The Brazen Bride

Thirteen

December 18, 1822

The road from Paignton Hall to Exeter

They encountered the first ambush five miles from Paignton Hall. Thick fog blanketed the coast. The carriage’s sudden appearance out of the murk surprised eight sleepy cultists camped beyond the ditch; they scrambled to form up across the road, a human barrier waving short swords.

The coachman, David, whom Linnet concluded Deverell and Charles had chosen for his reckless enthusiasm, whipped up his horses and drove straight for them. Yelling, screeching, the cultists scattered, leaping and tumbling back into the muddy ditch.

Linnet saw open mouths and stunned faces as the carriage rocketed past.

“Well, that was uneventful.” Charles resheathed his sword, settled back into his corner, and closed his eyes.

Inwardly shaking her head, Linnet tucked her cloak more snugly over her red traveling gown, and with her cutlass riding comfortingly against her hip, settled in her own corner, diagonally opposite Charles. Deverell sat across from her, Logan alongside.

They’d left Paignton Hall in the icy chill an hour before dawn. Phoebe and Penny had stood on the steps and waved them away; the pair’s absolute confidence as they’d farewelled their husbands with assurances that they would all see each other shortly at Elveden had been infectious.

A good omen when heading out to face villains.

“I counted five on this side,” Deverell murmured.

Linnet glanced at him.

“Three this side,” Logan said.

“Which,” Charles concluded without opening his eyes, “makes eight-which just might be cause for concern.”

“If they had eight men to set watching a minor road like this…” Deverell met Logan’s eyes. “Another group before Exeter, do you think?”

Logan nodded. “More than likely.”

“In that case, we’d better make ready to start reducing the enemy’s numbers.” Opening his eyes, Charles stood, reached up to the rack above Linnet’s and Logan’s heads, and lifted down four small hunting crossbows and a handful of quarrels. “That, after all, is the main purpose of a decoy mission-to draw out and weaken the enemy.” Handing the bows around, he asked Linnet, “Can you fire one of these?”

She took a bow, examined it. “We have arbalests, big ones, on board, and I can fire those when they’re mounted, but this”-she tested the weight-“is light enough for me to hold, so yes.” Accepting the small winch used to load the bow, and a few quarrels, she raised her brows. “I might even be able to reload it.”

Resuming his seat, Charles loaded his. “We shouldn’t need to reload immediately, not unless they manage to halt the carriage. If they hunt in packs of eight or thereabouts, then if we each down one, that should be enough to get us through their next roadblock.”

“They won’t know it’s us, not until they look into the carriage.” The carriage was one of Deverell’s, built for speed as well as comfort, but anonymous and unmarked. Deverell set his loaded crossbow on the floor. “If we obligingly slow when they wave us down, wait until they’re close enough, then drop the windows, fire, and David springs his horses immediately, we’ll be through.”

Linnet looked at the windows-glass in wooden frames that slid down into the carriage’s sides and secured with a latch at the top.

Logan nodded. “I can’t see any holes in that.”

Deverell rose, opened the hatch in the carriage’s roof, and gave David his latest orders.

As Deverell resumed his seat, leaving the hatch open, the carriage slowed, then turned right onto the highway between Plymouth and Exeter.

“This is the road they’ll expect us to be on.” Logan peered out of the window, searching ahead. “The Black Cobra-Ferrar-is clever, and he’s had time to send his cultists to all the main ports on the south coast. We know he had men in Plymouth. He wouldn’t have missed Exeter.”

“And knowing you fled Plymouth in this direction but have yet to reach Exeter, they’ll be waiting.” Charles smiled in anticipation.

The carriage bowled on as a gray and mizzling dawn spread across the land.

“Heathens ahead, m’lord.” The words floated down through the open hatch. “Nine of the bastards with swords in their hands. I guess I’d better smile and look innocent.” The carriage slowed.

Deverell beckoned to Linnet. “Change places with me.”

She didn’t argue, just obliged.

Like Logan, Deverell angled back in the corner, gaze fixed through the window. They all had their crossbows in their hands. The coach rocked to a halt. Linnet shrugged off her cloak, reached her hand to the window latch. Saw the men slowly do the same.

