The Reckless Bride (52 page)

“I do.” She inclined her head, watching him as intently as any snake. “I truly do.”

Rafe had managed not to glance out of the window. He knew Wolverstone, Devil, and others were on that side of the inn, watching through the window. Knew they thought the Black Cobra was some man sitting to the blond’s right, in the armchair that sat vacant to one side of the hearth.

He had to make them rethink. Had to make it clear just who the Black Cobra was. Shifting to stand formally at ease—as if addressing a superior—he kept his gaze locked on the woman seated at her languid ease on the sofa. “The
letter isn’t on me, or on Miss Michelmarsh. It’s well hidden, and unlikely to be found—as your men have discovered. It is, however, near. I can retrieve it quickly. The question is: why should I give it to you?”

In one fluid, graceful movement, the Black Cobra sat up and leaned forward the better to fix her cold gaze on him. Not a trace of emotion showed in her face. Her voice was equally expressionless—not even cold, but truly devoid of all feeling—as she said, “You will give me the letter so you won’t have to watch Saleem torture Miss Michelmarsh. He’s really very talented and does so love his work.” A flick of a glance went Saleem’s way, a hint of approval, then her gaze returned to Rafe. “There’s no one around to hear her screams, or yours. If you haven’t yet realized it, the inn is entirely in our hands.”

Loretta was staring at the woman, not so much in shock as disbelief. “You really are the Black Cobra.”

The woman briefly met her gaze. “I always was.”

It was a battle, but, as the Black Cobra returned her gaze to him, Rafe managed to subdue the rage her words had provoked. Jaw set, he paused as if considering, then took a risk—a reckless gamble instinct told him was worth the roll of the dice. “That answer might have worked in India, but you’re a very long way from the safety you might have commanded there. And you’ve lost Ferrar. If you try such tactics here, now, you’ll be hunted, and those already hunting you here in England are far more powerful than any opponents you’ve faced before—they’re more than powerful enough to run you to ground.”

Because he was watching for it, he caught the reaction—the flicker of uncertainty that so fleetingly marred her godlike assurance. After an instant of regarding him, she relaxed against the cushions again, but it was a studied pose. His words had hit a nerve.

“What, then, do you suggest, Captain?”

“I suggest. …” He looked at Loretta, then back at the Black Cobra; two could play at setting a stage. “I suggest
that I surrender the letter to you on condition that you swear to leave us, and all others in the inn who are not your people, unharmed. You may tie us up if you choose. However, if you follow my advice, you will have no reason to fear pursuit. Once you destroy the letter, you will make it all but impossible for anyone to raise a hue and cry against you. Without the letter, the proof, without evidence of any serious crime committed here in England, gaining support for any action against you would be beyond the scope of anyone—even those presently arrayed against you.

“By taking the letter and leaving us unharmed, you will be able to walk untouched through the net those powerful men seeking your downfall will otherwise fling over you.”

He’d been right; he could tell by the consideration that slid into her eyes. She feared getting caught, but was loath to lose what she saw as a game—especially one in which she was pitted against powerful men. She was a Ferrar to her soul. She craved power, craved acknowledged dominance.

If he could convince her … he chanced another throw. “Even your father would appreciate that—you sliding out of the net so smoothly.”

Her eyes glittered; that arrow had found its mark.

A long, fraught moment passed, then she nodded. “Very well, Captain. I agree to your terms. Give me the letter, and I will agree to leave you, Miss Michelmarsh, and the innkeeper’s family, here, alive.”

“To leave us all here
unharmed
.” He wanted to give her the letter, but he couldn’t make his capitulation seem too easy. Making sure those outside saw him hand the letter to her directly was the clearest indication he could give that she was the fiend they’d been chasing for so long. But she was too intelligent to risk a too-easy surrender; he had to wring from her a promise worth accepting. “And if you don’t mind, I would much prefer you swore an oath to that effect.”

Amusement, sharp-edged, flashed through her eyes. “Very well.” She nodded. “I solemnly swear on my father’s
head that if you hand over the letter in question, then I will allow you, Miss Michelmarsh, and all those in the inn not in my train to remain here unharmed.” She arched her brows, her gaze once again as cold as ice. “Is that sufficient?”

