The Reckless Bride (19 page)

“It’s not that bad,” he muttered.

“We can’t risk infection.” Her tone was sharp. She cast him an equally sharp glance, which he pretended not to see. “I told you it’s still inflamed.”

She’d insisted on tending his wound morning and evening, had stood her ground and argued until he’d given in. He’d gritted his teeth and borne it, unable to find fault with her deft ministrations. He probably did need a salve for the stitches, and heaven knew he’d prefer bandages other than
ones fashioned from her petticoats; the material was so soft, so unmistakably feminine it reminded him of her every time he felt the binding shift against his skin.

He didn’t need that sort of torture.

Ever since she’d woken him from his nightmare in such a novel and effective way, and then wrung too many details of his past and of those nightmares from him, he’d been waiting for her to react—to do something, say something. But she hadn’t tried to cut him off, to distance herself from him—either to deny the kiss or to back away from him and his harrowing memories.

She hadn’t made any move to discourage him from thinking whatever he might think. Instead, she’d said nothing at all. All he’d sensed from her was … banked curiosity. She’d watched him as much as he’d watched her.

A sort of emotional circling, neither yet ready to make a move.

Quite possibly neither yet sure what their next move should be.

Esme, on his other side, thumped her cane lightly. “Regardless, dear boy, I intend to go ashore in Regensburg. Richard and I stayed there for a few weeks, long ago. There’s a number of sights I want to show Loretta.”

The bullocks came to the end of the towpath and halted. Rafe, Loretta, and Esme watched the captain speak with the bullock drivers, pay their fee, then the boat was pushed out from the bank, oars straining. With a rattle, a sail was hoisted at the stern. The sail filled and the boat slowly moved on, continuing upriver.

Heading back to the bridge, the captain saw them, detoured and joined them. He bowed deeply to Esme, then Loretta. “Ladies. We should be in Regensburg in half an hour, but as I have little cargo to unload there, and nothing to take on, I will be wanting to put out again by midafternoon.”

“Perfect.” Esme beamed. “That will give us just enough time to see all we wish to see.”

“And to do what we need to do,” Loretta added.

“We’ll be back in plenty of time to sail on,” Esme declared.

Smiling, the captain bowed and retreated.

Leaving Rafe debating whether there was any possible excuse he could conjure for keeping the ladies aboard.

Esme tipped up her head, regarded him shrewdly. “You’re fighting a losing battle, you know.”

So it proved. Half an hour later, the crew were making fast at the jetty at Regensburg.

“That"—Esme pointed to an ancient multiarched stone bridge spanning the river—"is the Steinerne Brücke. During the second and third crusades, the crusaders used it to cross the Danube on their way to the Holy Land.”

That was the first installment of the guided tour on which she led them. Her enthusiasm was real, more definite than in other towns.

When, after being exposed to the high Gothic splendors of the Dom—the Regensburg cathedral—and having admired the singularly grotesque carvings decorating the principal doorway of the Schottenkirche, the Church of St. James, Rafe stood beside Loretta looking up at the remains of the Roman porta praetoria and murmured, “I take it Esme enjoyed her time here.”

Loretta studied the ancient stonework. “From what she’s let fall, I gathered she and Richard did not have all that much time to spend privately—Richard was always working in one fashion or another. I think their time in Regensburg was one of those rare times without distraction.”

Rafe shifted, scanning their surroundings once again. He and Hassan remained alert and, true to Loretta’s promise, all four women were keeping their eyes open, yet they’d detected no sign of any cultists, not even any locals lingering with intent.

They had passed areas of burned houses, damage dating from the Battle of Ratisbon in 1809 and still not repaired. For Rafe, the echo of the Black Cobra’s methods, the reminder of the destruction wrought by man’s ambition, kept his own mission in the forefront of his mind.

After taking luncheon in an inn not far from the cathedral, and at the last visiting the Adler-Apotheke nearby, they made their way back to the jetty and the boat. One glance at Loretta’s face told Rafe she was pleased—appeased—by her discussion with the apothecary, who’d supplied her with bandages and a pot of salve, with strict instructions that it be applied twice daily for the next two weeks until the stitches could be pulled.

