The Elusive Bride (37 page)

From wanting. From hoping.

Anticipation dug her claws deep, locked him in place—held him helplessly immobile for her.

Expectation was a rising tide within him, urgent and greedy.

Needy.

It had been a very long time since any woman had pandered to him as she was—as she was promising to do. But what held him in thrall, hers to tease and please as she wished—however and for however long she wished—was the simple fact that this was she—Emily, the woman he wanted as his wife—that it was
she
who was intent on pleasuring him.

Wonder and so much more held him ensnared. Held him captive as she slid lower yet and her lips finally—finally!—grazed the aching head of his erection.

Instinctively his hand tightened on her skull, fingers clenching in the silk of her hair as he fought to remain still, to keep his hips from jerking upward in greedy eagerness.

Head back, he stared unseeing at the ceiling, wondering just what she would do—willing her, hoping, praying…then he felt the wet stroke of her tongue sliding slowly, sinuously upward from the base of his shaft to the sensitive head.

His lids fell. He locked his jaw. But then with the tip of her tongue she traced the excruciatingly sensitive rim, and his lungs seized.

Her breath, soft and sultry, washed over his damp flesh. Every nerve, every particle of awareness he possessed was locked on her, on what next she would do.

The sensation of her soft lips and luscious mouth sliding over him, taking him in, drawing him deep into that slick heat ripped a groan from him.

Which was all the encouragement she needed. She set to work with the devotion, the abandon, that characterized everything she did. She might have been a novice, yet in short order she reduced him to a state of clamoring need. Both hands sunk in her hair, his breathing increasingly ragged, his heart pounding, blood surging, he clung to sanity—to some semblance of control—while she sent wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him.

While she shredded his reins and stripped away all pretense and left raw need and primal passion blazing through him.

Emily sensed the change—the escalation of tension, of that passion-driven strength that invested the muscled body on which she lay.

Gloried in it. This was even better than she’d imagined. She hadn’t realized pleasuring him would bring her so much joy.

Bring her so much satisfaction, a very feminine triumph in knowing it was she who had done this to him—that she held the power to drive him wild.

And wilder. He groaned again as, experimenting, exercising
her newfound power, she curled her tongue about his length and slowly stroked upward, then took him in again and settled to suck, something he seemed to especially enjoy.

How far could she take him? She put her heart and soul into finding out.

Only to have him gutturally declare, “Enough!”

He eased a finger between her lips, withdrawing from her mouth and then grasping her shoulders, lifting her and rising in one smooth movement. She expected him to tumble her onto the bed and follow her down. Instead, he set her back on her knees; coming up on his, he seized the folds of her nightgown and lifted it off, over her head.

She drew her arms from the long sleeves. Her hair tumbled over her face; she brushed back the long strands so she could see.

The bed rocked around her. She nearly tipped over, but a steely arm around her waist caught her, held her up—she saw her nightgown drifting to the floor beyond the bed, and nothing else—and realized he’d come up on his knees behind her.

His arm about her waist held her steady as he shifted nearer, closer, until, head rising, spine straightening, she could feel his heat like a flame from her shoulders all the way down her back, all the way down the backs of her thighs.

His head dipped; his lips cruised her ear. “You can be my
houri
any day, any night.”

There was a promise in his words that sent a shiver of expectation dancing down her spine. His warm breath washed over the side of her throat. His lips followed. Eyes closing, she felt the familiar heat rise.

Felt the insistent prodding of his erection, hot as a brand, against her bottom as he pressed near. One hard hand clamped over her hip. His arm about her eased, shifted, that hand drifting lower to splay over her belly. Then he raised his head, murmured close by her ear, “And like any good master, I’ll enjoy my slave.”

Her breath hitched. One of her hands had come to rest on
the arm he’d wound around her. Her grip tightened, nails sinking in as he held her against him and the hand over her belly slid lower, fingers seeking.

Finding. Stroking. Probing.

Pressing in and possessing.

