The Reckless Bride (22 page)

They reached the far side of the deck. In concert they turned, and, even more slowly, ambled back toward the stairs. Showers were threatening to close in once more.

“You haven’t yet described your preferred physical attributes. Ladies always have preferences.”

She was no exception, but how to avoid the obvious? “Tallish, well set up, strong and in good health, but as we all know that handsome is as handsome does, I would
place greater emphasis on character and personality than on physical beauty.”

“What traits in particular would you look for?”

“Loyalty. Devotion. Courage. Intelligence. Slow to anger, quick to forgive. An active man. Someone who has lived, who has an appreciation of life.” She glanced his way, met his gaze levelly. “That’s sufficient definition to recognize him … should I find him.”

The stairs lay ahead. They both slowed, halted. Eyes locked on his, she waited … but then he looked over her head, across the deck, and she remembered Hassan standing in the shadow of the bridge.

Rafe’s gaze returned to her face and she smiled, adding, “Thank you for your escort and for sharing your views. It seems we both have matters to consider.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his blue eyes unreadable, then his lips quirked, reluctant and wry. “Indeed. It seems we both have chances we might take, and decisions to make as to whether to seize them.”

She squelched the urge to correct him. It was
a
chance. And whether to seize
it.
They were talking of one and the same thing.

Imagining the prospect … made her feel faintly giddy.

She inclined her head, stepped toward the stair. “I’ll leave you to your cogitations.” While she retired to face her own.

In the early afternoon, Loretta sat in the salon and pretended to work at her embroidery. Esme had retired for a postprandial nap. Rose and Gibson had taken over the stateroom’s sitting room to sew and mend. Hassan and Rafe were up on deck, as far as she knew.

Which left her free to return to her unfinished cogitations.

Looking back on their amble about the deck and the singular conversation she and Rafe had shared, she was tempted on the one hand to think she couldn’t possibly
have interpreted his words correctly, yet on the other hand she knew she had.

They’d been talking of marriage. Between them. Her and him.

There was no other explanation, no other motive for him to have taken such a curious conversational tack other than to test the waters. And his cast had worked. Not least because the possibility had surfaced in her mind, too.

Interestingly, the one point she hadn’t revealed, the one subject he hadn’t inquired about—the attraction she felt for him, her hypothetical husband—was currently providing her strongest motivation. That attraction—the overwhelming need to learn much, much more of such physical interaction, to experience much more of the scintillating sensations, and even more of the strange connection she’d sensed flowing beneath—was pushing her to step forward and engage. Boldly, as a Michelmarsh would.

She was, she was discovering, a Michelmarsh to her soul—wild and abandoned when in pursuit of a desired goal.

The very fact she desired Rafe Carstairs was a wonder in itself. After all her years of feeling not the faintest compulsion to spend time with any male, she had started to believe she never would. But Rafe definitely made her want, and some elementally female part of her positively gloried in the discovery.

Luncheon, taken in the salon with the others, had proved notable for the way in which he hadn’t met her eyes—or she his. If she weren’t so prosaic, she might have said the atmosphere between them had crackled, yet no one else had seemed to notice.

Or at least had given any sign of noticing.

She wasn’t entirely sure she believed them.

She heard someone in the bar, looked up, and saw the object of her thoughts walking toward her, the pack of cards in one hand.

His eyes met hers.

She simply sat, her needle poised, and watched him draw near. That was something else he and she hadn’t touched on, the dangerous allure that hung about him, tangible as a cloak, a temptation to sin that had her Michelmarsh instincts
prodding and pricking to make her reach out and touch. Stroke.

Provoke.

She smiled, coolly arched a brow. “Piquet again?”

As before, he shifted the table between them, swung one of the armchairs to face her and slouched into it. He dropped the cards on the table. “Possibly.” His eyes trapped hers. “Or you could tell me about London. You spend most of your year there, don’t you?”

“In recent years, yes.” She hesitated, then looked down at her work, set her next stitch. “Not, however, entirely by choice.”

“You don’t like town?”

