The Reckless Bride (8 page)

Gripping the rail, she stood straight and tall, head high. “Given your mission, shouldn’t you be riding hard for England?”

She made no effort to disguise the waspishness of her tone.

He turned his head and looked at her; his gaze lingered on her face for long enough to have her desperate to breathe, then he looked at the river once more. “I can’t.”

Rafe heard his temper in the clipped words. If she had any sensitivity, she would hear it, too.

The swift glance she threw him, frowning, puzzled, suggested she had.

“I have a timetable.” He hadn’t mentioned it earlier, but saw no reason he couldn’t tell her; she already knew so much. “There’s four couriers, so four threads to this mission. I’m supposed to land in England on December twenty-first, not before, not later. I don’t know when the others will get there—before? On the same day? Regardless, having others involved means I can’t rush. As things stand, traveling up the Danube, then crossing to the Rhine and taking another boat downriver will get me to the Channel at about the right time.”

After a moment, she asked, “So if you get to the Channel coast too early, you’ll have to wait before you cross?”

He nodded. “And there’s sure to be cultists thronging that shore.” He sighed. “We got to Constanta earlier than I, or indeed Wolverstone, anticipated. We had a quick and undisturbed journey from Bombay until there, something I certainly hadn’t expected.”

“You expected the cult to pursue you out of Bombay?”

“Yes. But they missed us entirely.” He shifted, a familiar restlessness building, frustration over having to consistently take evasive action rather than stand and fight. “If we’d gone on by road from Buda and weren’t stopped along the way, we’d be on the Channel coast weeks too early. That’s one reason why, as much as the pace irks, we opted to go via the rivers.”

After a moment she asked, “Were there other reasons for your choice?”

“A number. If we traveled by road, we’d need to be constantly on guard. On land, no matter where we stopped the chance of a cult attack would be very real. Worse, when they attack they don’t care who else gets hurt—they have a penchant for using fire to flush their quarry out, and if innocents die as well … they simply don’t care. They’ll happily set fire to a crowded inn with no thought for who else might be killed.”

He straightened. “Against that, the riverboats are too small and their crews too few for the cult to easily slip anyone on board, either as a stowaway or a last minute addition to the crew, so the boat itself is safe. Setting fire to a boat on the river in this weather is also as close to impossible as makes no odds, so we don’t have to fear that. We still need to keep watch for anyone sneaking aboard, but the crew and passengers help with that—if anyone sees someone who isn’t crew or passenger, they’ll sound an alarm, and that person will be caught. On top of that, most cultists can’t swim, most can’t even row worth a damn, which further decreases the chance of them sneaking onto the boat while it’s on the river. Those cultists who can swim or row have most likely been sent to the Mediterranean, to the Channel, or to other ports.”

“So while crossing Europe, you’re safer on the river than on the roads, staying at inns.”

“I know there are cultists keeping watch for us—forme—all through Europe. I’m running a gauntlet of sorts. But I’m wagering on the chance—and I think it’s a real chance—that the cult won’t think to watch the rivers at all. The Black Cobra, Ferrar, would, but it’s entirely possible he’s sent his men to watch and not thought to specifically name each and every route. Why would he? So there were cultists in Constanta and Buda, but they were watching the roads, not the river. I expect there’ll be cultists stationed in every city, in every large town. But the cultists themselves won’t think of the rivers as highways. With any luck, they won’t have any inkling we’re traveling this way.”

He fell silent. As a commander he was happy with the choice he’d made; it was the right one, he had no doubt of that.

As a soldier, he’d rather face action than flee.

But he knew his duty, and that wasn’t to be. This time he was the rabbit and he had to run.

She’d fallen silent, too. But, oddly, it felt comfortable; he didn’t feel obliged to make conversation simply to fill the quiet.

Nor, apparently, did she. As the silence lingered, he glanced at her face. She’d lifted it to the breeze; errant tendrils of dark hair streamed back from the porcelain oval of her face.

