The Reckless Bride (31 page)

Rafe gritted his teeth, eyes closed, held on, but he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t keep himself from her, from sealing their implicit pact and giving himself to her. His body was no longer his but hers. Her sheath rippled, clutched, clung, and he surrendered.

Thrust deep and, on a long muted groan, emptied himself into her.

He collapsed on top of her, unable to move. Stripped of every last iota of strength, of will, of resistance, by a glory so deep it transcended ecstasy.

Only when his heart had slowed, when his blood had cooled to a mere simmer, could he summon the strength and wit to move, to force his weak arms to push his body up from hers.

He looked into her face. An angel’s face filled with unshielded bliss. Her lashes fluttered. He saw the glint of her eyes, then her lids lowered. Her lips curved.

She raised one hand and weakly patted his chest, then reached up and stroked his cheek. “Lovely.”

Her tone made the simple word golden.

She wriggled. He withdrew and lifted from her and she turned on her side, nestling her cheek on his pillow.

It was his bunk, and narrow. He managed to wedge him
self against the wall, pulling up the covers, gathering her against him, spooning his long body around hers.

With a sigh she settled in his arms.

He brushed his lips to her temple. “Sweetheart, you’ll have to go back to your cabin.”

“Hmm.” A whisper of sound. “Later.”

He looked down at her. Later.

He tried to make himself insist—tried to find the experienced lover who would have charmingly urged her up and steered her to her own bed.

Couldn’t find him.

He lay down, gathered her close, and accepted what he knew to be fact.

He wasn’t going to let her go.

Not now, not willingly.

Not ever.

She woke in the small hours. He sensed her start of surprise, relished the all but instantaneous acceptance of her position in his arms.

Relaxing again, she lay still, silent.

Eventually, he raised his head and brushed a kiss to the edge of her jaw. “We need to get you back to your cabin—the crew get up early.”

She sighed, hugged his arms around her for an instant, then slipped from the bed. He followed.

He pulled on his breeches, then, ignoring the chill air, helped her into her robe; she’d already donned her nightgown.

Loretta found her slippers and slid her cold toes into them.

Taking her hand, Rafe led her to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glanced back at her.

He studied her eyes, then softly said, “I don’t want to argue with you, but as far as I’m concerned, the upshot of the last hours is that we will wed, as soon as we’re safe in England.”

She studied him in return, replied, “We’ll see.”

His eyes narrowed. “There’s no seeing about it. You wanted to know, to learn, to experience, and I gave you what you wanted. Now—”

She held up her hand; frowning, he stopped. “No arguing, remember?” she said.

His expression hardened. “Loretta—”

“You’re rushing me. I learned, I experienced, and now I have to think about what I learned and experienced.” Not least because she’d experienced something more than she’d expected. More than she’d anticipated, and she wanted to know if that unexpected element was what she thought and hoped it might be.

She smiled placatingly and patted his chest, her fingers lingering on his bare skin. “I’m not disagreeing with you, but you’re jumping ahead several steps and I prefer to go slowly.”

When he simply looked at her, she stretched up and touched her lips to his. “This isn’t an end, but a beginning. Now open the door.”

He did.

She whisked past him, looked back at him. “My cabin is two steps away. I won’t get lost.” She let the warmth that lingered around her heart infuse her smile. “Go back to bed, and dream of me.”

With that, she slipped into the shadows of the corridor.

Rafe remained at his door. He heard her door open, then quietly shut.

Slowly, he shut his cabin door. Stared at the panels.

Dream of her?

Clearly he wasn’t going to get any more sleep.

R
afe stood in the nave of the Mannheim cathedral and watched Loretta’s face as she gazed at the windows high above.

There was nothing all that striking about the windows, nothing to account for the dreamy expression that all through the morning had haunted her face. Whenever she caught him looking, her eyes smiled and her lips curved, as if she knew something, understood something, he didn’t.

That look, that smile, were unsettling.

“I’ve seen all I wish to.” Quitting the altar, Esme glided toward him.

Loretta joined her, Rose and Gibson falling in in her wake.

