The Elusive Bride
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
The Elusive Bride
The Black Cobra Quartet
Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul!”
What the…?” Gareth Hamilton stood in the bow of the Egret…
Gareth returned to the guesthouse at noon, Mooktu by his…
Late that evening, while strolling the deck, eyes scanning the…
Late that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily…
They quit the docks as the sun rose above the…
Late the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon…
When she emerged from Anya’s tent, Emily discovered that most…
The souk in Alexandria was set well back from the…
Although founded by the Knights of Malta centuries before, Valletta…
The next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by…
That afternoon, the entire party sat about the low table…
By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec…
The next morning, garbed as any young Frenchwoman with her…
That evening they arrived in Lyon. They’d made excellent time,…
The next morning, in the mizzling drizzle that had replaced…
Tied securely to a once-elegant chair in the middle of…
The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into…
By late afternoon, when she, Leonora, and Clarice slipped into…
They left at first light, as the dark skies turned…
They drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister…
So we’re left with the questions of who killed Ferrar,…
Dear Diary,
I have waited for so long and will admit that I had fallen into the habit of imagining it would never happen, that now that it might have, I find myself rather cautious. Is this what my sisters meant when they said I would simply know? Certainly, my stomach and my nerves proved to be singularly sensitive to Major Hamilton’s nearness, but how reliable is that indicator?
Until I know more about Major Hamilton, I cannot know if he is “the one”—my “one,” the gentleman for me—so my most urgent need is to learn more about him, but from whom?
And I need to spend more time with him, too—but how?
I must devote myself to finding ways—I have only a few days left.
And after all these years of waiting for him to appear and coming all this way before meet-ing him, sailing away and leaving my “one” behind just doesn’t bear thinking about.
E.
September 2, 1822
Road from Poona to Bombay
U
l-ul-ul-ul-ul!
”
The battle cries of their pursuers faded momentarily as Emily Ensworth and her escort thundered around the next bend. Gaze locked on the beaten surface of the dirt road, she concentrated on urging her mare even faster—on fleeing down the mountain road as if her life depended on it.
She suspected it did.
They were halfway down the hill road from Poona, the monsoon capital for the upper echelons of the British governing Bombay. Bombay itself was still hours of hard riding ahead. About them, the usually serene beauty of the hills, with their majestic firs and cool crisp air, was again fractured by the ululations of the riders pursuing them.
She’d got a good look at them earlier. Clad in traditional native garb, their insignia was a black silk scarf wound about their heads, long ends flying as, swords flashing, they’d charged wildly in their wake.
Their pursuers were Black Cobra cultists. She’d heard the grisly tales, and had no wish to feature in the next horrific installment.
She and her escort, led by young Captain MacFarlane, had fled at a flat gallop, yet somehow the cultists had closed the distance. She’d initially felt confident she and the troop could outrun them; she was no longer so sure.
Captain MacFarlane rode alongside her. Her eyes locked on the sharply descending road, she sensed him glance back, then, a moment later, he glanced at her. She was about to snap that she was an accomplished rider, as he should by now have noticed, when he looked ahead and pointed.
“There!” MacFarlane waved at his lieutenant. “Those two rocks on the next stretch. With two others I can hold them back long enough for Miss Ensworth and the rest of you to reach safety.”
“I’ll stay with you!” the lieutenant shouted across Emily’s head. “Binta and the others can carry on with the memsahib.”
The memsahib—Emily—stared at the rocks in question. Two tall, massive boulders, they framed the road, with the sheer cliff face on one side, and an equally sheer drop on the other. She was no general, but while three men might delay their pursuers, they’d never hold them back.
“No!” She glanced at MacFarlane while they continued to thunder on. “We all of us stay, or we all of us go on.”
Blue eyes narrowed on her face. His jaw set. “Miss Ensworth, I’ve no time to argue. You will go on with the bulk of the troop.”
Of course she argued, but he wouldn’t listen.
So complete was his ignoring of her words that she suddenly realized he
knew
he wouldn’t survive. That he’d die—here on this road—and it wouldn’t be a pretty death.
He’d accepted that.
His bravery stunned her, rendered her silent as, reaching the rocks, they pulled up, milling as MacFarlane snapped out orders.
Then he reached over, grabbed her bridle, and drew her on down the road.
“Here.” Drawing a folded parchment packet from inside his coat, he thrust it into her hand. “Take this—get it to Col
onel Derek Delborough. He’s at the fort in Bombay.” Blue eyes met hers. “It’s vital you place that in his hands—his and no others. Do you understand?”
Numb, she nodded. “Colonel Delborough, at the fort.”
“Right. Now ride!” He slapped her mare’s rump.
The horse leapt forward. Emily shoved the packet into the front of her riding jacket and tightened her grip on the reins. Behind her, the troop came pounding up, forming around her as they again fled on.
She glanced back as they rounded the next curve. Two of the troop were taking up positions on either side of the rocks. MacFarlane was freeing their horses, shooing them on.
Then they swept around the curve and he was lost to her sight.
She had to ride on. He’d given her no choice. If she didn’t reach Bombay and deliver his packet, his death—his sacrifice—would be for naught.
