The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (23 page)

She’d already commandeered the small private parlor, and was giving orders for a repast for four—cold meats, bread, cheese, fruit and ale, with tea for her, to be served as soon as possible.

When she turned to him, Del nodded, took her arm and escorted her into the parlor. There were a few curious locals in the tap, but otherwise the inn was perfect for their purposes.

They settled in the parlor. Deliah drifted toward the window. He called her back. “I don’t trust Larkins. If you saw him, he must have seen you, and the Black Cobra is well known for vindictiveness.”

She raised her brows, but didn’t argue, instead sinking into one of the armchairs by the hearth. The parlor was on the opposite side of the inn to the yard; they couldn’t see any arrivals. When the door opened to admit two maids with their meal, Del stepped out of the parlor, scanned the patrons and spotted Tony and Gervase just settling at a table at the rear of the tap. He openly beckoned.

They eyed him for a moment, then rose and joined him.

Tony’s brows quirked. “What’s happened?”

Del tipped his head to the table being set for four. “Join us and you’ll hear.”

The maids bustled out, and the four of them sat.

At his suggestion, while they ate, Deliah repeated her rationale of why their original plan was unlikely to work, why it probably wouldn’t draw the cultists out and give them a chance to thin the ranks.

He then outlined the plan he’d developed to meet her stipulations of what they needed to do to lure the Black Cobra from hiding, to tempt him to strike.

Tony and Gervase listened to the whole impassively.

When Del fell silent, Tony nodded. “It’s worth a try. We’ll be at Somersham tonight, and from all Royce has said, the chances of an attack once we’re there aren’t high. Yet report
ing to him without having accounted for even one cultist doesn’t appeal. So I vote we try your lure.”

Gervase likewise nodded. “There’s no harm in dangling it. He’ll either bite, or he won’t.”

Del glanced at Deliah; she raised her brows as if to ask what more he was waiting for.

Suppressing a grimace, he rose, and went out to arrange their departure.

The first carriage—the one he and Deliah were traveling in—was brought around to the front of the inn. Cobby was on the box, the reins in his hand, with Kumulay beside him. Cobby had formed a high opinion of Deliah’s bodyguard’s abilities, and in such matters, Del trusted Cobby’s instincts.

The other two carriages remained in the inn yard, with the six women, Janay, Mustaf and the boy all making a noisy show of reorganizing the luggage. Del stood at the end of the inn’s front porch, hands on hips, impatience radiating from him, and watched.

Deliah walked out of the inn’s front door and across to join Del. She looked at the two carriages, at their obvious disarray, then sighed and looked at Del. “Do we have to wait?”

They didn’t know how close the Black Cobra’s men might be, or if they could read lips.

Del frowned. He studied the two carriages again, then stepped down. He crossed the yard to Mustaf and held out one hand. “Give me the scroll-holder.”

Mustaf looked at him, then reached under his baggy white shirt and drew the cylinder from the leather pouch strapped around his waist.

Taking it, Del turned, used the holder to wave a farewell as he walked back to Deliah, calling, “We’ll see you at Somersham. Don’t take too long.”

“We’ll be after you in no time, sahib.” Mustaf turned and, with a frown, chivvied the women on.

Del hoped the Black Cobra was listening. In reality, instead of following his and Deliah’s carriage, the other two
carriages, now much less well-defended, would head to Somersham via Cambridge, a slower and longer, but much more populated and therefore much safer, route.

Reaching Deliah, Del took her arm. “Come on—we may as well get started. They must have given up and”—he glanced back at the inn’s tap—“the other two will be along soon enough.”

Gervase’s and Tony’s horses stood tethered just inside the open stable door, in plain sight.

“Good.” Deliah allowed him to lead her to their carriage’s door. “I can’t wait to have a proper cup of tea.”

He helped her climb in. She smiled at Tony and Gervase, slouched low beneath a traveling blanket on the rear-facing seat, then sat. Del followed her in, closing the door behind him. Picking his way between the others’ long legs, he sat beside Deliah. “Go!” he called, and Cobby flicked the reins.

The carriage lurched, then rolled slowly away from the inn. After turning into the road, it picked up pace.