Although her eyes had been closed, she must have sensed him looking; her lids rose and she slanted him a glance. It lingered, too, then she looked forward. “The cultists in Buda didn’t notice you leaving, so they—the cult—don’t know you’re on the river, don’t know you’re on this boat.”

It occurred to him that she might feel threatened. “No. And until one of them sees and identifies me, this boat and all who sail on her are under no threat at all.”

From his tone, Loretta realized that he’d thought she was worried. She didn’t correct him, but that hadn’t been the reason for her questions, her interest.

Straightening from the rail, she murmured, “It’ll be time to dress for dinner soon. I’ll see you at table.”

She left him by the rail and headed for her cabin. Every time she spoke with him, every morsel more about his mission she teased from him, only gave her more to think about.

Only enthralled her more.

November 27, 1822
The
Uray Princep
on the Danube

L
oretta tossed and turned. It was night, and all the passengers had retired to their beds long ago. Doubtless all were snoring.

Lifting her head, she thumped her pillow, laid her head back down, and closed her eyes. She willed herself to sleep.

Within a minute, her mind had drifted … to cultists. To what one might look like. To what weapons they would carry.

To how many Rafe Carstairs had fought and dispatched.

To Rafe Carstairs.

“Arrgh!” Sitting up, she hesitated, then, hearing nothing from the stateroom’s sitting room beyond her door, she threw back the covers and climbed out of the berth.

Enough moonlight washed in through the porthole for her to find her boots and pelisse. Pulling them on, she fastened the pelisse tight to her neck, wrapped a shawl about her head and shoulders, then eased open her cabin door.

The sitting room was deserted. Moonlight washed through the wide windows on either side of the prow. Quietly closing her door, she walked silently to the stateroom door, opened it, and slipped out into the corridor.

Moments later she pushed through the swinging doors near the bar and trudged up the stairs to the observation deck. A turn about the deck in the cold, damp air would, she hoped, settle her enough for sleep.

She had to get her mind off Rafe Carstairs.

Just because she was now involved in his mission didn’t mean she had to draw close to him. She didn’t need to understand him to play her part.

Stepping onto the deck, she straightened, and looked toward the prow.

And saw him standing there, watching her.

“Wonderful!” she muttered. Then again, she should have guessed. He had mentioned keeping watch to ensure no cultist slipped on board.

She debated simply waving and going downstairs again, but she wasn’t that cowardly.

Drawing her shawl close, she walked across the deck. As she neared, she stated in an even tone, “I couldn’t sleep, so came to get some air.”

His brows arched, but when she marched to the rail and stood looking out, a good yard and more between them, he obligingly turned back to his own staring out at the night.

He didn’t say anything.

As the silence stretched, she again felt an almost physical compulsion to sidle closer, to ease nearer to his heat. She wasn’t all that cold, yet the urge only grew.

She focused on the river, the scenery. “I hadn’t realized the view at night would be so … poetic.” The change was striking. “The moon makes everything look ethereal, as if its light reveals some things and hides others, and the river mist softens and screens like a veil, all mystery and illusion.” She raised her gaze. “I didn’t notice earlier that we can see all the way to the mountains.” The moonlight glimmered on the distant peaks, turning the snowcaps pearlescent. “They look so fantastical in this light, as if they guard some magical faraway place that only intrepid travelers will ever see.”

He’d turned his head to look at the mountains. From the corner of her eye, she saw his lips quirk.

Eventually, he spoke. “Those are among the highest mountains in Europe, but after seeing the Himalayas, these look like mere hills.”

“You visited the Himalayas?” She didn’t have to fabricate her interest. “What were they like? Are they as majestic as people say?”

Rafe smiled. “More. They’re … intensely impressive. The sort of sight that literally leaves you breathless.”

“Did you see them in winter or summer? Are they ever without snow?”

Shifting to face her, he answered her questions—letting his eyes drink in her face, her expressive features just visible in the moonlight. He kept his tone even, his answers factual, and resisted the building, welling urge to reach out and draw her near. Nearer. Much closer. Until he could feel her warmth, her curves, against him.

