The Untamed Bride (15 page)

The man would come for him, he knew. He had to go before he found him.

His slippered feet made no sound on the cobbles. As the distance from the hotel grew, he risked going a little faster. Memory of the man drove him on. He might have been just a cabin boy, but he’d been an honest boy, a good boy. He didn’t want to become a thief, but if the man caught him again….

He started running.

Reaching the end of the mews, he swung around the corner—and ran into a wall of muscle and bone.

He staggered back. Before he could regain his balance, a hand closed on his collar. He sucked in a breath, ready to protest his innocence, when from a long way above him a dark voice growled, “And just where do you think you’re going?”

Fear shot through him. He squeaked, tried to squirm loose, but the grip on his collar tightened. The man shook him like a rat.

Shook him until he was gasping, choking.

Then the man’s other hand caught his chin, forced his face up until he found himself staring into a dark-featured scowl. It wasn’t the frown that terrified Sangay—it was the man’s pale eyes.

“Let me remind you, boy, what will happen if you don’t do as I say.” The words were low, a rumble. “I’ll have your mother strung up and slow-roasted over a fire. She’ll scream and beg for mercy—mercy no one will grant her. Before she dies—and I assure you that won’t be soon—she’ll curse your name, curse the day she brought such an ungrateful whelp into this world.” The deep rumble paused.

The cold fist of fear tightened, choking Sangay.

“On the other hand,” the dark voice continued, “if you do as I say, your mother will never know anything about
any fire, any excruciating pain, any horrible, terrible, godforsaken death.”

On the last word, the man shook him again. “So, whelp—your choice.” The man all but snarled, “Which will it be? Will you get back into that hotel and fetch the wooden scroll-holder I sent you for, or do I kill you now and send a message back to India on the first tide?”

“I’ll do it! I’ll do it, sahib!” Sangay could barely get the words out through his chattering teeth. When the man abruptly let him go, he staggered, then stood, and hung his head. “I will do as you say.”

No choice. He could barely breathe for sheer terror.

“So, have you looked? Done anything at all since Southampton?”

“Oh, yes, sahib, yes. I have been searching through all the general baggage, sahib, but there’s no scroll-holder there. It must be kept with the baggage the colonel-sahib keeps in his room, or perhaps with the bags his man Cobby keeps with him. Or the colonel-sahib might be carrying it with him, only I don’t think he is because I have looked closely and I cannot see how such a thing would fit beneath his coat.”

“I doubt he’ll carry it with him.”

“Perhaps”—Sangay brightened—“it is in the memsahib’s bags?”

The man eyed him, then nodded. “Perhaps. You search everywhere until you find it, understand? But try to do it without being caught. We’ve a few days yet. Better you look until you find it, then bring it to me, rather than you get caught before you get your hands on it—understand?”

Sangay bobbed his head repeatedly. “Yes, sahib. I’m to stay hidden until I find it—no one must know I am looking for this thing.”

“That’s right. You do that, and no one will touch your mother—remember that. Now, what do you know about the other two gentlemen who go out when the colonel does? They seem to be guarding him.”

“Yes, sahib-sir—they are friends of his.” Sangay screwed up his face. “I have not heard their names well enough to say them, but they are at the hotel, too, in other rooms on the same floor.”

“Are they, indeed?” The man fell silent.

Sangay shivered, unobtrusively shifting from one foot to the other. Carefully he tucked his hands under his arms and hugged himself, bowing his thin shoulders away from the wind.

“Keep an eye on those two, but you’d best keep out of their way. But how have you been hiding yourself?”

Sangay shrugged. “The colonel-sahib’s people think I’m one of the memsahib’s servants, and her people think I’m a one of the colonel-sahib’s servants.”

The man looked at him through narrowing eyes. “Very clever. You’re quick, I’ll give you that. Just don’t be forgetting your maataa won’t be able to escape the Black Cobra.”

Sangay shivered. “No, sahib. I won’t be forgetting that.”

“Good. Now get back in there and find the scroll-holder. Once you do, all you need do is come out and slip away—I’ll be watching. I’ll come and meet you.”