“Now!” Deverell flipped his latch.

The sound of the four windows slamming down startled the approaching cultists, three on each side.

Logan’s and Deverell’s bows twanged. Two cultists fell. Linnet angled her bow around, sighted a dun-colored tunic, a black scarf dangling over the shoulder; she pulled the trigger. Instantly drew back, raising the window as the carriage jerked, then surged.

She relatched the window, glanced out and saw two cultists who must have been standing by the horses sprawled on the ground.

Then they were past. Through.

“Four down.” Charles set his bow on the floor. “I wonder how many more we’ll meet?”

Minutes later they were passing the outer abodes of Exeter.

“They’re following, m’lords,” David called down. “Three of ’em. But they’re hanging back, not looking to close the distance.”

“Let them follow.” Deverell looked at Logan. “I assume they’re unlikely to mount any attack in town?”

“That’s not their style, especially not if we’re traveling through. Hard to stop a carriage without anyone else noticing.” Logan settled back. “They tend to prefer more isolated surrounds, but not because they care about breaking any laws-to them the violence they employ is the only law that matters. They don’t care about witnesses, either, but while they’ll happily kill anyone who gets in their way, people getting in the way distracts and hampers them, and their master is very keen on success when it comes to the tasks he sets them.”

Charles nodded. “So they’re following, waiting for us to helpfully drive into the next little band of theirs further down the road.”

“In that, they’ll be disappointed,” Deverell said. “They’ll expect us to head directly east, out on the road to London-where else?” He raised a brow at Logan. “What are the odds that once we’re bowling along the London road, they’ll send one of their number forward to alert the next group?”

“That’s a certainty.”

“So when we turn north, they’ll have to send a second man back to alert the others of our change in direction.”

“So we’ll be left with one man.” Logan smiled. “And he won’t be able to leave us to alert anyone for fear of losing us altogether.”

“Which, I must remind you, we don’t actually want them to do.” Charles settled back. “The trick with a mission like this is to reduce their numbers as much as we can without risking being overwhelmed.”

“This is the center of town.” Deverell signaled to Linnet and changed places with her again, giving her the more comfortable position facing forward. “We’re now heading out and east, so let’s see if our predictions prove correct.” Still standing, Deverell spoke through the hatch, “David, keep to our planned route to Bridgwater, but take your time until the turnoff to Cullompton. Give them a chance to send a rider past us.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Deverell resumed his seat.

Sure enough, five minutes later, when the last cottages of Exeter fell behind, Charles pointed out of the window. “There he goes.”

They all looked and saw one of the cultists, rugged up in a frieze coat buttoned over a dun tunic, but with his distinctive head scarf flapping, urging his mount over the soggy field bordering the road. Eventually, he pulled ahead.

Minutes later David called down, “He’s away, m’lord. Round the next bend and out of sight. The Cullompton turnoff’s just ahead.”

“Take it,” Deverell ordered, “and drive on as fast as you safely can.”

The carriage slowed, then turned left into a narrower road that ran between high hedges. As soon as the carriage completed the turn, David whipped up his horses; they surged, then settled to a steady, mile-eating pace.

“Lots of argy-bargy going on between the two heathens still with us, m’lord. Seems like one of ’em’s turning back.”

“Good.” Smiling, Deverell sat back. “On to Bridgwater as fast as you can.”

They rattled on through the morning, through wet mists that blurred the landscape. The damp chill reached deep. Linnet huddled in her cloak, glad she was in the carriage and not on horseback. They passed through Taunton without challenge, but their sole follower was still with them when they reached Bridgwater. David slowed his horses, then turned the carriage into the yard of the Monmouth Arms.

Deverell led the way in, bespoke a private parlor and the best luncheon the inn could provide. Linnet found herself bowed deferentially into the parlor by the innkeeper, then before she could swing her cloak from her shoulders, Logan lifted it away, then held a chair for her at the table.

Once she sat, the three men took their seats. Almost immediately the door opened; the innwife and a bevy of serving girls swept in, bearing covered platters and a huge tureen. With a flourish, the innwife set the tureen before Linnet. “Ma’am.”

