The Reckless Bride (16 page)

They checked periodically with Esme. Eventually she declared it was time to depart even though it was barely three o’clock. “We’ll be on our way tomorrow, and I’ve accomplished all I wished to here.”

With that enigmatic statement, one Rafe—favored with a rather smug smile—suspected meant something other than the obvious, Esme rose and led the way from the ballroom. In short order they’d farewelled their hosts, reclaimed the ladies’ cloaks, and climbed into their waiting carriage.

Ten minutes later they were climbing the gangplank onto the
Uray Princep.

“I believe I will take a nightcap.” Leaning on her cane, Esme glanced at Loretta. “Could you fetch it for me, dear—a brandy? You know the one I like.”

“Yes, of course.” Loretta diverted into the bar while Esme, with a goodnight wave to Rafe, went slowly down the stairs to the stateroom.

The night lay heavy on the boat. Only Hassan was awake, keeping watch on the observation deck. Rafe waited, watching as, in the faint glow from a nightlamp left on the bar Loretta poured a small measure of brandy into a tumbler, then restoppered the decanter and set it back in its rack.

Her cloak about her shoulders, her reticule dangling from one wrist, she picked up the glass and came around the bar.

He’d halted at the bar’s end.

Reaching him, she paused.

Loretta looked up at him through the shadows. She couldn’t put her finger on what had changed, but something had. Without questioning the impulse, without considering her reasons, she reached up, laid her free hand against one lean cheek, then stretched up and touched her lips to his.

Kissed him gently, in her own time, in her own way. Then she drew back, sank back. Let her lips curve. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

His eyes held hers, then one brown brow arched. “What about for teaching you that you can dance like an expert?”

Her smile deepened. “I’d forgotten about that.”

He reached for her and she met him halfway, met his lips with hers, then parted them and let him enter and taste.

Let him explore and claim. Set her own senses free to follow his lead, to seek and learn, to taste and savor.

The exchange lengthened, lingered, evolved.

Into one of muted hunger, of slowly burgeoning desire. Of controlled yet controlling need.

Rafe closed his hand about the wrist from which her reticule dangled, the hand that held the glass of brandy, and helped her to hold it steady.

While they played.

While with lips and tongues and the slick heat of their mouths they communed.

He knew well enough not to go too far, not to let a spark ignite the tinder of latent desire.

He drew back, reluctantly, yet knowing he must. Knowing that neither he nor she had yet made the choice, the decision to go further.

She sank back to her heels on a sigh, one redolent with sensual content. Her lids rose; she met his eyes, then her lips curved.

He caught the hand still cradling his cheek, turned his head. Eyes still locked with hers, he pressed his lips to her palm, watched her eyes widen. Releasing her, he forced himself to take a step back.

Letting her hand slowly fall, she stared at him for an instant, then, lips still curved, turned away. “Good night.”

He didn’t reply, just stood where he was and watched her descend the stairs.

When he heard the stateroom door snick shut, he finally dragged in a breath. He looked around, inwardly debated, then headed up the stairs to the observation deck.

As he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night, he might as well relieve Hassan.

December 3, 1822

R
afe remained on the observation deck until the
Uray Princep
slid out onto the river, and under oars and sail headed westward. To his relief, no cultists appeared on the wharf. He saw none on the riverbanks.

Once Vienna had been left behind, he headed downstairs. Even if they’d thought of it, he could understand that the cult might not have bothered watching the river. They’d assume that as a courier carrying a vital document he would make for his destination with all speed. Traveling by river was slower than traveling on land. That he might opt to drift along, might have a schedule that wasn’t “get to England as soon as possible,” wouldn’t enter their heads.

So on the river they were, at the moment, safe. He fell into his berth and immediately fell asleep, and dreamed of an elusive, fascinating lady who loved to waltz.

He woke in time for luncheon, but approached the table—now one large table about which their party gathered—with due caution.

