The Untamed Bride

Ten

December 16

Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

In the wee small hours of the morning, Sangay crept along the corridor on the first floor of the very big house.

He’d seen the colonel take the scroll-holder from Mustaf in the inn yard. He hadn’t seen either Mustaf or Cobby take the scroll-holder back. And now he knew what to look for, once they’d all settled in the big house he’d been able to tell that neither Cobby nor Mustaf had been carrying the holder.

Just before the servants had had their dinner in the servants’ hall, when Cobby had been sitting with Sligo before the fire there, and Mustaf and Kumulay had been waiting at the big table, Sangay had slipped into first Mustaf’s, then Cobby’s rooms, and searched. Thoroughly. He was getting very good at searching. But the scroll-holder hadn’t been there.

Later still, after he’d come back from speaking with the evil sahib behind the stable, he’d surreptitiously followed Cobby and learned where the colonel’s room was.

Now, silent as a ghost, he slipped through the deep shad ows. The house was gloomy and dark, but it was almost as if he could hear it breathing-as if the house itself were alive. As if it might wake at any moment and see him. He tried not to think of such fanciful things, but concentrated on retracing his steps to the colonel’s room without getting lost.

There were so many rooms down so many different corridors, but he’d noted the steel armor mounted like a metal man on a stand just along from the colonel’s door. Finally he saw it, and hurried forward, his slippered feet silent on the rugs. He took a moment to check that it was indeed the right armor, then, going to the door, he opened it, peeked in, then slipped inside.

The colonel spent his nights in the memsahib’s bedroom. He was never in his room until close to dawn. So Sangay was free to search.

It was still hours before dawn when he reached into the top drawer of a high chest and his fingers closed around polished wood and brass.

Almost reverently, he drew the holder out. One glance was enough to confirm it was the one the evil sahib sought.

Closing the drawer, Sangay slid the holder up the sleeves of his tunic and the coat he’d donned over it, then, quiet as a mouse, he slipped out of the room and shut the door.

He was downstairs in mere minutes. He paused in the corridor leading to the back door and closed his coat up tight. It would be cold out there-freezing. He hadn’t yet had a chance to look for the big church, but the evil sahib had said he had to go back down the carriage drive, and he knew where that was. He would go now and be well away from the house before the other servants stirred. When daylight came, he would be able to see the church tower.

He wondered how long it would take him to reach it. Even going around by the roads, in this country it wouldn’t be that far. A few hours, perhaps?

Telling himself to keep his spirits up-he was nearly free of the evil sahib’s demands-he reached for the bolts closing the back door, eased them back with barely a sound. Carefully, he lifted the latch, opened the door.

And looked out at a wall of white.

He stared. He could only just see over the top of the white blockage. Hesitantly, he put out a hand. White sand, but cold, and it melted where he touched.

The white stuff slithered, started to slide like sand in through the door. Quickly, he swung the door closed, pushed hard and managed to shut it.

Snow! The white stuff was snow. He’d had no idea it could come like this.

That it could trap him in the house with the scroll-holder.

Stunned, he reclosed the bolts, then looked for a window, saw one over the iron trough in the next room. He hurried over, had to clamber up and balance on the trough to see through. The snow had piled up across the bottom of the window. He couldn’t push it open. Looking out, he saw to his amazement that there was plenty of light to see, even though it was still hours until dawn.

A soft, pearly-gray glow bathed the scene, moonlight and starlight reflecting off the snow. Sangay had never imagined the world might look like this-untouched, and so cold. As if there were no people, no animals anywhere. Only the naked trees and the buildings…and in the far distance, off to the east, the huge tower of a church spearing up through the white-gray, its stone a solid, deeper gray than the sky behind it.

Three hours at most, Sangay thought, but he couldn’t walk through snow that deep.

He looked at the white dunes filling the kitchen yard. Perhaps it might be less on the other sides of the house?

He spent the next hour frantically going from room to room, window to window, but the snow lay everywhere, apparently equally thick. There was no window he could open, no door he could slip through. Everywhere he looked, the snow hemmed him in.

Then he heard the first maids stirring.

Sternly he told himself he couldn’t sniffle and cry, that his maataa’s life depended on him getting the holder to the evil sahib.

He looked down at the wooden holder, peeking past the edge of his sleeve. He couldn’t afford to be found with it, but if he put it back in the colonel’s room, he might not be able to fetch it later.

On impulse, he hurried back to the kitchen, slipped into the corridor to the back door, then turned off it into a big storeroom. It was close to the back door, and he’d seen bins there. He found one behind some bags; it was half-filled with wheat. He buried the scroll-holder deep, then, feeling a vise ease from about his chest, drew an easier breath. He went back into the kitchen and curled up in a corner near the fire.

