The Elusive Bride (40 page)

His jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I told you—our life together has already began. We’ve already started a life partnership, and, in this, you have to honor it.” She gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel the muscles beneath the fabric all steel. “Honor is the guiding principle you live by, and today, in this, honor dictates you let me knowingly take a calculated risk.”

“I don’t like being forced into…some kind of test.”

She inclined her head. “No more do I. This situation isn’t by my choice, but the Black Cobra and his machinations have brought us to this. All our travels, all the attacks, all the fighting and escapes—they’ll mean little if we don’t see it through to the end, and wring everything we can from the final hand we’ve been dealt.”

His eyes searched hers; she sensed his resistance wavering.

Letting her lips curve in wry affection, she leaned closer. Eyes still locked with his, she murmured, “You’re strong enough to do this, and so am I—and we’ll never forgive ourselves if we don’t try.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed. Lips still tight, he nodded. “All right.”

They returned to the table to find the point for her excursion had been settled as just beyond the turnoff to Glemsford and Clare, just before the stretch Demon had described as perfect for an attack. “It’s likely,” Demon said, “that they’ll be in a stand of trees just here, and so be able to see you clearly.”

Emily looked at the map, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Then she looked at the faces around the table. “Time is passing, gentlemen—shall we get on?”

T
hey drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister and Mooktu had stared at Gareth as if he’d lost his mind, but Mullins—who knew her best—had nodded. “Worth a try,” he’d said, then clambered up to his seat.

Emily wished the others had rather more faith in her histrionic abilities, but as the carriage rolled steadily north toward Bury St. Edmunds, she put their faint hearts firmly from her mind and concentrated on what she had to do.

The impression she had to convey, not with words, but in actions.

If she succeeded, she would make a major contribution to the success of Gareth’s mission. She would be instrumental in bringing the fiend to justice—and for MacFarlane most of all, she was determined to do her best. To give her all.

She spied the signpost for the Glemsford turnoff just ahead. “Almost there. Stop the coach.”

Gareth reached up; as the lane flashed by on their left, he rapped on the carriage roof. Immediately, the horses slowed.

When the carriage rocked to a halt, she glanced out, and mentally blessed Demon Cynster—the road just there was lined with high, thick hawthorn hedges, brown and leafless now, but still dense enough for her purpose. And a few steps back there was a stile.

She glanced at Gareth, squeezed his hand, felt his fingers return the pressure, then he reluctantly released her. “Wish me luck.”

His eyes darkened. “Just come back soon, and put me out of my misery.”

She had to fight to banish her smile as she swung the door open and climbed out onto the step, then clambered down to the road. Clutching her muff, into which the scroll holder had just fitted—thank goodness it was winter—she marched the few paces back down the road to the stile. Nearing it, she turned, looked, and made imperious “turn around” gestures at Mooktu and Bister, who as per their orders had turned to stare back at her.

Once they’d grudgingly complied, frowning, lips compressed, she strode to the stile and climbed over—as if intending to answer a call of nature.

But as soon as her feet hit the ground on the other side, and she was out of sight of the carriage, she let her demeanor change. Gone was all confidence. She bit her lip, glanced around furtively. Then she dragged in a breath, and scurried a little way along the hedge, further from the carriage.

Then she stopped. Halted, raised her head, then she let her shoulders slump again, and started pacing. Back and forth, one hand gesticulating—clearly arguing with herself. Desperately, as if at her wits’ end and unsure which of two equally bad options to choose.

Again she halted. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, then pulled the scroll holder from her muff and, without even glancing at it properly, raised it above her head, flourished it about—clearly so anyone watching would see—then thrust it deep into the hedge.

Grabbing up her skirts, she hurried back to the stile. She climbed over. Resuming her imperious, nose-in-the-air demeanor, she marched back to the carriage.

Inside the carriage, Gareth was waiting, his hand clamped around the door handle, tensed and ready to act, counting the minutes—waiting to hear her scream. His mind had thrown up all manner of horrible scenes. The cultists had
bows and let fly at her. A number rode up, sabers flashing…he blanked out the resulting image, cursed. Yet when dealing with the Black Cobra, anything was possible.

He was literally quivering with the effort to remain still, to not open the door and rush out to see where she was, when he heard her footsteps returning.

The relief that swept him nearly brought him to his knees.

Then the door handle turned, tugged. Releasing it, he pushed back on the seat.