“Yes, sahib. I will be getting back now.” Receiving a nod of assent, Sangay turned and, head down against the biting wind, slipped back around the corner, then walked slowly, despondently, back along the alley.

He hadn’t thought it possible, but he felt even more miserable, even more filled with black despair. All he could do was do as the man told him, and pray to the gods that something would happen—to the man, perhaps?—to save him from the nightmare his life had become. And to save his maataa, too.

December 13
Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street

D
el was still in the bath when Cobby returned.

“Found just the thing.” Cobby shut the door.

“A recital at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. It’s only a short hackney ride away.”

Del considered, nodded. “Perfect.” He closed his eyes, laid his head back again. “Get tickets.”

“Don’t have to. It’s free, apparently. You can just walk in.”

December 13
St. Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar Square

He should, Del realized, have registered what Cobby’s words meant. As he escorted an eager Deliah through the crowd thronging the old church’s wide porch, he berated himself for not having seen the danger.

Yes, they could simply walk in—and so could anyone else.

He glanced at Deliah, wondered—again—if he should suggest they leave. Once again, he held his tongue. The light
in her face, in her jade eyes, stated louder than words that she was looking forward to the performance.

Reaching the main doors, she led the way in, going straight through the foyer and into the nave. She started down it, looking right and left, evaluating the available seats. Taller than she, Del could see over the crowd clogging the aisle. Taking her elbow, he steered her to two seats in a pew two-thirds of the way down the nave.

Excusing herself to the well-dressed lady in the corner of the pew, Deliah slid past and on, then, leaving space for Del, sat and arranged her skirts.

After taking note of the unquestionably innocent couples filling the pew behind theirs, Del sat, then surveyed those in the pew ahead.

All safe enough.

Despite the season, the majority of the crowd were tonnish, the rest mainly gentry or well-to-do merchants. But he’d spotted a few less savory sorts hanging about the fringes of the crowd, and the rear pews were jammed with shabby coats and unkempt figures.

Deliah had picked up a printed program in the foyer. Consulting it, she commented excitedly and knowledgably about the various airs and sonatas to be performed by the small chamber orchestra. Clearly she enjoyed music and had been starved of this type of entertainment over the years she’d been away.

So had he, but this particular entertainment he could have done without. Far from feeling relaxed, every sense he possessed was on high alert. His eyes incessantly scanned, his ears constantly sorted through the babel around them, listening for accents that weren’t English, or tones that boded ill.

If he’d been the Black Cobra, this would have been an opportunity too good to pass up. Whether the fiend had realized Tony and Gervase were their guards, he had no idea. Cobby had confirmed that the reputation of Grillon’s for absolute discretion with respect to their guests was well deserved; it was unlikely the staff had spoken of the con
nection between his party and the two gentlemen. But if the Cobra did know, then this excursion—just Del and Deliah alone at night, without even Cobby, Mustaf, or her bodyguard Kumulay—was tailor-made for the Cobra’s purpose. He didn’t even need to seize both of them; either would do.

The orchestra started to file in. There was a rush to fill the last seats as the musicians settled on the chairs arranged before the steps to the altar.

An expectant hush fell, then the conductor appeared, walked to his lectern, bowed to the audience, then turned to his players and raised his baton.

A lone violin began to sing, then the other instruments joined in. Even in his state of battle-ready alert, Del felt the music swell and take hold. He glanced at Deliah.

And didn’t look away. She was caught in the music, swept away on the tide. Her eyes glowed with pleasure; her luscious lips had curved, parted.

She was oblivious, enchanted by the music. He was enthralled, ensorcelled by her.

As the music continued, the pieces flowing one to the other with only the barest pause to allow the musicians to readjust their sheets, he tried to remain attuned to their surroundings, watchful, alert to any potential danger, yet she—her face, her radiant expression, those lips that had from the first enticed—held a far stronger fascination.

A fascination that was rapidly approaching obsession.

The battle within wasn’t one he was destined to win. In the end, he surrendered, let his eyes feast, and left whatever might come later for later.

The entire concert passed without incident. If Deliah was at all aware of his tension she gave no sign.

