The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material Read online

  Contents

  The Untamed Bride

  Prelude to The Black Cobra Quartet

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Dear Reader

  The Elusive Bride

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  The Brazen Bride

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  The Reckless Bride

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  About the Author

  Other Books by Stephanie Laurens

  Copyright - The Untamed Bride

  Copyright - The Elusive Bride

  Copyright - The Brazen Bride

  About the Publisher

  The Untamed Bride

  STEPHANIE

  LAURENS

  The

  Untamed

  Bride

  THE BLACK COBRA QUARTET

  Prelude to The Black Cobra Quartet

  India, 1822

  March 24, 1822

  East India Company Headquarters, Calcutta, India

  I can’t stress how important it is that we behead this fiend.” Francis Rawdon-Hastings, Marquess of Hastings and Governor-General of India for the last nine years, stumped back and forth behind his desk.

  The five officers at ease in the elegant rattan armchairs arranged before the massive mahogany expanse in the Governor-General’s study sat silent and still; Hastings’s passage was the only movement stirring the heavy, humid air.

  The old man’s color was high, his fists clenched, the muscles in his shoulders and arms taut. Colonel Derek Delborough, Del to all who knew him, seated at one end of the row of chairs, eyed the signs of his commander-in-chief’s agitation with cynical detachment. It had taken Hastings long enough to summon him and his men, Hastings’s personally appointed special officers.

  Behind Hastings, the white plaster wall was broken by two teak-framed windows shaded by the wide balcony beyond yet already shuttered against the burgeoning heat. Hanging between, a portrait of the king, painted when he’d still been Prince Florizel and the darling of Europe, stared out over this outpost of English wealth and influence. The room was amply endowed with rosewood tables and teak cabinets, many intricately carved and inlaid, glowing in the light that seeped through the shutters to glint off myriad ornate brass fittings.

  Airy, spotlessly clean, richly and exotically appointed, the room possessed a timeless serenity underlying its utilitarian function, much like the subcontinent itself, a large portion over which Hastings now ruled.

  Immune to any soothing ambience, Hastings continued to pace heavily. “These depredations on our convoys cannot go on—we’re losing face with every day that passes, with every attack that goes unanswered.”

  “I understand”—Del’s own drawl was the epitome of unruffled calm, a sharp contrast to Hastings’s terse tones—“that the Black Cobra’s activities have been escalating for some time.”

  “Yes, damn it! And the Bombay station didn’t think it worthwhile reporting, let alone acting, until a few months ago, and now they’re bleating that the situation’s beyond them.” Pausing by the center of his desk, Hastings exasperatedly rifled a stack of documents, fanning out a selection before pushing them across the polished surface. “These are some of the recent reports—just so you know what anarchy you’re heading into.”

  The four men seated to Del’s right glanced his way. At his nod, they reached out and took one of the documents each; sitting back, they perused the reports.

  “I’ve heard,” Del went on, reclaiming Hastings’s attention, “that the cult of the Black Cobra first reared its head in ’19. Does it have any previous history, or was that its inception?”

  “That was the first inkling we had, and the locals in Bombay hadn’t heard of it before then. No saying it hadn’t been lurking in some backwater somewhere—God knows there’s enough of these secretive native cults—but there’s no reports, even from the older maharajahs, of its existence prior to mid-’19.”

  “A de novo cult suggests the arrival of a particular leader.”

  “Indeed, and it’s him you’ll need to eliminate. Either that, or do enough damage to his forces”—Hastings flung a hand at the documents the other four were reading—“the rabble he uses to murder, rape and pillage, to make him scurry back under whatever rock he slithered out from.”

  “‘Murder, rape and pillage’ hardly does the Black Cobra justice.” Major Gareth Hamilton, one of the four officers who served under Del, glanced up, his brown gaze pinning Hastings. “This reads more like deliberate terrorization of villages, which suggests an attempt to subjugate. For a cult, that’s ambitious—an attempt to seize power beyond the usual bleeding of money and goods.”

  “Establishing a yoke of fear.” Captain Rafe Carstairs, seated three seats along from Del, joined Gareth in tossing the report he’d read back on the desk. Rafe’s aristocratic features showed evidence of distaste, even disgust, which told Del that the contents of the report Rafe had read were truly dreadful.

  All five of them seated before Hastings’s desk had seen human carnage unimaginable to most; as a group they’d served through the Peninsula campaign in the cavalry under Paget, then been in the thick of the action at Waterloo, and had subsequently taken commissions with the Honorable East India Company to serve under Hastings as an elite group of officers deployed specifically to deal with the worst uprisings and instabilities the subcontinent had thrown up over the past seven years.

  Seated between Gareth and Rafe, Major Logan Monteith’s lip curled as, with a flick of his tanned wrist, he sent the report he’d read skating to join the others on the desk. “This Black Cobra makes Kali and her thugees look civilized.”

  Beyond Rafe, the last and youngest of their five, Captain James MacFarlane, still faintly baby-faced even though he was twenty-nine, leaned forward and carefully laid the document he’d perused with the others. “Has Bombay no clue as to who’s behind this? No trail—no associates, no area in which the Cobra has its headquarters?”

