The Reckless Bride (51 page)

With Loretta.

They both had to live.

For either of them to have the future they now craved, they both had to survive the upcoming engagement.

Yet if it came to it … he knew he’d give his life for hers, to
secure hers. That was the only way he’d die today—if there was no other choice. But if there was no other choice to be made, he’d take that path, in an instant, without hesitation, and certainly with no regrets. She, above all, had to live, had to survive, even if he didn’t survive to be with her.

She wouldn’t agree, but he wouldn’t be asking her permission.

The thought settled him. Gave him the certainty, the clear focus he needed, going into this battle. This fight within four walls.

With his usual nonchalant stride, he walked to the inn’s front door, opened it, and stepped inside.

Instantly two sword points were leveled at his throat. One from either side, each held by an assassin. He let his expression blank—and hoped they read it as shock. Swiftly scanning, he saw four other assassins hovering in the shadows of the hall.

Another man—a much harder, more experienced, chillingly brutal-looking assassin—stood directly ahead of him, two paces into the hall.

He met the man’s eyes. What had Tony said—a captain of the Black Cobra’s guard?

With one finger, the man tapped his lips, then indicated that Rafe should shut the door.

Moving slowly, he complied, trying not to think about how solid the door was as it softly thumped shut and cut him off from the others outside.

The captain—Rafe decided to label him that—smiled, a totally unhumorous, unwarming sight. “Our leader, the Black Cobra, will be especially glad to see you, Captain Carstairs.” To his men, he said, “Take his sword.”

Rafe didn’t react as the assassin to his right reached for his saber’s hilt, then slowly drew the blade from its sheath.

The captain jerked his head, and both assassins stepped back, withdrawing their knives, but they didn’t put the blades away. “You will do nothing that might lead us to hurt the young woman presently sitting with the Black Cobra—our illustrious leader calls her Loretta.”

Lips setting in a grim line, Rafe inclined his head. So the Black Cobra was in the parlor.

The captain smiled again. “Just so.” He seemed to relish having Rafe at his mercy. Then he glanced at the assassin on Rafe’s left. “Search him.”

Slowly, Rafe obligingly lifted his arms out to his sides. The assassin searched his pockets, his coat lining, patted his clothes, clearly looking for the letter. Rafe waited, but the assassin didn’t search his boots—and so missed the knife he carried there.

Not that one knife would do him much good in this company.

The assassin stepped back, shaking his head.

Softly padding footsteps on the stairs had them all looking that way. An older Indian with a long black beard appeared. Stepping onto the hall tiles, he stared at Rafe and, frowning, came forward.

The man’s black gaze traveled over Rafe, then returned to his face.

The Black Cobra’s advisor? It seemed likely. The man wore robes of civilian style. The malevolence in his dark gaze was intense, almost tangible.

Eventually the advisor glanced at the captain. “I have had them search everywhere upstairs—the letter is nowhere to be found.”

The captain considered, then looked at Rafe. Met his eyes. “We have not yet searched the young woman.”

“She doesn’t have it.” Rafe uttered the words in his usual drawl.

Unsurprised, the captain raised his brows. “So where is the so-important letter, Captain?”

Rafe held his gaze. “I’m the only one who knows where it is. That shouldn’t surprise you. Perhaps it’s time you took me to meet your illustrious leader, so that he and I can discuss what he’s willing to cede in exchange for the proof—such absolute and incontrovertible proof—of his villainy.”

The captain considered him for a long moment, then
glanced at the advisor, who had been studying Rafe through narrowed eyes.

Some wordless communication passed between the pair, then the advisor glanced again at Rafe, and nodded. “I will go and inquire.”

Turning, he headed for the parlor door.

Royce reached the fallen tree behind which he’d left Devil and Deverell to find that Tony Blake had joined them.

Before Royce could say a word, Tony informed him, “Carstairs has arrived. He’s going in.”

“What?”

Tony blinked. “It seemed the sensible thing to do—as he pointed out, we’re at a stalemate. We can’t move until they do, and they won’t until he walks in. So he’s going in. Any minute now.”

Devil was staring at Royce. “What did Kilworth want?”

