The Reckless Bride (6 page)

Down. Down a stone stairway that spiraled ever deeper into the rock on which the castle sat.

“Ah … Miss Loretta?”

Rose’s disembodied voice had Loretta pausing and glancing back, not that she could see anything past Carstairs’s shoulders.

“If it’s all right with you, miss, me and Hassan will wait in the chamber at the top.”

Guessing from her nervous tone that Rose didn’t appreciatethe close atmosphere, Loretta called back, “Yes, of course.”

Avoiding Carstairs’s eyes, she turned and followed their guide on.

The stairway led down and down. Then the light from the guide’s lamp was suddenly swallowed by a vast blackness. He slowed, and stepped away from the stair. Following, Loretta stepped down onto dust-covered rock. The air about them smelled of damp stone, although all she could see seemed dry.

The guide hoisted the lamp high, letting light sweep the walls of a large oval chamber. “This is the main entrance to the labyrinth—there are others, but some distance away.” He pointed to the black holes in the walls; Loretta counted eight. “Those are the tunnels. It is said those foolish enough to venture into the labyrinth are never seen again.” The young man shrugged. Walking forward, he shone the lamp into one tunnel. “So it is said, but we do not truly know, for no one has tried to learn the labyrinth’s secrets in recent times.”

Loretta quelled a shiver. The chamber was wonderfully gothic. She looked around, impressing as much as she could on her memory—the sense of great age, the rough-hewn walls, the eerie stillness of the air. The almost palpable temptation to walk forward and enter one of the tunnels—just a little way, just to see …

“I think we’ve seen enough.”

The low words brushed her ear. Startled, she glanced around—and found Carstairs close.

So close, she stopped breathing. In the dimness, she couldn’t read his eyes, but she could feel the heat of him down her back, feel prickling sensation wash beneath her skin, leaving warmth in its wake.

Beyond her control, her gaze locked on his lips. For an instant all she heard was her heart thudding as a wave of giddiness washed over her….

Dragging in a breath, she raised her gaze to his eyes, then stiffened and stepped away.

Recalling his words, she nodded curtly. “Indeed.” Strengthening her voice, she spoke to the guide. “Thank you. I’ve seen all I need.”

The guide returned and led the way up the stairs. Loretta followed; Rafe brought up the rear. He was grateful that with the guide carrying the only lamp, he couldn’t truly see Loretta Michelmarsh’s hips shifting this way and that before his face.

It was a long stairway. Going up took longer than coming down; he had plenty of time to think about his current obsession.

Last night, having accepted that he would have to play the part of courier-guide to Loretta as well as Esme all the way to England, he’d lain in bed and lectured himself on the folly of being distracted by a pretty face, a pair of fine eyes, and a lushly tempting body. He’d reaffirmed the importance of his mission, then had closed his eyes and slept—and dreamed of making very slow love to a goddess with lustrous dark hair and periwinkle eyes.

This morning he’d assured himself, dreams notwithstanding, that he was strong enough to deal with Miss Michelmarsh in the flesh; she was just another young lady after all. The strength of his attraction to her was merely a reflection of how long it had been since he’d seen any young lady worth lusting after; it would fade with time.

It hadn’t faded yet.

If anything, it had grown. And not because of anything physical—like glimpsing her bare ankle or more of her breasts. No. It was a combination of her reaction to him—that subtle leap of her senses, of her pulse and her awareness, that occurred every time he, however innocently, touched her.

He knew it, felt it, every time, and the knowledge pricked his awareness of her—the intensity of his senses’ focus on her—to new heights.

And as if that weren’t enough, she was proving something of a puzzle. A mystery. There was something behind herchoice of sights, something that drove her strangely intent interests.

Some mystery cause that lit a fire of enthusiasm inside her.

That fire drew him.

It transformed her from a merely interesting young woman to a vibrant young woman of mysterious allure.

Back in the antechamber, they collected Rose and Hassan, and strolled back to the castle gates. Rafe paid off the guide, tipping him generously. Falling in behind Loretta as they walked to their carriage, he heard her tell Rose of the labyrinth. Even though he’d seen it himself, Loretta’s words brought it alive, casting it in a gothicly fanciful light that wasn’t entirely fictitious.