That couldn’t be. She couldn’t let that happen.
But he’d been so young.
Tears stung her eyes. Viciously she blinked them back.
She had to concentrate on the godforsaken road and ride.
Later that day
East India Company Fort, Bombay
Emily fixed the sepoy guarding the fort gates with a steady direct gaze. “Captain MacFarlane?”
As the niece of the Governor of Bombay, visiting her uncle for the last six months, she could ask and expect to be answered.
The sepoy blanched, olive skin and all. The glance he bent on her was sorrowful and compassionate. “I am very sorry, miss, but the captain is dead.”
She’d expected it, yet…looking down, she swallowed, then lifted her head, drew breath. Fixed the guard with an even more imperious gaze. “I wish to speak with Colonel Delborough. Where may I find him?”
The answer had been the officers’ bar, the enclosed front verandah of the officers’ mess. Emily wasn’t sure it was acceptable for her—a female—to go inside, but that wasn’t going to stop her.
Idi, the Indian maid she’d borrowed from her uncle’s household, trailing behind her, she mounted the shallow steps. Moving into the dim shadows of the verandah, she halted to let her eyes adjust.
Once they had, she swept the verandah left to right, registering the familiar click of billiard balls coming from an alcove off one end, several officers in groups of twos and threes gathered about round tables, and one larger group haunting the far right corner.
Of course they’d all noticed her the instant she’d walked in.
A serving boy quickly came forward. “Miss?”
Transferring her gaze from the group to the boy’s face, she stated, “I’m looking for Colonel Delborough. I was informed he was here.”
The boy bobbed. “Yes, miss.” He swung and pointed to the group in the corner. “He is there with his men.”
Had MacFarlane been one of Delborough’s men? Emily thanked the boy and headed for the corner table.
There were four very large officers seated at the table. All four slowly rose as she approached. Remembering Idi dutifully dogging her heels, Emily paused and waved the maid to a chair by the verandah’s side. “Wait there.”
Holding the edge of her sari half over her face, Idi nodded and sat.
Drawing breath, head rising, Emily walked on.
As she neared, she scanned, not the men’s faces—even without looking she knew their expressions were bleak; they’d learned of MacFarlane’s death, almost certainly knew the manner of it, something she was sure she didn’t need to know—but instead she searched each pair of broad shoulders for a colonel’s epaulettes.
Distantly she registered that, in common female parlance, these men would be termed “impressive,” with their broad
chests, their height and their air of rugged physical strength. She was surprised she hadn’t seen them in any of the drawing rooms she’d visited with her aunt over recent months.
Another captain—blonder than MacFarlane—and two majors, one with light brown hair…she had to tug her gaze on to the other major, the one with rakish dark hair, then she finally found the colonel among them—presumably Delborough. He had dark hair, too.
She halted before him, lifted her gaze to his face, set her teeth against the emotions surging about the table; she couldn’t let them draw her in. Down. Make her cry. She’d cried enough when she’d reached her uncle’s house, and she hadn’t known MacFarlane as, from the intensity of their feelings, these four had. “Colonel Delborough?”
The colonel inclined his head, dark eyes searching her face. “Ma’am?”
“I’m Emily Ensworth, the governor’s niece. I…” Recalling MacFarlane’s instructions—Delborough’s hands and no others—she glanced at the other three. “If I could trouble you for a word in private, Colonel?”
Delborough hesitated, then said, “Every man about this table is an old friend and colleague of James MacFarlane. We were all working together. If your business with me has anything to do with James, I would ask that you speak before us all.”
His eyes were weary, and so sad. One glance at the others, at their rigid expressions—so contained—and she nodded. “Very well.”
There was an empty chair between the two majors. The brown-haired one held it for her.
She briefly met his eyes, a tawnier hazel than her own. “Thank you.” Ignoring the sudden flutter in her stomach, she sat. Determinedly directing her gaze forward, she found herself staring at a three-quarters empty bottle of arrack at the table’s center.
With a shuffle of chairs, the men resumed their seats.
She glanced at Delborough. “I realize it might be irregular, but if I could have a small glass of that…?”
He met her eyes. “It’s arrack.”
“I know.”
He signaled to the barboy to bring another glass. While they waited, beneath the table’s edge she opened her reticule and drew out MacFarlane’s packet.
The boy delivered the glass, and Delborough poured a half measure.
With a smile that went awry, she accepted it and took a small sip. The sharp taste made her nose wrinkle, but her uncle had allowed her to partake of the liquor in an experimental fashion; she knew of its fortifying properties. She took a larger sip, then lowered the glass. Quashing the impulse to look at the brown-haired major, she fixed her gaze on Delborough. “I asked at the gate and they told me. I’m very sorry that Captain MacFarlane didn’t make it back.”
Delborough’s expression couldn’t get any stonier, but he inclined his head. “If you could tell us what happened from the beginning, it would help us understand.”
They’d been MacFarlane’s friends; they needed to know. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “We started very early from Poona.”
She told the story simply, without embellishment.