With a bobbed curtsy, the innwife turned, shooed her girls out ahead of her, then went out and closed the door.

Linnet didn’t need to look at the three faces about the table to know that they, too, expected her to serve the soup. With only a slight twist to her lips, she did. The oxtail broth was delicious, as were the various roast meats and assorted vegetables and puddings provided as accompaniments.

Early in the proceedings, the innkeeper arrived with three mugs of ale for the men and a glass of ginger wine for Linnet. Once again, the innkeeper’s deferential “ma’am” niggled Linnet; despite the fact that she wore no ring, everyone, Logan included, was treating her as if she were his wife.

She felt a touch off-balance, and didn’t appreciate the feeling.

But she, Logan, Charles, and Deverell had more pressing concerns.

When only the platter of cheese and walnuts remained, Charles popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, gathered a handful of nuts, and pushed back from the table. “I’m going out to scout around.”

Deverell nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

From the door, Charles looked back at Logan. “Give us at least half an hour before you send the cavalry.”

Logan nodded, and then the pair were gone.

They returned twenty minutes later. Logan turned from the window as the door opened and Charles walked in, looking puzzled.

“They’re here.” Charles waited until Deverell came in and closed the door. “But for some ungodly reason they’re gathered, all eight of them, back down the road.”

Deverell halted by the table. He, too, was frowning. “They know we’re here-they’re keeping watch on the entrance to the inn’s yard.” He looked at Logan. “We checked ahead first, then circled all the way around before we found them. It looks like they’re intending to follow us rather than attack, even though there are eight of them.”

“I can’t see how they can attack from the rear, not in this sort of country, on this sort of road, and against a fast carriage and four.” Charles looked at Logan. “There’s something we’re missing here.”

After a moment, Logan said, “I think I know what.” He looked at Deverell. “Have you got that map?”

Reaching into his pocket, Deverell drew out a map, carefully unfolded the parchment, and laid it on the table. Linnet rose from the armchair to which she’d retreated and joined them. They all stood looking down at the map.

“We’re here”-Deverell pointed to a spot labeled Bridgwater-“currently on the road to Bristol. Our destination, Bath, is here.” He pointed to the town northeast of Bridgwater, and southeast of Bristol. “As the crow flies, it’s about thirty-five miles, fifty or more by road. Five hours’ drive, perhaps less. The reason we’ve come this way is that, from here, there are many different routes we can take to reach Bath.” He traced a number of them. “None of those routes is useful for mounting an attack from the rear-so why send eight men to follow us where one, or at most two, would do?”

“Because they think we’re going to Bristol, and they’re not just following us.” Logan pointed to Bristol, to their nor’northeast, then looked up, met the others’ eyes. “We know Ferrar sent his men to the south coast ports, those being the ones we, the couriers, were most likely to come through. But the three frigates that attacked the Esperance ? Given no one believed any captain from the south coast would fail to recognize the Esperance and therefore know better than to attack it, especially when it was flying the naval ensign, I asked Linnet’s crew where they thought those ships hailed from. Their educated guess was from an east coast port. And if Ferrar sent men to the east coast ports, he would have sent men to Bristol, too.”

Charles grimaced. “It is one of the major trading ports.”

“So,” Deverell said, “it’s likely the group behind us have already sent someone to alert their colleagues in Bristol, and as we drive on, with the eight behind us, we’re going to run into a cult welcome up ahead.”

“And we’ll be trapped between”-Charles looked at Logan-“sixteen or more? Those are not odds I like.”

“Nor I,” Logan said, “but that’s how the cult operates. They smother opponents-overwhelming odds to ensure victory. Ferrar has no consideration for how many he loses, and many cultists have absorbed so much of the religious zeal Ferrar has fostered that they view death in the service of the Black Cobra as imparting some sort of glory.”

“In that case,” Deverell said, leaning on the table and studying the map, “we need to break up the group behind us, or step sideways out of their trap.”

“Or both,” Charles said. “The question is how.”

They evaluated the various roads they might take.

“The problem,” Logan said, “is that if we take any of these roads to Bath, in the carriage we’re going to be slower than a rider from the pack behind us seeing our direction, riding hell for leather to Bristol, meeting up with the welcome committee there, and redirecting them to Bath. They’ll be able to reach Bath, and even come southeast to meet us as we drive in. We’ll be no better off, and might even be in worse, less frequented terrain.”