“I’m not averse to it in limited doses. However, over recent years, my sister-in-law Catherine has been determined to do her duty as she sees it and get me suitably wed, so we’ve spent all the Season, and all the Little Season, too, in town. That, to my mind, is rather too much.”

Rafe was in wholehearted agreement. Yet … “I thought one of the principal occupations of ton females, married or not, was the observation of the marriage mart and all associated activities as pertaining to their relatives, connections, and general acquaintance.”

Loretta grinned. “Both my sisters are already wed and my nieces are babes-in-arms.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And as we discussed earlier, my requirements of a husband suggest that he would be wise enough to be engaged elsewhere through much of the year, so me spending so much time in the capital seems unnecessary. To my mind, I’m unlikely to meet him—my hypothetical husband—there.”

He humphed. “So what does interest you when in London, and how do you occupy your time when in the country?”

“In London, aside from all the balls, soirees, parties, and dinners Catherine ensures I attend, I spend my time
viewing exhibitions, visiting and corresponding with friends, and I have, I’ve been told, a decidedly unladylike penchant for reading news sheets. I have also been known to engage in
political discussions, which, apparently, is behavior acceptable in an earnest older matron, but not in one of my tender years.”

He snorted.

She nodded. “Precisely my thoughts.”

He watched her lips curve in a rather secretive smile. When she said nothing more, he prompted, “And in the country? How do you fill your time there?”

Somewhat to his surprise, she hesitated, but then went on, “I correspond. A lot. And of course I still have the news sheets to read. But otherwise I ride, and walk, and do all the customary things ladies do in the country—visit nearby villages and neighbors. That sort of thing.”

He couldn’t put his finger on what she was concealing. Before he could think of a way to probe, she looked up.

“You must have spent some time in London before joining the army. What do you remember of the ton from then?”

A deliberate distraction, or … He inwardly shrugged. “I only spent six months on the town. Other than friends, the only group I truly remember were the grandes dames. There was one, Lady Osbaldestone. She terrified me. At Waterloo, when the Cynsters rode with us, I learned she terrifed them, too.”

Loretta grinned. “I know her. She’s not so terrifying.”

“Perhaps not to you. Who are the others currently holding sway over the ton?”

She told him, refreshing his memory of those he knew, painting vivid verbal vignettes of those he hadn’t previously met. From there their talk ranged more widely, covering topics—the Corn Laws, the Peterloo riots—that he’d heard about, but hadn’t paid attention to. Somewhat to his surprise, she had a remarkably deep and detailed knowledge of the social upheavals of recent times. If she hadn’t admitted to devouring news sheets
and talking to peers and members of Parliament, he would have wondered.

He decided she simply had an excellent memory for details. He already knew she was innately curious.

Then Esme wandered in and joined them, and while all personal revelations came to an end, he remained and allowed Esme, aided by dry comments from Loretta, to entertain him with her opinion of the Prime Minister and his closest advisors.

The minutes to dinnertime sped by.

That night was the last they would spend on the
Uray Princep.
Ulm, their immediate destination, lay not far ahead.

“We will reach there by noon tomorrow,” the captain informed them as they sat around the table in the dining room, ready to partake of a celebratory dinner organized by Esme.

She had invited the captain, the first mate, and the purser to join them. All three had accepted, fascinated by her and her larger-than-life persona.

Esme raised her glass, filled with the finest wine on board. “To journey’s end for you, and our thanks to you and your excellent crew, who have made our time on your vessel such a pleasant one.”

They all raised their glasses and toasted the three sailors, all of whom blushed and disclaimed.

The captain proposed another toast, one to undemanding passengers.

They all laughed and drank, and then the cabin boys brought in the platters and the dinner began.

At the end of it, they took their leave of the captain and his crew.

With a sigh, Esme led the way into the salon. The rest of them, all pleasantly replete, trailed in her wake.

Rafe brought up the rear. Once the four women had settled on the window seats and in the armchairs, he and Hassan drew up straight-backed chairs and joined them. He let his gaze travel the circle of faces. “We need to make plans for tomorrow. By all accounts the distance
from Ulm to Strasbourg, where we’ll hire a boat to take us down the Rhine, can be covered in a carriage in one day. Given we’ll reach Ulm at noon tomorrow, I suggest we put up at a hotel there, organize a carriage, and leave the following morning.”

