The Untamed Bride (8 page)

She didn’t turn to look at him. The interior of the carriage was a sea of shifting shadows; she couldn’t see well enough to read anything from his face—and she’d already realized that only showed what he wanted it to.

Silence stretched, but she waited.

Eventually, he murmured, “The attack was linked to my
mission. Can you describe the man with the pistol? It would help.”

The vision she’d seen through the window was etched in her mind. “He was somewhat above average height, wearing a dark coat—nothing all that fashionable, but decent quality. He had on a dark hat, but I could see his hair was close-cropped. Beyond that…I really didn’t have time to note every detail.” She let a moment tick past, then asked, “Do you know who he was?”

“He sounds like one of the men linked with my mission.”

“Your ‘mission,’ whatever it might be, doesn’t explain why you refused to alert the authorities to the action of a felon—any more than it explains why we’re racing away in the dead of night, as if we’d taken fright.” She didn’t know much about Colonel Derek Delborough, but he didn’t seem the sort to cut and run.

He answered in a bored, superior tone. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Humph.” She frowned, disinclined to let him stop talking. His voice was deep, assured, his accents—those of a man accustomed to command—strangely soothing, and after the excitement of the shooting, she was still on edge. Her nerves were still jangling. She grimaced. “Even if you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, you might at least—”

Del transferred his gaze to the unrelieved darkness outside. He’d glanced at her, seen her grimace, seen her lips pout…and felt a nearly overwhelming urge to shut her up.

By sealing those pouting lips with his.

And finding out how soft they were, and what she tasted like.

Tart, or sweet? Or both?

Quite aside from the audience lined up on the opposite seat, he felt reasonably certain any such action would result in him receiving at least one boxed ear. Probably two. Yet having her sitting beside him, her hip less than an inch from his, her shoulder lightly brushing his arm with every rocking motion of the carriage, the warmth of her bathing his
side, was a temptation to which his body was shamelessly responding.

The search for the Black Cobra had consumed him for months; he hadn’t spared the time to dally with any woman—and it had been far longer since he’d been with an Englishwoman, and never with a termagant of Miss Duncannon’s ilk.

None of which explained why he was suddenly so attracted to a harridan with lips for which the most experienced courtesans would trade their souls.

He blotted out her voice, her insistent, persistent prodding, focused instead on the heavy rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Leaving Southampton with all speed had been what he’d had to do, no matter how much it had gone against his grain. If he’d been carrying the original letter, then the necessity of keeping it out of Ferrar’s clutches would have trumped any inclination to give chase.

If he’d stood and fought—tried to hunt down Larkins, even dallied to set the Watch on Ferrar’s trail—Ferrar would have guessed that he wasn’t all that concerned with the contents of the scroll-holder he carried. And then Ferrar would have shifted his attention, and that of his cultists, from Del to one of the others.

Were the others ahead of him, or were they yet to land in England?

With luck Torrington and Crowhurst would know. He’d left a short note for them with Bowden.

Given the hour, and the falling temperatures, and that more than half their number were traveling exposed, they couldn’t go far. For tonight, Winchester was his goal.

He prayed he’d be able to resist the impulses provoked by the feminine muttering from beside him long enough for them to reach it.

The Swan Inn in Southgate Street proved sufficient for their needs.

Miss Duncannon predictably grumbled when he refused to stop at the larger Pelican Hotel. “There’s so many of us to accommodate—they’re more likely to have room.”

“The Pelican is largely timber and lathe.”

“So?”

“I have an unreasoning fear of waking to a house in flames.” The Black Cobra’s men had been known to use fire to flush out those they were chasing, without the slightest thought for any others who might get caught in the ensuing blaze. Climbing out of the carriage in the yard of the Swan, Del considered the inn, then turned to hand his burden down. “The Swan, however, is built of stone.”

Taking his hand, she stepped down, paused to look at the inn, then, expressionless, looked at him. “Stone walls in winter.”

He glanced up at the roof, to where multiple chimneys chuffed smoke. “Fires.”