They all stared at the map. “That means,” Deverell eventually said, “that regardless of all else, the best route for us to take to Bath is the one that’s quickest from the moment we turn off the Bristol road.” He traced a route. “This one-we turn off at Upper Langford, then go via Blagdon, Compton Martin, Bishop Sutton and Chelwood to Marksbury, and so to Bath. For us, that’s the fastest way.”

Logan grimaced. “They’re still going to reach Bath well ahead of us.”

Linnet tapped a finger on the map. “Not if they don’t see which way we go.” She glanced up at the three men. When they all simply waited, she half smiled and looked down. “Here-just past this hamlet called Star. There’s a bend in the road, and then half a mile further on, Upper Langford and the turnoff we want. And while it’s difficult to stage an attack from the rear, we’re in front. We can attack them . And if we do, and cause sufficient panic and mayhem, just after Star and just before this bend, then we can be on and around the bend, down the road to Blagdon and out of sight, before they catch up enough to see us turn.”

Deverell was studying the map closely. “They’ll realize we’ve turned, but they won’t know to where. Just past that bend there are roads to Cheddar, Weston-Sur-Mare, Congresbury, as well as the one we want to take.”

“They’ll spend time casting about, trying to find which way we’ve gone.” Linnet looked at Logan. “It might not delay them long, but it will gain us some time, perhaps enough to beat them into Bath.”

Logan nodded. “That’s our best plan so far.”

Charles straightened. “The only alternative is to kill all those following us, and as they’re all on horseback, it’s too likely one of them at least will flee and ride on, so that’s not a viable option.”

Deverell nodded. “I vote for Linnet’s plan.”

“And me.” Logan nodded at her.

Charles grinned and swept her a bow. “Indeed. And I’ve got just the thing to ensure sufficient panic and mayhem to get away unseen.”

When their carriage rattled out of the Monmouth Arms yard, only Logan and Linnet were inside the vehicle. Charles and Deverell were stretched out on the roof, with two primed rifles each. Logan and Linnet each had one rifle and two pistols. The pistols were unlikely to have much chance of hitting any cultists, but the shots would add to the confusion.

David, who’d looked thoroughly thrilled when told the plan, took his time settling in his new team, galloping them along the straighter stretches, then reining them in, trotting through the small towns, before settling to a steady, but rapid, pace.

According to Charles, who reported via the open hatch, the changes in pace alone caused uncertainty in their pursuers’ ranks.

Not that they stopped pursuing.

Linnet had claimed the map. She continued consulting it as they swept on. Deverell, Charles, and Logan had agreed that the welcome party from Bristol would be waiting to ambush them along a particularly empty and desolate stretch between two villages. Luckily that stretch was at least three miles further on from where they planned to turn off.

The carriage slowed, and she looked out, saw a signpost. “That’s Sidcot.” She checked her map, then called to the two above. “Star’s about a half mile on.”

Setting aside the map, she undid the ties of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. She’d left her cutlass in the carriage when she’d gone into the inn, but had promptly buckled it on again as they’d left Bridgwater. Although their plan didn’t involve any face-to-face combat, she preferred to be prepared. Standing, she resettled the belt about her hips, then looked at the crate Charles had left on the opposite seat.

She studied the glass bottles wicked with rag that lay nestled in crumpled paper inside the crate. “Do you think these will actually work?”

Logan glanced at the bottles. “I’ve seen far less professional incendiaries work brilliantly.”

“Star coming up.” David’s voice drifted down from above.

David followed the pattern he’d established when driving through smaller towns, slowing to bowl smoothly through, then whipping up his horses the moment the last cottages fell behind.

He drove on for several hundred yards, then abruptly slowed the carriage to a grinding halt.

The cultists, by then clear of the hamlet, at first came on at their accustomed gallop, then, realizing the carriage had halted, they slowed, confused… yet still closing the distance.

“Now!” Charles called, and both he and Deverell opened fire.