  “After more than five months of active searching, Bombay has precisely nothing beyond a suspicion that some of the Maratha princelings have been drawn into clandestinely supporting the cult.”

  Rafe snorted. “Any fool could have predicted that. Ever since we slapped them down in ’18, they’ve been spoiling for a fight—any fight, they’re not particular.”

  “Exactly.” Hastings’s tone was
acid, biting. “As you know, Ensworth is now governor in Bombay. He’s performing well in all other respects, but he’s all diplomat, no military man, and he freely admits that when it comes to the Black Cobra he’s in over his head.” Hastings’s gaze raked them, coming to rest on Del. “Which is where you gentlemen come in.”

  “I take it,” Del said, “that Ensworth isn’t going to get his nose out of joint when we ride into his patch.”

  “On the contrary—he’ll welcome you with open arms. He’s at his wits’ end trying to reassure the merchants while simultaneously balancing the books for London—not easy when every fifth convoy is plundered.” Hastings paused, and for a moment the strain of managing the far-flung empire India had become showed in his face. Then his jaw firmed, and he met their gazes. “I can’t overstate the importance of this mission. The Black Cobra has to be stopped. Its depredations and the atrocities committed in its name have reached a level that threatens not just the Company, but England herself—not just in terms of trade, but in stature, and you’ve all been here long enough to know how vital the latter is to our nation’s continuing interests. And lastly”—with his head he indicated the reports on his desk—“it’s India, and the people in those villages, who need the Cobra removed.”

  “No argument there.” Rafe came out of his characteristic lounge and rose to his feet as Del and the others did.

  Hastings let his gaze travel over them as they ranged shoulder-to-shoulder before his desk, a solid wall of red in their uniforms. They were all over six feet tall, ex-Guardsmen all, hardened by long years of battle and command. Experience etched their features, even MacFarlane’s; worldly knowledge colored their eyes.

  Satisfied with what he saw, Hastings nodded. “Your mission, gentlemen, is to identify and capture the Black Cobra, and bring him to justice. You have a free hand as to ways and means. I care not how you do it, as long as justice is seen—and known—to have been done. As usual, you may draw on the company’s account, and on its troops as seems fit.”

  Typically it was Rafe who put their collective thoughts into words, albeit his words. “You mentioned beheading.” His tone was light, his habitual ineffable charm on show, as if he were at some tea party and speaking of croquet. “With cults that’s usually the most effective approach. Can we take it you would rather we went direct for the leader—or are we to play cautious and try to defend the convoys wherever possible?”

  Hastings met Rafe’s guileless blue eyes. “You, Captain, wouldn’t know caution from your elbow.”

  Del’s lips twitched; from the corner of his eye, he saw Gareth’s do the same. Rafe, nicknamed “Reckless” for good cause, merely looked innocent, continuing to meet Hastings’s cynical gaze.

  Hastings humphed. “Your supposition is correct. I expect you to target the Black Cobra specifically, to identify and eliminate him. For the rest, do whatever you can, but the situation is urgent, and we can no longer afford caution.”

  Again Hastings’s gaze raked them. “You may interpret my orders in whatever way you wish—just bring the Black Cobra to justice.”

  August 15, five months later

  The Officers’ Mess

  The Honorable East India Company Bombay Station

  “Hastings did say we could interpret his orders as we wished—that we had a free hand as to ways and means.” Rafe settled his shoulders against the wall behind him, then raised one of the glasses the barboy had just set on the table, and took a long draft of cloudy amber beer.

  The five of them—Del, Gareth, Logan, Rafe and James—were seated around the corner table they’d claimed as theirs in the bar off the officers’ mess. They’d chosen that table because of its amenities, namely that it commanded an uninterrupted view of the entire bar—the enclosed front verandah of the officers’ mess—as well as the maidan beyond the verandah steps. In addition—the table’s principal recommendation—with thick stone walls at their back and along one side, there wasn’t anywhere anyone could stand unobserved by them, inside or out, and overhear their low-voiced discussions.

  The bamboo screens fitted between the verandah’s front pillars were presently lowered against the late afternoon sun and the dust stirred up by a troop of sepoys engaged in parade drills, leaving the bar wreathed in cooler shadows. A distant hum of conversation rose from two groups of officers seated further down the long verandah; the clink of billiard balls wafted from an alcove off the verandah’s far end.

  “True.” Gareth claimed a glass. “But I doubt the good marquess envisioned us going around him.”

  “I can’t see that we have any choice.” Along with the other three, Logan looked at Del.

  Staring into his beer, Del felt their gazes, looked up and met them. “If, as we believe, the Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar, then Hastings won’t thank us for bringing him the news.”

  “But he’ll still act on it, surely?” James reached for the last glass left on the tray.

  Del glanced at him. “Did you notice the portrait behind Hastings’s desk?”

  “The one of Prinny?”