Once they were clear of the town and bowling along, Gervase and Tony carefully eased up. They remained slouched, back in the shadows and away from the windows, minimizing any chance of their being spotted, even by someone with a spyglass trained on the swiftly moving carriage.

“According to the innkeep,” Gervase said, “the most likely stretch for fun and games is, as we’d thought, between Croydon and Caxton. We’ve got five miles before Croydon.”

“If they wait that long.” Shifting carefully, Tony drew a pistol from one pocket. Two long-barreled pistols already lay on the seat between him and Gervase, with another on the seat between Del and Deliah. Tony checked his smaller pistol, then grinned at the others. “Anyone care to wager on the number they’ll send against us?”

Deliah guessed eight, Tony nine, Gervase eleven and Del fourteen. Deliah told Del not to be so pessimistic, but as matters transpired, both she
and
he won the wager.

As the innkeeper had predicted, the attack came on the long stretch to Caxton. Their carriage flashed around a stand of trees skirting the slightest of curves and a shot rang out.

Cobby swore, yelled, “Over my head from the trees on the left!” as he hauled on the reins and brought the horses to a plunging halt.

The carriage rocked heavily, crazily, then settled.

As eight dun-clothed figures rushed from the cover of the trees.

Before Deliah could blink, the men had all swung to face the threat. Four shots rang out in quick succession, then the shoulders shifted, and she looked out. Only four cultists remained upright.

The shock of the shots gave them pause, but then they shook their long knives, screamed, and came on.

Gervase was already out of the door on that side, sword in hand. Del, similarly armed, jumped down to join him.

Clutching a long sword, Tony went out of the carriage’s other door just as Kumulay dropped from above to join him in meeting the two cultists who’d rushed around the rear of the carriage.

Her heart in her throat, Deliah did as she’d promised. She shifted to the middle of the carriage seat, equidistant from both doors, firmly gripping the small pistol Del had given her, along with strict instructions to shoot any cultist who tried to get in. Otherwise, she was to remain where she was.

Native war-shrieks punctuated the clang and hiss of steel meeting steel. Shoulders swung, shifted; bodies lunged, retreated. Her breathing constricted, Deliah watched wide-eyed, looking this way, then that. She tried to shut her ears to the distracting clamor.

She had every intention of obeying Del’s orders to the letter—she wasn’t recklessly brave.

Then, with bloodcurdling screams, six more cultists came pelting from the trees.

Deliah sucked in a breath, horror and terror gripping her chest, tight as any vise. Del had warned that the cultists habitually used sheer numbers to win their fights.

That they were finally fighting cultists wasn’t in doubt. Their attackers were clothed in traditional Indian garb of loose trousers and tunic, albeit with plaids or blankets fastened about them for warmth. All had turbans of one sort or another wound about their heads, and the faces below were mahogany brown.

The carriage rocked as bodies hit it. The clashes of steel sounded horribly close. Tony and Kumulay now had four cultists ranged against them. As she counted, one staggered and fell.

She looked the other way. Gervase was further from the carriage, sword in hand, slashing at two opponents, with one already prone at his feet.

Del had his back to the carriage door, with three cultists pressing in on him. As Deliah watched, he swore and slashed wildly, and one cultist fell to the ground, shrieking and kicking. Del had to leap clear.

The two remaining cultists drove forward. Resolutely he beat them back.

The opposite carriage door was abruptly wrenched open.

With a start, Deliah turned—and met a horrible smile and fanatically glowing dark eyes. Dark fingers reached for her.

She didn’t even think before she fired.

The cultist’s eyes flew wide. Sheer shock seized his features. He dropped his long knife. It landed with a clatter on the carriage step as, clutching the patch of red blossoming on his chest, he staggered back, then fell.

The fighting raged on.

Dragging in a breath, telling herself this was no time to succumb to hysterics, Deliah realized she was weaponless. Defenseless should another cultist come for her. Setting the used pistol aside, she reached down and pulled the cultist’s knife to her.

It didn’t look used.

She picked it up, gripped the hilt. The blade was longish, but not as long as a full-sized sword or a cavalry saber. It wasn’t so heavy she couldn’t wield it. Use it if need be.

