardless, however, now that we know about your mission and have been seen with you by people the serpent’s, minions might question, then there’s clearly no option other than to join forces.” Esme smiled with satisfaction. “So no more muttering—you, dear boy, henceforth will be our courier-guide and Hassan will be our guard.”
Esme glanced at Loretta, then looked back at Rafe. “Which makes us your charges.” Her smile was triumph incarnate.
Lips thin, Rafe nodded, then with a glance at Loretta, added, “Until we reach England.”
The Reckless Bride
STEPHANIE
LAURENS
The
Reckless
Bride
THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Savdek Management Proprietory Ltd.
Maps by Paul J. Pugliese
ISBN 978-0-06-179519-0
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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The Reckless Bride
She tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs had constricted. By sheer force of will she kept her feet moving and managed to climb the steps into the carriage. He released her hand and her senses snapped back into focus.
A second later, the carriage tipped as Carstairs climbed in. He hesitated, then sat alongside her, leaving the place beside Rose for Hassan.
Carstairs’s shoulder brushed hers as he settled.
She couldn’t breathe again. Worse, her wits had scattered. As for her senses, they were flickering and flaring, not in alarm but in a most peculiar way.
Fixing her gaze forward, she forced her lungs to work. It was preferable that Carstairs sat beside her rather than opposite; at least she didn’t have him constantly before her. Bad enough that she could somehow feel him alongside her; his warmth, his solidly muscled strength, impinged on her consciousness as if every nerve she possessed had come alive and locked on him.
She was irritated and utterly mortified.
Prologue
September 15, 1822
North of Bombay, India
The incessant tattoo of his horse’s hooves thundered through his skull. Rafe Carstairs, erstwhile captain in the British Army serving with the Honorable East India Company under the direct command of the Governor-General of India, glanced over his shoulder back along the trail, then urged his mount up the first in a series of low hills that spread across their path.
Riding alongside him, Hassan, his man, more companion than batman, kept pace. The long, lanky, frighteningly fierce Pathan warrior had fought at Rafe’s side for the past five years; without hesitation, he’d accepted Rafe’s invitation to join him in this dangerous flight across half the world.
Rafe’s mission was simple. Ferry the original of a damning letter—evidence enough to hang the Englishman who had spawned and now controlled the Black Cobra cult and who, through the cult’s vicious tyranny, was draining the life from too many Indian villages—back to England and into the hands of a man powerful enough to bring the Black Cobra down.
Simultaneously, Rafe’s three closest friends and colleagues, Colonel Derek Delborough, Major Gareth Hamilton, and Major Logan Monteith, were also heading for England via separate routes carrying inadmissible copies of the vital evidence—decoys to distract the Black Cobra from the one man who had to get through.
Rafe.
Like Rafe, Hassan had seen too much of the Black Cobra’s villany not to seize the chance they now had to bring the fiend to justice.
Drawing rein on the crest of the hill, Rafe wheeled his mount and, through narrowed eyes, searched the wide, flat plain they’d crossed through the morning.
Hassan looked, too. “No pursuers.”
Rafe nodded. “It’s too dusty down there to miss racing horses.” Nerves that had been taut since they’d left Bombay the day before eased a fraction.
“Leaving immediately after your meeting with the other three was wise.” Hassan wheeled his mount and walked on.
Rafe followed suit, then they nudged their horses back into a canter, heading nor’northwest. “If they didn’t pick up our trail yesterday, soon after we left Bombay, it’ll be difficult for them to guess our route.”
“They will expect you to go by water—they will look to the harbor and ships. Even if they think to look inland, there will be no one to point a finger this way. We are just two tribal warriors, after all.”
Rafe grinned and glanced at Hassan, unremarkable in his tribal robes. Rafe was similarly garbed. With his more European build swathed in loose fabric, his blond hair hidden beneath the headdress and attached scarves, and with all visible skin well tanned by years of campaigning, only his blue eyes gave him away.
And one had to get close to see the color of his eyes.
He looked ahead. “Given the cult aren’t hot on our heels, it’s possible we’ll have an uneventful journey, at least until we near the Channel. I just hope the others got away as cleanly.”
Hassan grunted. They picked up the pace and rode on, the rich lands of the Rajputana their immediate goal, with the more dangerous, desolate reaches of the Afghan Supremacy beyond. There was a lot of Asia Minor to be crossed before they reached Europe, let alone the English Channel. They had a long journey before them, and a schedule to meet.
Rafe still felt a sense of deep satisfaction that he’d been the one to draw the scroll-holder containing the original document from the four identical scroll-holders; the other three had contained the decoy missions. His friend and colleague Captain James MacFarlane had given his life to secure the incriminating letter. Rafe had seen James’s body, twisted and tortured by the Black Cobra’s minions. To his soul, Rafe thirsted for vengeance.