Rafe stood back and waved them on. Hassan was waiting by the main doors. Rafe scanned the side chapels as he followed the women up the nave. Although the crew of the
Loreley Regina
had reported a quiet night and neither he nor Hassan had detected any sign of cultists, they weren’t about to let down their guard.

The ladies reached the door and Hassan led the way down the stone steps to the street. They hadn’t bothered with a carriage; the river and wharf were only a short stroll away.

Esme, Loretta, and Gibson paused on the steps, turning back to look up at the intricately carved façade. They
pointed and exclaimed, then consulted Esme’s guidebook. Rose walked on to join Hassan on the pavement.

Emerging from the shadows of the cathedral’s maw, Rafe halted at the top of the steps and scanned the street. It was midmorning. There were no other visitors in sight, but a smattering of locals walked briskly past, intent on their business. There was no one loitering … other than a man, a European, possibly a local, lounging in a doorway opposite the cathedral, shoulder propped against the wall, his stance radiating the impression he was waiting for someone.

Except that he was watching the three women on the steps.

Rafe didn’t consider that suspicious. Loretta looked striking in a dark gray pelisse trimmed with periwinkle blue, a matching blue cap perched atop her dark hair. The coat was expertly cut to showcase her figure. Esme, too, with her exquisite style, still drew appreciative glances.

Rafe waited for the man’s lingering gaze to move on.

It didn’t. And the longer Rafe watched, the more definitely he sensed that the man was specifically and intently watching the three women.

Slowly, deliberately, Rafe descended one step.

The movement caught the man’s attention; his gaze deflected to Rafe.

They stared at each other, then the man straightened, looked away, then stepped out of the doorway and walked briskly off, away from the cathedral and away from the river. Rafe watched until the man turned a corner and disappeared, then, inwardly frowning, continued down the steps to where the three women were concluding their study of the cathedral’s stonework.

Esme shut her guidebook as he approached.

“If you’ve seen all you wish …?” Rafe glanced at Hassan. For once his friend had failed to notice the watcher; he’d been too absorbed talking with Rose.

“Yes, indeed, dear boy.” Esme handed the guidebook to Gibson, and tightened her grip on her cane. “We’ve had a most satisfactory morning.”

“In that case, let’s head back to the boat.” Rafe’s every protective instinct was on high alert. The man might have gone, but to where? To whom?

Most importantly, why had he been watching them?

The cult?

Yet the man had spared barely a glance for either Rafe or Hassan.

Shaking aside the confusing conundrum, Rafe shepherded his flock back to the wharf. The
Loreley Regina
was due to depart in half an hour. Regardless of the nature of the man’s interest in them, they’d be gone before he could organize anything.

Later that afternoon, Esme patted Rafe’s arm as they left the ornate Augustinekirche in Mainz. “Thank you, dear boy.”

They’d made unexpectedly good time down the river, arriving in Mainz at noon. During luncheon, Esme had explained her desire to visit a short list of sights in the town, if Rafe could see his way to accommodating her.

He’d felt obliged to consider it. When consulted, Julius had advised that with the unexpectedly strong currents augering well for their speed, and the fact that Rafe did not wish to reach Rotterdam too soon, it might perhaps be wise to dally now, when it seemed safe to do so.

Although reluctant to spend time ashore where they’d be more exposed than when on board, Rafe had agreed to the excursion. Like Mannheim, Mainz wasn’t on any of the major highways, and they’d yet to sight any cultists anywhere, yet to see any evidence the cult even knew where he was.

They’d already viewed the Marktbrunnen, a large renaissance fountain capping a well in the market square, and the Mainz Dom, the cathedral, then had ambled down to take in the roccoco brilliance of the Augustinekirche.

Esme sighed. “Richard and I stopped in Mainz frequently. I’m so glad to be able to see these sights one last time.”

“This is your trip.” Rafe steadied her down the church steps. “And we haven’t seen any sign of cultists, so …”

Pausing on the pavement while Esme consulted her list and Loretta and Gibson sought direction from the guidebook, he studied Esme’s face, saw the genuine pleasure she drew from her memories reflected in her expression, and decided that, in this instance, capitulation had been the right choice.