“He wanted to tell us who the Black Cobra is.” Royce heard the cutting edge to his voice.

“Who?” three voices asked.

His gaze on the parlor window, on the scene inside, Royce felt a steely, warrior-calm take hold. “We’ve been watching the Black Cobra for the last half hour.” He nodded to the scene in the parlor. “The blond. She’s it.”

The other three stared.

As had happened in other times, in other places, Royce suddenly knew exactly what to do. “We haven’t much time. Tony—do another circuit at speed. Go to those watching in the lane first—send Charles to me here, with the rest to join Christian at the front of the inn. Tell Christian his men are to wait until they hear a commotion, then come in quickly and hard—I need his force to take down all the cultists in the front hall and in any corridors, or upstairs.” Royce paused, then went on, “You join our men at the rear, and take the kitchen—again tell all there not to hold back. You need to account for all the assassins in the kitchen and free the Shearers as well. Then hold the room. Whistle like a
warbler as soon as you’re in position with those at the rear. Now go.”

Tony went.

Royce glanced at Devil and Deverell. Gyles and Del were nearby. Charles would soon be joining them. “That leaves six of us to storm the parlor. We’ll have to go through the window—luckily it’s big enough.”

Devil was already sizing up the window. “Big enough for two or even three of us at a time—we’ll need to get inside quickly.”

Royce nodded and hunkered down, intently watching the scene inside the parlor.

The parlor door opened and an older Indian appeared.

“Carstairs must have gone in,” Royce murmured. “Tony will be in position within a few minutes. Once we hear his signal …”

Devil glanced at him. “We go in?”

Royce shook his head. “No. Then we wait. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that timing is everything.”

Loretta was discussing the latest Parisian fashions with Mrs. Campbell when a tap on the door interrupted them.

“Come.” Somewhat surprised that Mrs. Campbell had spoken the word at the same time she had—this was her private parlor after all—Loretta glanced curiously at the other woman, then looked back at the door.

Just as it opened, and a frightening apparition slid into the room.

An Indian man in robes. He was old, but how old was anyone’s guess. His face was the color of walnuts, deeply lined, his hair, those strands that had escaped his black-silk-encircled turban, a straggling gray. In contrast, his equally scraggly beard was mostly black. A dead black. As for his eyes … when they met Loretta’s across the room, her skin crawled.

His eyes were black windows through which a coldly malicious
evil looked out upon the world and plotted pain and mayhem.

After the merest glance—enough to freeze Loretta—the apparition’s gaze moved on to Mrs. Campbell.

The apparition bowed—deeply, in obeisance.

Loretta’s jaw dropped. With an effort, she shut it, and turned her head to stare at her companion.

The old man straightened; at some point he had closed the door behind him. “The captain has arrived, illustrious one. We have searched him, and also searched everywhere else in this place.”

Loretta glanced at the man in time to catch a lascivious glance thrown her way—realized with a sickening jolt that no one had searched her.

“But,” the apparition continued, gaze again shifting to Mrs. Campbell, “we have found neither the letter nor its holder. The captain has suggested he should meet with you so that you may discuss the situation.”

Loretta stared at Mrs. Campbell—at the woman who, until mere seconds ago, she’d believed was much like her or her sisters. Even as her mind scrambled to consciously accept that the conclusion her instincts were screaming was real—was the deadly truth—something in the woman’s face changed.

As if a veil had fallen, revealing the true nature of what lay beneath.

“My God.” Loretta was barely aware of the words that escaped her.

Mrs. Campbell turned her head and smiled—and there was nothing, not a shred, of feminine humanity remaining. “Yes, indeed, Miss Michelmarsh. I am your …” Pausing, she raised her brows. “And the captain’s, most deadly enemy.”

Transferring her gaze to the old man, she said, “How accommodating of the captain. I’m positively looking forward to discussing matters with him. Have Saleem bring him in. Two guards. And leave the door open.”

“As you will it, oh illustrious one.” The old man bowed even lower, then withdrew.

Loretta tried to will her all but palpitating heart to slow, to calm. If Rafe had returned … had he met with his guards? Was his appearance part of some plan?

Or were he and she on their own, facing … the Black Cobra.

