The Untamed Bride (19 page)

As before, the would-be abductors had been told to bring any baggage they might acquire to a tavern, this time in a seedy alley in Tothill Fields.

Turning to Del, Deliah and Gervase, Tony shook his head. “No point going there—it’ll be the same story as last night.”

Gervase grunted an assent. He eyed the five figures slumped before them. “What should we do with them?”

While Del, Tony and Gervase evaluated the merits of turning the men over to the Watch, Deliah stood with her arms crossed and scowled at their prisoners.

They knew she was watching; none dared meet her eye. They shifted, but none showed any sign of getting to their feet and running.

As Del and the other two were in the throes of concluding they might as well let the five go—no real point in going to the Watch and having to spend hours explaining why men continued to attack them—sitting quietly and watching and waiting was wise.

And that, Deliah thought, illustrated what was different about these men. They weren’t like the lumbering louts of yesterday; these men were harder, smarter, quicker—distinctly more deadly.

They were quite a different breed.

“Very well.” Del turned to the men. “You can—”

“Wait.” Deliah shot a glance Del’s way. When he raised a brow but obediently waited, she refocused on the man in the center of the line. He was, she judged, the oldest, and appeared the most sharply observant. “Before you scurry back to your sewers, tell me—do you know others like you? Do you have contacts you can use to get out a warning?”

The man in the center returned her regard steadily. “Might have. Why?”

“Because you need to understand what’s going on here.” Deliah felt Del place a hand on her arm; she nodded slightly in acknowledgment, but continued, “The man who hired you—you noticed his tanned skin. He’s lately come from India. He’s the servant of a man from India—a fiend who’s been terrorizing the country there, among other things butchering and torturing Englishmen, English soldiers and civilians, and even women and children.”

She held the man’s gaze. “The reason the fiend—he’s known as the Black Cobra—sent his servant to hire you
was because the Colonel here”—with a wave she indicated Del—“and three others who’ve yet to land in England are carrying information that must get into the right hands in our government to bring the fiend down. Naturally, the Black Cobra doesn’t want that—he wants to be able to keep killing Englishmen in India. So you might tell all your friends that, if they agree to work for any man, even a gentleman, lately from India, then they’re most likely being used as cannon fodder for the Black Cobra, so he can keep killing Englishmen.”

The five men on the ground had grown restive as she’d spoken. When she finished, the man in the center exchanged glances with his mates, then looked up at her, nodded. “We’ll spread the word. Not many of us hold with working for furriners.”

“Good.”

“Do any of you know Gallagher?” Tony asked. “Enough to get word to him?”

All five looked wary, but after a moment, the leader allowed, “I could perhaps get word through.”

“Tell him Torrington sends his regards, and Dearne—Grantham—is part of this caper, too, just not in London. Pass on all the lady told you. Gallagher will understand.”

The men’s attitude had undergone a significant shift, from adversaries almost to allies. The leader nodded more definitely. “I’ll do that.”

He started to rise, then halted, looked at Del.

Del nodded. “Go. And if you’ve got any English blood in you, spread the word.”

With nods, the men clambered to their feet, paused, then bobbed awkward bows to Deliah before lumbering off south toward the nearby slums.

“Well,” Gervase said, “that wasn’t quite a total loss.” He looked at Deliah, and his gaze hardened. “Although, in future, it might help if you would consent to leave the fighting to us. An umbrella is hardly an effective weapon.”

Slowly Deliah raised her brows, then she extended the um
brella she still held in one hand, regarded it with approval. “This, I will have you know, is the very latest patented design. It has a steel shaft, a steel frame and mechanism, and, most importantly, it has a steel point.” Raising the umbrella, she displayed the steel spike at its tip. “In terms of an unexpected weapon, one a lady might carry, it’s ideal—and if you had questioned the man with the red spotted bandana just now, he would have told you that getting jabbed with a steel spike made him think twice about getting closer.”

“Yes,
but
,” Tony interceded, “the point is that you’re a lady, and we’re here, three gentlemen, and having you—”

“Getting in the way?”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Having you embroiled in the action,” Tony carefully continued, “is seriously distracting.”

“For you,” Deliah countered. “But for me, what would be totally unacceptable would be for me to meekly cower behind you like some helpless ninny, when in fact, as I just proved, I can perfectly effectively contribute.” Her eyes darkened. “I will remind you, gentlemen, that I’m a part of this enterprise whether I wish it or not. That being so, if you think I’m the sort of female to hide behind your coattails and leave all the fighting to you, you will need to think again.”

Nose elevating, she swung around—casting a sidelong glance at Del.

He bit his lip and kept his mouth firmly shut. The others would have done better to save their breaths.

Deliah humphed, then looked up at the sky, now a dark slate-gray. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Head high, she led the way, umbrella swinging defiantly.