It was raining when, one couple amid a sea of others, they reached the edge of the porch. The hackneys were doing a roaring trade. Taking Deliah’s hand, Del stepped onto the wet steps just as a hackney pulled into the curb below. He immediately hailed it. The driver saluted with his whip.

“Come on.” Del hurried Deliah down the steps, opened the hackney’s door and helped her in, then followed and sat beside her. Raising his arm, he pushed up the hatch. “Grillon’s, Albemarle Street.”

“Aye, sir. Quite a lot of traffic, so don’t worry if we’re a bit slow.”

Letting the hatch fall, Del sat back. Nothing had occurred. Perhaps the Black Cobra wasn’t watching as closely as he’d feared.

“That was lucky.” Deliah looked out of the window. “It looks like it’s been pouring, although it’s easing up now.”

She then launched into an enthusiastic analysis of the performance, waxing lyrical over the first violin’s solo and the artistry displayed by the principal cellist. Del inwardly smiled, closed his eyes, and let her words roll over him. She was safe and happy, ergo so was he. The evening had gone without a hitch, providing distraction for them both, filling the hours safely.

They would return to the suite, perhaps share a drink—tea for her—then they would retire, in amity with the world, to their respective beds.

All safe.

Deliah’s fingers closed about his wrist. He realized she’d stopped speaking, had been silent for a few minutes. He opened his eyes.

She was staring out into the night, then, her fingers tightening warningly, she leaned close, murmured, “This is not the way to Albemarle Street.”

He looked out of the hackney window. It took a moment to see enough through the drizzle to get his bearings, then he softly swore. They were on the Strand heading deeper into the City, the opposite of the direction in which they should have gone. No matter the traffic—and the carriage was stopping and starting, barely crawling—there was no sense at all in the jarvey taking this route.

Del took Deliah’s hand in a firm grip. Through the shadows he whispered, “Be ready to jump out behind me.”

She squeezed his fingers in reply, shifted to the edge of the seat.

He waited until the next snarl of traffic forced the hackney to a rocking halt. Silently opening the door, he slipped out onto the pavement, turned and smoothly lifted her down, then quietly shut the door just as the carriage jerked forward again. His concentration fixed ahead, the jarvey hadn’t noticed his lighter load.

Taking Deliah’s hand, Del strode quickly back the way they had come. Courtesy of the rain, there were few people on the streets, no cover as they hurried back along the Strand. If the jarvey looked around….

Passing the third hackney lined up behind theirs, Del glanced at the carriage—and saw two pale faces staring out at them.

Surprised. Shocked.

“Damn!” He clutched Deliah’s hand tighter. “
Run!
”

He dragged her on with him, hauled her alongside, glanced back as a “Hoi!” rang out.

Two—no,
three
—burly men jumped out of the hackney and started pounding along the pavement after them.

Deliah had taken a quick glance, too. Catching up her skirts, she started to run in earnest. “Come on.”

The slick, wet pavements made running dangerous, but they had no choice. With her gown, two petticoats and the skirts of her heavy pelisse swinging about her legs, her reticule banging against one knee, she raced as best she could along the thankfully level flagstone pavement of the Strand.

Del’s hold on her hand helped steady her, yet even without looking she knew their pursuers were closing the distance.

“Now I remember why I always preferred breeches in situations such as this.”

“Sadly, there’s no time to change.”

“No breeches, either.”

“That, too.”

A silly exchange, but it confirmed how desperate their
straits truly were. From the sublime to the horrendous had taken mere minutes; her mind had yet to catch up. But it was long after ten o’clock on a wet winter’s night. Although there was plenty of carriage traffic still about, there was almost no one on foot. No support, no succor, and nowhere to make a stand.

Del suddenly changed direction, urging her up a side street heading away from the river. She agreed with the sentiment—the river wasn’t a wise destination—but for a moment she worried the lane they’d taken would prove to be a dead end.

But no. The murk ahead was cut by a beam of light, then they heard the rattle as a carriage rumbled along the street at the upper end of the lane.

“Thank God.” Deliah looked down and put her mind to keeping up, and not slipping on the wet paving stones as Del raced them up the lane.

Neither she nor he could resist a glance back.

The three men were too close, and gaining rapidly. They were all hulking brutes. One was carrying a club.