On the heels of their first volley, Logan and Linnet swung open the carriage doors, and, one foot on the carriage’s steps, took aim and fired. They pulled back into the carriage as the second volley sounded from above.

Logan dropped the rifle he’d used, grabbed the tinderbox he’d left ready.

Linnet lifted one of the bottles from its packing and held it for him.

He lit the wick, seized the bottle, and passed it up through the hatch to waiting hands. Immediately lit a second and passed that up, too.

The carriage rocked as Charles and Deverell stood. Logan imagined them waiting, then the carriage swayed as they threw the small flame bombs.

“Go!”

David had the carriage rolling when Charles and Deverell dropped to the roof.

Just as the bombs hit.

Logan and Linnet hung out of the carriage windows, and saw a scene of carnage and confusion, of cultists lying on the ground, some clutching wounds and wailing, of horses milling. The bombs had landed, as intended, just in front of the cultists. Flames had whooshed and flared-the pervading damp would soon have them out, but the show was enough to have the cultists’ mounts panicking, pulling free if they could and galloping away.

As the carriage started around the bend, the flames died and smoke rose in billowing waves, engulfing the cutlists, setting them coughing and choking.

The carriage rounded the bend, their horses racing on as David drove hard for their chosen road.

They reached it and turned off toward Bath.

The carriage rattled wildly along the lesser road, helpfully lined with high, unclipped hawthorn hedges. David slowed a trifle as they passed through another hamlet. Once they were bowling along again, Charles called down, “None of them got to the bend before we turned. We’ve lost them, at least for the moment.”

They busied themselves tidying away the rest of the incendiaries, the rifles and pistols. At the next hamlet, David halted long enough for Charles and Deverell to climb down and return to their seats inside the carriage.

“It’s damned cold out there.” Charles stamped his feet, blew on his hands. “But at least we’ve made some impact.”

“We’ve done our duty,” Deverell affirmed, “at least for the moment.”

They all settled back, drew their cloaks closer. Linnet looked out of the window, thought back through the recent engagement.

Reduce numbers, avoid being overwhelmed.

That, apparently, was to be the catchcry of their mission.

The best-laid plans of mice and men were, sadly, subject to the whim of the gods.

The gods’ minions, in this instance, were sheep. Lots of them. The carriage was forced to a halt just beyond the tiny town of Compton Martin by a large flock being moved to winter pastures. There was nothing for it but to wait for the bleating mob to file slowly past.

When the road was finally clear, David whipped up his horses-only to have to rein them to a halt again just past West Harptree, then again near Sutton Wick.

“It’s like a damned organized migration,” Charles muttered.

By the time they reached Marksbury and headed toward Bath on the last stretch of their day’s journey, although no one said anything, they were all tense and watchful. What advantage they’d gained by their inventive action near Star had been well and truly eaten away by the sheep.

There was every chance the Black Cobra’s men had reached Bath by now; they might even be lurking along the road into town.

Dusk fell, and the shadows thickened. Their tension racked steadily higher the closer they got to the famous spa town; Logan knew little about it beyond its famous waters. They each sat back from their windows, watching, scanning, searching for any telltale black scarves.

That they rattled into the town center without spotting one didn’t materially ease Logan’s concern. The more deadly variety of cultist, the assassins, loomed high in his mind.

David, under orders to drive unremarkably so as to draw no especial attention to their vehicle, eventually halted the carriage outside their chosen hotel, The York House. Streetlamps had been lit, bathing the wide pavement before the hotel in warm welcome. With the hour edging toward dinnertime, there was not a great deal of other traffic about.

After all Logan’s worrying, it felt anticlimactic to step down from the carriage, hand Linnet down, and find an august, liveried doorman waiting to bow them in.

“Logan.”

He turned to see Charles beckoning. His hand on Linnet’s back, he urged her on. “Go in-we’ll follow.”

Leaving her to the deferential care of the doorman, Logan returned to assist Charles and Deverell in packing the rifles and their other weapons, and hiding the remaining incendiaries while handing their personal bags to the footmen who swarmed out to help.