He didn’t have long to wait. Three of the kitchen girls came down the servants’ stairs. Yawning, laughing, they saw him, smiled and called a good morning, and started taking down pots and plates.

Sangay returned their greetings, then got to his feet. He went to the table, smiled as best he could. “There’s lots of snow outside.”

The girls exchanged glances, then set down what they held and rushed down the corridor to the window over the iron trough.

Sangay followed them.

“Ooh! Look, Maisie. It’s ever so pretty.”

“Looks to be dry, too-it won’t be thawing today.”

“Ah-how long will it last?” Sangay asked.

The girls looked at him, then out at the snow. They pulled measuring faces, then the one called Maisie said, “No one’ll be moving for a couple o’ days, at least.” She flashed Sangay a grin. “Assuming no more comes down, that is.”

Sangay felt his eyes grow wide. “Will more come down before this lot goes?”

Maisie shrugged. “Who’s to say? In the lap of the gods, that is.”

Sangay managed a weak smile. Turning, he left the room. He slipped through the kitchen and went quickly up the stairs. Reaching his room, he quietly shut the door, then climbed into his bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

He tried not to shiver. He wasn’t cold. But he didn’t know what to do. Desperation clutched his chest, his heart.

What would happen to his maataa?

He believed in the gods. They had sent the snow. They didn’t want him to take the holder to the evil sahib, at least not yet.

But was that so? Was there some other route he was meant to take to the big church?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know this country, and with the snow on the ground, it had only become more alien.

Curling up in the bed, he shivered harder.

Del woke to see a strange, subdued light slanting through a gap in the curtains drawn across the window in Deliah’s room.

It took a moment for him to recall what such a light portended.

Deliah slumbered, warm and soft against his side. He glanced at her, then, carefully easing from under the covers, leaving her sleeping, he padded quickly across the room, pushed the curtain aside-and looked out on a scene that embodied the essence of “home” to him.

He looked out on a world covered in white. The thick blanket stretched as far as he could see, the bare branches of trees weighted with an inches-thick coating of soft white. The air was curiously clear. The wind had died during the night, leaving the smothering snow undisturbed, unmarred.

He hadn’t seen such a sight for decades.

A soft footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, Deliah was there, as naked as he, but she’d brought the coun terpane with her; she tossed one end over his bare shoulders as she came to lean against his side.

Her face was alight. “I haven’t seen snow for more than seven years!”

The excitement in her voice, innocent and sincere, found an echo inside him. Tugging the counterpane around him, he put his arms around her, held her close. For long moments, they stood snuggling together, looking out on the pristine scene.

“We might even have a white Christmas,” she said.

“Much as I, personally, would appreciate that, I hope this will thaw, and soon.” When she looked up at him, brows rising, he explained, “The others have yet to get through. Snow will only make them slower-make them easier targets.”

She sobered, closed her hand on his arm. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she frowned. “But there’s-what?-nine days to go? They should be here before then, surely?”

“I don’t know. Devil hasn’t heard anything about the others. We’ll have to wait until I see Wolverstone to ask.”

They stood silently for some minutes, he thinking about his colleagues, most likely still some way from home. “With luck Gareth will have landed in England by now.”

Deliah gave him another moment, then jabbed her elbow into his side. “Let’s go down. I haven’t thrown a snowball since I left Humberside.”

He chuckled. “All right-I challenge you to a snowball duel.” Ducking out from under the counterpane, he headed for his clothes.

Trailing the counterpane like a shawl, she went to the wardrobe. “What are the rules?”

“There aren’t any.” In his trousers and shirt, he slung his coat on. “I need a different coat. I’ll meet you in the front hall.”

Pulling out a red woolen gown, she nodded. “Five minutes.”

He left.

She rushed.

He’d only just reached the front door when she hurried down the stairs, buttoning her pelisse. Breathless, more with excitement and anticipation than exertion, she let her momentum carry her to the door.

Del pulled back the heavy bolts, then reached for the doorknob. He swung the door open, waved Deliah through, then followed her into a world turned white.

Into a world of long-ago childhoods and innocent delights.

The carriage drive had disappeared beneath the tide. The lawns were a blanket of glistening purity, punctured by the skeletal trees, their branches limned with a thick coating of snow.

Shutting the door, he walked forward to join Deliah at the edge of the porch steps. White crust crunched beneath his boots. Their breaths fogged before their faces.

She was testing the snow piled on the steps with the toe of her red halfboot. “Too soft to walk in, and it looks to be more than knee-deep.”

He watched as she crouched, then reached out to brush her hand over the snow. She’d put on a pair of knitted gloves. After brushing the surface, she plunged her fingers in. The snow was dry and as yet uncompacted.