It was so hard to take that in.

The door opened again and the old man reentered. He walked to stand by Mrs. Campbell’s right, blocking what little heat came from the fire in the hearth behind him.

Loretta was suddenly very conscious of a chill.

Another man, a hardened soldier by the look of him, came in next—presumably Saleem. Behind him …

Rafe walked in.

Her eyes instantly met his, then she sent her gaze streaking over him, searching … but he walked with his usual sure-footed stride, moved with his customary horseman’s grace. She could see no evidence of injury anywhere on him. Unharmed, her brain reported, almost giddy with relief.

And they hadn’t even bound his hands, or restrained him in any way.

Two cultists—just a glance and she knew they must be those Rafe and Hassan labeled assassins—followed him into the room.

Saleem halted three paces in front of and a little to the right of the door. He put out a hand, halting Rafe beside and a fraction behind him. Saleem glanced over his shoulder, said something Loretta couldn’t catch. In response the assassins took up positions on either side of Rafe, but behind him. From the way they held their arms, she guessed they were holding knives, poised to stab him if he made a wrong move.

Through the open door, she could see more assassins all but blocking the front hall. The attention of every assassin remained locked on Rafe.

Hardly surprising they hadn’t bothered restraining him. They could kill him before he took a step.

The Black Cobra cult had taken over the inn while she’d
been sitting and chatting with Mrs. Campbell. Despite the very real fear slithering icily down her spine, Loretta threw the other woman a distinctly black look.

Rafe saw, and wondered, but he was too busy searching the room for the Black Cobra.

But …

Eventually, he brought his gaze to the only person in the room he couldn’t place. He looked at the woman—the blond Tony had said had come from a nearby manor, who they’d assumed was a hostage … the woman Loretta did not like.

No hostage.

He knew the instant he met her eyes. No one seeing those ice-blue eyes, seeing the pure, undiluted, malicious malevolence that openly shone within them, could fail to mark their owner as evil.

Across his inner eye, his memory flashed a vision of James MacFarlane, beaten, tortured, and oh, so very dead, lying in the back of a cart in faraway Bombay. His jaw clenched. The cold fire of true hatred streaked through his veins.

That she was a woman became incidental. If he’d had his saber in his hand, he would have cut her down.

Sensing his comprehension, the Black Cobra smiled. Relaxing against the sofa, she considered him—as a cat might a particularly juicy mouse. “Welcome, Captain. We’ve been awaiting your arrival. And I’m glad to see that explanations are redundant, that you have realized that I am, indeed, the one you and your colleagues have been so assiduously seeking.”

“We thought it was Ferrar.” The longer he kept her talking, the longer he’d have to plan. His brain was already racing, weighing chances, risks, possibilities. Evaluating his strengths, her weaknesses. “Was it you who killed him?”

“Sadly, yes. Your friends in this country made that necessary—they’d taken too great an interest in him, and dear Roderick was never one to properly guard against danger. He never thought it could catch up with him.”

“And Thurgood? I assume you sacrificed him, too? ”

A flicker of some emotion, too fleeting for him to guess at, rippled through those ice-crystal eyes, but then they hardened. “That was regrettable.”

Her tone suggested her namesake coiling, suggested that someone—very possibly Rafe himself—would pay for Thurgood’s death … for forcing her to kill him?

Rafe registered the threat, but ignored it, too busy evaluating his options for saving Loretta. That came first. Saving himself came second, but if the chance was there, he’d seize that, too. As for the bitch of a Black Cobra, while he desperately wanted to behead her himself, if Loretta’s or his life hung in the balance, he’d be happy to leave that to someone else.

There were at least three others outside who would do it in a blink.

Then again, simply killing her would be far too merciful.

“I believe,” he said, “that you’ve been seeking something, too. Something I have.” He’d evaluated all he could; it was time to get the battle underway.

“Indeed. The letter dear Roderick was so stupid as to pen.” She glanced at Loretta, then returned her cold gaze to him. “I take it we don’t need to threaten Miss Michelmarsh—or, heaven help her, harm her—for you to see the wisdom of handing the letter over, immediately, to me?”

“No. No need for threats. So undignified, don’t you think?”