Brows arched, Linnet watched, saw, then consented to turn and follow the doorman across the wide pavement to the front door. She’d heard of The York House. It had long been the favored haunt of visiting nobility. Running an eye over the elegant façade, she cynically smiled, imagining telling Jen and Gilly-and Muriel and Buttons, too-that she’d stayed there. At least, thanks to Penny and Phoebe, her wardrobe would pass muster.

The doorman had stridden ahead to pull open and hold the heavy brass, etched glass, and polished wood front door, bowing her regally through. Lips curving more definitely, she glided toward the doorway-

Heard the telltale sing of an arrow.

Instinctively she ducked, curling herself into a smaller target, then looking around. The doorman froze, eyes widening, then he whisked around the open door, taking cover behind the thick panel.

With a gasp and a clatter, the footman who’d been following Linnet with her bag hit the ground. Eyes wide with shock, he clutched one arm from which a crossbow quarrel protruded.

She didn’t think, just acted. She’d been in too many battles to panic, was too much a leader not to immediately take charge.

Moving swiftly in a halfcrouch, she turned back, grabbed her bag in one hand, the footman’s uninjured arm in the other, and hauled him to his feet-thanking her stars he wasn’t taller or all that much heavier than she. As more arrows rained down, using the bag to cover their backs, she propelled him through the still open front door.

Halting in the hall, she let the footman go. He collapsed to the tiles. She turned back to the door, taking cover just inside to look out.

The doorman picked his moment between showers of arrows and rushed in. Shaken out of his rigid control, he nevertheless called for help for his footman, gave orders for others to man the windows, then came to stand behind Linnet, peering past her shoulder as she surveyed the scene.

“No one else is down,” she murmured, for herself as much as the doorman. Logan had been in the carriage, but must have jumped down and been on his way to help her when she’d acted and got herself out of danger. He’d taken cover behind the open carriage door on this side, protected to some extent by the bulk of the carriage. Deverell had been inside and still was. He was working frantically. As she watched, he passed Logan one rifle, then another.

Logan looked toward the rear of the carriage. Called to Charles, who reached around and took the rifle, then returned to his position at the far rear corner of the carriage.

The arrows were still coming in unpredictable fits and starts. They seemed to be coming from the top of a building a little way down the street. Linnet could see all the footmen now huddled in a group at the carriage’s rear, looking longingly at the front door. But David-where was he? He’d been on the box in full view of the enemy. Had he been hit? Was he even now dying?

But then she saw a shadow beneath the carriage, beneath the box itself, and realized he’d taken cover there. As far as she could tell, he was uninjured, just temporarily stuck in a cramped space.

Relief slid through her; she’d known David for all of a day, mostly as a voice and a presence guiding the horses, yet she thought of him as one of their small band. Refocusing on the continuing danger, she saw a town carriage rumbling down the street toward them. Charles stepped out, waved his arms, called orders-then ducked back, most likely swearing, as another flight of arrows rained down.

The startled coachman halted his horses, scrambled down from his box, and took cover-bobbing up by the side of the carriage to explain to his master what was happening.

After checking that all was clear in the other direction, Logan looked back and called orders to the huddled footmen; they nodded in reply.

Then Logan eased forward, inching to the edge of the box seat, then crouching to aim his rifle-at what neither Linnet nor the doorman could see.

“This is outrageous,” the doorman huffed. “Such things simply don’t happen at The York House. Not anywhere in Bath!”

Linnet struggled not to let her lips curve. “Sadly, they are. Take heart-no one ever died of a little excitement, and your man”-she tipped her head toward the injured footman-“isn’t badly hurt. Now step aside-I think you’re about to get the rest of your footmen back.”

Logan fired his rifle, then Charles took his shot, too.

In a group, the footmen raced across the pavement and in through the door as Deverell fired out of one of the carriage windows.

Logan and Charles were already tossing their spent rifles back into the carriage; they stepped back with pistols and swords. Deverell emerged, and then the three, all armed to the teeth, separated-Charles and Deverell going around the back of the carriage, then racing, doubled over, across the street. Logan glanced at Linnet, signaled that he was going to circle the cultists’ position-presumably to ensure the enemy had fled.

No more arrows had come slicing down since they’d discharged their rifles.