She drew out a handful, let it sift through her fingers. Marveled.

He watched her, saw the light in her eyes, the expressions flitting over her face, and felt each resonate within him. “Our snow’s usually heavier.”

She nodded. “This is so fine. It’ll be gone in a few days.”

“Not like our weeks of white.”

Home for them lay north of the Humber, in the Wolds. Snow often closed them in, blanketing the ground for weeks at a time.

“It’s strange how a sight like this-one unseen for years-suddenly takes one back.” Looking down, she started gathering snow.

“It reinforces that we’re home-that we really are home, because where we were before it never snowed.” He strolled to the other side of the porch, hunkered down and started to gather a snowball of his own.

She beat him to it. Her first attempt hit him squarely on the side of his head. It broke in a shower of dry, ice-cold white, dusting his shoulders.

He swung to face her, pelted the ball he’d fashioned at her.

She yelped, dodged, and the ball struck the wall behind her.

Laughing, she bent and quickly gathered more snow for another ball.

Muttering mock-direfully, he did the same.

For the next ten minutes, they were children again, in the snow again, at home again. They shied loose balls of white at each other, laughing, calling insults both adult and childish. There was no one about to hear or see.

Only each other.

By the time she waved and, breathless, called a halt, they were both holding their sides from laughing so much. He looked into her bright eyes, noted the flush on her cheeks, sensed the sheer exuberance that filled her.

Felt the same coursing through him. “Pax,” he agreed. The cold was starting to reach through their clothes.

They shook and dusted the powdery snow from their coats, stamped their feet, then headed for the door.

In the front hall, Webster was supervising the rebuilding of the fire in the huge fireplace. Seeing them, he bowed. “Miss Duncannon. Colonel. If you care to go through to the breakfast parlor, we’ll be ready to serve you shortly.”

Relaxed, still smiling, they ambled down the corridor Webster had indicated. The breakfast parlor proved to be a large room with a series of windows looking south over a terrace, currently lightly covered in snow. A long sideboard hugged the opposite wall, with countless covered chafing dishes lined up along it. A parade of footmen were ferrying hot dishes up from the kitchen to lay beneath the domed covers.

The long table was set. They took seats along one side, facing the view. Coffeepot and teapot appeared before them all but instantly.

Webster brought a rack of fresh toast himself, and extolled the wonders of the offerings on the sideboard, exhorting them to make their selections.

He didn’t have to exhort twice. Their impromptu snowball fight had stirred their appetites. Returning to the table, a quite astonishing mound of food on her plate, Deliah suspected their late-night activities had also contributed.

They sat, ate, and shared-long moments of reflective silence as well as comments, most of which centered on their earlier lives in Humberside, but which, in the retelling, highlighted elements each clearly hoped to experience again.

Now they were heading home again.

Now they were close enough to imagine being there.

Now that they were looking their futures in the eyes.

It was apparent neither had any definite vision of what their respective futures would be like.

“You said you wanted to invest in manufacturing.” Deliah raised her brows at Del. “Do you have any preferences as to what?”

“I’m not yet sure, but I had thought to look at some of the woolen mills in the West Riding, and perhaps a flour mill in Hull-something along those lines. There’s new advances on the horizon which should make great improvements, and it seems somehow fitting that a fortune I-born and raised in Humberside-made protecting our overseas trade should be invested in activities that create jobs in Humberside.”

Deliah inclined her head. “A worthy ambition.”

“You mentioned the cotton trade.”

She nodded. “I think I’ll approach the weaving guilds, and see whether there’s any interest. Initially I assume I’ll remain an absentee grower and importer, supplying the mills rather than investing in them directly. But eventually I may look at investing in the mills, too.”

Del seized the moment to ask, “I take it you intend returning to live with your parents at Holme on the Wolds?”

“At first. But I doubt I’ll remain there for long.”

“Oh? Why?”

She seemed to search for words, then offered, “Consider it along the lines of a clash of personalities. My parents have always expected me to conform to a rigid…I suppose you could say mold. A pattern of behavior that allows only the most strictly conservative, prim and proper conduct in all things.” She slanted a glance at him. “That mold didn’t fit years ago, and while I thought, perhaps, after my years away I might have grown closer to their ideal, sadly…” She shook her head and looked down at her plate. “I fear I was fooling myself. So I’ll go home, and the instant I do anything outside their expectations-start looking into investments, or, heaven help me, telling them of my interests in cotton and the like-Papa will get on his high horse and forbid it, and I’ll refuse, and then I’ll feel honor-bound to leave.”