The door swung open and she was there, staring at him, a question in her eyes. He didn’t know what was in his face, but he managed to lift a hand and beckon her inside.

She climbed up onto the step, leaned back to order, “Drive on!” then she ducked into the carriage, slammed the door behind her, and fell onto the seat opposite.

The smile that wreathed her face was nothing short of radiant.

The coach jerked, then rolled on, picking up speed.

He cleared his throat. “All right?”

She bounced upright and beamed at him. “I think I just gave the performance of my life.”

He devoured her with his gaze, but forced himself to wait until the carriage rounded the next bend—having passed the long stretch deemed perfect for an attack without even sighting a cultist—then he leaned forward, seized her about her waist, lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.

On a hill to the southwest of the scroll holder’s new location, Royce, Del, Devil, and all the others, saving only Jack and Tristan, who were still in their roles of guards and shadowing the carriage on the other side of the road, waited and watched.

Spyglasses trained on the spot, they’d viewed Emily’s performance with critical detachment.

When the carriage door closed behind her and the carriage rumbled on, eventually passing through the field of likely attack and out of sight without challenge, Royce lowered his
spyglass. “If I didn’t know better, I might just believe she’d lost her nerve entirely, and jettisoned what she sees as the cause of all their trouble.”

“The Black Cobra has a penchant for breaking people, men and women—of using fear to terrorize until whoever it is does what he wants—so her ploy stands a better-than-might-be-expected chance of succeeding.” Del kept his glass trained on the scroll holder in the hedge. “Ferrar is used to people giving him what he wants.”

“There go Jack and Tristan.” Lucifer Cynster pointed to where the two guards were fleetingly visible as they passed over a rise, heading north in the wake of the carriage.

“Wherever he is, Ferrar shouldn’t have missed seeing them,” Devil said.

“No, he shouldn’t.” Royce raised his glass again, focusing on the relevant section of hedge. “So as far as he knows, the scroll holder is just sitting there, waiting for him to send someone to fetch it. Even if he only half believes, I can’t see him leaving it. The need to have it—to know if it’s a copy or the original—will surely be too great for a man of his ilk to resist.”

Del snorted. “He’s never been denied anything in his life. He won’t resist. All we need to do is wait.”

In a dense stand of trees on a rise overlooking the stretch of road Roderick had decreed was the perfect place to attack the carriage, Roderick and Daniel stood with spyglasses to their eyes, staring at the scroll holder jammed in the hedge.

The body of cultists behind them, mounted and eager, just waiting for the order to attack, grew restive. Harness jingled; horses stamped. Eventually the leader, greatly daring, asked, “Sahib—the carriage…?”

Roderick didn’t draw his gaze from the hedge. “Leave it for the moment.” Distantly he added, “There’s still plenty of road between here and Bury.” To Daniel, he murmured, “What do you think?”

Daniel snorted, lowered his glass. “It’s a trap, of course.
That damned woman rode like the devil to bring the letter down from Poona, then delivered it to Delborough. And then she attached herself to Hamilton, no doubt intending to avenge MacFarlane. So why would she suddenly give up—give the letter up—now?”

“Because she’s reached the end of her tether.” Roderick’s tone was one of utmost reasonableness. “We’ve seen it often enough. We attack and attack and keep the attacks coming, and eventually it all just gets too much. They’re nearly at the end of their journey, nearly through to safety. And it was she who left it behind. If it had been Hamilton or one of his men, I’d be much less likely to credit it—and the two guards have gone on, too.” Lowering his spyglass, Roderick smiled at Daniel. “So if it is a trap, who’s left to spring it?”

Daniel wasn’t convinced. “What about those others who trapped Larkins in the cathedral?”

“They’re from near Cambridge.” Roderick waved to the northwest. “If they’d thundered down here, we would have seen them.”

Daniel wasn’t so sure, but as the minutes ticked by and the scroll holder just sat there, in the pale light of the winter afternoon, he knew leaving it there wasn’t an option. “So what do you propose?”

“I’ll send one of the men to pick it up while the rest of us watch from up here. If there’s no sign of a trap, he’ll bring the holder to me, I’ll take whatever it contains, and ride for Bury.” Roderick glanced at Daniel. “By the lane—not the road. If they’re waiting ahead for me to come prancing by, the letter in my hand, they’ll be disappointed.”

That was Daniel’s greatest fear. Roderick seemed to have covered the weakness, but…Daniel’s thumbs were still pricking. “All right.” Snapping his spyglass shut, Daniel moved to his horse’s side, stuffed the glass in the saddlebag. “I’ll ride ahead and tell Alex of your unexpected success—how you retrieved the letter without losing more men.”

