Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

The coach jerked, then rolled on, picking up speed.

He cleared his throat. “All right?”

She bounced upright and beamed at him. “I think I just gave the performance of my life.”

He devoured her with his gaze, but forced himself to wait until the carriage rounded the next bend-having passed the long stretch deemed perfect for an attack without even sighting a cultist-then he leaned forward, seized her about her waist, lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.

On a hill to the southwest of the scroll holder’s new location, Royce, Del, Devil, and all the others, saving only Jack and Tristan, who were still in their roles of guards and shadowing the carriage on the other side of the road, waited and watched.

Spyglasses trained on the spot, they’d viewed Emily’s performance with critical detachment.

When the carriage door closed behind her and the carriage rumbled on, eventually passing through the field of likely attack and out of sight without challenge, Royce lowered his spyglass. “If I didn’t know better, I might just believe she’d lost her nerve entirely, and jettisoned what she sees as the cause of all their trouble.”

“The Black Cobra has a penchant for breaking people, men and women-of using fear to terrorize until whoever it is does what he wants-so her ploy stands a better-than-might-be-expected chance of succeeding.” Del kept his glass trained on the scroll holder in the hedge. “Ferrar is used to people giving him what he wants.”

“There go Jack and Tristan.” Lucifer Cynster pointed to where the two guards were fleetingly visible as they passed over a rise, heading north in the wake of the carriage.

“Wherever he is, Ferrar shouldn’t have missed seeing them,” Devil said.

“No, he shouldn’t.” Royce raised his glass again, focusing on the relevant section of hedge. “So as far as he knows, the scroll holder is just sitting there, waiting for him to send someone to fetch it. Even if he only half believes, I can’t see him leaving it. The need to have it-to know if it’s a copy or the original-will surely be too great for a man of his ilk to resist.”

Del snorted. “He’s never been denied anything in his life. He won’t resist. All we need to do is wait.”

In a dense stand of trees on a rise overlooking the stretch of road Roderick had decreed was the perfect place to attack the carriage, Roderick and Daniel stood with spyglasses to their eyes, staring at the scroll holder jammed in the hedge.

The body of cultists behind them, mounted and eager, just waiting for the order to attack, grew restive. Harness jingled; horses stamped. Eventually the leader, greatly daring, asked, “Sahib-the carriage…?”

Roderick didn’t draw his gaze from the hedge. “Leave it for the moment.” Distantly he added, “There’s still plenty of road between here and Bury.” To Daniel, he murmured, “What do you think?”

Daniel snorted, lowered his glass. “It’s a trap, of course. That damned woman rode like the devil to bring the letter down from Poona, then delivered it to Delborough. And then she attached herself to Hamilton, no doubt intending to avenge MacFarlane. So why would she suddenly give up-give the letter up-now?”

“Because she’s reached the end of her tether.” Roderick’s tone was one of utmost reasonableness. “We’ve seen it often enough. We attack and attack and keep the attacks coming, and eventually it all just gets too much. They’re nearly at the end of their journey, nearly through to safety. And it was she who left it behind. If it had been Hamilton or one of his men, I’d be much less likely to credit it-and the two guards have gone on, too.” Lowering his spyglass, Roderick smiled at Daniel. “So if it is a trap, who’s left to spring it?”

Daniel wasn’t convinced. “What about those others who trapped Larkins in the cathedral?”

“They’re from near Cambridge.” Roderick waved to the northwest. “If they’d thundered down here, we would have seen them.”

Daniel wasn’t so sure, but as the minutes ticked by and the scroll holder just sat there, in the pale light of the winter afternoon, he knew leaving it there wasn’t an option. “So what do you propose?”

“I’ll send one of the men to pick it up while the rest of us watch from up here. If there’s no sign of a trap, he’ll bring the holder to me, I’ll take whatever it contains, and ride for Bury.” Roderick glanced at Daniel. “By the lane-not the road. If they’re waiting ahead for me to come prancing by, the letter in my hand, they’ll be disappointed.”

That was Daniel’s greatest fear. Roderick seemed to have covered the weakness, but…Daniel’s thumbs were still pricking. “All right.” Snapping his spyglass shut, Daniel moved to his horse’s side, stuffed the glass in the saddlebag. “I’ll ride ahead and tell Alex of your unexpected success-how you retrieved the letter without losing more men.”

“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex should be impressed.”

Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.

Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an appropriate welcome. I said I’d get us out of this-and I am. Alex-and sadly, sometimes you, too, Daniel-would do well to remember who among us is Shrewton’s legitimate son.”

Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed-if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.

But now Daniel merely nodded, his expression saying nothing of such complex thoughts. “Alex and I will be waiting in Bury.” About to spur off, he paused to add, “Remember to come in the back way.”

Roderick waved him off, his attention returning to the holder in the hedge. “Don’t fret-I’ll come via the ruins.”

Daniel stared at him for a second, sensing again the shift in dynamic that had occurred since the three of them had stepped onto English soil. Then he turned his horse and made for the small lane that led north to Bury.

A cultist came out of a stand of trees to the north, from the position Demon had suggested any attack on the carriage along that most amenable stretch would come.

Unhurriedly, his eyes scanning the empty fields and the nearer copses, the cultist rode to where the scroll holder was jammed, leaned from his saddle and pulled it free.

He tucked it into the frieze coat he wore, sitting tall, surveying all about him.

“They’ve changed their turbans for hats,” Del murmured.

“But they’ve clung to their black silk scarves.” Gabriel was studying the man closely. “I can see quite a few weapons, too, and they look to be well cared for.”

“While most of the cultists we’ve stumbled on are foot soldiers, not well trained with arms, the men with Ferrar will be his closest guards-his elite. They’re cavalry trained, good with sabers, but they fight like we do-you won’t run into any surprises with them. The assassins are another matter-they fight with half swords and shorter knives. If you find yourself facing one of them, expect the unexpected. They fight to win whatever the cost.”

“There’s definitely other riders in the trees he came out from,” Demon reported. “Exactly how many, I can’t be sure, but a goodly number.”

“We’re looking for eighteen,” Royce said. “Could there be that many hidden there?”

Demon nodded. “Easily.”

Gervase was suddenly there. He’d gone down to the fields to get a different line of sight. “One of the gentlemen just left, riding hard up the lane over there.” He pointed to the west of Ferrar’s assumed position.