Once back in the carriage, they rolled on up Castle Hill to Loretta’s next halt—the fisherman’s town. Or, more precisely, the spot that gave an extraordinary view of Buda, Pest, and the Danube between. Descending from the carriage, they strolled the path that curved along the ridge high on the hill, watching various folk from the fishing community pointing to this boat or that, bandying views on the likely catch.

The views both up and down the river were spectacular. Although chilly, the day was clear, with only a few slate gray clouds hovering on the horizon. River breezes kept the air fresh, sweeping away the sulfurous taint of coal smoke from the town below. Rafe noticed the latter only because he saw Loretta, strolling beside him, lift her head and sniff. She seemed to be concentrating on every little thing, as if taking an inventory so she could describe the scene accurately.

Perhaps she kept a travel journal.

Regardless, it was time to return to the hotel for luncheon. He gathered Hassan with a look, and Hassan brought Rose. Rafe reached for Loretta’s elbow—felt her start when his fingers closed about her arm. When she shot him a narrow-eyed look, he merely said, “We should get back to the hotel.”

He steered her to their carriage, released her, but offered his hand as he opened the door with the other.

She considered his hand for an instant before steeling herself and placing her fingers in his.

Pretending he didn’t notice the leap of her pulse, the hitch in her breathing, he helped her into the carriage. Moments later, they were all inside and the carriage started its lumbering journey down the hill.

Head back against the squabs, eyes apparently closed, through the fringe of his lashes he watched Loretta, this time sitting opposite him. For half the journey back, she peered out at the steetscapes, concentrating as if fixing the various styles of architecture in her mind.

Her observational intensity impressed him, and tickled his curiosity. It was too acute to be innate, yet looked to be something of a habit.

When the carriage reached the Castle quarter, an area with which she was already familiar, she turned to him. He opened his eyes, met hers.

“You mentioned before, when speaking of the villages in India, that they often had no council to run them. How do they manage community decisions, then?”

It wasn’t the sort of question he would expect a young lady to ask, yet it fitted with the thrust of her earlier interest in his observations of India. So he answered, and let her interest lead her to ask further questions.

When the carriage drew up outside the hotel, he stepped down. After a survey of the street revealed no cultists lurking, he handed her down and escorted her inside. Climbing the stairs in her wake, he debated asking why she was so interested in social customs, but decided the time was not yet.

She wouldn’t tell him yet.

Lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them. As she neared the door to the suite, he reached around her and opened it.

She gave the smallest of jumps. From close quarters she met his eyes, her own a touch wide, then she raised her chin, haughtily inclined her head, and swanned in.

Lips curving fractionally, he followed.

He bided his time through luncheon, then, leaving Hassan with Rose at the hotel, he and Loretta set off once more in the carriage. This time, she asked to be driven into Pest. As they rolled off the bridge over the Danube, he glimpsed two cultists idly watching the carriages rumbling onto the bridge, heading toward Buda. Neither cultist saw him.

He looked at Loretta. “What are you planning on seeing this afternoon?”

She glanced at the notes in her lap. “According to the guidebook, if we stay on this road, we’ll see many of the mansions of the local aristocracy.”

“Do you intend making calls, or just looking?”

“Just looking.” She glanced out of the window, but at the moment the street was lined with shops. “Ah—there’s the museum.”

She peered at the structure as the carriage slowly rolled past.

“Are you a student of architecture, then?”

She blinked at him, then sat back. “No, I’m"—she waved a vague hand—"merely interested in such things.”

“Museums or buildings?”

“Both.” After a moment, she amended, “I’m interested in buildings that are museums, churches, castles, and the like.”

“And the houses of aristocrats?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

She glanced at him, then looked out of the window again. “I just am.”

And he would eat his busby, fur and all, if that were the truth.

She sat forward when the carriage obligingly slowed as a succession of large mansions came into view. Set well back from the road behind iron fences, the houses were of much the same ilk as those lining Park Lane.

When he said so, she nodded. “Very true.” But she was absorbed again, distracted again.