“Where will you go?” Del fought to keep his tone even. If she was going to disappear from Humberside, he needed her destination. He couldn’t ask her to marry him if he couldn’t find her. He didn’t want to have to chase her to Jamaica, either.

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She waved her fork. “Courtesy of my highly-disreputable-for-a-lady, as my parents will term it, commercial interests, I’m hardly a pauper.”

Footsteps in the corridor heralded the rest of the company. The men came in first, the ladies drifting in later, having been to the nurseries to supervise their offsprings’ ablutions and breakfasts.

Within minutes the room was full of bustle and good cheer. The men looked out at the snow and made disparaging comments, disgruntled that the extensive covering effectively put paid to any chance of a Black Cobra attack, at least not that day.

“Or very likely the next.” Demon, who owned a racing stud in nearby Newmarket, shook his head. “I can’t see us even riding out tomorrow.”

“Never mind.” Demon’s wife, Flick, smiled at him across the table. “You can spend a few hours with your children-that will keep at least them amused.”

All the Cynster wives were quick to concur.

All the Cynster males looked horrified.

But that, Deliah soon realized, was all pretense. To a man, the Cynsters, and Chillingworth, too, were exceedingly proud papas. When, later that morning, the nursemaids brought all the toddlers and babies down to join the company in the long library to which they’d repaired, the men were very ready to jig their offspring on their knees and compare their various putative talents.

Which activity resulted in a great deal of laughter.

Despite the constraint imposed by the weather, the day rolled on in relaxed, good-humored, pleasantly comfortable style.

December 16

Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

Alex led the way through the reception rooms of the house the Black Cobra had commandeered. “This will do nicely. So helpful of the owners, whoever they are, to have vacated it just when we need a headquarters in this area.”

When Delborough had left London, scroll-holder still in his keeping, and headed into Cambridgeshire, it had become clear that whoever he intended delivering the scroll-holder to wasn’t in town. Hardly surprising, given there were so few people of power left in the capital that close to Christmas.

When Larkins had sent word that Delborough had stopped at Somersham, so close to the many great houses of the truly powerful scattered throughout northern Suffolk and neigh boring Norfolk, Alex had given orders to shift their base from Shrewton House-pleasantly satisfying though their stay there had been-to some place better situated to block the couriers’ access to those “truly powerful.”

Bury St. Edmunds was perfectly positioned. Thus far the town was proving exceedingly accommodating.

“Creighton heard the owners had gone to stay with family in the north for Christmas, so he came to take a look.” Following Alex into the sitting room, Daniel sprawled on the holland-covered sofa, putting his feet up on the low table before it. Creighton was his gentleman’s gentleman. “The back door apparently opened very easily.”

“Well, we couldn’t have stayed at an inn,” Alex said. “Can you imagine the talk once the locals laid eyes on M’wallah and the others?”

“Especially the others,” Daniel replied.

They’d assembled a select body of cultists-assassins and foot soldiers both-to act as bodyguards for them under the command of M’wallah, Alex’s fanatically loyal Indian houseman. The same cultists would also serve as a well-trained force should they need to deploy men from their base. Their preference, however, was, as always, to act from a distance by sending cultists from groups not directly connected to their households to do their bidding.

Concealing the Black Cobra’s identity had become second nature to them all.

Roderick drifted in, looking around, assessing. Seeing a sideboard along one wall, he walked to it and tried the cupboard doors. Finding them locked, he smiled, drew a lock-pick from his pocket and crouched before them.

An instant later, the doors popped open. Sliding the pick back in his pocket, Roderick pulled out a bottle, held it up to read the label. “Whoever he is, the owner has a nice taste in brandy. Lucky for us.” Putting the bottle back, he rose.

At the far end of the sitting room, Alex had parted the curtains covering the front window to peer outside. “With the house built into these old arches, we can even have the curtains open during the day. The front façade is so shadowed and gloomy, no one will be able to see in from the street.”

The house was one of a short row built into the massive arches along the west face of the ruined Abbey Church.

“So Delborough’s taken refuge at Somersham.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “Why there?”

“Not Somersham the village, but Somersham Place. It’s the principal residence of the Duke of St. Ives-Devil Cynster.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Alex returned to join Daniel on the sofa. “Could St. Ives be Delborough’s contact? Is St. Ives in a position to bring us down?”

Shaking his head, Roderick dropped into an armchair facing the other two. “It’s a mystery why Delborough’s chosen to go there. St. Ives is eminently well-connected within the ton, very much haut ton, but he’s not a political heavyweight, at least not in foreign matters. Papa would simply shrug off any accusation St. Ives made, then bury it. I really don’t think we need to worry about St. Ives. Besides, Larkins believes Delborough hasn’t handed over the scroll-holder but has it still in his keeping, which suggests Somersham is merely a staging point-a safe house, perhaps-from which Delborough will make the last push to his ultimate destination.”