Disgruntled, disapproving, but with no option for relief, with Gervase and Tony bringing up the rear, Del fell in alongside her.

December 14
Grillon’s Hotel

Deliah reached her bedroom in a less than chipper mood.

Stripping off her gloves, then struggling out of her pelisse, she muttered, “They could at least have recognized my contribution. Acknowledged the wisdom of
my
idea to tell the men about the Black Cobra, and hopefully put an end to the supply of local hirelings. But no. They had to harp about me not wilting like a proper gentlewoman.”

She was disgusted with them all. Although, to his credit, Del had kept silent.

Not that he’d disagreed. She knew perfectly well he’d felt the same as the other two.

She humphed. Draping the pelisse over a chair, she carried her gloves to the bureau. Pulling open the top drawer, she went to drop the gloves in. Paused.

Her handkerchiefs were jumbled. She frowned, then opened the next drawer down. Her shawls were rumpled.

A quick survey of the dressing table and the armoire convinced her.

She looked up as the door opened.

Bess came in, packages in her hands. “There you are.”

“As you see. Has anyone unexpected called?”

“No. Why?”

Deliah cast another glance around. “I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think someone has searched through my things.”

“What?” Bess bristled. “The only other of our party who’s been up to the suite since you left is Sangay, the colonel’s boy. He came looking for the colonel’s gloves. But I was out for most of the afternoon, shopping for those things you wanted.” She raised the packages.

Deliah grimaced. “I don’t think anything’s missing.” She looked at the dressing table. “My silver-backed brushes are still there, and all my jewelry, so it couldn’t have been a thief.”

She sighed. “Never mind.” She focused on the packages. “Let’s see what you found.”

December 14
Grillon’s Hotel

F
eeling sartorially better equipped to face the days to come, Deliah joined the three men for dinner in the suite’s sitting room. Tony and Gervase had just joined Del; they all exchanged nods, then took their seats so Cobby and Janay could serve the first course, a delicate chicken broth with small dumplings.

They were silent while they supped. Tension rippled between them—a certain frostiness on Deliah’s part, countered by Del’s studiously arrogant refusal to notice. Tony and Gervase, meanwhile, were exercised over the mission, as was Del; glancing at their faces, Deliah read their mounting frustration.

When they set down their spoons, Gervase spoke. “We haven’t seen anyone who isn’t English.”

Tony humphed. “We haven’t even sighted the man hiring.”

“Larkins, from all descriptions,” Del said.

“Ferrar’s man?” When Del nodded, Tony went on, “I wonder if we’d gain anything by watching Ferrar.”

“We’d have to find him first,” Gervase pointed out.

“I had Cobby ask if he’s been seen at White’s.” Del grimaced. “They said no, and the address they had for him was from years ago—a lodging house in Jermyn Street. He isn’t there, and the landlord hasn’t heard from him.”

Gervase shrugged. “If he’s using Larkins, then watching Ferrar won’t help us. And linking Larkins to the hirelings won’t materially advance our cause.” He nodded at Deliah. “Given you can identify Larkins as the man who shot at Del in Southampton, we can nobble Larkins any time we choose, but unless we can link Larkins and his lethal activities to Ferrar’s letter, we have nothing to implicate Ferrar.”

“Unless we can prove Larkins is acting under Ferrar’s direct orders, then Ferrar will simply deny any knowledge of Larkins’s doings, no matter what Larkins says,” Tony stated.

“Indeed. And it’s Ferrar we want.” Leaning back in his chair, Del looked at Gervase, then Tony. “I have to question whether there’s any point in us remaining in town.”

Cobby and Janay arrived with the next course. They waited while the pair efficiently cleared the table, served them from platters of meats and a tureen of vegetables, then, with everything in order, retreated.

Deliah decided to state the obvious. “London has a large supply of ruffians Larkins can hire to do his master’s bidding. Even if those we caught today warn their fellows, it’s likely Larkins will be able to find enough men to keep us busy here for at least a few more days.”

Del nodded. “And by dallying here, accomplishing nothing beyond running down the stocks of local louts, we give Ferrar time to build up his forces by bringing in more cultists—fighters he’ll deploy only when he needs to.”

“When we, or more likely our other three couriers, force him to act outside the major towns,” Tony said. “Even in the major towns, if the target’s moving he won’t have time to recruit. He’ll need to use his cultists then—they’re his only mobile force.”

After a moment, Gervase said, “We’re getting nowhere here. I vote we send word to Wolverstone, and tomorrow head into Cambridgeshire.”

“I second that.” Tony straightened. “We move—we force his hand. He must know by now that you’re not intending to deliver the letter to anyone in town, but he can’t risk you handing it on, so once you’re on the road he’ll have to make a bid for it, one he won’t be able to plan, and for that he’ll need his own troops.”

