The Reckless Bride (17 page)

Gibson shoved and the man toppled, tied up like a parcel.

Mentally shaking his head, Rafe swung around. Saw the man he’d mowed down trying to struggle up, his long knife still in his hand.

Rafe stepped closer, kicked the knife away, and knocked the man out with his saber’s hilt.

Looking up, he saw Hassan disarm his opponent, then knock him out, too.

Straightening, Rafe looked around. Seven bodies strewed the church, but not one of them was dead.

“We haven’t killed anyone.” He glanced at Esme and Loretta. “I suggest we leave. Now.”

Both were shaken, yet showed no signs of hysteria. They’d taken in the situation, too. Both nodded.

But the four women paused to gather the fallen books.

Rather than argue, Rafe helped.

They quickly restacked the books and cushions, then the ladies smoothed down their skirts.

Rafe escorted Esme and Loretta up the aisle, steering them past the groaning men. Hassan followed, guiding Gibson and Rose.

In the foyer, the women straightened their coats and cloaks, then, spines straight, heads erect, walked out to where the two drivers waited with their traps, oblivious to the action inside the church.

Esme made a comment about the altar as Rafe helped her into one trap. Loretta responded, equally calmly.

Giving thanks once again for sensible females, Rafe joined them. A minute later, they were heading down the mountain and back to the boat.

Rafe didn’t relax until they were back on the boat. He saw the ladies to their stateroom; although she’d borne up well, he suspected Esme needed to rest and
compose herself.

Loretta seemed to agree. Her reserved façade had long slipped away; she was fiercely protective of her great-aunt as she helped her through the stateroom door.

Gibson and Rose had gone in ahead of Esme. Turning to shut the stateroom door, Loretta glanced at Rafe. “Thank you.”

He nodded, appearing distracted, already turning away.

She started closing the door, then saw him look down at his left upper arm. Gripping the sleeve, he tried to shift the fabric, winced.

Frowning, she paused, peered …

“Good God!” She pushed the door open again. “You’re wounded!”

The slash was on the back of his upper arm so she hadn’t noticed the cut in the material, and the dark color of his coat hid the bloodstain.

Grasping his elbow, she angled his arm to look. Taking in the damage, she felt her face set. “That needs tending. Come inside and sit down.”

She tugged, but he didn’t shift.

“It’s not that bad—I can manage.”

She looked up, narrowed her eyes. “How? You can’t even reach it properly, let alone see it.”

Rafe hated, positively hated, being fussed over. He blamed his mother and elder sisters. He met Loretta’s eyes, a flippant response on his tongue.

Her expression gave him pause.

Judging by her eyes and the set of her jaw, the fierce protectiveness she’d earlier displayed over Esme had transferred its focus to him.

As if to confirm that, she crisply ordered, “Don’t argue.” Her jaw firmed; her fingers tightened about his elbow. She tugged more forcefully. “Now come in!”

Rose, returning to the door, had overheard; concern in her face, she held the door wide.

Rafe found himself towed into the stateroom’s sitting
room and pushed to sit on the window seat before the forward windows.

“A basin and some towels,” Loretta directed. “We’ll need to dampen the coat and shirt to get them free.”

They set upon him, Rose rushing to get the required basin, Gibson coming to confer with Loretta, Esme reclining on her bed in her cabin observing from a distance and issuing instructions.

By the time they’d eased him out of his coat, he was ready to bolt. “Hassan and the crew can help—”

“Shut up.” Loretta didn’t even look up from where she was applying a damp towel to the dried blood plastering his sliced shirt sleeve to the wound. “You rescued us, so we get to tend your wound.”

He glanced at Rose and Gibson, then without much hope at Esme, but they were all as grimly determined as Loretta.

So he had to sit and suffer their ministrations.

Hassan looked in. Rafe tried to claim his support in escaping, but the women would have none of it. His loyal henchman grinned, and left him to their mercies.

Once the material was freed from the wound, they unpicked the shirt shoulder seam and removed the sleeve, baring his arm. The slash, once fully revealed and thoroughly cleaned, was deep enough to need stitches. He couldn’t see it well enough to argue, so he sat with teeth gritted, biting back his curses while Gibson neatly sewed him up.