“Good enough.” Good enough to excuse his next actions. He knew she’d never do as she’d said, oath or not.

“In that case, the letter, if you please.”

“It’s in this room.” Rafe glanced at the assassin standing behind his right shoulder. “But I’ll have to move to fetch it. No one else in here can.”

She arched her brows. Looked at the assassin. “Let him.”

The assassin lowered the short sword whose point until then had hovered a bare inch from Rafe’s back.

Turning, he moved smoothly, unhurriedly, to the dresser against the hall wall. Going to its far end, he reached up, and retrieved the scroll-holder from where he’d hidden it mere hours ago.

He turned with it balanced between his hands.

The Black Cobra’s eyes lit.

Still moving unhurriedly he walked back across the room, fingers flicking open the brass levers locking the scroll-holder’s end in place.

Everyone was watching his fingers, the bright levers. No one said anything when he halted in not quite the same place he had been, but instead facing the hearth, his left shoulder to the assassin who’d previously been at his back.

He was now closer to Loretta, with no one between them.

He kept his gaze, his attention, on the Black Cobra as he opened the scroll-holder, reached inside, and drew out the single sheet it contained.

Eyes aglitter, she held out her hand.

Leaning forward, in full view of the window, he placed the rolled document in her palm.

Straightening, he waited, the scroll-holder with the lid hanging loose, its brass levers protruding, in his left hand. Not a great weapon, but it was better than nothing.

He watched as the Black Cobra unrolled the sheet, checked
the script, then turned the letter over and saw the seal.

The smile that curved her lips, one of the coldest calculation, sent a shiver down his spine.

Loretta surreptitiously shifted forward on the sofa. She wanted to stand and go to Rafe’s side, but the tension in the room was so palpable she didn’t want to add to it … but it was more than that. Rafe was watching the other woman like a hawk; his earlier tension hadn’t left him—if anything, after Mrs. Campbell’s agreement it had grown.

Encased in an aura of ice-cold confidence, Mrs. Campbell folded the letter, tucked it into her bodice, then raised her head. She looked at Rafe, her expression one of malignant triumph. “Thank you, Captain.”

Without taking her gaze from Rafe, Mrs. Campbell tipped her head Loretta’s way. “Thank you for your company, Miss Michelmarsh.” A nasty smile lifted the Black Cobra’s lips. “It truly was my pleasure to have made your acquaintance.”

Smoothly, her gaze still on Rafe, the Black Cobra rose. Then she looked at her men. “You may kill them after I leave the room—sadly, I cannot afford to risk getting blood on this gown.”

“What?” Loretta started to rise, felt the weight of her muff against her thigh and swiped it up as she sprang to her feet. Anger—fury, rage, and so much more—erupted from deep inside. “You promised!” Her voice rang. “You can’t have us killed—you
swore!”

Mrs. Campbell—the Black Cobra—favored Loretta with a smug smile and a pitying look. “I lied.” Her smile turned infinitely superior; icy arrogance clung about her like a cloak. She shook her head. “It never fails to amaze me that people always forget that the female is infinitely deadlier than the male.”

With that, the Black Cobra took one step toward the door.

“Wait!
“ Loretta uttered the word with such adamantine force that for one instant everyone was shocked into obeying.

In that instant, she thrust her hand into her muff, gripped the butt of Rafe’s pistol, pulled it free of the fur sleeve,
cocked the hammer, pointed the barrel, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The detonation rocked the small room.

Echoed and reverberated, shaking the glass in the window.

Loretta opened her eyes.

Silence gripped the room as the sharp retort of the pistol faded.

Everything stopped. All life, all movement, suspended.

Everyone stared at the Black Cobra, at the black hole in her left shoulder. At the red stain that grew and spread from it.

The Black Cobra watched, too. Then all color drained from her already pale face, her lids fell, and she slowly crumpled toward the floor.

Equally slowly, Loretta turned her head to look at Rafe.

Just as Rafe broke free of the shock. He had one instant to save them both. Cultists hated guns. They’d instinctively recoiled.

He smashed the open scroll-holder into the face of the nearest assassin, grabbed the man’s long knife as he staggered. Whirling, Rafe swept Loretta up in one arm. Holding her to him, lifting her off her feet, he charged over the sofa, tipping it back so the seat flipped up, forming a barrier from behind which he could defend them.

