The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (65 page)

One bowed. “We have searched, Excellency, but there is no one here. It is abandoned.”

“And big enough and sound enough for our headquarters?”

“It seems very appropriate, Uncle.”

“Excellent. Make arrangements to move all our baggage here, and summon all our fighters. This will henceforth be our headquarters.”

The men bowed.

Swift footsteps in the corridor outside had them all looking to the door.

Akbar appeared. He paused, taking in the ornate chamber—a drawing room, Uncle thought it would be called—then strode in. Pulling off his gloves, he met Uncle’s gaze, then bowed curtly.

“The men watching the inn report that the major has commenced drilling locals in the yard.”

Uncle frowned. “These are soldiers—militia?”

“No. Sailors, farmers—young men mostly, only a few older.”

Uncle’s expression turned contemptuous. “Lower orders.” He waved dismissively. “They are no threat to us. It is not in the nature of peasants to rise up against their betters.”

“But—”

“Doubtless the major thinks to distract us—to pretend he has large numbers of fighters. He does not.” Uncle met Akbar’s gaze, quietly stated, “He will not succeed in distracting us from the path we are destined to follow. That the Black Cobra has ordered us to follow.”

Akbar had no choice but to swallow his protest. Stiffly, he inclined his head and stepped back.

Uncle turned to the others. “Go and collect all that we
need to make this place into suitable quarters. You must also find for me all the implements I will require to properly punish the major’s woman and, later, the major himself.” A slow smile of vindictive anticipation spread across Uncle’s face. Quietly, he crooned, “Do you know what I need?”

The cultists bowed low. The one in charge replied, “Yes, Uncle. We will fetch all the tools necessary.”

“Good.” Smile still in place, Uncle turned away.

Akbar waited for an instant, then curtly bowed to Uncle’s back, turned on his heel and left the room.

In the corridor outside, his own second was waiting. As he strode down the corridor, the man fell in at his shoulder. “Well—what did he say? Are we to act to discourage these locals from joining with the major?”

His expression stony, Akbar shook his head. “No.” After a moment, he added, “Old men and their delusions. They will bring us down yet.”

The night passed without incident, and the day following continued quiet.

Too quiet for Gareth’s liking.

The rain and hail had ceased, but the wind still blew at storm force. Luckily, the inn yard was protected by the surrounding buildings. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, he, Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister worked with their volunteers, improvising both for weapons and techniques, and drilling them to instill basic levels of command.

By late afternoon, however, many were asking when the fight would be. When no definite answer was forthcoming, it became progressively more difficult to hold their troops’ attention.

By evening, when he wandered through the common room, Gareth overheard too many comments on “the mad ideas of the English” to doubt that the excitement generated by the promised fight against the “heathens” was dissipating.

Resuming his seat beside Emily at their table, he caught his fellow trainers’ eyes. “Whoever’s commanding the cult
this time is using his brains. There’s been no sighting of a cultist since we arrived. The locals are starting to believe they don’t really exist—that they’ve moved on, or were from the first a figment of our imaginations.”

Mullins nodded glumly. “I’ll wager that tomorrow we’ll have less than half our numbers today.”

Bister grimaced. “Nothing much we can do until the axe falls, is there?”

Gareth shook his head. “All we can do is hope that, when the attack comes, we’ll have a reasonable enough force to hold off the first wave, so the doubters have time to come running.”

Watson suggested they find a nearby bell, or something similar they could use as a summons.

While the others discussed that, Gareth leaned closer to Emily. Laying a hand over one of hers, he caught her eye when she looked his way. “You mustn’t forget that from the first—in Aden—the cult had you in their sights. They must know of your role in getting the letter to us—you are a target as much as I am.”

She raised her brows. “But I’m not the one carrying the scroll holder. If this is their last chance of stopping it from reaching England, then they’ll be focused on that, not”—she waved her other hand—“side issues.”

He held her gaze. “They won’t see you as a side issue. Taking hostages is a common ploy for them.” He hesitated, then went on, “And I suspect they know that I’ll give anything to save you.”

She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”

They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.

While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him—the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.

Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.

In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons—the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”

Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.

“Tomorrow, we will triumph—we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place—into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”

Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action—from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze—Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”

Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”

The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.

He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.

As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group—ten youthful lads plus Jimmy—into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.

After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.

He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.

She glanced over the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”

“It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”

“Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”

Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.

When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”

Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.

Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers—mostly old men and young girls—lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.

Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.

The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like—and almost walked into a man.

With an “Oh!” she looked up.

Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.

The man on her left—black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin—leered as he pressed close—and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife—with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.

Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man—unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others—glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.

The third man nodded. The man on her left urged her forward. “Walk quietly. Make no sound and we will let you live. Pray none of your friends notice—if they do, we will have to kill them.”

She had no choice. Even if she swooned they would simply drag her along. But once they reached the street, someone would see, would notice…

Her hopes died as they rounded the far corner of the auberge and she saw a dogcart waiting. They half lifted, half pushed her onto the front bench. The man with the knife followed and sat beside her. The third man took the reins and climbed up to sit on her other side, while the other man climbed on behind.

Wedged between the cultists, the horrendously sharp knife still pressed threateningly to her side, she had to sit silently and be driven out of the lane, into the square, and away.

Gareth was thinking of calling a halt for luncheon when Dorcas came into the side yard. She looked around. A frown formed on her face.

When her gaze returned to him, he raised his brows.

She walked across to him. “Have you seen Miss Emily?”

“Not recently. She was out here about an hour ago, but went inside again.”

Dorcas shook her head, looking toward the street. “We can’t find her. No one’s seen her, not since…well, it must be since she spoke with you.”

A chill coursed through his veins, but Gareth told himself not to leap to conclusions. “If she’s not in her room…is there anywhere else she might go to fill in time?”

“Not that I can think of. And…well, I don’t want to cause a fuss that might be unnecessary.” Dorcas met his eyes. “There haven’t been any sightings of cultists for days—no one’s come into the common room to say otherwise.”

“We haven’t seen or heard of anyone lurking around, either.”

“So there’s no reason to suppose anything dreadful has occurred.” Dorcas looked across the yard, then drew in a breath and rushed on, “But to go off somewhere without telling you, or me, especially now, when we’re all so on edge…that’s very unlike Miss Emily. Still, perhaps—”

“No.” Grim, Gareth caught her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re right. She wouldn’t vanish of her own accord. Which means—” He cut off the thought, instead said, “We search. Find whoever you can, and search thoroughly upstairs. I’ll get Bister and our recruits to check outside, while Mooktu and I will talk to the Perrots and search the ground floor. We’ll meet in the common room as soon as we’re done.”