Finally, Loretta and her handmaidens stood back.

She frowned. “We really should have some salve for that.” She glanced at Gibson, who shook her head.

“Didn’t bring any of that sort. And it should be properly bandaged, too.”

“Indeed.” Loretta turned away. “Wait there. I have something we can use.”

He twisted and contorted, trying to see the wound.

Loretta returned from her cabin, a pile of soft material in her hands. “I cut up one of my petticoats.”

He blinked. Sat perfectly still while she wound the soft white material around his arm, then briskly tied it off.

“There.” She stood back with the others to admire her handiwork.

He seized the moment to get to his feet. He’d reached his limit; he had to escape.

Loretta’s gaze tracked up to his face. She studied it for a moment, then nodded. “That’s the best we can do for the moment.” She stepped out of his way, turning to accompany him as, almost afraid to hope, he walked toward the door.

He paused as he reached it, then turned back and swept them all a deep bow. “Thank you, ladies.”

Rose and Gibson smiled.

Loretta merely nodded and opened the stateroom door. “Now don’t forget to bring us your shirt and coat. We’ll have them washed and repair the damage.”

He nodded obediently and stepped into the corridor. “Thank you.”

Then he fled.

Loretta watched his retreating back, then humphed and shut the door.

Now that they were the only passengers on board, meals were much quieter, comfortable, and private. Even the crew seemed more relaxed.

Over dinner that evening, Loretta took stock. Esme, as always, kept the conversation flowing. After the excitement of the afternoon, she had plenty to exclaim over and relive.

Loretta did her share of reliving, too, but in her case the notable moments were not confined to the church. Admittedly, the shock that had lanced through her when she’d realized that—impossible though it seemed—they were being attacked in a pilgrimage church had left an indelible mark on her mind. Balancing that, however,
was the knowledge of how they’d fought, of Rafe’s and Hassan’s unflinching bravery in their defense, and their own resourcefulness
in assisting as they could. All straightforward enough.

It was Rafe’s wound—her reaction on realizing he’d been wounded—that disturbed her. She was relieved they’d all survived the incident, but was simultaneously so …
exercised
that he’d been hurt.

She couldn’t adequately identify the emotions she’d felt—still felt—over that.

Later, after she, Esme, Rose, and Gibson had retired to the stateroom, and subsequently each to their own cabins, the thought of Rafe’s wound had her shrugging into her pelisse and heading up to the observation deck.

She should at least check that it was no longer bleeding.

As she’d expected, he was standing guard by the rail; he had heard her on the stairs and turned. He watched as she crossed the deck.

“I wanted to check your wound—how does it feel?” Halting beside him, she studied his face.

“It’s …” He shrugged, moved his wounded arm slightly. “As to be expected.”

Was the blue of his eyes a little brighter? “You’re not running a fever, are you?” She was tempted to place a hand across his forehead, but restrained herself.

He smiled faintly and turned to look out at the night. “I’m all right.”

She turned to look out as well, grasping the rail beside him. “Did you ask the captain to put out onto the river again?”

“After hearing what happened in the church he was happy to accede to my request.”

“I still can’t believe these men are attacking us in churches.”

“The cult wouldn’t recognize such prohibitions.”

She frowned. “But those men were locals, weren’t they?”

“Indeed.” His voice took on a grim note. “It seems that the cult has hired locals to keep watch and attack in the
smaller towns.”

She considered that, after some moments asked, “Do the cultists always wear black head scarves?”

“It’s their insignia. They wear it with pride, so are rarely seen without it.”

“I didn’t see any black head scarves, or even indian people, in Linz. Did you?”

“No. And no, I don’t know what to make of that.”

After several minutes of listening to the soft slap of the river against the boat’s hull, she ventured, “What if these attacks aren’t the work of cultists, but just locals who’ve taken to attacking travelers?”

Folding his arms, he leaned on the rail. “I find that difficult to believe, but I can’t argue against it—it’s possible. However, at this point my best guess is that the Black Cobra, seeking to cover as large an area of Europe as possible, sent his men through all the smaller towns recruiting locals to keep watch and act if any of the couriers were sighted, but had the cultists themselves draw back to concentrate on the major towns—those the couriers were more likely to pass through.” He paused, staring out at the night. “The problem with that is that to date the Black Cobra has always left at least one cultist to watch over any locals, to give orders and bring back whatever the Cobra was after—in this case the scroll-holders. It also presupposes the cultists have an accurate description of me, enough for said locals to recognize me, which doesn’t seem likely, although it is possible.”

