The Reckless Bride (45 page)

He rowed as fast as he dared, which in these conditions wasn’t that fast. He paused constantly to check the landmarks he recalled, to make sure he was where he thought he was, in the channel he thought he was. The last thing he needed was to run the clinker aground on some spit, and have to splash about refloating the boat.

From the cries and curses that reached them on the wind, at least one of the pursuing boats had either accidentally or on purpose made landfall, only to discover that there was precious little firm footing. It was easy in the dark to mistake the squelchy marsh islands peppering the channels for true land.

Rafe doggedly followed the course in his head, one drawn from his long-ago memories. Grim, tense, he prayed the channels and islands hadn’t changed too much in the decade and a half since he’d last seen them.

His relief when he came upon the outlet of the stream more or less where he’d thought it would be was acute. He swung the prow of the clinker into it, then, bending forward, rowed harder, pushing the small boat upstream.

Gradually, the banks of the stream closed around them.

Loretta allowed herself to breathe a touch easier. The banks were now high enough to conceal them, and the stream wound along, quickly hiding them from any pursu
ers. It was like traveling along an open tunnel cut through the land. Gradually she realized the stream was growing shallower, and shallower. She wondered where Rafe was taking them, but even now didn’t want to risk a question. Although they’d evaded their pursuers, they couldn’t be far away.

Then they rounded another bend and a jetty loomed ahead, a denser black against the night sky.

She looked at Rafe, pointed. He glanced over his shoulder, then nodded. He changed course, and made for the jetty.

Expertly he turned the boat, and it slid slowly, silently, into the jetty’s shadow. Just beyond, the ground rose, and further back yet, a thatched roof was discernible against the sky. After shipping the oars, he stood, gripped the slatted ladder fixed to the jetty’s side, signaled her to silence again, then waved her up. She rose; he helped her to her feet, then held the boat steady as she climbed.

Stepping onto the jetty, she turned, and took her bag and his satchel as he passed them up. Instantly felt the weight in the satchel. He was wearing his scabbarded saber, and was carrying pistols and shot; nothing else could be that heavy.

He swiftly climbed the ladder, then reclaimed the satchel. After scanning the area, he passed the satchel’s strap over his head and one shoulder, then crouched to tie up the clinker.

Loretta looked up at the sky. The moon had finally risen, but was screened by scudding clouds. Only faint light seeped through.

Rafe rose, caught her in a quick, reassuring hug, then he released her, grasped her hand, and started walking quickly up the grassy bank, away from the stream.

Before them lay a small hamlet—a few houses behind hedges, a small village inn with a shop beside it. She read the script above the inn door. The Beaumont Arms.

Rafe strode on, past the inn and on down a lane. More cot
tages lined it, scattered here and there. Lights glowed behind the curtains in some of the windows.

Loretta tugged at Rafe’s hand. When he looked inquiringly her way, she pointed at the nearest cottage.

He looked, but shook his head. Leaned near to whisper, “It’s too close to the stream and the rowboat.” He looked ahead, along the lane, then turned back to add, still speaking low, “I know a place we can hide.”

As if she needed convincing, from a distance a curse reached them, borne on the shifting wind.

She nodded, tightened her grip on his hand, and beside him walked quickly on into the night.

Rafe led Loretta to Stones Green, an even smaller hamlet a mile further north from the jetty at Beaumont. Although they’d started off in a lane, he’d soon climbed a stile and set off across the fields, before joining another lane.

They crested a rise, and, descending, saw the first cottages ahead, but before they reached the first, he turned sharp left down a track so narrow it would be near impassable in even the smallest gig. Thorny hedges almost met over his head.

He hoped the shortcut he’d taken would buy them enough time.

He was hoping even harder, indeed, praying, that his Uncle Waldo hadn’t died while he’d been overseas. He walked swiftly to where a massive fir loomed dark and dense by the side of the track. Ducking under the thick branches that drooped nearly to the ground, he drew Loretta into the tiny porch of the cottage tucked into the lee of the tree.

Crouching, he slid his fingers behind the ivy that draped the cottage’s walls and into the crevice at the corner of the porch. Relief washed over him as he touched metal. Drawing out the key, he fitted it into the heavy lock, turned the key, and opened the door.