Until she was arching against him, sobbing and panting, wanting so much more.

Holding her hips against his, he pressed her shoulders down until on a gasp she braced herself on her arms.

And he slid into her from behind.

Her eyes opened wide, unseeing, her senses trapped, wholly focused on where they joined, on the feeling of fullness as his shaft stretched her sheath, as he thrust in and filled her to the hilt.

She heard a shuddering gasp, followed by a low moan as he slowly withdrew. But then he thrust in again and she nearly sobbed.

The friction was acute, the sensations of him filling her, taking her, claiming and possessing her, all so much more primitively, passionately real…her reality spun away into a furnace of primal heat, her wits suborned by the overwhelming need to mate, by a tattoo pounding through her blood, driving her—and him.

His hips thrusting steadily, repetitively, Gareth leaned forward and filled his hands with her breasts. Kneaded, found the tight peaks and squeezed.

Her head threshed alongside his. She was so close, almost there.

He felt his own release inexorably rising. Reached down with one hand, found the throbbing nub of flesh between her thighs and stroked, pressed.

With a barely muted scream, she fractured, her body molten fire in his arms—her sheath clamping scalding hot about him, her womb a beckoning furnace…with a long-drawn groan he thrust deep and let go. Let release have him, wash through him, hips bucking hard against her bottom as he spilled his seed deep within her.

She collapsed and took him with her. He sprawled over her, unable to move, his heart thundering, his mind an utter blank, his senses purring.

His more primitive self slumped, sated to its toes, satisfied beyond imagining.

With an effort, he disengaged and slumped on his side beside her. She turned her head his way. Moss-green eyes glinted beneath her lashes.

Then she smiled. “I rather think I like being your
houri
.”

T
hey left at first light, as the dark skies turned a paler gray and a chill east wind whipped snow from the lingering drifts bordering the roads.

Inside the carriage, tucked beneath traveling rugs and with two warm bricks beneath her boots, Emily watched the winter landscape slip past, watching for any hint of cultists. Gareth, seated beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, looked out the other way. They were all on edge, on the one hand ready to repel any attack, but on the other believing that while they might be followed, the cultists were unlikely to engage until they crossed the Thames.

“Aside from all else,” Tristan had pointed out as they were preparing to start out, “the forests north of the river provide much better cover, and places ideal for an ambush.”

He and Jack were on horseback, somewhere out in the wintry chill.

They’d been traveling for hours and, according to signposts, Gravesend was close, when Emily leaned nearer the window and peered out. “I haven’t seen Jack or Tristan at all.”

“You won’t. I suspect they’re old hands at this sort of thing. They want to spot any cultists trailing us, but don’t want to be seen themselves. You might catch a glimpse when they pass us at Gravesend.”

As arranged, they halted the coach at the Lord Nelson, a large coaching inn, and went inside to take refreshments. They wasted a tense half hour over a teapot and scones, allowing Tristan and Jack to go ahead to the jetty north of the town.

When, once more in the carriage, they reached the jetty, Jack and Tristan were nowhere to be seen, but a ferryman
was waiting with his ferry to take them across to Tilbury, on the north bank. He confirmed that the gentleman who bespoke his services and his companion had already crossed on another barge.

The crossing was short, but difficult, the flat-topped ferry rocking perilously, but the ferryman and his crew took the choppy, rushing river in their stride. They reached the Tilbury jetty, not far from the richly decorated watergate of Tilbury Fort, without incident.

With the coach once more on dry land, Gareth helped Emily back inside, then, shutting the door, went to help Mooktu calm the restive horses. Mullins was already on the box, checking the pistols stowed under the seat while he held the reins.

Bister had gone scouting ahead. He came pelting back as Mooktu climbed up to his position beside Mullins. Gareth paused by the carriage door.

Snapping a salute, Bister went past, grabbing the straps at the back of the carriage and swiftly climbing to the roof. “Spotted three of ’em—there might be more. They’re watching from a rise outside the town—lots of forest behind them.”