“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex
should
be impressed.”

Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.

Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an
appropriate
welcome. I said I’d get us out of this—and I am. Alex—and sadly, sometimes you, too, Daniel—would do well to remember who among us is Shrewton’s legitimate son.”

Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed—if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.

But now Daniel merely nodded, his expression saying nothing of such complex thoughts. “Alex and I will be waiting in Bury.” About to spur off, he paused to add, “Remember to come in the back way.”

Roderick waved him off, his attention returning to the holder in the hedge. “Don’t fret—I’ll come via the ruins.”

Daniel stared at him for a second, sensing again the shift in dynamic that had occurred since the three of them had stepped onto English soil. Then he turned his horse and made for the small lane that led north to Bury.

A cultist came out of a stand of trees to the north, from the position Demon had suggested any attack on the carriage along that most amenable stretch would come.

Unhurriedly, his eyes scanning the empty fields and the nearer copses, the cultist rode to where the scroll holder was jammed, leaned from his saddle and pulled it free.

He tucked it into the frieze coat he wore, sitting tall, surveying all about him.

“They’ve changed their turbans for hats,” Del murmured.

“But they’ve clung to their black silk scarves.” Gabriel was studying the man closely. “I can see quite a few weapons, too, and they look to be well cared for.”

“While most of the cultists we’ve stumbled on are foot sol
diers, not well trained with arms, the men with Ferrar will be his closest guards—his elite. They’re cavalry trained, good with sabers, but they fight like we do—you won’t run into any surprises with them. The assassins are another matter—they fight with half swords and shorter knives. If you find yourself facing one of them, expect the unexpected. They fight to win whatever the cost.”

“There’s definitely other riders in the trees he came out from,” Demon reported. “Exactly how many, I can’t be sure, but a goodly number.”

“We’re looking for eighteen,” Royce said. “Could there be that many hidden there?”

Demon nodded. “Easily.”

Gervase was suddenly there. He’d gone down to the fields to get a different line of sight. “One of the gentlemen just left, riding hard up the lane over there.” He pointed to the west of Ferrar’s assumed position.

“That leads to Bury,” Royce said.

“Here we go,” Devil said. They all watched, sharing six spyglasses among them, as the cultist carried the holder openly back across the fields, and up the treed rise to his master.

“I can see Ferrar from over here,” Lucifer called. The others all shifted, refocused.

Just in time to witness Ferrar receive the scroll holder from his man. In short order, he opened it. Those with the glasses quietly relayed what they saw.

“He’s pulling the letter out, unrolling it.” Royce smiled. “It’s a decoy, so the instant he realizes…”

His voice trailed away. Those without glasses shifted restlessly.

“What’s happening?” Gabriel Cynster asked.

“He’s smiling. Delightedly.” Devil handed his glass to Gabriel, looked at Royce. “If it’s a decoy, why is he so thrilled to have it?”

Frowning, Royce lowered his glass, then gave it to Gervase. “If he’s keen to retrieve the copies as well as the original, that suggests there’s something else in the letter that’s a
threat to him, something in the words we’ve missed. Just as well Hamilton made another copy.”

“It has to be that.” Del handed his spyglass on. “Just look at his face.”

Royce’s eyes narrowed. “There’s definitely something we’re missing in this. Something more going on.”

“He’s leaving,” Gabriel reported. “He’s tossed aside the scroll holder and put the letter in his inside pocket. Now he’s riding off up that lane to Bury.” A second later he reported, “He’s taking only eight cultists with him—the others are heading south.”

“Probably returning to the north bank of the Thames,” Del said.

They watched the eight cultists, totally assured, ride past their position.

“Let them go.” Royce looked north, at the eight elite guards and assassins riding easily in Ferrar’s wake. “We need to reduce their numbers in this area, not further south.”

Devil glanced at his cousins, at Gyles. “There’s six Cynsters, one Rawlings—seven. We volunteer.”

“Do we need to take prisoners?” Lucifer asked.

“No—no use.” Royce hesitated, then said, “I have oversight of the magistrates in the area, so I’m charging you seven, ex-Guardsmen and peers, with the task of removing those eight cultists. We know they’ve committed atrocities in India, and if we had the time to spare, we could catch them, try them, and hang them—but that will cost our country time and money. These men have cost England enough—quietly removing them seems our best option.”