Esme was nodding. “That’s the wisest course. No need to risk an inn in some out-of-the-way place, which we would have to if we leave Ulm straightaway.”

“Precisely. Of course,” he continued, “that assumes there are no cultists waiting for us in Ulm, but it isn’t on any major highway, and if it’s true the cult hasn’t realized we’re on the river, then there’s no reason they’ll have thought to send men to such a backwater.”

“My memories of Ulm are somewhat hazy. I don’t believe we ever stayed there. However,” Esme said, “at this time of year we should have no difficulty finding a suitable hotel. It might be off all the highways, but it’s rather more than a village.”

“Indeed. I don’t expect any trouble finding a carriage, either. In Ulm, we simply need to be on guard, and otherwise put one foot in front of the other.” He drew breath, went on, “However, from Ulm onward our journey is likely to be more fraught. Increasingly dangerous. It’s best we discuss our subsequent plans now, here, where we’re safe and there’s no one to overhear.”

Esme nodded. Loretta, alert, had her attention fixed on him.

He glanced at Rose and Gibson, confirmed they, too, were listening intently. He didn’t need to glance at Hassan.

“We’ve been lucky—far luckier than I imagined we might be—in avoiding the cult this far. As far as we can tell, Ulm will be safe, and the road from there to Strasbourg is a relatively minor one through the forests. Just outside Strasbourg, however, we’ll join roads coming from more major towns, and Strasbourg itself, as a town on a number of highways, will be sure to contain cultists watching all traveling carriages and the major hotels. Once there, we definitely will not be safe, and from there onward, on our trip down the Rhine, we’ll be increasingly exposed. Many of the major towns on the
Rhine are also on major highways. The cult is sure to have men stationed there, and the closer we get to England, the more concentrated the cultists are likely to be, the more tightly woven the cult’s net.”

He paused, then went on, “If we leave Ulm at first light,
my best guess is that we’ll reach Strasbourg by midafternoon. Once there, I propose we find a small but decent inn close to the river. I’ll ask in Ulm for recommendations. When we reach the inn, the rest of you can remain there with Hassan while I organize passage on a riverboat down the Rhine.”

“As to that,” Esme said, “in this season we should have a choice of available berths.”

“I’m hoping to find one of the faster boats with an experienced captain and crew.” He hesitated, then added, “Given I feel certain we won’t escape the cult’s notice while on the Rhine, we’ll also need our chosen crew to be amenable to supporting us in fighting off cult attacks if need be.”

Loretta frowned. The thought of cult attacks, of men with swords attacking Rafe and Hassan … “I vote that we find a quiet, modest inn in Strasbourg, one where the cult is unlikely to accidentally stumble upon us, and then take however many days we need to secure the right boat, with the right crew.”

“I second that motion.” Esme caught Rafe’s gaze. “Even going downriver, we’ll be on the Rhine for days, perhaps a week. It makes sense to take the time to make the best preparations we can for the journey.”

Rafe took in Esme’s determined expression, then glanced at Loretta.

She arched her brows, her own determination clear.

He nodded. “Very well. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll find a bolt-hole in Strasbourg, and take whatever precautions we can to make our trip down the Rhine as fast and as safe as possible.” He rose, looked down at them, his gaze touching each face. “Of one thing we can be certain. Once we’re on the Rhine, the cult will spot me, and the chase will be on in earnest.”

Time, it seemed, was of the essence. Loretta waited in her cabin until the boat quieted around her, then tugged
on her pelisse, slipped out of the stateroom, and headed for the stairs.

Rafe’s review of their plans had sparked a sense of urgency; if he and she were to come to any decision regarding what seemed to be flaring between them, they needed to make a start on their decision-making process. There was no point—indeed, no sense—in leaving the matter pending, unresolved.

Once they reached England….

Climbing the stairs to the observation deck, she looked up at the night sky. Muttered, “If I’m going to embrace my inner wildness, better the transformation be over and complete before I see Robert and Catherine again.”