“Any guesses as to where that ‘ultimate destination’ is?” Alex asked. “I assume the other couriers will make for the same place.”

“I think we can count on that,” Roderick returned. “There has to be one person behind this-someone is the puppetmaster pulling all the strings. The big question is: who?”

Alex nodded. “Whoever they are, they are the person we need to worry about-to counter. And the safest and easiest way is by ensuring the original letter never makes it into their hands.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

“So what did Larkins report?” Daniel asked.

Roderick had made a detour to meet Larkins in Newmar ket. “His thief is inside the house, still undetected, still free to move. Unfortunately, the snow was particularly heavy in that part of the country. When Larkins spoke to the little beggar last night, he-the boy-was confident he could find the scroll-holder and bring it out to Larkins, but now with the snow so deep, even if he has filched the scroll-holder he’ll have to wait for the thaw to bring it out.”

“I assume Larkins was wise enough to arrange to meet this boy-thief at a distance?” Alex asked.

Lips curving, Roderick nodded. “He’s picked a place anyone can find-Ely Cathedral.”

“Oh, I do approve.” Alex smiled back. “Not so much appropriate as…contemptuous. Very much in keeping with the Black Cobra style.”

“Larkins thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am, but…I have to say, thus far Larkins isn’t living up to his usual efficiency.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes. “Delborough, after all, still lives, and we’re still waiting for his scroll-holder.”

Roderick shrugged. “You can hardly blame Larkins. If it hadn’t been for that damned redhead, we’d have done for Delborough in Southampton. And got the scroll-holder, too. As you’d predicted, after the attacks by the two cultists we put on board his ship at Capetown, the good colonel had fallen into the habit of assuming he only had knives to fear.”

“While it’s nice to be proved correct,” Alex dryly replied, “we sacrificed two good men, and we still have Delborough alive and running around Cambridgeshire with his scroll-holder.”

Alex never liked losing cultists.

Roderick sighed. “We’ve lost more than two, now.”

“What?” The sharp question came from both Alex and Daniel.

“That’s the rest of what Larkins had to report. If you recall, we’d ordered him to, if an opportunity presented, seize Delborough alive, and the scroll-holder, too. He was to exercise caution, and not go against a superior force, but if the chance was there, he was to take it. What looked like such a chance-and yes, it was engineered deliberately to look that way-occurred, and Larkins felt obliged to risk his force. He sent only eight out initially, but when the strength of the opposition became clear, he sent in the rest of the cultists he had with him-six more-trying to tip the scales.” Roderick grimaced. “They failed.”

“So…we lost another fourteen.” Alex’s eyes glittered. “And we can lay that at Delborough’s door.”

“Indeed.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “So Larkins is now alone?”

Roderick nodded. “I told him we couldn’t spare more men to him, not when all he’s doing is waiting for this boy-thief. As things stand at present, there’s nothing else he can do, not with the snow and Delborough staying put in the ducal mansion.”

“Any chance we can overrun said mansion?” Alex asked.

Roderick shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise attempting it. I vaguely recall that the Cynsters hold a family gathering there every Christmas. And the duke and his five cousins were all in the Guards, and all fought at Waterloo.”

“That must be how Delborough knows them,” Alex said. “He was in the Guards and fought at Waterloo, too.”

“As did the other four-the three other couriers and MacFarlane,” Daniel added.

“So we now know the connection between Cynster and Delborough and the others. Somersham Place might be a staging post for all of them, or some of them.” Alex grimaced. “Or only Delborough.”

They pondered that, then Alex continued, “This is turning out to be rather more involved than we expected. I was right in predicting the colonel would lead the charge home, and while it’s a pity we’ve missed our chance to capture, or even harm, him, it’s the original letter we really want…and I have to say, given his actions since landing, I’m increasingly inclined to think he’s carrying a copy.”

Roderick opened his mouth. Alex silenced him with an upraised hand and went on, “However, we can’t make that assumption safely, so we need the scroll-holder the colonel’s carrying. If we could seize him, too, I’m sure we could persuade him to tell us which of his friends has the real letter, and which port he’ll be coming through.”

Daniel shifted. “Delborough would be no easy nut to crack.”

“True.” Alex smiled coldly. “But I would love a chance to break him. Unfortunately, I agree our seizing him now seems remote-not unless we can lay our hands on the redheaded female, and perhaps not even then. There’s no telling how much she means to him, but regardless, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this puppetmaster.”

Roderick frowned. “How so?”

“It’s occurred to me that Delborough and his cohorts are not the sort to put their faith-and their lives and their mission-into the hands of another, not unless he commands their absolute respect.”

