The Reckless Bride Read online

  “No. I don’t think anyone here is a cult hireling. I just thought to get another opinion.” He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  With that he wandered off, leaving her staring after him. Telling herself there was no need to feel so thrilled.

  He stopped to chat with one of the Austrian couples. Loretta’s gaze shifted to Esme. She was pleased to see her great-aunt deep in conversation with two of the other ladies. With any luck, the other couples would distract Esme from her latest scheme. Her certain-to-be-doomed latest scheme.

  Rafe Carstairs was too dashing, too handsome, too daring, altogether too adventurous for Loretta’s taste.

  Or, more to the point, for her to suit his.

  She was determined to do nothing to further Esme’s purpose, but when Loretta entered the dining salon that evening she was woefully aware that her attire did not support her aim.

  Between them, Esme, Gibson, and Rose had managed to “lose” every demure gown Loretta had brought with her. If she didn’t want to appear in her chemise, she had to wear one of the gowns Esme had delighted in purchasing for her in Paris and Rome. Each a unique creation, the gowns showcased her figure, highlighted her eyes, and made the most of every asset she possessed.

  Accepting the inevitable, she’d chosen the most severe of the evening gowns, a creation in midnight blue silk that by its very severity made her, in it, appear more softly feminine. As she stepped into the salon, she hoped Rafe and everyone else would see only the severe style and ignore the overall effect.

  He was seated with Esme at a table across the room. He glanced up before she was even halfway there.

  If his reaction was any indication, her hopes were doomed. He stared, his gaze locked on her; he was patently no longer listening to Esme.

  Who had noticed, and looked smug.

  As she neared the table, Loretta started to frown. At him. She didn’t appreciate the effect of his attention. It sent warmth stealing through her; not a blush, but something that reached deeper.

  She halted at the table as he rose. Slowly, his gaze very slowly rising to her face.

  She inclined her head curtly. “Sir.” She looked across the table vase at Esme. “Ma’am.”

  Feeling as if his head had been struck by a mallet, Rafe pulled out the chair opposite Esme’s, held it while Loretta sat.

  The captain chose that moment to join them, taking the last seat at the table, opposite Rafe.

  Resuming his seat, Rafe felt torn by contradictory reactions—annoyed to have the captain vying for Loretta’s attention, while simultaneously immeasurably glad that he was.

  He needed to exorcise his feelings for Loretta Michelmarsh. This was neither the time nor place to be overcome with lust.

  Ruthlessly suppressing his inclinations, he gave his attention to Esme, and strove to keep it there, sadly with mixed results.

  Next time, he vowed, he’d seat Loretta opposite him. That way, their hands would have no chance to brush, to touch—however inadvertently, however innocently—as they passed this and that.

  By the end of the meal, his nerves felt rubbed raw.

  It was little consolation that, he suspected, she felt the same.

  At last the company rose and headed into the salon for digestifs and wider conversation. After drawing back Loretta’s chair, then following her into the salon, he thereafter strove to keep at least six feet between them.

  Loretta circled the room, every nerve tight. If he touched her again, just tapped her arm, she was sure she would jump like a startled hare. She’d never felt the like, not ever, and could have done without feeling it now.

  And the affliction was only growing worse. She’d been sure it would fade, but no. Even though he stood at the far end of the room and she was fighting to pay attention to Herr Gruber’s story about his and his wife’s excursion to Go-dolloCastle—a place she was actually interested in hearing about—she, her nerves, her senses, were much more acutely aware of Rafe Carstairs.

  How she was going to deal with it—with him—she had no clue.

  As matters stood, it was shaping up to be a very long journey home.

  Shortly after dawn the next morning, Rafe climbed to the observation deck to relieve Hassan, who had kept watch through the small hours. After reporting no activity of any kind, Hassan retreated to his cabin to get some sleep.

  Alone, Rafe paced the open deck, welcoming the chill breeze off the river, eyes scanning the largely flat fields rolling back from the banks to meet the foothills of the distant mountains. Snowcaps gleamed as the sun touched the peaks. The sky was a tapestry of shifting clouds, thick enough to block the sun. Waterbirds wheeled overhead, disturbed by the passage of the boat.

  He fought to keep his attention on his surroundings, to engage his mind with evaluating the potential for ambush, likely hiding places, the chances of cultists getting close enough to board.

  Anything to keep his mind from his dreams, from the increasingly explicit images that had taken root in his imagination.

  To keep his thoughts from the woman of said dreams who he’d learned was sleeping in the cabin next to his.

  “It is a fine morning, is it not?”

  Rafe swung to see the captain coming toward him from the bridge. Rafe inclined his head, politely said, “I imagine the weather can turn nasty at this time of year.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” The captain nodded sagely, halting two paces away. “However, Herr Jordan, I wished to ask why you and your friend are so watchful—even to standing guard through the night.” Shrewd eyes fixed on Rafe’s face. “Is there something I should know?”

  Rafe considered, then said, “Two days before we left Buda, before she hired myself and Rivers, Lady Congreve was attacked in the street. We assumed it was merely street thieves, but … it seemed wise to keep watch. Lady Congreve has been a party to many diplomatic missions over the years. No telling who might decide they hold a grudge.”

  The captain’s brows had risen; concern filled his eyes. “I would be very sorry were any harm to befall Lady Congreve while she was on my boat.”

  Rafe said nothing.

  The captain regarded him for several moments, then said, “If there is anything I or my crew might do to assist, you have but to ask.”

  “Thank you.” Rafe half bowed. “I don’t expect anything to come of it, but should anything happen, that’s good to know.”

  Late that afternoon, Loretta was forced to escape the salon to avoid responding too sharply to the pointed comments of the other ladies, artfully orchestrated by Esme, on the subject of one too-handsome ex-captain.

  Exasperated, she climbed to the observation deck, certain that, with the brisk wind currently strafing across the river, it would be deserted.

  It was. Except for the subject of the conversations she’d just fled.

  She hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering where else she could go, but then he glanced back and saw her dithering. Lifting her chin, she calmly—much more calmly than she felt—stalked forward to join him at the forward rail.

  This couldn’t go on; she was going to have to get over her reaction to him. Perhaps heightened exposure would deaden her senses.

  He was leaning on the rail. She was grateful that, as she halted beside him, he didn’t straighten, leaving his head level with hers.

  He didn’t say anything, either, simply watched her for amoment, then, when she kept her gaze locked on the river before them, faced forward, too.

  Irritation, frustration, a certain level of anger; she felt those emotions well and churn. A good foot separated them, yet her senses were rioting; she felt an insane, irrational, nearly overwhelming desire to shift to her right, close the distance between them and snuggle into his warmth, the warmth she could feel reaching for her, a seductive lure, protection against the wind, and something more.

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

  She made no e
ffort 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.

  Three

  November 27, 1822

  The Uray Princep on the Danube

  Loretta 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 sof
tens 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.