Brows rising, Gareth opened the carriage door and climbed in.

Given that news, they dallied over luncheon in Tilbury’s main inn, giving Tristan and Jack plenty of time to ease their appetites and, mounted once more, get into position behind the cultists.

After another hour had passed, Gareth, tapping the scroll holder he’d reclaimed from Watson that morning and now carried in his greatcoat pocket, followed Emily back into the carriage, and they set off.

This was the leg on which they thought an attack might come. The road wended through marshes north of Tilbury, then climbed to higher ground.

Gareth snorted as the road leveled off. “That was a perfect spot for an ambush—just as we crested that rise.”

“They might not want to be seen by others.” Emily gestured to a carriage going the other way.

“True. The further north we go, empty stretches of road will become more frequent. Maybe that’s why they haven’t yet attacked.”

However, as they traveled unhurriedly through the afternoon, often along stretches where the forest closed in on both sides of the road and other conveyances grew few and far between, still no attack eventuated. At one point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.

Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”

“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”

It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.

Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party—a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn—Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.

The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure—another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.

After settling into the room she and Gareth would share, Emily went downstairs and found Mullins waiting in the private parlor set aside for their party. Gareth appeared before she could inquire as to his whereabouts. A tea tray arrived on his heels, then Mooktu and Bister joined them, and they settled to wait for Jack and Tristan.

It was full dark, nearly dinnertime, before the door opened and Jack walked in. He smiled rather wearily in greeting, and nodded when Gareth raised the bottle of wine he’d broached.

While Gareth poured him a glass, Jack drew out a chair at the table, fell into it, and groaned. “It’s been years since I’ve spent an entire day in the saddle.”

Tristan came in, blowing on his hands. “It’s not just the hours in the saddle, it’s that damned wind.”

He, too, accepted a glass of wine. Gareth waited until both were seated and had taken a revivifying swallow, then asked, “So where the devil are the cultists?”

“Out there.” Jack pointed south. “And yes, they’re definitely there, and in surprisingly high numbers.”

“To start at the beginning,” Tristan said, “one picked up the carriage not far from Mallingham, then two more fell in once you hit the main roads. Those three followed all the way to Gravesend, then one went ahead, crossing to Tilbury. He didn’t return. We don’t think the other two crossed the Thames, but turned back after you’d got on the ferry.”

Gareth nodded. “Probably returning to keep watch on the coast.”

Jack inclined his head. “We found the cultist who crossed the river with a group of eight others—he’d carried the news to them. We were just in time to see that group send another messenger north. Which is a point to ponder, given Wolverstone’s to the north, and our route takes us north. If the Black Cobra is also in that direction…”

“It seemed those following didn’t want to intercept us,” Gareth said. “They passed up any number of excellent opportunities to ambush us.”

Tristan nodded. “They have eight—nine if their messen
ger returns. The coach has three outside, one inside. You’d think the odds would appeal.”

“They must have orders to follow and send word forward, but not to engage—meaning not yet.” Jack smiled wolfishly. “I do believe this is getting interesting.”

Emily frowned. “Interesting how?”

Gareth replied, “Because it seems we’re being herded again. As long as we move forward, those behind will hang back and simply follow—because there’s some force ahead of us that’s bigger, and more certain of capturing us.”

“It appears the Black Cobra isn’t taking any chances,” Jack said. “Odds are he’s planning a trap for the coach to drive into somewhere along the road tomorrow, a trap you won’t be able to escape. Or so he thinks.”

“Indeed.” Tristan’s eyes gleamed. “And would anyone care to wager that’s exactly what Royce designed his scheme to achieve? The news that the Black Cobra is lurking between us and him—in Essex or Suffolk—is going to make him very happy.”

Jack waved his glass. “No bet. That’s precisely what he would have set out to achieve.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “You and yours chose exceedingly well in appointing Wolverstone your guardian angel.”