“And someone who commands such respect,” Daniel said, “is someone we should perhaps fear?”

“Not fear.” Alex dismissed the notion with contempt. “But we should treat this puppetmaster with due caution. This is starting to feel like a game-a chess match, almost. Even us moving here-we’re not on the box seat but are having to respond to…the puppetmaster’s plan. We need to think more carefully-we need to allow for an enemy with brains. Take Delborough’s actions, the reason I believe he’s a decoy. When you look at his going to London, it makes no sense-not unless his mission was to draw our fire. To make us send our men after him so he could engage and reduce their number. He’s clearing the field, and the other two decoys will do the same. However, because of my newfound respect for this puppetmaster, I agree we can’t assume, based on behavior, who is decoy and who is not. So until we find the original letter, we need to concentrate on that-the letter-rather than being drawn into unnecessary skirmishes. And, of course, always covering our tracks. Speaking of which.” Alex looked at Roderick. “I assume Larkins will kill his boy-thief once he has the scroll-holder? Not that I imagine an Indian boy being all that much of a threat, but we might as well be thorough.”

“Of course,” Roderick replied. “It’s only Larkins the boy has seen. Larkins knows whose head is in the noose should the boy-somehow-be believed.”

“Excellent. Now if only we knew where and to whom Delborough and his friends are ferrying the letter.” Alex looked at the other two. “If the decoys are trying to draw our fire, then I believe we can assume it’s someone with an estate in this area, someone powerful enough, well-connected enough politically to make a charge against Roderick stick. So who might that someone be?”

Roderick shrugged. “Norfolk is littered with the discreet mansions of the truly wealthy, the seriously powerful-houses many of those gentlemen use over winter, even when their principal estates are elsewhere. It could be anyone.”

“No,” Alex corrected, “it has to be someone with the clout to stand against our dear father.”

“They wouldn’t be making for Shrewton himself, would they?” Daniel looked at Roderick. “He winters on his estate outside Norwich, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, but that hardly makes sense-he’s not the puppetmaster, and anyone could guess he’ll simply destroy the letter.” Roderick shook his head. “As Alex says, Delborough and his colleagues must be planning to get the letter into the hands of someone willing and able to do something with it, or what’s the point?”

“Indeed,” Alex said. “And sadly there are quite a few powerful men around here.”

December 16

Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

Del sprawled in an armchair by Devil’s library fire, legs stretched before him, a glass of brandy in his hand, and laughed.

He’d laughed more today, been more genuinely amused than he had been in decades. A sad reflection on how lacking his life had been. A hint, a prod, as to what he wanted, even needed of his future, of his life yet to come.

Despite the snow, the day had been truly relaxing. There’d even been a glimmer of sunshine to lighten it, but then the clouds had closed in, the wind had picked up, and blizzard-like conditions had set in.

Night had fallen like a pall. There’d been no letup in the wind, presently howling, bansheelike, about the eaves. Outside, snow was swirling thick and fast, mostly scoured from what had fallen earlier, but inside, the heavy curtains had been drawn and the fires built up to cheering blazes.

With so many gathered in it, and the fire roaring, the library felt like a cozy cave. A very comfortable and luxurious cave, safe from the elements.

Dinner was over, and the children had just been recaptured and carried off by their nursemaids. The company had spent the last hour swapping tales of childhood exploits-not so much of the young ones rolling and crawling about the floor or toddling awkwardly on short stubby legs, but of their parents. Tales of family, of shared adventures, of kinship in the true sense.

From the padded comfort of the armchair, Del watched Deliah, seated on the chaise opposite, drinking in the ambiance, noted that she, like he, was drawn to the stories of childhood daring and thrills.

He and she were the exotics in the room. They were both only children; neither had had siblings with whom to share. But it wasn’t only that that drew them to the stories the Cynsters had in abundance. The tales epitomized normal English life, life in this country, their homeland-a life neither he nor she had experienced for many years. If ever.

The Cynsters’ experience hadn’t been theirs.

Yet.

There was no reason it couldn’t be, that together they couldn’t make a bid to have just that sort of life, those sorts of experiences. Have similar family stories to tell, perhaps not of themselves, but of their children.

He felt an inner tug at the thought.

His gaze traveled her face, saw laughter light her fine eyes at some comment. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. To marry her, and try his hand at creating a real family at Delborough Hall.

But what did she want?

He was who he was; he couldn’t help but approach the task of gaining her hand-her agreement to wed him-as a campaign.

The easiest way to get her to fall into line was to discover what she wanted of her life, her future, and couch his proposal in a way that best paralleled that. That supported that.