Loretta stared at him. He waved her in, then followed her over the threshold. She halted immediately. The room inside, the parlor, lay in absolute darkness. Setting a hand to her back, he urged her a foot further inside, then quietly closed the door and locked it.

Turning back to the room, to Loretta, a denser shadow ahead of him, he murmured, “Wait here. I’ll open the curtains over the opposite windows—that should let in some light.”

Not much, but enough for them, with their eyes already adjusted to the night, to see well enough to avoid the furniture.

He crossed the room without knocking over anything, pulled aside the curtains, then turned. In the increased illumination, he saw Loretta looking around her.

“A lamp?” She glanced at him.

He waved at the sideboard, but said, “Not yet.”

She froze. “Are they still following us?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t want to take any chances.” He pointed to the stairs leading up. “There’s a bedroom above—we can watch the lane from there.”

She nodded. Clutching her bag, she waited until he came to lead the way, then followed him up the stairs.

The bedroom was as he remembered it. “This is my uncle Waldo’s hideaway—he’s an avid birdwatcher, and this is where he stays when he comes to study the birdlife on the marshes.”

The stairwell had been lit by a small landing window, but the bedroom lay in darkness. Loretta waited in the doorway until Rafe drew aside the curtains covering the windows facing toward the lane. Enough light seeped in for her to see the big bed against one wall. She set down her bag on the bed’s end and went to join Rafe as he stood looking out of the window.

Might they see us?
The words were on her tongue, but as she neared the window, she realized there was little
danger of that. The heavy branches of the fir draped across the window; although they could peer past the needlelike leaves, she doubted anyone glancing that way would see them.

As if he’d read her mind, Rafe murmured, “You can’t see the cottage from the main lane—the tree covers it.”

His breath warmed her ear. She reached for his hand, gripped it, and stared back at the rise where the lane into the hamlet was clearly visible.

Five minutes passed uneventfully, then Rafe leaned close to murmur, “Why don’t you lie down on the bed and rest?” When she glanced at him, he continued, “I’ll keep watch for a while, then join you.”

She hesitated, but now they’d stopped moving, tiredness dragged at her. She nodded. “All right, but tell me if you see anything.”

Rafe squeezed her hand, then released it. He kept his gaze trained on the exposed stretch of lane. He heard the bed creak, then heard her sigh.

Swiftly, he glanced at her, saw her lying on her side, her hand beneath her cheek, her eyes closed, her cloak gathered around her, then looked back at the lane.

It was too dark to read the face of his fob watch. By his best guess, close to half an hour had passed when two men came over the rise, almost running down the lane. Seeing the hamlet before them, they slowed, taking stock, then they moved quickly on, jogging past the opening of the track and on toward the visible houses.

At no point did either man glance toward Waldo’s hideaway.

The house was hard enough to find in daylight. Rafe told himself that, yet he still waited for what he estimated was another half hour before he accepted that they were temporarily safe. Leaving the window, he shrugged off his satchel and laid it aside, then eased himself down onto the bed beside Loretta.

Mentally blessing Waldo, he stretched out, closed his eyes.

Heard Loretta’s soft breathing, inwardly smiled.

He fell asleep a heartbeat later.

A manor house outside Needham Market

Alex woke to the sound of a small brass bell.

It was still dark—late night at a guess, not even early morning. Someone had lit a small lamp; the glow diffused through the room.

Sitting up, Alex looked toward the source of the light. M’wallah stood at the foot of the bed, his dark face impassive.

Even before Alex’s brows rose, Saleem stepped out from behind M’wallah. “Carstairs has landed.”

Alex waited, then, voice hardening, prompted, “And …?”

“As you directed, the boat he was in was pursued and pushed off course, but before our vessel could come up with it and board, Carstairs was put over the side in a rowboat. He had a woman with him, as our men in Bonn reported, but there was no sign of his man, the Pathan, or the other woman.” Saleem fixed his dark gaze on the bedpost beside Alex’s head. “Our men gave chase—six men in two rowboats, two assassins among them. They followed Carstairs into what proved to be a marsh. Our men could not at first find the way. By the time they did, Carstairs had got well ahead. The two assassins went on in one boat, hoping to come up with him, and sent the others back to report. The rider they sent just rode in with this news.”