Del nodded. “And once we’re on the move, his attention will focus on the scroll-holder itself. That’s his real goal, the thing he needs to seize.”

“True,” Gervase said, “but if the opportunity presents, he’ll still take either you or Deliah as hostage for the letter.” Across the table, Gervase met Deliah’s eyes. “You’ll need to remain on guard.”

She nodded, but added nothing else, instead listening as the three men discussed the possibilities, then made plans to leave the next morning, with Del and Deliah and their combined households making a great and noisy show to ensure they were noted and followed.

“The scroll-holder?” Gervase cocked a brow at Del.

“Is safe.”

When Del said nothing more, Tony grinned. “Our journey to Cambridgeshire is sounding more promising by the minute.”

Deliah belatedly put two and two together. “I think my room was searched this afternoon.” She looked at Del. “Nothing was taken, but perhaps they were looking for the scroll-holder.”

“They
who?
” Del’s dark eyes pinned her.

The tension, which had waned, ratcheted up again.

“I don’t know who. I can’t even be sure anyone searched. The things in my drawers were moved, and the bottles on my dressing table, and I’m sure my gowns hanging in the armoire weren’t in such disarray. I didn’t leave them like that, and Bess—my maid—never would.”

“Bess wasn’t here while we were out?” Del’s expression had turned grim.

“I sent her on some errands.” Deliah raised her brows at him. “There was no reason for her to stay in and watch my room—the scroll-holder isn’t there.”

She, Tony and Gervase looked at Del.

He continued to stare at Deliah, inwardly railing, but helpless. Eventually he answered their unvoiced query. “My room hasn’t been searched.” Not yet. Cobby would have noticed and told him if it had been.

“Well, then.” Tony raised his glass. “To a more productive tomorrow.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

The men’s conversation turned to military affairs, then to sporting events.

Irritated by the renewed aggravation she sensed coming her way from Del, Deliah seized the moment when Cobby returned with the decanters to excuse herself and retire, denying any wish for tea and wishing them a good night. They all stood as she rose.

“I’ll see you in the morning, gentlemen.” With a regal nod, she left them.

Del watched the bedroom door close behind her, and felt some of the tension gripping him ease. Not, however, all of it. By no means all.

Resuming his seat, he let himself slide into a discussion of the latest boxing feats. At least outwardly. Inwardly…

She’d become an itch under his skin, even more so after last night. And she—it, whatever this was—wasn’t any simple sexual itch, one that dissipated after one scratch. Or two.

He doubted three, or even three hundred, instances of having her curvaceous body beneath his would cure his particular affliction.

She made him feel far more than he ever had. No other woman had ever been so provoking. It wasn’t simply her refusal to obey his orders, her steadfast antipathy to hiding behind him—her willful insistence on going into danger
whenever and wherever she deemed it necessary—although all of that contributed to the emotions roiling through him.

In most situations he could see her point, even sympathize with it,
but
…

It was that
but
he wasn’t used to, that he had no experience in dealing with, coping with, much less controlling.

He didn’t like what she made him feel, didn’t approve of it, resented it, railed at it—all of which did no good. He was obsessed with her—and some part of him knew where that obsession was heading. What it was leading him to.

But while his mission was in train, he couldn’t think of that. Couldn’t think of what came later, after.

Eventually, the conversation died. The other two yawned, then stretched. Together they all rose and left the suite, strolling down the corridor. He halted outside his room. With relaxed good nights, Tony and Gervase went on to their rooms further around the gallery.

Del watched them go, then reached for the doorknob. His hand closed about it, but then he stopped. For what seemed an unending moment, he stared at his hand grasping the knob.

He wasn’t thinking—wasn’t even debating. He knew he should turn the knob, go inside and fall into his bed.

He couldn’t remember why.

Muttering a curse, he released the knob, turned and stalked back to the suite.

The door was still unlocked. He locked it behind him; Deliah’s maid would have come and gone via the door between bedroom and corridor.

Deliah should, by now, be abed.

He didn’t hesitate but knocked on her bedroom door.

He leaned against the jamb, waited.

Eventually, the door opened.

She stood in the doorway, no sign of surprise on her haughty face. Her hair was down, rumpled dark red tresses caressing the shoulders of the ivory silk wrap she’d flung over a prim white nightgown.

Also of soft, sensuous silk.

Behind her, the bed was disarranged, the pillow dented. She had, indeed, been abed.

Beyond his control, his gaze slid down, over the full mounds of her breasts, nipples peaking, down over the flat of her stomach and the swells of her hips, all the way down her long, long legs, outlined lovingly by the clinging gown. He was immediately, painfully hard. Aching to possess what he knew the silk concealed.