“If we continue on,” Loretta said, pointing to a passage in the guidebook, “then we should reach the ruins of the Roman theater, and the Drusus Stone.”

Rafe waved. “Lead on.”

The women turned in the direction Loretta indicated. She and Esme led the way, Gibson and Rose behind them. Rafe and Hassan brought up the rear.

Their stroll was punctuated by pauses to admire various buildings. They eventually reached a parklike area in which they found the remarkably well-preserved remains of a large Roman amphitheater.

Although the day was cool and the light breeze carried a definite chill, the rain clouds held off. They spent some time exploring the stage and the tiers of stone seats, then walked the short distance to the Drusus Stone. The monument erected to the Roman commander by his men had been enclosed within the relatively recently built citadel. Weathered and worn, the monument stood on the edge of an open courtyard, presently deserted.

Rafe and Hassan stood back and watched as the women walked about the stone, reverently touching the ages-old rock.

Studying the large edifice, Rafe murmured, “Either Drusus was a highly respected commander, or …”

Hassan grinned. “Or his men hadn’t yet been paid.”

They exchanged grins, then Rafe folded his arms and settled to wait.

A sound to their right had both of them looking.

Then moving.

With a muttered curse Rafe swung between the five—no,
seven
—men determinedly approaching the Drusus Stone and the four women clustered at its base. The men had had their sights fixed on the women. When Rafe, with his naked saber in one hand, and Hassan, similarly armed to his right, appeared across their path, the men slowed. Halted.

All seven held knives, mostly short swords, but the man at the rear held a saber.

One glance over the others’ heads at that last man and Rafe recognized him as the man he’d seen in Mannheim. By his stance and that sword, Rafe was willing to wager the man was a Prussian ex-cavalry officer turned mercenary. “Wonderful,” he muttered beneath his breath to Hassan. “If you can, avoid killing.”

The six other men looked like local bully boys, heavy and meaty, yet mean enough and belligerent enough to be dangerous in a fight.

The local who’d been walking at the rear with the Prussian pushed forward. He looked at Rafe and Hassan, then gestured with his knife. “We just want the woman.” He spoke in heavily accented English. When Rafe didn’t react or respond, the man made a dismissive gesture. “She is just one old woman. What do you owe her? You are just her guards. Let us have her, and you can have the young one, and the other two. We will let you go, and you can say we were too many for you.” He paused, his eyes hardening. “Which we are.”

No, they weren’t—not in an open area like the courtyard. Without exchanging so much as a glance, Rafe and Hassan glided apart, affording each other greater space to move. Even while one part of Rafe’s brain absorbed the fact that the gang was after Esme, not Loretta, not him, Reckless was stretching in anticipation.

The Prussian recognized the change in Rafe’s and Hassan’s stances. “Attack!”

As if his order was a prod applied simultaneously to the rears of the other six men, they yelled and charged.

Rafe grinned, swung his saber, and followed it up with his boot. Three-to-one odds required inventive methods. One well-placed kick to the side of an opponent’s knee and the man was writhing on the ground screaming.

Hassan had dealt similarly with another, which left them fighting two men each. Better odds already.

But their attackers were determined. Swearing, they squared off, then in concert came for them again. Rafe met their ferocity with a snarl of his own. As he beat back the knives trying to slash at him, from the corner of his eye he checked on the women standing together at the base of the stone. They were white-faced, but not hysterical.

Snapping his attention back to the threat before him, he caught a glimpse of the Prussian—just his coat as he disappeared around the other side of the monument.

Rafe cursed and redoubled his efforts. Momentarily throwing back the pair facing him, he glanced at the women—saw Loretta, her face set in determined lines, seize Esme’s cane.

The Prussian came around the monument.

Loretta swung the cane.

The heavy silver head caught the Prussian on his temple. He staggered against the monument, and Gibson and Rose were on him like furies.

Rafe saw Loretta raise the cane over her head again, but was forced to swing his attention back to the two men trying to incapacitate him.

They were all trying not to kill. He pressed harder, mind awash with fear over what was going on at his back, by the foot of the monument.