Alex sat perfectly still for an instant, then snarled, tossed back the covers, and reached for a robe. “Where, exactly, did he land? Show me!”

Within minutes a map was spread on the manor’s dining table. Alex leaned over it.

Saleem consulted with the drooping rider in his own
tongue, then pointed. “Here. This is where he came ashore. Where he went after, we do not yet know.”

Alex studied the detailed map, looked from the marshes north. “You say the ship he was in ran south, so it was making for Harwich or Felixstowe.”

Again Saleem spoke to the rider, then reported, “The captain of the vessel we had hired, the one that gave chase, said the ship Carstairs was on was one of the Felixstowe fishing fleet.”

Alex’s brows rose. “Felixstowe … so most likely we are correct in thinking he’s coming this way …”

A long moment passed. Neither M’wallah nor Saleem was foolish enough to interrupt the Black Cobra’s cogitations.

Then Alex straightened. “I want all our men in the field—every last one except for my guard and you two. We will wait here, at the center of our web. I want our men, all of them—call back all those who are anywhere else—and put every last man in a cordon, a net tight enough not to allow anyone through unobserved. From here.” One long finger jabbed at a village just north of Stowmarket. “To here.” The finger traced a path southwest to Sudbury. “We know the puppetmaster lies somewhere north and west of that line, so to reach him Carstairs will have to cross it.”

Alex looked at Saleem. “I want our men in a line close enough to maintain visual contact, one with the other. When Carstairs crosses our line, I want him taken, and I want to be informed. Immediately.”

Saleem’s dark eyes gleamed. He bowed his head. “It will be as you say, illustrious one.”

“Go.” As Saleem left, Alex glanced at M’wallah. “We are in a good position here—close enough to our line to be quickly and easily reached. There is no need for us to move.”

M’wallah bowed low. “And your guard? What should I tell them?”

Alex smiled. “To sharpen their swords.” Looking back at the map, expectation and anticipation welled. “This is
the final game we will play with the puppetmaster—it has commenced, and I have no intention of losing. The instant Carstairs reaches our line—the instant he touches our web—he will be trapped, and like a spider alerted, we will ride out, the elite with you, Saleem, and me, at their head. We will triumph.”

Studying the map, Alex murmured, “The puppetmaster will not imagine we can put so many men into the field. He doesn’t know that we’ve guessed the position of his lair, and so can predict the direction this last vital courier must take. So in acting as I’ve ordered, we’ll be doing the unexpected.” Alex smiled. “And as I have so often proved, the unexpected usually wins.”

R
afe woke to see the sky beyond the window, beyond the drooping branches of the fir, lightening to a pearlescent midgray. As he watched, clouds scudded past, darker, thicker, distinctly threatening, but at least it wasn’t raining.

Turning his head, he looked at Loretta, still asleep beside him. He didn’t think she’d moved all night. He didn’t think he had either.

Pushing aside his coat, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his fob watch. Nearly half past six. He rewound the watch, tucked it back.

His shifting had jiggled Loretta. She stirred; her lids rose. She looked into his eyes, then her expression eased. Yawning, she rolled onto her back. “I take it we lost them?”

“For now. Two assassins followed us, but they went straight on down the lane. They had no idea we’d stopped here.” Staring at the ceiling, he weighed his thoughts, then said, “I’ve a nasty suspicion I’m the last one in—the last courier to reach England. Were I Wolverstone, that’s what I would have done—used the others to clear the way, leaving me with the vital document to come in last, and hopefully therefore encounter least resistance.”

“Least
resistance?” Loretta turned her head to stare at him. “But we’ve seen so many cultists already.”

“Exactly, and it’s not just men the Black Cobra’s throwing our way, but money, too. Setting up two naval blockades, one on either side of the Channel, would have cost a significant sum. That suggests the Black Cobra is desperate. That for the fiend and his cult, stopping me from reaching Wolverstone, or passing on the document in any way, is imperative.” He met her eyes. “They’re going to do anything and everything to stop me.”