They were more than two-thirds up the lane, but with the men closing ever more rapidly, ever more determinedly, they weren’t going to reach the street beyond.

A pace ahead of her, Del abruptly stopped, hauled her up to him, then pushed her on. “Go! As fast as you can, then to the left. I’ll catch up.”

Releasing Deliah, Del swung to face the men.

They grinned, and fanned out as they came on.

Behind him, he heard Deliah’s retreating footsteps. At least she was away; if either of them were going to fall into the clutches of the Black Cobra, he’d much rather it was he.

The bruiser in the middle was the one with the club. He slowed, smiled evilly, then stepped in and swung the club at Del’s head.

Wondering who had taught the man to fight, Del stepped inside the swing, grabbed the man’s arm with one hand, his throat with the other, and used the man’s own momentum to
heave him into the man on his right.

They both went down heavily in a tangle of limbs, heads cracking against the stone gutter.

Del swiveled to face the third man—and found himself instinctively leaping back from a knife.

Cursing his own stupidity in coming out unarmed, he shifted, backing, assessing his opponent and the long-handled blade he held. A distraction was what he needed.

He’d reached that conclusion when he saw a shadow shift behind the man.

His blood turned to ice as he saw Deliah creeping up behind the man—he’d told the damn woman to run!

Quickly he looked back at the man—leapt back from another swipe.

Deliah rose behind the lout and clouted him over the head with her reticule.

Caught totally by surprise, the man yelped and instinctively ducked.

Del stepped in, seized the hand with the knife, then smashed his boot into the side of the man’s knee.

There was a vicious crack and the man went down, howling and clutching his leg.

Del glanced at the other two. They were groggily trying to get to their feet. They didn’t appear to be able to focus yet.

He didn’t dare take them on with Deliah there.

Turning, he grabbed her hand and tore up the lane. She struggled to keep up, but did, without complaint.

In the mood he was in, that was just as well.

They weren’t out of the woods yet.

They reached the end of the lane and stepped into a wider street. Looking left, he saw the spires of St. Martin-in-the-Fields rising through the low-hanging fog, and thanked heaven for a military man’s sense of direction.

He glanced back down the lane, then pulled Deliah on toward the church.

Assessing the possibilities.

The two bruisers he’d left mobile were up and heading
their way, in a very much grimmer mood. And he and Deliah were still too far away from the church precincts to trust in reaching them safely.

They needed a place to hide, and they needed it now—before the two chasing them reached the street and saw them. The place didn’t need to be perfect, just somewhere the two brutes wouldn’t think to look….

Ahead, a row of hackney carriages materialized through the murk. If they took one…they risked their pursuers catching up with them in the traffic crawling around Trafalgar Square and all the way to Grillon’s.

With renewed urgency, he hurried Deliah along, scanning the buildings they raced past. Praying they would reach the carriages in time.

Reaching the nearest hackney, he halted, tossed the jarvey a sovereign. “Don’t ask why—just drive, as fast as you can, down Piccadilly. Go!”

The jarvey blinked, but was already lifting his reins to set his coach rolling.

At least the voice of command worked on some.

One glance back showed their pursuers had yet to reach the street. Tightening his grip on Deliah’s hand, he swung her toward the buildings, hurried and harried her into a small alcove before a locked door. He pushed her into the shadows, then crowded in, too, just as the two men came out of the lane.

He looked at Deliah—just as she opened her mouth.

Felt her breasts press against his chest with the breath she’d drawn in.

Seizing her other hand, too, he ducked his head and shut her up.

By kissing her.

Hard.

He shifted into her, trapping her against the brick wall of the alcove. His greatcoat was dark, his trousers were, too, and so was his hair, which currently reached his collar.
With his head bent, with her trapped before him, completely shielded by his body, they should be all but invisible in the shadows. Not even her pale face could catch a stray gleam from the smoky street flares.

He hoped, he prayed….

He had to fight the distraction of her lips beneath his, ignore the temptation to taste her, try to blot out the sensation of her exceedingly feminine body pressed along the length of his, and concentrate, focus all his senses, on what was happening in the street behind his back.