In two weeks, Rafe would be landing in England. That he would have to submit and endure Loretta’s ministrations until then did nothing for his peace of mind. How he was going to survive without reacting—without taking advantage—he didn’t know. After the incident in his cabin, having her close, her attention fixed on his arm, her fingers stroking his skin, was guaranteed to exacerbate his instinctive inclinations, making keeping his hands off her an escalating trial.

At least for the moment she was happy. He conducted her up the gangplank, then returned to help Esme, who’d lingered on the jetty looking back at the town.

She turned as he reached her. “Thank you, dear boy.” Her voice was gruff. Looking down, she took his arm.

He helped her up the gangplank, secretly glad he’d given in and allowed her the time with her memories.

Her memories were so much more pleasant than his. At least to the present time. Catching sight of Loretta waiting to accompany Esme below, he found himself wondering if one day he, too, might have memories like Esme’s, ones with the power to warm his heart.

The following morning, Rafe took refuge on the observation deck, ignoring the drizzle and the gray day, welcoming them as a guarantee of safety. Loretta had just finished resalving and rebandaging the stitched gash on his arm; the sensation of her cool fingers smoothing
on the salve had proved even more debilitating than he’d expected.

Through gritted teeth he’d suggested Hassan should take
over, but had been rebuffed with crisp words and a glare. So she was going to keep tending him, flirting with danger and steadily draining his control.

Gripping the rail, he stared out at the dismal, dripping firs lining the riverbank. Impatience, restlessness, were living pulses throbbing beneath his skin. He wanted to be doing. His nature kicked and pricked, rebelling against his self-imposed restraint, both with respect to her and in regard to his mission.

He was accustomed to campaigning, to strategic planning, tactical maneuvers, feinting, and giving up ground in order to seize the greater prize of victory. He was used to action, to the heat and power of battle, to wielding both to win.

His instincts kept prodding him to precipitate the next clash. To do something to bring it on. To engage with the cult.

To engage with Loretta.

Neither were wise ideas.

His mission was fixed. He had to go slowly. Step by step, adhering to his preordained schedule.

He had to go slowly—no, more, he had to hold to his current line of stoic inaction—with Loretta. This was no time for advances on that front.

If she could distract him simply by smoothing cream on his arm, he couldn’t afford closer acquaintance, not until his mission was complete.

He’d reached that conclusion days before; all that had happened since had only demonstrated its wisdom.

He had to concentrate on the cult, on avoiding their notice. Had to ensure that his party’s defenses against attack remained sound and in place. He and Hassan continued to keep an unfailing watch on the river, but they’d yet to see any unequivocal evidence that the cult had divined his route.

Hearing a sound, he glanced around, watched as Hassan walked out to join him. The big Pathan leaned
on the rail and, like him, stared out at the river.

“I was just thinking,” Rafe said, “that perhaps the attack in Linz was just local thieves after all.”

Hassan slowly nodded. “If those men had been cult hirelings, I cannot imagine that we would not have encountered a greater force by now. The boat is slow. They may not like the water, but they would have hired others to attack from other vessels, or on the docks. Yet we have seen no sign.”

Still gripping the rail, Rafe exhaled. “For which, I suppose, we should be grateful. The next days look set to be uneventful.”

Boredom was, quite possibly, his least favorite state. He’d rather be drenched to the skin, sitting on a horse hock-deep in mud doing picket duty than be bored.

By afternoon, he was prowling the deck, feeling a deep empathy with caged tigers. When Hassan, equally restless although he hid it better, insisted, strongly, on taking his turn on watch, Rafe descended to his cabin, looked around at the four walls, then stalked back upstairs to ransack the bar.

He found what he was searching for in a drawer. Extracting the pack of cards, he walked into the salon.

Loretta was seated on one of the window seats, embroidery hoop angled to catch the light. She glanced at him as he prowled near.

He lifted a small table from between two armchairs, set it in front of her, then swung one of the armchairs around to face the table, and dropped into the chair. “Do you play piquet?”

Expertly sorting the pack, discarding the cards not required for the game, then shuffling, he glanced up, met her eyes.