Linnet nodded, waited, saw Logan race across the street, then, hugging the shadows thrown by the shop fronts, ghost away, out of her sight. Inwardly sighing, she turned and took up the role they’d left her. Tugging off her gloves, she swept up to the heavy desk behind which the manager, somewhat goggle-eyed, stood. She vaguely recalled Deverell saying their rooms had been arranged. “I believe, if you consult your register, that you’ll find a booking in the name of Wolverstone.”

The name worked wonders. Within minutes, she was ushered into one of the hotel’s principal suites.

Luxurious, even opulent in its decoration, the suite had two bedrooms giving off a central sitting room; she claimed the bedroom to the left, leaving the other for the men, but when a footman carried Logan’s bag into the room she’d chosen, she didn’t protest.

Inwardly grimaced; there was no point.

Trailing after the footman, she was in time to stop the maid from unpacking Logan’s bag; the scroll-holder was in it. She felt obliged to allow the maid to unpack her gowns and hang them up instead.

When the maid eagerly asked which gown she should leave out for dinner, Linnet arbitrarily picked one of the evening gowns-one in green silk. The question had reminded her that someone needed to order the meal.

She had little experience in choosing menus-Muriel normally handled such matters-but she had the happy thought to consult the maitre d’hotel, and he was both delighted to have been asked and solicitous in arranging an appropriate repast.

That done, she oversaw the disposition of the men’s weapons, then summoned David up to report, confirmed he was unharmed and well-quartered-and insouciantly thrilled by the action-then she settled to pace-only to have a succession of the hotel’s staff tap on the door to offer this, that, and the other.

By the time her three companions walked through the door, she’d been driven to the edge of distraction by the maids’ offers and by an unaccustomed, yet very real, nagging worry-one that evaporated the instant Logan walked in and her eyes confirmed he was unharmed.

That he looked faintly disgusted was neither here nor there.

Dropping into an armchair, Charles explained the disgust. “They’d fled.”

Arms folded, she looked down at him, then at the other two. Then she turned on her heel and headed for her room. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. I’m going to change.”

In these surroundings, even in this company, she felt obliged to play the part of lady, no matter how ill she fitted the role.

The dinner was superb, and served with a smooth, silent efficiency that allowed them to concentrate first on the dishes, then, once the cheese platter arrived and the servers withdrew, on their plans.

“I don’t think there were more than four archers pinning us down out there.” With a tilt of his head, Deverell indicated the front of the hotel. “As there’s bound to be more cultists than that around, I think we can conclude that they reached Bath before us, but then set up ambushes at all the major hotels-there’s not so many of those to cover in Bath.”

Logan nodded. “I think our diversion near Star worked more or less as we’d planned, and by the time they reached here, not knowing we’d been held up, they assumed we were already in residence. Those archers were posted to pick us off if we showed our faces outside. That’s why they were in that position-perfect for when we walked out onto the pavement, but not so ideal when we rolled up in a carriage to go in.”

Charles nodded. “Tomorrow we have an easier day-only about sixty miles in all, along larger, well-surfaced, well-populated roads.” He looked at Logan. “Any insights into what they’re likely to do?”

“This hotel is too solid, too secure, and has too many people in it to attack. They won’t have time to organize anything complicated, like hiring someone local to break into these rooms.” Logan paused, then went on, “I’ve been thinking that our presence here must be causing the cult members stationed in this region some consternation. It’s reasonable to expect that all the cultists in England know by now that three couriers have landed, but there’s one more yet to come. They don’t know where Rafe is going to land, so they have to continue their watch at all the ports. Which means our group currently here-mostly drawn from Bristol-cannot afford to follow us on. They may leave a few to track us-to see where we go and later alert some other group further on, mostly likely much closer to Elveden-but the majority will have to return, might already have returned, to Bristol.”

“That’s a fair assumption,” Deverell said. “It suggests we won’t face an attack tomorrow as we set out.”

Logan considered it. “Only if we try to leave very early, before there are others about. The Bristol contingent might dally long enough to see if we try to set out before dawn again, hoping to mount an attack outside town, but if we leave later, with other travelers around, I can’t see them trying anything.”

Deverell exchanged a glance with Charles. “No need to leave early.”