“There you are, dear boy!” Esme smiled. “Thank you for your escort to the ball—the event fulfilled all my expectations.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what all her expectations encompassed. Inclining his head in enigmatic response, he reached for the chair beside her, across from Loretta.

Raising her gaze, she met his eyes, dipped her head. “Good afternoon, sir. I trust you slept well?” Her smile was a touch mysterious, as if she were thinking of other things. Pleasant things.

Letting out the breath he’d unknowingly held, he sat. “I did, thank you.”
Eventually.
He bit back the urge to ask if she had; at least, this time after they’d shared a kiss, she wasn’t trying to freeze him.

He deemed that progress.

Progress toward what, he wasn’t sure, and wasn’t, at that particular moment in time, all that keen and eager to find out.

There was a time and place for deeper cogitations, and the middle of a mission wasn’t it. Whatever this was that had flared between them, whatever it was that had colored last night’s kiss, whatever came of it, whatever might be, would have to wait until later. Now …

Now he had to keep his eyes peeled for cultists.

Luncheon passed in relaxed and uneventful fashion. After they all rose from the table, he spoke with the captain, then headed up to the observation deck and once again found Loretta embroidering there. He dropped into the deck chair beside her, exchanged an easy smile when she glanced his way, then he stretched out his legs, folded his hands on his chest, and stared out at the river unraveling like a steel-gray ribbon before them.

Gradually, his lids grew heavy, then fell shut.

Loretta heard the change in his breathing, then heard a soft snore.

She glanced at him. Then, softly smiling, she turned back to her embroidery.

Rafe was much more alert the next afternoon, tense and very much on guard as he and Hassan escorted Loretta, Esme, Rose, and Gibson on a short tour of Linz.

The
Uray Princep
had tied up at the wharf an hour before, the captain declaring they would cast off again early the following morning. So there were only a few hours to fill, and Esme was determined to see the sights and stretch her legs. After two days on board, Loretta was in wholehearted agreement. Between them, they’d given Rafe little choice; Loretta had pointed out that they were sensible females, for which he should be grateful.

The comment had made him blink, then grudgingly agree to their projected outing.

Following Esme down the aisle of St. Martin’s Church, Loretta still wasn’t sure what to do about Rafe, whether to reinstigate her arm’s length policy—which had signally failed at the ball—or to readjust, to flow with the tide and see where it led her. Led them.

The latter impulse had moved her to use the excuse of thanking him for his rescue at the ball to kiss him again. Just to see what she might learn. As had happened previously, the exercise had only left her with more questions.

At Esme’s heels, she dutifully examined the carvings, the ornamental altar, the chapels and the nave, but even though parts of the church were said to date from 799, she found little to inspire her muse. Leaving Esme to explore the choir, she strolled back to wait with Rafe at the head of the nave.

Nearing, she softly said, “I didn’t seen any cultists in town. Did you?”

He shook his head.

Turning to watch Esme, she continued, “Linz isn’t on any of the highways the cult would have expected you to take. They might not have sent any men here at all.”

After a moment he replied, “I’ve learned the hard way never to take the cult for granted. The Black Cobra, Ferrar, has so many men at his disposal, there’s no
saying what out-of-the-way places he might have dispatched his minions to.”

Esme had found a curate, and was engaged in earnest conversation. Watching the curate point, and Esme question, Rafe had a sinking feeling they would shortly be on their way somewhere else.

Sure enough, parting from the curate with smiles and thanks, Esme walked briskly up the nave. “I’ve seen all I wish to here. Apparently the other major sight one must see is the pilgrimage church on the hill above town.” She turned to Loretta. “The one whose tower you spotted from the boat.”

Rafe frowned. “That hill looked steep.”

“It is.” Esme smiled her smug smile. “Which is why there are pony traps for hire in the main square.”

Half an hour later, the two pony traps they’d hired halted before the Postlingberg church atop the Postlingberg mountain. Descending from the traps, they paused to admire the view of the river and the surrounding forests, then pushed open the church door and went inside.