She shifted so she could study his face. “The Black Cobra—Ferrar. Have you met him?”

“No. Delborough and Hamilton have. The pair of them spent more time in the Governor of Bombay’s office—the company’s headquarters in Bombay—leaving the other three of us to scout in the field.”

She frowned. “Three of you, plus Delborough and Hamilton, makes five. But you said there are four
couriers. Did one of you remain behind? ”

For a long moment, he said nothing—didn’t reply, didn’t move a muscle—then he murmured, “You could say that.”

She guessed. “He died?”

Time passed; eventually, he nodded. “James—Captain James MacFarlane. He was the youngest—a few years younger than me. He joined our troop toward the end of the Spanish campaigns. He was an excellent soldier. He would have made a good commander. When the war was over, he went with us out to India. He was one of us by then.”

He paused. She wanted to ask what had happened, was casting about for the right words, but then he continued without prompting, “It was he who found the letter I’m carrying.”

There was pain in the words, so much she had to fight not to reach out and touch him—and risk breaking the spell of the past that had him in its grip. His eyes, darkened, remained fixed on the river, although she would swear it wasn’t rippling darkness he saw.

“It was pure chance. We’d identified Ferrar as the Black Cobra within weeks of reaching Bombay, but then we’d spent months searching for proof—incontestable proof—to convict him. We’d seen too much by then, too much of the cult’s atrocities, to stop. We were obsessed, all of us. But no matter how hard we looked, how far we pushed, nothing we unearthed was good enough.” He drew in a breath and it shuddered. “Then James went on a duty mission to Poona—the hill capital—to escort a young lady, the governor’s niece, back to Bombay. In Poona he stumbled across the letter, realized it was the proof we needed. He did the smart thing—pretended he was simply escorting the young lady back. But they realized and followed him.”

He drew in another slow breath. For a moment she thought he wouldn’t continue, but then, in a voice little
more than a whisper, he went on, “They caught up with James’s troop halfway down the mountain. The odds were hopeless. He sent the letter on with the governor’s niece, along with most
of the troop, while he and a handful of others stayed behind to delay the cultists.”

She said nothing, could say nothing to ease the pain throbbing in his voice.

When next he spoke, his voice was lower still. “I was there when his men brought his body into the fort. I saw what the cultists had done to him—how they’d tortured him before they’d killed him. Of all the horrors I’ve seen in war, all the dead and the maimed and the gone, that sight is seared into my mind. For as long as I live, I will never forget.”

She now understood something she’d sensed in him, a quality she hadn’t been able to define. That element of his commitment to his misson that bordered on the fanatical.

Loyalty. Devotion. Those, she suspected, were his deepest, most ingrained traits.

She stood alongside him, silent and still, and stared out into the night. Simply remained there, an anchor to the present if he needed one.

Eventually, he breathed in deeply, eased his back. “I felt so damned chuffed when I realized I’d drawn the scroll-holder with the original document—that I would be the one to ferry the evidence James gave his life to secure back to England, to place it in Wolverstone’s hands so he could ensure that the Black Cobra was brought to justice—and so James would be avenged. I was thrilled to have drawn the critical, most vital role in the mission.”

She’d shifted her gaze to his face, so saw his lips quirk.

“But with that came responsibility.” He glanced at her, met her gaze. “I’m not generally so careful, so cautious.” He hesitated, then said, “You’d probably be surprised to hear that among the troop, my nickname was Reckless.”

Holding his gaze, she nodded. “I am surprised. You’ve been anything but reckless in protecting us and in advancing your mission.”

“It hasn’t come naturally.”

They’d edged back from the darkness. Enough for her to be able to say, “You’re not alone, you know. I know we’re not
trained soldiers, but for what it’s worth, whenever you need it you’ll have Esme’s, Rose’s, Gibson’s, and my support. We can and will keep our eyes open for any cultists—you can’t look everywhere at once, and we’re all involved in your mission now, whatever you may think.”