“Indeed not.” Charles sighed. “Let’s set our departure for midmorning. Say ten o’clock. We’ll still make Oxford by four o’clock at the latest. And while I would prefer to go hunting tonight, to see if we can locate and eliminate the Bristol group, such an act would make it too obvious the paper we’re ferrying is a decoy. We reduce their numbers every chance we get, but we have to wait for them to come to us.”

His tone made it clear that wasn’t his accustomed modus operandi. Deverell, too, grimaced resignedly.

Logan eyed the pair of them and shook his head. “Wolverstone’s orders made it clear we must behave as if I have the original letter.”

“I know.” Charles sighed. “I can see his point, but letting murderous cultists slip away unchastized goes painfully against my grain.”

Logan’s lips twisted wryly. “The cultists won’t use firearms, so we’re safe from that, unless they hire locals, which it’s possible they might do. And if you find yourself facing a cultist with a blade in each hand, he’ll be an assassin, so expect the unexpected. They fight to the death, to win any way they can.”

“Speaking of the unexpected,” Deverell said, “should we set watches?”

Logan hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve learned never to trust logic when it comes to the cult.”

Used to rising before dawn, Linnet claimed the early morning watch, then said her good nights and headed for her room.

Suddenly weary, she stripped, put on the nightgown the attentive-frankly awestruck-little maid had left out for her, then slumped into the bed and tugged the sheets over her shoulder.

She was half asleep when the bed bowed and Logan joined her beneath the piled covers. She’d turned to the side of the bed, her back to him; he slid near, hard and warm, and spooned around her.

Through her slumberous haze, she sensed him looking down at her, studying her face. Then he dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“Are you all right? You seem very… worn out.”

Not physically, yet since he’d returned with the others, Logan had noted a certain underlying tension, a sense that underneath her competent calm, she was irritated, annoyed… bothered over something.

Wrapping one hand over her hip, he leaned closer, brushed his lips across her ear. “I’m sorry if the clashes today bothered you. You can’t have killed that many men before-it can be unsettling.”

She snorted, opened her eyes, and shot him a glare, one he felt even through the shadows. “Don’t be daft. They’re trying to kill us-their deaths are on their heads. That isn’t what’s worn me out.” She narrowed her eyes on his. “And don’t you dare try to leave me out of anything just because you think I’m about to turn into some sort of hysterical female.”

He didn’t; he’d suggested the excuse so he could ask, “What is bothering you, then?”

Her lips thinned. Narrow-eyed, she regarded him, then turned and settled her head back down, facing away. “If you must know, it’s pretending to be a lady that’s driving me demented. Having to watch what I say, what I do, how I behave-and now these sweet innocents have decided I’m some sort of heroine, and I’m not. That’s not me .” She huffed, then in an even lower tone went on, “And on top of that, they all think I’m your wife. Even Charles and Deverell have fallen into the habit of it, so even with them I feel I have to play the role, fit into some mold that’s not me. Frankly, it’s giving me a headache.”

He looked down at her for a long moment. Then he slid down in the bed, laid his head behind hers, slid his arms around her, and gathered her close. Held her. “You don’t understand-you don’t have to change. I don’t want you to change. The woman I want as my wife is the woman you are-Linnet Trevission, captain and all. And the staff here-the lady they now revere is the lady who, without a thought for her own safety, saved one of them. They don’t care what else you are, what other traits you have-it’s what they saw in that instant, the real you, that has stirred their loyalty.” He paused, stared at the back of her head. “You, as you are, inspire loyalty in a lot of people.”

Him included; he hoped she knew that.

She’d left her hair up. With his cheek, he brushed tendrils of flame from her nape and pressed a soft kiss there. “You, as you are, are the perfect wife for me in every way.”

She wriggled, settling deeper within his arms, but all she said was, “Shush. Go to sleep. You have to get up for your watch in two hours.”

Within minutes, she’d relaxed; her breathing slowed, evened out.

He listened to the sound, comforted by it, yet oddly uncertain. A touch uneasy, just a little concerned.

He wasn’t sure what the problem was-not even if there was a problem at all. If she was wrestling with the mantle of being his wife… that was good, wasn’t it?

Sleep claimed him before he could decide.