But as that couldn’t be, he could at least distract her. He knew all about not being able to sleep.

So he talked and she listened. She was good at that, at giving her complete attention to something—in this case, him. Or at least his memories. Her fixed attention was some consolation.

Eventually, she sighed. She glanced around. Contrary to how he was feeling, she seemed more at peace.

After a moment, she looked at him and smiled. “Thank you for talking with me. I believe I can sleep now.” Her smile deepened a fraction as she turned away. “Good night.”

“Good night.” If she noticed his farewell was a trifle gravelly, she gave no sign. He watched until she disappeared down the stairs, then, regretfully accepting that he couldn’t follow her, turned back to stare at the river.

Regaining her cabin without incident, Loretta stripped off her pelisse, then sat on her berth and unbuttoned her boots. Falling into her bed, she dragged the covers over her shoulders.She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, wondering why she felt so … light.

So at ease.

All they’d done was talk about scenery.

Closing her eyes, she saw him in her mind’s eye, standing against the rail in the moonlight. She felt her lips curve….

And fell asleep.

The next afternoon, Loretta was sitting in a deck chair on the observation deck embroidering in the weak sunshine when Rafe drew another chair up alongside and dropped into it.

After a moment, she glanced at him. He’d stretched out his long legs, leaned back, and closed his eyes. But she caught a glimmer of blue beneath his lashes.

“Strange,” he murmured, “but I hadn’t taken you for the embroidering type.”

She smiled and looked back at her work. “I don’t embroider much usually, but during this trip I’ve frequently given thanks I remembered to pack my embroidery bag. When she’s not actively doing, Esme is relatively quiet—she’s not a big talker.”

“How do you come to be traveling with her? Is she your only relative?”

“Oh, no. In fact, until she came and whisked me away on this adventure, I hadn’t seen Esme in years.”

“But she’s your great-aunt.”

“Yes, but she’s led a very active life. Her husband was a high-ranking diplomat and he was sent all over Europe to represent our government at this court or that, and of course Esme went with him. He passed away last year, and Esme was stuck in Scotland sorting out his estate until recently. To celebrate the end of that, she decided to visit many of the cities where she and Richard had spent time—hence this trip.”

“And she chose you to accompany her? You must be her favorite great-niece.”

“No—just the one who could leave London at a moment’snotice. My sisters are both married, and we’re all the family Esme has, at least on her side.”

Rafe searched for a question that would get her to reveal more about herself and her family. He couldn’t ask directly, but asking about Esme had got him some tidbits.

After a moment, he ventured, “Where had you visited before Buda?”

She named a string of cities from Paris, through France, then Spain and Italy. “From Trieste, we came to Buda.”

He knew Spain and France well, enough to guess how long they’d been away. “So you left London … when? In September?”

“The eighteenth. Esme descended and whisked me up and we were in Dover that night.”

He’d been away for decades, but some things he hadn’t forgotten—like his older sisters’ excitement over the Little Season. “So you left just before the Little Season started?”

She nodded.

He cast again, a little more directly. “Unless things have changed dramatically since I was last in town, I’m surprised Esme was able to inveigle you away from the balls and parties. Your mother must be a lot more accommodating than mine.”

Her lips curved, but from this angle he wasn’t sure it was in a smile. “My parents are dead—it was my eldest brother Esme had to convince, and I assure you when she has the bit between her teeth, it takes someone a great deal more resolute than Robert to deny her.”

“But what about you?” The crucial question. “Weren’t you looking forward to whirling giddily around Almack’s floor?”

She gave a little snort—of derision?

“I assure you Esme didn’t have to argue her case with me.” She set a stitch, then added, “I have little real passion for ballrooms—my interests lie elsewhere.”

“Indeed?”

He waited, hoping, but all she gave by way of answer was a “Hmm.”

He wanted to know more. Why he wasn’t sure, but when did Reckless ever stop to work out the reasons behind his impulsive acts? That would make them “not reckless.”

If he couldn’t be his usual self with respect to his mission, then he needed an outlet, and he’d decided she was it. That was answer enough.