The only acceptable vengeance was to ensure the Black Cobra hanged.
Rafe tapped his heels to his mount’s sides. “Onward. With luck and St. George, we’ll win through.”
They would, or Rafe would die trying.
September 18, 1822
The Michelmarsh Residence
Connaught Square, London
“I deeply regret being so disobliging, but I simply cannot accept Lord Eggles’s offer.” Loretta Violet Mary Michelmarsh surveyed her siblings and their spouses disposed on chairs and chaises about the library. She wasn’t entirely sure why her rejection of Lord Eggles’s suit was causing so much more consternation than the seven rejections that had gone before.
“But . . . why?” Catherine, Loretta’s sister-in-law, her elder brother Robert’s wife, spread her hands, her expression one of complete bafflement. “Lord Eggles is everything that could be hoped for—so very eligible in every way.”
Except that he’s a dead bore. And a pompous ass. “I believe I’ve mentioned,” Loretta said, her tone one of the utmost reasonableness, “that I have no wish to marry—well, not at this juncture.” Not until she met the man of her dreams.
“But Lord Eggles was the eighth—the eighth perfectly eligible suitor you’ve rejected!” Catherine’s voice rose to a more penetrating note. “You cannot just keep rejecting suitors—everyone will start wondering why!”
“Will they?” Loretta raised her brows. “I can’t imagine why they would waste the time.”
“Because you’re a Michelmarsh, of course.” Margaret, Loretta’s elder sister, glanced at Annabelle, their middle sister, then with a sigh met Loretta’s gaze. “I hesitate to press you, but in this Catherine’s right—your continuing dismissal of all suitors is bordering on the scandalous.”
“You’re a Michelmarsh female,” Annabelle said, “so it’s expected that you will wed. And while all would grant you’ve affected a quieter style than Margaret or I, or indeed any Michelmarsh young lady in recent memory, that in no way excludes you from that generally held expectation. All Michelmarsh females marry, usually well. Add to that the significant inheritances that will pass to your husband on your marriage and the question of who you will accept as said husband is one a sizeable portion of the ton is in constant expectation of hearing answered.”
Loretta hadn’t missed the subtle emphasis Annabelle had placed on the word “affected.” The look in Annabelle’s blue eyes assured Loretta that Annabelle, two years older than Loretta’s twenty-four and closest to her in age, understood very well that Loretta’s reserved demeanor was indeed an affectation, an adopted façade. And if Annabelle knew, Margaret did, too.
“What your sisters are attempting to explain,” John, Margaret’s husband, said from his position propped against the back of the chaise, “is that your peremptory and immediate dismissal of all suitors brave enough to approach is raising speculation as to whether, rather than the individual suitors, it is the institution of marriage you reject.”
Loretta frowned. She knew precisely what she wanted in a suitor. She just hadn’t found him yet.
Robert, her elder brother and guardian, seated behind the desk to the left of the straight-backed chair Loretta occupied, cleared his throat. Looking his wa
y, Loretta saw color tingeing his cheeks. Embarrassment, she knew, not anger. Anger, after all, was a strong emotion, and Robert, aided and abetted by Catherine, had made a point of being the only Michelmarsh in history to be reserved, staid, prim and proper, as close to emotionless as made no odds.
In his case, that demeanor was no affectation.
Robert was the white sheep in a family of, perhaps not black sheep but at least distinctly brindled. Michelmarshes were, and always had been, the very souls of outrageous vivacity, extroverts to their very toes.
All except for Robert.
Orphaned at the age of twelve and left to Robert’s guardianship, taken into his family and placed under Catherine’s well-meaning but smothering wing, Loretta had quickly realized that affecting a prim and proper façade was the easiest path.
Over the years, following the easiest path had become a habit, one she’d discovered had pertinent benefits, namely shielding her from a social round she found largely unnecessary. Keeping her gaze downcast and her voice at a whisper meant she could stand by the side of a ballroom, or sit in a drawing room or dining room, and think of other things. Of things she’d read, of matters a great deal more stimulating than the company around her.
She’d come to appreciate that there was a great deal to be said for prim and proper behavior. It could be used to avoid all sorts of interactions she didn’t want to be bothered with.
Like paying attention to gentlemen she had no interest in.
Her façade usually worked.
Sadly, some had been attracted to the façade and, given the many years’ practise she’d put into perfecting it, she’d found it well nigh impossible to make them understand that the prim and proper, highly reserved young lady they thought would be perfect as their wife did not exist. At least not in her.
Hence the peremptory and immediate dismissals.