  Del nodded. “That’s not company property, but Hastings’s own. He owes his appointment to Prinny—pardon me, His Majesty—and knows he can never forget it. If, presuming we can find it, we take him incontrovertible proof that Ferrar is our villain, we’ll place him in the invidious position of having to decide which master to appease—his conscience, or his king.”

  Frowning, James turned his glass between his hands. “Is Ferrar really that untouchable?”

  “Yes.” Del’s voice was reinforced by Gareth’s, Logan’s and Rafe’s.

  “Hastings is beholden to the king,” Del explained, “and the king is beholden to Ferrar senior, the Earl of Shrewton. Furthermore, although he’s Shrewton’s second son, Ferrar is widely known to be his father’s favorite.”

  “Rumor,” Rafe said, leaning on the table, “has it that the king is in Shrewton’s pocket—not a situation all that hard to believe—so unless there’s some animosity between Hastings and Shrewton that no one knows of, odds are that Hastings will feel obliged to ‘lose’ any evidence we find.”

  Logan snorted. “Hell—I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the gold the Cobra is skimming off John Company’s profits isn’t, in a roundabout way, ending in His Majesty’s pocket.”

  “Hastings,” Gareth reminded them, “was very insistent that we ‘bring the Black Cobra to justice.’ He didn’t instruct us to capture him and deliver him to Bombay.” He looked at Del, arched a brow. “Do you think Hastings might suspect, and this—using us—is his way of gaining justice without offending his royal master?”

  Del’s lips twisted cynically. “The possibility has crossed my mind. Consider—it took us a bare two weeks to realize the Black Cobra either had someone in the governor’s office here, or else was himself a member of the governor’s staff. After that it took what?—six weeks?—of watching and noting which convoys were attacked to narrow it down to Ferrar. As the Governor of Bombay’s second adjutant, he and only he had knowledge of all the convoys attacked—others had the details for some, but only he had routes and times for all. Hastings has similar information stretching back for months. He has to have at least some suspicion of who’s behind the Black Cobra cult.”

  “Hastings,” Rafe said, “also knows when Roderick Ferrar took up his appointment here—in early ’19, five or so months before the first known appearance of the Black Cobra and his minions.”

  “Five months is long enough for a sharp lad like Ferrar to see the possibilities, make plans, and gather said minions,” Logan said. “More, as the governor’s adjutant, he’s had easy and officially sanctioned contact with the disaffected Maratha princelings—the same hotheads we now know have secretly ceded the Black Cobra their private robber gangs.”

  “Ferrar,” Del said, “reported to Hastings in Calcutta before joining the govenor’s staff here—a position our contacts back in Calcutta confirm he specifically requested. Ferrar could have had a position with Hast
ings at headquarters—it was his for the taking, and what eager-to-advance-in-the-company youngster wouldn’t rather work for the great man himself? But no, Ferrar requested a posting to Bombay, and was apparently quite satisfied with the second adjutant’s desk.”

  “Which makes one wonder,” Gareth said, “if the principal attraction of said desk was that it was the entire subcontinent away from Hastings’s potentially watchful eye.”

  “So, James, m’lad”—Rafe clapped the younger captain on the back—“all that suggests that instructing us to ‘bring the Black Cobra to justice,’ and to use whatever means we deem necessary to do it, is very likely a shrewd politician’s way of taking care of the matter.” Rafe met the others’ eyes. “And Hastings knows us well enough to be sure we’ll do his dirty work for him.”

  James glanced at the others’ faces, saw they all thought the same, and reluctantly nodded. “All right. So we bypass Hastings. But how do we do that?” He looked at Del. “Have you heard anything from England?”

  Del glanced along the verandah, verifying that no one else could possibly overhear. “A frigate came in this morning, with a very thick packet for me.”

  “From Devil?” Gareth asked.

  Del nodded. “A letter from him, and rather more from one of his peers—the Duke of Wolverstone.”

  “Wolverstone?” Rafe frowned. “I thought the old man was next thing to a recluse.”

  “He was,” Del replied. “The son—the current duke—is another matter. We know him—or rather know of him—under another name. Dalziel.”

  The other four’s eyes opened wide. “Dalziel was really Wolverstone?” James asked.

  “The then-Wolverstone’s heir, apparently,” Del replied. “The old man died late in ’16, after we got here.”

  Gareth was counting years. “Dalziel must have been retired by then.”

  “Presumably. Regardless, as Duke of St. Ives, Devil knows the new duke well. After reading my letter explaining our predicament, Devil showed it to Wolverstone, reasoning there could be no one better placed to advise us. If you recall, Dalziel was in charge of all British agents on foreign soil for a decade and more, and knows every trick when it comes to couriering sensitive information across the continent and into England. More, as Devil went to literary lengths to point out, Wolverstone is the peer best-placed to oppose Shrewton. Wolverstone owes the king nothing—if anything, the shoe is on the other foot, and His Majesty is well aware of it. If Wolverstone presents evidence that Ferrar junior is the Black Cobra, there’ll be nothing the king or Shrewton will dare do to derail the wheels of justice.”