They’d been assured by their drivers that the church was always open, but in this season, at this time of day, there were no other visitors, nor custodians to show them around.

As was often the case, a sign in the foyer requested all arms be left there, outside the nave. Grimacing, Rafe divested himself of his saber. Hassan followed suit, laying his scimitarlike blade on the sidetable alongside Rafe’s sword.

The ladies had gone ahead. Rafe followed them in, pacing slowly down the nave while the four women examined the altar, then moved on to admire the ornate pulpit.

From beside him, Hassan murmured, “What is it about these churches that your English ladies find so fascinating? They look much alike to me.”

Rafe thought about it. “It’s the differences, I think—no two are alike—and the artwork. Throughout the ages, the church always had first call on the best artisans.
Much of what’s in churches can’t be found anywhere else.”

Noticing numerous side entrances, he lengthened his stride, closing the distance to come up with the women. Hassan halted at the end of the nave before the altar steps and settled to wait. Rafe followed the women around the
altar, listened while they discussed the carved choir stalls, then trailed the group as they circled, eventually heading back toward the nave.

With the women just ahead, he stepped past the altar.

A door to his left flew open. Seven men—not cultists—stormed in.

The men had naked blades in their hands. They raced straight for their party.

Rafe had no weapon. He glanced around. Grabbed one of the two yard-long altar candlesticks.

The women fled across the front of the altar into a small chapel beyond. Hassan hurried them on, then grabbed the second candlestick.

Rafe had no time to see more. The first of their attackers was almost on him. Instead of backing away, Rafe stepped forward and swung the candlestick.

The first man went down like a rock.

Another heavy thump and courtesy of Hassan, another attacker was on the floor.

But that still left five. All very intent. They started circling.

Hassan was on Rafe’s right. Rafe was facing the long aisle of the nave. Two attackers with blades stood between him and the foyer, and his and Hassan’s swords.

They couldn’t let the attackers circle enough to reach the women. From the corner of his eye Rafe saw that Loretta had pushed the other three into the chapel proper. They were arming themselves with anything they could find—prayer books, hymnals, altar cushions—whatever came to hand.

None of which would be much good against knives.

One of the men’s eyes flicked to the women.

Abruptly straightening, Rafe let out a cavalry roar, swung the candlestick, and charged the two men facing him.

Surprised, they ducked back from the wildly swinging candlestick.

Rafe sprang past and raced up the nave.

The pair swore and gave chase.

The others cursed and leapt at Hassan.

Nearing the end of the long aisle, Rafe glanced back, then flung his candlestick at the nearest man. It struck the man across the face. He stumbled, then went down.

The second attacker had to leap over him.

Rafe raced into the foyer, seized his saber, turned and swung.

The slash made the oncoming attacker leap back, but Rafe followed up with a quick lunge and thrust, and the man crumpled and fell.

Rafe paused only to swipe up Hassan’s sword, then raced back down the nave.

Hassan was desperately fending off two knife-wielding attackers with his candlestick.

The other attacker had gone for the women.

Faces like fury, Loretta and Esme were pelting him with books and cushions; the man had his arms up trying to weather the storm. Further back in the chapel, the two maids were tugging down a long curtain.

Rafe had to relieve them before they ran out of missiles, but first … he let his momentum carry him into one of the two men attacking Hassan.

At the last moment, the man heard him coming and turned. He got his long knife up—Rafe felt it slice across his upper arm as he mowed the man down.

Rafe tossed Hassan his blade, then whirled to face the man who had turned from attacking the women.

The man snarled, beady eyes assessing.

Leaving Hassan to deal with the other man still standing, Rafe beckoned to his opponent, raised his saber.

The man saw the long curved blade, hesitated.

A calvary saber beat a long knife. Always.

Eyes on the saber, the man eased back.

Rose and Gibson stepped silently up behind the man and dropped their appropriated curtain over his head.

Before he could react, Esme and Loretta whipped the curtain
cords around him. By the time he started yelling and struggling, they were tying the knots off.