Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Distantly she registered that, in common female parlance, these men would be termed “impressive,” with their broad chests, their height and their air of rugged physical strength. She was surprised she hadn’t seen them in any of the drawing rooms she’d visited with her aunt over recent months.

Another captain-blonder than MacFarlane-and two majors, one with light brown hair…she had to tug her gaze on to the other major, the one with rakish dark hair, then she finally found the colonel among them-presumably Delborough. He had dark hair, too.

She halted before him, lifted her gaze to his face, set her teeth against the emotions surging about the table; she couldn’t let them draw her in. Down. Make her cry. She’d cried enough when she’d reached her uncle’s house, and she hadn’t known MacFarlane as, from the intensity of their feelings, these four had. “Colonel Delborough?”

The colonel inclined his head, dark eyes searching her face. “Ma’am?”

“I’m Emily Ensworth, the governor’s niece. I…” Recalling MacFarlane’s instructions-Delborough’s hands and no others-she glanced at the other three. “If I could trouble you for a word in private, Colonel?”

Delborough hesitated, then said, “Every man about this table is an old friend and colleague of James MacFarlane. We were all working together. If your business with me has anything to do with James, I would ask that you speak before us all.”

His eyes were weary, and so sad. One glance at the others, at their rigid expressions-so contained-and she nodded. “Very well.”

There was an empty chair between the two majors. The brown-haired one held it for her.

She briefly met his eyes, a tawnier hazel than her own. “Thank you.” Ignoring the sudden flutter in her stomach, she sat. Determinedly directing her gaze forward, she found herself staring at a three-quarters empty bottle of arrack at the table’s center.

With a shuffle of chairs, the men resumed their seats.

She glanced at Delborough. “I realize it might be irregular, but if I could have a small glass of that…?”

He met her eyes. “It’s arrack.”

“I know.”

He signaled to the barboy to bring another glass. While they waited, beneath the table’s edge she opened her reticule and drew out MacFarlane’s packet.

The boy delivered the glass, and Delborough poured a half measure.

With a smile that went awry, she accepted it and took a small sip. The sharp taste made her nose wrinkle, but her uncle had allowed her to partake of the liquor in an experimental fashion; she knew of its fortifying properties. She took a larger sip, then lowered the glass. Quashing the impulse to look at the brown-haired major, she fixed her gaze on Delborough. “I asked at the gate and they told me. I’m very sorry that Captain MacFarlane didn’t make it back.”

Delborough’s expression couldn’t get any stonier, but he inclined his head. “If you could tell us what happened from the beginning, it would help us understand.”

They’d been MacFarlane’s friends; they needed to know. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “We started very early from Poona.”

She told the story simply, without embellishment.

When she reached the point where she’d parted from the gallant captain, she paused and drained her glass. “I tried to argue, but he would have none of it. He drew me aside-ahead-and gave me this.” She lifted the packet. Laying it on the table, she pushed it toward Delborough. “Captain MacFarlane asked me to bring this to you.”

She finished her tale in the minimum of words, ending with, “He turned back with a few men, and the rest came with me.”

When she fell silent, the distracting major on her left shifted. Spoke gently. “And you sent them back when you came within sight of safety.” When she glanced his way, met his hazel eyes, he added, “You did the best you could.”

The instant she’d sighted Bombay, she’d insisted all but two of the troop return to help their comrades; unfortunately, they’d been too late.

Setting a hand on the packet, Delborough drew it to him. “And you did the right thing.”

She blinked several times, then lifted her chin, her gaze on the packet. “I don’t know what’s in that-I didn’t look. But whatever it is…I hope it’s worth it, worth the sacrifice he made.” She raised her gaze to Delborough’s. “I’ll leave it in your hands, Colonel, as I promised Captain MacFarlane I would.” She pushed back from the table.

They all rose. The brown-haired major drew back her chair. “Allow me to organize an escort for you back to the governor’s house.”

She inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Major.” Who was he? Her nerves were fluttering again. He was standing closer than before; she didn’t think her lightheadedness was due to the arrack.

Forcing her attention to Delborough and the other two, she nodded. “Good evening, Colonel. Gentlemen.”

“Miss Ensworth.” They all bowed.

Turning, she strolled back down the verandah, the major pacing slowly alongside. She waved to Idi, who fell into step behind her.

She glanced at the major’s carefully blank expression, then cleared her throat. “You all knew him well, I take it?”

He glanced at her. “He’d served with us, alongside us, for over eight years. He was a comrade, and a close friend.”

She’d noticed their uniforms, but now it struck her. She looked at the major. “You’re not regulars.”

“No.” His lips twisted. “We’re Hastings’s own.”

The Marquess of Hastings, the Governor-General of India. This group, and MacFarlane, had worked directly for him? “I see.” She didn’t, but she felt sure her uncle would be able to enlighten her.

They emerged onto the verandah steps.

“If you’ll wait here for a moment?”

It wasn’t really a question. She halted and, with Idi beside her, watched as the major raised a hand, attracting the attention of a sepoy sergeant drilling his troop on the maidan.

The sergeant quickly presented himself. With a few words, the major organized a group of sepoys to escort her back to the governor’s residence deeper in the town.

His innate yet understated air of command, and the attentiveness and willingness-even eagerness-of the sergeant to obey, were as impressive as his physical presence.

As the sepoys hurried to form up before the steps, Emily turned to the soldier beside her and held out her hand. “Thank you, Major…?”

He took her hand in a warm, strong clasp, met her eyes briefly, then half bowed. “Major Gareth Hamilton, Miss Ensworth.” Releasing her, he looked at the well-ordered sepoys, nodded his approval, then turned again to her.

Again met her eyes. “Please. Be careful.”

She blinked. “Yes, of course.” Her heart was thumping unusually quickly. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers around hers. Drawing in a much-needed breath, she inclined her head and stepped down to the dusty ground. “Good evening, Major.”

“Good evening, Miss Ensworth.”

Gareth stood on the steps and watched Emily Ensworth walk away across the sunburned ground toward the massive fort gates. With her porcelain complexion, rose-tinted and pure, her delicate features and soft brown hair, she looked so quintessentially English, so much the epitomization of lovely English maids he’d carried with him through all his years of service.

That had to be the reason he felt as if he’d just met his future.

But it couldn’t be her, couldn’t be now.

Now, duty called.

Duty, and the memory of James MacFarlane.

Turning, he climbed the steps and went back inside.

3rd September, 1822

My room in the Governor’s Residence, Bombay