Not that he intended accepting any reply other than a “yes.” Preferably a “yes, please.” What he was more concerned with was the speed, the rapidity with which he could secure that correct response, thus minimizing any cost to himself, to his pride by way of any revelations required to convince her to utter that small word.

His decision to wait until his mission was concluded still seemed the wisest course, but her comment that morning about leaving her Humberside home for parts unknown had sounded a warning. Once his mission was ended, it wouldn’t be wise to let her have her head for long.

Indeed, with every hour that passed, he was more inclined to refine his plan. The instant his mission was ended, before he surrendered her to her parents, he would offer for her hand, and be accepted, thus reducing the separation that would naturally occur between returning her to her home and her coming to live permanently with him.

He wasn’t of a mind to let her go, not even for a day. Somehow simply having her about, in the same house, knowing she was there, made him feel more settled. More complete.

As if he’d found his future purpose and she was an instrinsic part.

He was too seasoned a campaigner not to pay attention to instinct.

So what did she want? How could he tempt her?

At that moment, despite her outward appearance of content, Deliah was feeling distinctly downhearted.

Not that she had any reason to be; she kept telling herself that, but it didn’t help.

For the first time in her life, she’d experienced a day in the company of genuine friends, women and men who saw her as she was yet did not consider her-the real her-as in any way beyond their pale. Throughout the day, little incidents had underscored that in this company, she-her character, her traits-were the norm. In the world the Cynsters and Chillingworth inhabited, ladies were life partners, not cyphers, their existences significantly more than mere adjuncts to their husbands’ lives.

The events of the day had conspired to educate and show her, to lay before her in all its glory the precise type of life she might have had had her Great Scandal not derailed her. A life she would even now sell her soul to seize and enjoy-if she could.

If any gentleman of similar ilk to the Cynsters, one with similar expectations of his wife, could be prevailed on to offer for her hand.

If Del would.

But he wouldn’t.

He’d taken her as his lover-she’d accepted him as hers. And that was that. As she’d years ago proved, and as she’d been lectured about ad nauseam in the aftermath of the scandal, gentlemen did not marry their lovers.

More specifically, no gentleman would ever marry her.

Her spirits sank lower as the thought floated blackly through her mind. Its darkness, its intensity, made her wonder-made her look more closely at what she felt. And why…

She managed to keep a smile on her face, or at least keep her lips curved, her expression relaxed, while inwardly she berated herself. How unutterably foolish. How unforgivably silly. How inexcusably willful.

She’d done it again-fallen in love, again.

No. She caught herself, looked anew, reconsidered. She’d fallen in love, really, truly, head over heels forevermore in love, for the first time. What she felt for Del was oceans apart from the mild emotion she’d felt for that bastard Griffiths. Then, in her innocence, her naïveté, she’d convinced herself that what she’d felt was love; she hadn’t at the time known enough to know the difference.

Now she did.

She knew she loved Del.

To the absolute bottom of her foolish, foolish heart.

Bad enough. She would not-could not-allow herself to compound her stupidity by even imagining that there was even the slightest hope that he might feel the same for her, let alone that he might see her as an eligible lady. One he might marry.

As she’d been told from adolescence on, she wasn’t the marriageable kind. The kind of lady gentlemen wanted to marry.

She was too bossy. Too headstrong, too opinionated. Too willful.

Regardless, even if Del were different, and might have considered her for the position of his wife, he wouldn’t now, now that they were lovers.

The wash of deadening, dismal feelings that flowed through her threatened to sink her.

Still smiling, but inwardly desperate for escape, for distraction, she looked around-and met Del’s eyes.

He’d been watching her. Some part of her had registered it-she’d felt the telltale warmth-but she’d been too engrossed in her black thoughts to respond.

He smiled, and slowly-with his signature languid grace-drew in his long legs and rose.

She swallowed as he crossed to the chaise. Instinct brought her to her feet as he neared.

His eyes met hers. “You look like you need to escape. We could walk in the long gallery, if you like.” His dark gaze was rich and warm. Enfolding.

“Ah…” It was herself she wanted to escape. Herself and her deadening, desolating reality. She glanced around. The others were mingling, chatting in groups. She looked back at him. “Actually, I have a headache.”

A frown came into his eyes.

She hurried on, “Just a mild one-nothing too bad. But…I think I’ll go up now.”

Summoning the smile she’d let drop, she turned to Catriona, on the chaise beside her, then let her gaze travel on to the other ladies. “I’m going to retire. I’m feeling rather jaded. A good night’s sleep will no doubt see me right.”

Catriona smiled her madonna’s smile and touched Deliah’s hand. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Deliah nodded a smiling good night to the others, at the last inclined her head to Del-still standing by her side, eyes too shrewd for her liking fixed on her face-murmured, “Good night,” then walked from the room.