At least for a minute.

Knowing the number of assassins in the front hall, he prayed a minute was all the others would take.

His first movement had broken the spell holding the cultists. Even as he’d grabbed Loretta, a wailing howl had erupted from Saleem’s throat.

Rafe landed behind the sofa, pushed Loretta toward the wall, released her, and spun around to meet the enraged attack of the Black Cobra’s captain.

He got the assassin’s blade up just in time. Steel sheered off steel; sparks flew.

More assassins poured into the room, but before they could join their captain and overrun Rafe, the wide window to his left shattered.

The cultists cowered from the flying glass.

Before the debris settled, horse blankets were thrown over the jagged glass remaining in the window and men vaulted in.

Rafe left them to it and gave his attention to Saleem.

They hacked and slashed at each other. Rafe understood that the man was mad for vengeance against the one who’d slain his leader—but that was Loretta, who was squashed between Rafe’s back and the wall. There was no way Rafe would allow Saleem to reach her.

There was also the matter of vengeance for a fallen comrade. Saleem might not have participated personally, but he’d been as responsible as his leader for every atrocity committed in the Black Cobra’s name.

So Rafe looked to kill. Coldly, clinically, he searched for an opening. No matter how well-trained Saleem might be, he was better—and he was taller by a few inches, and had a greater reach.

He had no doubt who would win.

An opening came and he took it, cleanly, definitely. It was a better end than the man deserved, but it was an end.

Jerking the unfamiliar sword free, Rafe finally had a chance to glance across the room. Not a single cultist remained standing.

Chest heaving, he registered the sounds of fighting in the hall, and even more distantly deeper in the inn, but even that appeared to be subsiding.

A tall, dark-haired gentleman came striding back into the room, joining a taller, black-haired man who was checking the assassins’ bodies.

The black-haired man rose. “These are all done for.” He looked across at Rafe, grinned and nodded a wordless greeting. “I didn’t check that one”—he pointed to Saleem—“but he looks very dead.”

Rafe nodded. “He is.”

The dark-haired gentleman walked over to the sofa. He held out his hand. “Wolverstone—Royce. Welcome home, and well done!”

Rafe took the offered hand, shook it. “Rafe Carstairs—and I’m very glad to meet you.”

“We saw everything. You and your companion did a marvelous job. I couldn’t have orchestrated it better.”

Rafe finally registered the increasingly violent jabbing on his back. He shifted, allowing Loretta away from the wall. She hauled in a huge breath, shot him a glare. Unrepentant, he grinned. “Miss Loretta Michelmarsh.”

“Wolverstone.” Wolverstone reached for her hand, took it in his and bowed over it. “I’m delighted to make the acquaintance of such a coolheaded and resourceful young lady.”

“Thank you.” Loretta glanced, very briefly, around the room, then glanced—also briefly—at Mrs. Campbell, lying slumped on the floor before the hearth. She cleared her throat. “Is she dead? Did I kill her?”

Wolverstone smiled. “No—your shot was a trifle high. She’s not that badly injured.”

A crash sounded from down the hall. “The Shearers?” Loretta asked.

“They’re alive and in reasonable shape. The father and son took some knocks, but suffered no major damage. But come.” Wolverstone stepped back and waved them to the door. “Let’s get you both out of here. Aside from all else, this is no place for a lady.”

Between them, Rafe and Wolverstone helped her over the sofa and around the various obstacles that lay between her and the door, then cleared a path for her across the hall, shielding her as best they could from the results of the cultists’ resistance. Rafe reclaimed his saber along the way.

Finally, Loretta stepped through the door, out onto the gravel of the forecourt. She drew in a deep breath and looked around, almost shocked to find nothing the least different in the woods, the sky, the sleepy lane.

A shaft of weak sunshine struck low through the clouds and bathed her unexpectedly in warmth.

She dragged in another breath, felt something inside her ease, dissolve. And started to shake.

Rafe’s arm came around her, and he drew her close, against his chest, holding her, supporting her.

Then Rose came pelting out of the trees, waving wildly as she crossed the lawn. Hassan came around the building; a grin split his dark face when he saw them, and he came striding quickly to join them.