When she reached the point where she’d parted from the gallant captain, she paused and drained her glass. “I tried to argue, but he would have none of it. He drew me aside—ahead—and gave me this.” She lifted the packet. Laying it on the table, she pushed it toward Delborough. “Captain MacFarlane asked me to bring this to you.”
She finished her tale in the minimum of words, ending with, “He turned back with a few men, and the rest came with me.”
When she fell silent, the distracting major on her left shifted. Spoke gently. “And you sent them back when you came within sight of safety.” When she glanced his way, met his hazel eyes, he added, “You did the best you could.”
The instant she’d sighted Bombay, she’d insisted all but two of the troop return to help their comrades; unfortunately, they’d been too late.
Setting a hand on the packet, Delborough drew it to him. “And you did the right thing.”
She blinked several times, then lifted her chin, her gaze on the packet. “I don’t know what’s in that—I didn’t look. But whatever it is…I hope it’s worth it, worth the sacrifice he made.” She raised her gaze to Delborough’s. “I’ll leave it in your hands, Colonel, as I promised Captain MacFarlane I would.” She pushed back from the table.
They all rose. The brown-haired major drew back her chair. “Allow me to organize an escort for you back to the governor’s house.”
She inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Major.” Who was he? Her nerves were fluttering again. He was standing closer than before; she didn’t think her lightheadedness was due to the arrack.
Forcing her attention to Delborough and the other two, she nodded. “Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”
“Miss Ensworth.” They all bowed.
Turning, she strolled back down the verandah, the major pacing slowly alongside. She waved to Idi, who fell into step behind her.
She glanced at the major’s carefully blank expression, then cleared her throat. “You all knew him well, I take it?”
He glanced at her. “He’d served with us, alongside us, for over eight years. He was a comrade, and a close friend.”
She’d noticed their uniforms, but now it struck her. She looked at the major. “You’re not regulars.”
“No.” His lips twisted. “We’re Hastings’s own.”
The Marquess of Hastings, the Governor-General of India. This group, and MacFarlane, had worked directly for him? “I see.” She didn’t, but she felt sure her uncle would be able to enlighten her.
They emerged onto the verandah steps.
“If you’ll wait here for a moment?”
It wasn’t really a question. She halted and, with Idi beside her, watched as the major raised a hand, attracting the attention of a sepoy sergeant drilling his troop on the maidan.
The sergeant quickly presented himself. With a few words, the major organized a group of sepoys to escort her back to the governor’s residence deeper in the town.
His innate yet understated air of command, and the attentiveness and willingness—even eagerness—of the sergeant to obey, were as impressive as his physical presence.
As the sepoys hurried to form up before the steps, Emily turned to the soldier beside her and held out her hand. “Thank you, Major…?”
He took her hand in a warm, strong clasp, met her eyes briefly, then half bowed. “Major Gareth Hamilton, Miss Ensworth.” Releasing her, he looked at the well-ordered sepoys, nodded his approval, then turned again to her.
Again met her eyes. “Please. Be careful.”
She blinked. “Yes, of course.” Her heart was thumping unusually quickly. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers around hers. Drawing in a much-needed breath, she inclined her head and stepped down to the dusty ground. “Good evening, Major.”
“Good evening, Miss Ensworth.”
Gareth stood on the steps and watched Emily Ensworth walk away across the sunburned ground toward the massive fort gates. With her porcelain complexion, rose-tinted and pure, her delicate features and soft brown hair, she looked so quintessentially English, so much the epitomization of lovely English maids he’d carried with him through all his years of service.
That had to be the reason he felt as if he’d just met his future.
But it couldn’t be her, couldn’t be now.
Now, duty called.
Duty, and the memory of James MacFarlane.
Turning, he climbed the steps and went back inside.
3rd September, 1822
My room in the Governor’s Residence, Bombay
Dear Diary,
I have waited for so long, and will admit that I had fallen into the habit of imagining it would never happen, that now it might have, I find myself rather cautious. Is this what my sisters meant when they said I would simply know? Certainly, my stomach and my nerves proved to be singularly sensitive to Major Hamilton’s nearness—as Ester, Meggie, and Hilary foretold—but how reliable is that indicator?
On the other hand, this does sound like fate playing her usual tricks. Here am I, virtually at the end of my stay in India—a sojourn expressly undertaken to broaden my horizons vis à vis marriageable gentlemen, exposing me to more specimens of varying character so that my well-known “pickiness” might become better informed—and I finally stumble on one who affects me, and after an entire day, I have barely learned his name and station.
It is no help that Aunt Selma remains in Poona, too far away to provide advice, and so all my information needs must come from my uncle, although Uncle Ralph does answer without thinking of the motives behind my questions, which is all to the good.
Until I know more about Major Hamilton, I cannot know if, as I am starting to fervently hope, he is “the one”—my “one,” the gentleman for me—so my most urgent need is to learn more about him, but from whom?
And I need to spend more time with him, too—but how?
I must devote myself to finding ways—I have only a few days left.
And after all these years of waiting for him to appear, and coming all this way before meeting him,
sailing away and leaving my “one” behind just doesn’t bear thinking about.
E.