Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

It was Royce who asked, “How?”

Emily drew in a breath, reached out and picked up the scroll holder, then, still standing, lightly tapping it in her hand, she talked them, walked them, through her plan.

None of them liked it, of course, but…all had to admit that it was so unexpected, it just might work.

“And you’ll all be there, within hailing range at least,” she pointed out with exemplary patience. “Not that anything is likely to go wrong. There’s no reason to imagine I’ll be in any real danger.”

Many still looked like they wanted to grumble, but then Royce looked at the map. “Assuming we do this, where, exactly, would we stage this charade?”

“We need hedges,” Demon said, “so that means before the point where the attack is most likely-which is just as well.”

Gareth rose from his chair, caught Emily’s sleeve. When she arched her brows, he took her elbow and steered her across to the window seat.

He halted facing the window, his back to the room, with her beside him. His face felt like stone. “You can’t do this.” He kept his voice low, but even he could hear the tension in his tone. “It’s too dangerous.”

Head tilting, she regarded him for a moment, then quietly said, “Yes, there’s an element of danger involved, but only because we can’t predict everything. On balance…this is our best way forward, and you know it.”

“I may know it, but that’s not the point.” He shifted restlessly. “You know what we discussed-our future. You know how much you mean to me-”

Emily cut him off with a hand on his arm, even though the words were music to her ears. “I know what we discussed. Trust. Partnership. Sharing in all things.” She waited until he glanced her way, caught his gaze and held it. “I have to do this, Gareth, for myself as well as to help you and the others, and you have to let me do it. This time you have to support, not lead. You have to support me so I can do what only I can.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I told you-our life together has already began. We’ve already started a life partnership, and, in this, you have to honor it.” She gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel the muscles beneath the fabric all steel. “Honor is the guiding principle you live by, and today, in this, honor dictates you let me knowingly take a calculated risk.”

“I don’t like being forced into…some kind of test.”

She inclined her head. “No more do I. This situation isn’t by my choice, but the Black Cobra and his machinations have brought us to this. All our travels, all the attacks, all the fighting and escapes-they’ll mean little if we don’t see it through to the end, and wring everything we can from the final hand we’ve been dealt.”

His eyes searched hers; she sensed his resistance wavering.

Letting her lips curve in wry affection, she leaned closer. Eyes still locked with his, she murmured, “You’re strong enough to do this, and so am I-and we’ll never forgive ourselves if we don’t try.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed. Lips still tight, he nodded. “All right.”

They returned to the table to find the point for her excursion had been settled as just beyond the turnoff to Glemsford and Clare, just before the stretch Demon had described as perfect for an attack. “It’s likely,” Demon said, “that they’ll be in a stand of trees just here, and so be able to see you clearly.”

Emily looked at the map, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Then she looked at the faces around the table. “Time is passing, gentlemen-shall we get on?”

T hey drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister and Mooktu had stared at Gareth as if he’d lost his mind, but Mullins-who knew her best-had nodded. “Worth a try,” he’d said, then clambered up to his seat.

Emily wished the others had rather more faith in her histrionic abilities, but as the carriage rolled steadily north toward Bury St. Edmunds, she put their faint hearts firmly from her mind and concentrated on what she had to do.

The impression she had to convey, not with words, but in actions.

If she succeeded, she would make a major contribution to the success of Gareth’s mission. She would be instrumental in bringing the fiend to justice-and for MacFarlane most of all, she was determined to do her best. To give her all.

She spied the signpost for the Glemsford turnoff just ahead. “Almost there. Stop the coach.”

Gareth reached up; as the lane flashed by on their left, he rapped on the carriage roof. Immediately, the horses slowed.

When the carriage rocked to a halt, she glanced out, and mentally blessed Demon Cynster-the road just there was lined with high, thick hawthorn hedges, brown and leafless now, but still dense enough for her purpose. And a few steps back there was a stile.

She glanced at Gareth, squeezed his hand, felt his fingers return the pressure, then he reluctantly released her. “Wish me luck.”

His eyes darkened. “Just come back soon, and put me out of my misery.”

She had to fight to banish her smile as she swung the door open and climbed out onto the step, then clambered down to the road. Clutching her muff, into which the scroll holder had just fitted-thank goodness it was winter-she marched the few paces back down the road to the stile. Nearing it, she turned, looked, and made imperious “turn around” gestures at Mooktu and Bister, who as per their orders had turned to stare back at her.

Once they’d grudgingly complied, frowning, lips compressed, she strode to the stile and climbed over-as if intending to answer a call of nature.

But as soon as her feet hit the ground on the other side, and she was out of sight of the carriage, she let her demeanor change. Gone was all confidence. She bit her lip, glanced around furtively. Then she dragged in a breath, and scurried a little way along the hedge, further from the carriage.

Then she stopped. Halted, raised her head, then she let her shoulders slump again, and started pacing. Back and forth, one hand gesticulating-clearly arguing with herself. Desperately, as if at her wits’ end and unsure which of two equally bad options to choose.

Again she halted. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, then pulled the scroll holder from her muff and, without even glancing at it properly, raised it above her head, flourished it about-clearly so anyone watching would see-then thrust it deep into the hedge.

Grabbing up her skirts, she hurried back to the stile. She climbed over. Resuming her imperious, nose-in-the-air demeanor, she marched back to the carriage.

Inside the carriage, Gareth was waiting, his hand clamped around the door handle, tensed and ready to act, counting the minutes-waiting to hear her scream. His mind had thrown up all manner of horrible scenes. The cultists had bows and let fly at her. A number rode up, sabers flashing…he blanked out the resulting image, cursed. Yet when dealing with the Black Cobra, anything was possible.

He was literally quivering with the effort to remain still, to not open the door and rush out to see where she was, when he heard her footsteps returning.

The relief that swept him nearly brought him to his knees.

Then the door handle turned, tugged. Releasing it, he pushed back on the seat.

The door swung open and she was there, staring at him, a question in her eyes. He didn’t know what was in his face, but he managed to lift a hand and beckon her inside.

She climbed up onto the step, leaned back to order, “Drive on!” then she ducked into the carriage, slammed the door behind her, and fell onto the seat opposite.

The smile that wreathed her face was nothing short of radiant.