It took a moment to lift his gaze back to her eyes.

She coolly searched his face, then, imperiously, raised her brows. “What do you want?”

Her tone was even, direct, neither encouraging nor discouraging.

He gave her the truth. “You.”

For another unending moment, silence reigned.

Then he straightened from the doorjamb, stepped forward.

And she stepped back, allowing him in.

Deliah closed the door behind him.

This was madness, but what was she to do? Tell him no?

She didn’t think she could. Didn’t think her vocal cords would cooperate in uttering such a very big lie, not when her heart was turning cartwheels of anticipatory delight and her mouth was salivating in expectation.

Turning, she found him waiting. One arm sliding around her waist, he drew her to him.

She looked up, met his eyes as their bodies touched. Awareness streaked through her, but she hid it, suppressed it. Her hands rose, came to rest on his shoulders. Beneath her palms, the tempting warmth, the masculine hardness seduced as she watched his eyes search hers, then drift over her face.

Then lower to her lips.

Parting them, she drew in a shallow breath. There wasn’t anything she felt she should say. Nothing she expected him to say, to explain. He was a man of the world, and she…she could pretend to be his counterpart.

Would pretend, as his eyes touched hers again and, after a heartbeat’s hesitation, he lowered his head, to be taking this all in her stride.

Determinedly pretend, as instinctively she lifted her chin, met his lips as they stooped to hers, that her nerves weren’t skittering, that her senses weren’t poised to swoon, that her heart wasn’t tripping in double time.

He kissed her, and she kissed him. Familiar, yet not. Last night had been so urgent, so heated and driven; tonight, she sensed in him a greater attention, an intention to remain focused…on her.

On what he wanted of her.

Quite what that was she didn’t know. A thrill of expectation flashed, sharp and bright, through her.

The kiss grew hungrier, more demanding. She met him, matched his claims, his conquest, with her own needs, her own wants.

All entirely instinctive, but she had no other guide. She wasn’t innocent, not in the biblical sense, yet she’d never been this way before, had never needed as she now did before.

Had never wanted a man as she wanted him.

That simple; that complicated. Her want was a pattern of needs and desires, and as he wasn’t in any hurry tonight, and neither was she, he seemed content to let her explore—those needs, those wants, and him.

He let her undress him. His lips curved when she wrestled his shirt from him and then, the garment sliding from her fingertips, stared in wonder at the muscled expanse of his chest. Eyes wide, she dropped the shirt and spread her hands, palms to his hot skin.

And learned.

She explored like a wanton, freed of restraint, and he let her.

Encouraged her.

Until he stood naked in the moonlight, each heavy bone, the taut line of every muscle, gilded in silver, and she
couldn’t breathe, yet still she took his member, erect and so flagrantly male, between her hands, stroked, closed her fingers, and lightly squeezed.

He stilled. She sensed the tension in him grow, tighten—to steel, fine and hard and unwavering. Her fingers, her hands, slowed.

His chest swelled as he drew in a breath. Then his hands rose to her shoulders, cupped, tightened—then eased. He drew off the silk wrapper she’d donned over her nightgown.

And slowly, deliberately, turned the tables on her.

He took his time, his lips returning to hers now and again, to sup, to send her senses spinning again. To woo her wits into compliance with his agenda—his needs, his wants, his desires.

His wish to learn of her. To explore her even more intimately, even more thoroughly, than she had him.

His hands traced, outlined, possessed. His touch imperfectly shielded by the fine silk of her nightgown, he cupped, stroked, tantalized.

Eventually—at last!—he divested her of the gown. Stripped it away with maddening ease, and equally maddening slowness.

A slowness that stretched her nerves taut, then set them quivering. That left her lungs seized, her breath a mere sigh, her wits scattered beyond recall.

Her senses were all his. His to command.

Expectation, physical anticipation, had never been so brittlely sharp, so exquisitely honed.

So attuned to his intention, his wish, his desire.

To know her. To have her. Ultimately to possess her.

With hands and fingers, with lips and tongue, he stroked, sampled, caressed. Until her breath shuddered and hitched, until her skin burned, until need was a molten ache low in her belly.

Until reckless abandon pounded in her blood.

When he sank to his knees before her, she had no idea what he planned to do. And no time to wonder, to guess
and mute the shock, before he set his lips, his hot mouth, to her curls, then, ignoring her breathless gasp, he parted her thighs, and set his wicked tongue to her softness.

He licked, laved, probed, and her senses reeled. Fingers tangled in his thick hair, she fought to remain upright while her legs threatened to give way. He sensed it, caught one of her knees, bent and lifted it to drape her leg over his broad shoulder, balancing her there, his large hands cupping her bottom, the position keeping her thighs wide—opening her to an even more intimate campaign.