She sniffed, lifted her skirts, climbed the steps to the porch and led the way through the door the innkeeper was holding wide, bobbing and bowing as they passed.

Before Del could take charge, she did, sweeping to the inn’s counter and stripping off her gloves. “Good evening.” The innkeeper scurried around the counter to attend her. “We need rooms for us all—one large chamber for me, another for the colonel, four smaller rooms for my staff and two more for his staff, and the colonel’s parlor maid can room with my lady’s maid—that’s wiser, I think. Now, we’ll all want dinner—I know it’s late, but—”

Del halted just behind her—she knew he was there—and listened to her rattle off orders, directions and instructions, more or less without pause. He could have stepped in and taken over—he’d intended to—but as she was making such an excellent fist of organizing their combined party, there seemed little point.

By the time the luggage had been unloaded and ferried inside, the innkeeper had sorted out their rooms, arranged
for a private parlor to be prepared for them, and sent orders to the kitchen for their meals. Del stood back and watched a round-eyed maid lead his charge upstairs to her chamber, then he turned to the innkeeper. “I need to hire two more carriages.”

“Of course, sir. Dreadfully cold already, and they say there’s worse to come. I don’t have any carriages free myself, but I know the stableman at the Pelican—he’ll oblige me, and I’m sure he’ll have two he can let you have.”

Del raised his eyes to the top of the stairs—and met Miss Duncannon’s direct green gaze. She said nothing, however, but with a faint lift of her brows, continued on into the gallery. “Thank you.” Returning his gaze to the innkeeper, he arranged for the members of his household and hers to be given whatever they wished from the tap, then left the now deserted foyer to climb the stairs to his room.

Half an hour later, washed and brushed, he was in the private parlor when Miss Duncannon entered. Two maids had just finished setting a small table for two before the fire; they retreated with bobbed curtsies. Del strolled to hold a chair for his charge.

She’d removed her pelisse, revealing a garnet-red gown trimmed with silk ribbon of the same hue, over which she’d draped a finely patterned silk shawl.

Sitting, she inclined her head. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Strolling to his chair on the other side of the table, Del murmured, “Del.” When she raised her brows, he explained, “Most people I know call me Del.”

“I see.” She considered him as he sat and shook out his napkin. “As we’re apparently to be in each other’s company for some time, it would be appropriate, I suppose, to make you free of my name. It’s Deliah—
not
Delilah. Deliah.”

He smiled, inclined his head. “Deliah.”

Deliah struggled not to stare, struggled to keep her suddenly witless mind functioning. That was the first time he’d smiled at her—and she definitely didn’t need the additional
distraction. He was ridiculously handsome when serious and sober; when his lips softened and curved, he was seduction personified.

She, better than anyone, knew how dangerous such men were—especially to her.

The door opened and the maids reappeared, ferrying a soup tureen and a basket of bread.

She nodded her approval and the maids served. Deliah eyed the soup with something akin to gratitude, inwardly congratulating herself for having ordered it. One didn’t need to converse while consuming soup. That would give her just a little more time to whip her unruly senses into line.

“Thank you.” With a nod for the retreating maids, she picked up her spoon and supped.

He reached for the bread basket, offered it.

“No, thank you.”

He smiled again—damn him!—and helped himself; she looked down at her soup and kept her gaze on her plate.

It had taken her all of the short journey, and most of the half hour she’d spent out of his sight, to untangle the skein of emotions besetting her. She’d initially attributed her skittering nerves and breathless state to the shock of finding herself looking down the barrel of a pistol, even if the gun hadn’t been pointed at her.

The shot, the subsequent flurry, the rush to leave, the unexpected journey during which he’d remained stubbornly uncommunicative over his mysterious mission—the mission that had led to him being shot at—were all circumstances that might naturally be considered to have contributed to her overwrought state.

Except she’d never been the sort to allow circumstances—no matter how dire or unexpected—to overset her.

In the quiet of her chamber, she’d finally unravelled her feelings sufficiently to lay the truth bare—it had been that moment when she’d found herself on the wooden floor with his hard body covering hers that was the root of her problem. The source of her skittishness.