Del watched her go and wondered what was wrong. She was…upset. Discomposed, disturbed, but in a strange way, one he couldn’t explain. His immediate impulse was to follow her, to ask, learn, and put right. But…she’d seemed unusually uncertain herself. Perhaps he’d give her a little time.

Fifteen minutes, maybe.

If she’d thought her comment about getting a good night’s sleep would keep him from her bed, she would need to think again. If she truly did have a headache, she could sleep in his arms.

With an easy smile for Catriona, who returned the gesture serenely, he ambled across the room to join Gyles and Gabriel in discussing sheep.

The party broke up shortly after Deliah’s retreat. Del went to his room, paced for ten minutes-not so much thinking as imagining what might be going on in her red head-then, with a muttered curse against anyone still hovering in the corridors, he opened his door and stalked to hers.

He tapped once, then opened the door. Walking in, he saw her, still gowned and coiffed, drawing the curtains over the window through which she’d clearly been staring.

Shutting the door, he snibbed the lock, then strolled toward her. He tipped his head at the window. “What did you see?”

“Snow. It’s still blizzarding.”

She’d been waiting for him, that much was clear. Why was less so, given she’d remained fully dressed.

Halting before her, he held her gaze, was about to reach for her when she looked away.

Moved away.

“I really do have a slight headache, you know. Besides”-she waved airily-“I’m sure it’s not necessary for us to live quite so much in each other’s pockets.”

He caught the hand she’d waved before she could drift further. Used it to anchor her as he turned and came up behind her. So she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the confusion, the sudden, leaping need to seize and hold.

Just the suggestion-the faint hint-that she might be trying to draw back, away from him, had been enough to spark it. That rattled him; it seemed the emotional sand was shifting beneath his feet, but he knew in his heart that wasn’t truly so.

Something was going on.

In her red head, not necessarily anywhere else.

Heaven only knew what. He didn’t, but doubted she would consent to explain.

Shifting his hold, he laced his fingers with hers, felt hers grip unconsciously, without thought. He breathed in, deeply, and the perfume of her hair, of her skin, wreathed through his brain. On some elemental level, reassured.

She was here, in his hold.

Raising their linked hands, sliding them around her waist, he lowered his head, and murmured by her ear, “Contrary to general belief, sexual indulgence is almost guaranteed to relieve a headache.”

“It is?” Distraction and interest, immediate, quite definite, resonated in her voice, but then she cleared her throat and said, “But perhaps we should try abstinence for a change-just to vary our interactions. Perhaps heighten expectations for later.”

“That won’t work. At least, not for me.”

“It won’t?”

They could circle all night. He swung into the attack. “Why are you suddenly so skittish? You haven’t lost interest, have you?”

“Lost interest? Ah…”

“It was a rhetorical question.” Raising his other hand, he brushed his palm boldly across the fullness of her breast. Feeling the nipple instantly bead beneath his palm, he cupped the full swell, gently kneaded. “The answer’s transparently clear.”

Thank heaven.

She’d stiffened, trying to hold firm, but as he continued to fondle, evocatively knead, her spine softened. She leaned back against him. “Perhaps we might experiment, and see.” He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, lightly squeezed. Spine bowing, she gasped, “About my headache, I mean. Whether it goes, or stays.”

He touched his lips to her temple. “We can experiment as much as you like.” Turning her, lowering their linked hands, he drew hers down. “Because I haven’t lost interest in you.” He molded her palm to his erection. “To having you-multiple times.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her lids lowered, and those jade eyes grew sultry. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lower lip. “I see…”

The absentminded murmur was filled with speculation.

“No, you feel.” Bending his head, he took her lips, her mouth, kissed her long, lingeringly, hungrily, but not rav enously. When he raised his head, her lids were down, her eyes concealed. “So what do you feel? What do I make you feel?”

She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff. Deliah raised her heavy lids enough to see his face, to note the intentness in his expression, his absolute focus on her.

How long would it last? When would it fade?

How was she going to feel when it did?

Worse, when they returned to Humberside and went their separate ways, and she heard on the grapevine that he’d married? Married some entirely eligible country miss with no scandal in her background, and a soft, sweet disposition. A lady totally unlike her.

She hadn’t thought of those questions before today-until half an hour ago. She’d tried to step back, but…he was here, in her bedroom, and she was in his arms.

And he was all she’d ever wanted.

How did he make her feel?

Chin firming, she closed her hand. “Wanton. Abandoned. You make me feel…” Desirable. “Lustful.”

His lips curved, sculpted, utterly mesmerizing. “Good. That’s how I want you to feel. Wanton, abandoned, and”-he bent his head-“helplessly lusting for me.”