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “A little.”

“In that case, pray indulge me with a game.” He glanced at her embroidery. “Women always have
something to do with their hands, to occupy their minds. Soldiers … play cards.”

She smiled. “All right.” Setting aside her embroidery, she shifted to face the table.

When he set the cards down and with a wave invited her to cut for the deal, she leaned forward and did. He followed, and lost, leaving her with the elder hand.

Swiping up the pack, he shuffled, then dealt.

Silence reigned as they picked up their cards, assessed their hands. She discarded and drew from the stock, then he did the same.

They settled to play.

Loretta made her declarations in a clear voice; eyes on his cards, he responded. She quickly amassed points, enough to claim the pic, then led for the first trick.

She won it, and the next three, and elicited a grunt.

He shifted, leaned forward, concerted concentration claiming his expression. Hiding a smile, she carefully kept track of his discards, determined to hold the lead.

The game quickly became a battle of sorts, a matching of wits and wills, of caution and fearless risk, of determination and focus.

In tactics and strategy, they seemed evenly matched.

“Who taught you?”

“My brother Chester. We were trapped indoors by heavy snows one Christmas and he found enforced inaction difficult, and there was no one else willing to play.”

She took the first game. He claimed the second. The one after that was so close as to be a virtual draw.

They settled into the next game. After making their discards and declarations, she debated, then, acknowledging tricks would be difficult for her to win, led with a queen.

He glanced at her, appreciation in his eyes. “You take more risks than I’d expected.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really—you’re rather like Esme.” He glanced at the card on the table. “You take calculated risks. Not wild forays, but you back your judgement—and your intuition.”

She pulled a dismissive face. “I’m nothing like Esme—I don’t have her courage.”

When he didn’t reply, she lifted her gaze from her cards to his face. Fell into the blue summer of his eyes.

“A lady who fights off a ruffian with prayer books, then helps tie him up in a curtain, doesn’t lack courage.”

“The others were there. I just helped.” Rearranging her cards, she wrinkled her nose. “Besides, that was a necessity.”

After a moment of studying his cards, he mumured, “Living is a necessity.” He selected a card, laid the king over the queen. Met her gaze as he gathered the cards. “My trick, I believe.”

She smothered a humph, and focused on her cards.

His comment about her taking risks—calculated though they might be—stayed in her mind. Circled. Nagged.

Late that evening, after she, Esme, Rose, and Gibson had retreated to the stateroom, Loretta sat on one of the windowseats, her legs curled beneath her skirts, and stared through the prow window opposite into the blackness of the night outside.

“I’m off to bed, dear.” Esme paused at the door of her cabin. “I have to say I’m so very glad that we decided to go to Buda and take the river route to the Channel. What with the occasional excitement associated with Rafe’s mission, and the contrasting peace while on the river, it’s really been a most invigorating time.”

Loretta couldn’t help but smile. “Good night. I’m going to remain up for a little while longer. I might go for a stroll about the deck before heading for bed.”

Although Esme only waved in acknowledgment and turned to enter her cabin, Loretta didn’t miss the knowing twinkle in her incorrigible relative’s eyes.

She’d already told Rose that she’d get herself to bed. Rose would help Gibson with Esme, then the maids would retire to their cabin.

But she wasn’t sleepy enough for bed. Twisting around,
she rested her elbow on the windowsill, propped her chin in her palm, and stared unseeing at the inky dark.

Rafe’s comment … had brought home to her a circumstance of which she’d been aware, but until then had largely ignored.

She’d changed. Irrevocably.

Over the journey, through the challenges she’d faced, the woman she truly was had come to the fore—and that woman was a Michelmarsh to her toes.

She hadn’t foreseen how strong her true self, her wilder, more impulsive nature, would be. Could grow to be. She hadn’t foreseen falling in with Rafe Carstairs.

Being around him, dealing with him, brought her true self to the fore increasingly strongly.

Her prim and proper façade was gone—or more accurately her disinclination to retreat behind said façade had grown to be absolute. She couldn’t imagine going back to being that prim and proper young lady ever again, no matter how convenient. Not now she’d had such a definite taste of what being herself could be like.