“He’s certainly a stickler for detail.” Gareth outlined his observations from their earlier reconnaissance. “In a defensive sense, this place is ideal.”

A tap on the door heralded the innkeeper with their dinner. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins went out to the tap for theirs.

Once those in the parlor had finished their meal and the innkeeper had cleared the table, Gareth went out and invited the other three back.

They’d just settled when the innkeeper looked in. “Messenger for Lord Warnefleet.”

Jack beckoned and the innkeeper drew back to allow a middle-aged groom to enter. The man bowed, then drew a sealed missive from his pocket and presented it to Jack. Jack broke the seal and opened the sheet, scanned it.

The groom cleared his throat. “I’m to inquire, my lords, as to your situation here.”

Tristan replied in a few succinct phrases conveying their observations and their belief that they were being herded into an ambush ahead.

The groom repeated the salient points. Tristan nodded his approval.

Jack handed Wolverstone’s missive to Gareth, then looked at the groom. “You can also report that we’ll do as your master requests, and make a copy of the letter in question.”

The groom bowed. “If there’s nothing else, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”

Tristan dismissed him. The groom turned and left.

Emily had been reading the duke’s letter over Gareth’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch paper and ink, and make a clean copy.” Rising, she glanced at Jack. “Why does he want it?”

“Details,” Jack replied. “Given Delborough’s sacrificed his copy and gained something from it, then we might decide to sacrifice ours in the same way, which leaves Royce with nothing to study. He’ll want to confirm that there’s no other clue hidden in the wording. A code, even—it’s the sort of thing he would think of and know better than anyone to look for.”

“Which he can’t do”—Tristan accepted the duke’s communique from Gareth—“unless he has the letter, a good copy at least, in front of him.”

Nodding her understanding, Emily left.

“I’m just glad Delborough’s through and safe, and that Monteith’s in England, too.” Gareth fell silent.

Jack asked, “Who’s your fourth?”

“Carstairs.” Gareth glanced at Jack. “Captain Rafe Carstairs, otherwise known as Reckless.”

Tristan raised his brows. “If he’s the last one home…”

If Rafe was the last to reach England, he was almost certainly the one carrying the original letter.
They all thought it, but no one said it aloud. Gareth merely nodded. “What about the watches? We’ll need to remain vigilant.”

Emily returned, bearing a ladies’ traveling writing desk
with an ornate mother-of-pearl lid. She set it down on the table, opened it, and drew the lamp near. “The letter?”

Gareth drew the scroll holder from inside his coat, and under the fascinated gazes of all there, undid the complicated locking mechanism. Opening the holder, he drew out the sheet it contained, and handed it to Emily.

Smoothing the single sheet, she sat, dipped her nib, and started to transcribe.

“May I see that?” Jack nodded at the scroll holder.

Gareth smiled and handed it over.

While the others played, opening and closing the holder, and Tristan and Jack asked questions about such oriental devices, Emily kept her head down and her mind on her task.

She’d seized the chance to contribute something to Gareth’s mission—to do something, however minor, that would materially assist in bringing down the Black Cobra. Hers and Gareth’s impending happiness had made her sorrow over MacFarlane’s death more acute; she now had a better appreciation of all he’d had taken from him—by the Black Cobra.

Whatever she could do to bring the fiend to justice, she would do.

By the time she’d duplicated the Black Cobra’s mark as best she could, and had blotted off her copy, the men had decided the order of the watches. She handed his copy back to Gareth. He rolled it and slid it into the holder, then closed the holder and tucked it inside his coat. Now she knew where it rested, she could see the bulge, but it wasn’t that obvious; its presence was less obvious still when he carried it in his greatcoat pocket.

With the time for their departure on the morrow agreed upon, they all rose and retired. Mullins took the first watch. They left him sitting in a chair at the end of their corridor, looking back toward the stairs.

The first alarm came at midnight. Bister was suddenly knocking on their door. Gareth reached it first. Emily grabbed her cloak and slung it over her nightgown as she rushed to join him.