If she thought of it, she could still feel the sensations—of his weight pinning her, hard muscles and heavy bones trapping her beneath him, his long legs tangling with hers, his heat—then the searing instant of…whatever it had been that had afflicted her. Hot, intense, enough to make her squirm.

Enough to make her treacherous body yearn.

But she didn’t think he knew. She glanced at him as he laid down his spoon.

He caught her eye. “I should thank you for taking charge of the domestic organization.”

She shrugged. “I’m accustomed to managing my uncle’s household. It’s what I’ve been doing in my years away.”

“Jamaica, I believe my aunt wrote. What took you there?”

Setting down her spoon, she leaned her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers and viewing him over them. “Originally I went out to visit my uncle, Sir Harold Duncannon. He’s the Chief Magistrate of Jamaica. I found the climate and the colony to my liking, so I stayed. As time passed, I took charge of his household.”

“Your servants are Indian—are there many Indians in Jamaica?”

“These days, yes. After the slave ships stopped, many Indian and Chinese workers were brought in. All my staff were originally with my uncle’s household, but over the years became more mine than his, so I gave them the choice of staying in Jamaica or coming to England with me.”

“And they chose England.” Del broke off as the maids reappeared. While they cleared the first course and laid out platters of succulent roast beef, roast potatoes and pumpkin, ham, and a jug of rich gravy, he had time to consider what her staff’s loyalty said of Miss Deliah—
not
Delilah—Duncannon.

“Thank you.” She nodded graciously to the maids, and they departed. Before he could frame his next question, she fixed her gaze on him. “You, I gather, have been with the East India Company for some time.”

He nodded, picking up the serving fork. “I’ve been in India for the past seven years. Before that, it was Waterloo, and before that, the Peninsula.”

“Quite a lengthy service—am I to take it you’re retiring permanently?”

“Yes.” They served themselves, and settled to eat.

Five minutes passed, then she said, “Tell me about India. Was the campaigning there the same as in Europe? Massed battles, army against army?”

“At first.” When he glanced up and saw her plainly waiting for more, he elaborated, “Over the first years I was there, we were extending territory—annexing areas for trade, as the company describes it. More or less routine campaigning. Later, however, it became more a case of…I suppose you could say keeping the peace. Keeping the unruly elements in check to protect the trade routes—that sort of thing. Not really campaigning, no battles as such.”

“And this mission of yours?”

“Is something that grew out of the peacekeeping, as it were.”

“Being something more civilian than military?”

He held her gaze. “Indeed.”

“I see. And will pursuing your mission necessitate you leaving me behind at some point well south of Humberside?”

He sat back. “No.”

She arched her brows. “You seem to have experienced a quite dramatic change of heart regarding my presence consequent on you being shot at. I’m not sure I see the connection.”

“Regardless, you see me resigned to your company—I’m waiting on confirmation of our exact route, but I believe we’ll need to spend a few days, perhaps a week, in London.”

“London?”

He’d hoped she’d be distracted with thoughts of shopping—she had been out of the country for years, after all—but from the calculation in her eyes, he could tell she was trying to see what going to London told her of his mission.

“Incidentally,” he said, “why Jamaica?”

After a moment, she shrugged. “I was in need of new horizons and the connection was there.”

“How long ago did you leave England?”

“In ’15. As a colonel, were you in charge of a…what? Squadron of men?”

“No.” Again she waited, open curiosity coloring her eyes and her expression, until he added, “In India, I commanded a group of elite officers, each of whom could take command of company troops and deal with the constant small insurrections and disturbances that are always blowing up in the subcontinent. But tell me, was there much of a social circle in…Kingston, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes, Kingston. And yes, there was the usual social circle of expatriates, much like any colony, I expect. How was India in that regard?”

“I was stationed mostly in Calcutta—the company headquarters are there. There were always balls and parties in the so-called season, but not so much of the matchmaking one finds at Almack’s and the like.”