Then someone slammed the open carriage door shut. Tony. He was immediately engaged by a cultist, but he and Kumulay were now fighting one on one. She felt certain both would prevail.

She looked the other way, at Del, then edged toward that door. There were more cultists on that side of the carriage. Gervase was still trading blows with the two before him. Del had done some damage, but still had two vicious opponents attacking him.

Drawn, she inched closer, then, knowing better than to distract him, she crouched down inside the door and silently watched.

With an ear-splitting yell, one of the cultists jabbing at Gervase abruptly whirled and, sword raised high, raced toward Del.

Toward his back, exposed because the other cultists had drawn him to one side.

Fully engaged with the opponents before him, there was no chance he could turn and meet the attack.

Deliah swung the carriage door open and stepped out onto the high step.

The cultist saw her and changed direction.

Eyes alight, he charged toward her.

Desperately she freed the sword from her skirts. Gripping it with both hands, she brought it up to ward him off.

He ran straight onto it.

The shock on his face was mirrored on hers.

Stunned, his mouth still wide open, but with no sound any longer issuing forth, the cultist looked down. Stared at the long blade embedded in his chest. His own knife fell from his nerveless fingers, then his eyes closed and he crumpled, jerking the sword from her slackened grasp.

Her appearance had spurred Gervase and Del to even greater efforts. Cursing, they left their opponents writhing and moaning on the ground, clutching wounds. They exchanged a single glance, then Del whirled and strode for the carriage while Gervase raced around to the other side.

When Del reached Deliah, she was still staring, stunned, at the fallen cultist. Hand to her midriff, he pressed her back. “Sit down.”

His tone, the one he used on the battlefield, had her blinking and shuffling back. She dropped onto the seat as he climbed in and slammed the door shut.

From above, Cobby yelled, “All aboard!”

Their agreed signal for “cut and run.”

Gervase yanked open the other door and scrambled in. Tony followed on his heels, slamming the door shut behind him as the carriage dipped heavily—Kumulay climbing up again.

Cobby didn’t wait for anyone to settle. He sprang the horses, spooked by the rising scent of blood and more than ready to race on.

In a blink, they were away from the trees and thundering out into the open.

For long minutes, they all just sat there, breathing heavily, regaining their sanity.

Eventually, Tony stirred. “How many did we get?”

Deliah swallowed, looked at Del. “Fourteen. All told, there were fourteen.”

When he met her gaze, she raised her brows. “Satisfied?”

His eyes were still hard, his jaw still set. “It’s a start.”

What could he say?

They’d made a respectable dent in the Black Cobra’s forces,
but
…

She’d been far too involved, too exposed to real danger and death. So much for his careful planning. When he’d glanced across and seen her standing on the carriage step,
one of their long knives in her hand with a cultist skewered on the end of it, his blood had run cold.

Not at all helpful in the middle of a fraught clash.

He’d wanted to roar at her for disobeying his strict orders, but if she hadn’t…he’d have been in much worse strife—possibly not able to roar at her at all.

Certainly not able to ease her back into the carriage and, under cover of her skirts, hold her hand—probably too tightly—all the way to Somersham Place.

He’d contented himself with that—with the simple contact—while the horses had raced on through the increasingly dark afternoon.

A winter storm was massing, roiling and boiling, ready to sweep in from the North Sea. One glance at the horizon, at the color and density of the clouds building there, confirmed snow by nightfall was a certainty.

It was early evening, already full dark, by the time they reached the massive pillars that marked the drive of the Place. Cobby had never been there before, but Del had described the pillars; the carriage slowed, turned into the drive, then continued bowling steadily along.

A welcoming light shone through the bare branches of massive oaks. Then the carriage rounded a corner and the house lay before them, as massive as he remembered, and as welcoming. Lamps on the porch were burning, casting a warm glow down the porch steps, illuminating the couple who walked out, alerted by the rattle of wheels on the gravel.

The gentleman halted at the top of the steps. Del felt his lips curve; Devil looked the same as ever, but the lady who came to stand by his shoulder, linking her arm with his, was new.