He seized the moment to study her face, drank in the finefeatures, the delicacy of her brows, the luscious curve of her lips. Looking wasn’t dangerous; it might even dull the growing compulsion to taste those lips….

The carriage rumbled on, turned, then rumbled back. As they neared the bridge and the spot where he’d seen the cultists, he shifted deeper into the shadows. Tensed as the paving leading to the bridge rang beneath the horses’ hooves. The end of the bridge came into view, then receded as the horses trotted on.

The cultists had gone, leaving the question of whether they would recognize him or not untested.

Once back in Buda, the carriage turned away from Castle Hill and the embankment below it onto a road that followed the river.

The Rudas Baths sat in a strip of land between the next hill along and the Danube. Esme and Gibson were waiting in the foyer; they came out when Rafe descended from the carriage in the portico. He helped both in, then followed, sitting beside Gibson, facing Esme.

As the carriage headed back toward the hotel, Esme heaved a richly satisfied sigh. “I had a lovely day, my dears—how was yours?”

After a moment, Loretta said, “We covered all the sights I wished to see. An uneventful, but successful day.”

She glanced at Rafe, as did Esme.

He briefly met Loretta’s eyes, then transferred his gaze to Esme. “My day was … surprisingly entertaining.”

Surprisingly intriguing. He now had more questions than he’d had that morning, and an even greater desire to learn the answers.

The next morning their party boarded the
Uray Princep.

With the big riverboat tied up at the wharf directly down the hill from the hotel, transferring Esme, Loretta, the two maids, and their collective baggage to the docks in safety wasn’t all that difficult; getting them on board was another matter.

At that hour the docks were a hive of activity; with crowds of thronging passengers, and sailors and porters swarming everywhere, onto boats and off, with this trunk, then that, ferried on or ferried off, the confusion was close to absolute. Rafe felt as if he were trying to look everywhere at once.

“I haven’t seen any cultists.” Hassan paused by Rafe’s side.

Loretta, standing before him, her way blocked by passengers milling before the gangplank, glanced over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen any either.”

Rafe looked down, met her eyes. “If you do, tell one of us. Immediately.”

She merely arched her brows and faced forward again.

He grimly shifted his weight. Far from easing his obsession, dwelling on her lips the previous afternoon had only resulted in even more salacious dreams. And even greater resulting tension.

Especially given she was making it plain that although she was as attracted to him as he was to her, she had no interest in encouraging him.

He wasn’t conceited, yet he wondered why.

Yet another question he had no chance of answering. At least, not yet.

Finally losing patience—they were at a dead halt—with no imminent danger looming he deserted his post guarding the ladies’ rear, and leaving Hassan to hold that position, shouldered his way past the gaggle of porters bearing their luggage, then, exploiting his height and the width of his shoulders, cleaved a path through the melee to the gangplank. Once there, he stood like a bulwark and waved their porters past him, then followed the last up onto the boat.

Crewmen materialized to relieve the porters of their loads. As Rafe stepped on board, the purser came hurrying up, a board with various lists attached in his hands.

“Lady Congreve’s party,” Rafe announced. He glanced at the first list as the man scanned it. “And Jordan and Rivers—the last two names. We’re her ladyship’s guide and guard.”

“Ah—yes, sir.” The purser lifted the top sheet and looked at the one beneath—a plan of the cabins.

“In the circumstances, we’ll need to be as close to her ladyship’s rooms as possible.” Rafe’s tone brooked no argument. His hand passed over the purser’s board; a large-denomination gold coin fell onto the top list.

After a second’s hesitation, the board tipped. The coin slid off and disappeared; the purser glanced up, met Rafe’s gaze, then studied the cabin plan again. “Lady Congreve has booked the main stateroom. We can place you in the next cabin along on one side, and her guard in the cabin opposite. Getting to her ladyship’s cabin will mean passing both your doors. Will that suit?”

Rafe smiled charmingly. “Admirably.” He flicked the man another coin, which he deftly caught. Turning to the gangplank, Rafe saw Esme being assisted up it. “That’s her ladyship now.”