The Untamed Bride

One

December 11, 1822

Southampton Water, England

Del stood on the deck of the Princess Louise, the twelve-hundred-ton East Indiaman on which he and his small household had left Bombay, and watched the Southampton docks draw steadily nearer.

The wind whipped his hair, sent chill fingers sliding beneath his greatcoat collar. From horizon to horizon, the sky was an unrelieved steel-gray, but at least it wasn’t raining; he was thankful for small mercies. After the warmth of India, and the balmy days rounding Africa, the change in temperature as they’d headed north over the last week had been an uncomfortable reminder of the reality of an English winter.

Artfully angled, the ship surged on the tide, aligning with the dock, the distance between lessening with every moment, the raucous cries of wheeling gulls a strident counterpoint to the bellows of the bosun as he directed the crew in the dicey business of bringing the heavy ship alongside the timber dock.

Del scanned the dockside crowd waiting to greet those on board. He was under no illusions; the instant he stepped off the gangplank, the Black Cobra’s game would be afoot again. He felt restless, impatient for action-the same compulsion he was accustomed to feeling in those moments on the battlefield when, with his horse skittish beneath him, held on a tight rein, he would wait with his men for the order to charge. The same anticipation rode him now, yet with sharpened spurs.

Contrary to his expectations, the trip had been anything but uneventful. They’d sailed from Bombay only to fall foul of a storm, which had left them limping down the African coast with one of their three masts crippled. Once they’d reached Cape Town, repairs had taken three full weeks. While there, his batman, Cobby, had ferreted out the information that Roderick Ferrar had passed through a week ahead of them, on the Elizabeth, a fast frigate, also bound for Southampton.

He’d taken note, and so hadn’t fallen victim to the knives of the two cult assasins left in Cape Town who had subsequently joined the Princess Louise as crew, and lain in wait for him on two separate moonless nights as they’d sailed up the west coast of Africa.

Luckily, the cultists had a superstitious aversion to firearms. Both assassins were now feeding the fishes, but Del suspected they’d merely been scouts, sent to do what they could if they could.

The Black Cobra itself lay ahead of him, coiled between him and his goal.

Wherever that proved to be.

Gripping the railing of the bridge deck, which, as a senior company officer-albeit resigned-he’d been given the freedom, he looked down at the main deck, to where his household staff-Mustaf, his general factotum, tall and thin, Amaya, Mustaf’s short, rotund wife who served as Del’s housekeeper, and Alia, their niece and maid-of-all-work-sat on their piled bags, ready to disembark the instant Cobby gave the signal.

Cobby himself, the only Englishman in Del’s employ, short of stature, wiry, quick and canny, and cocky as only a cockney lad could be, stood by the main railing at the point where the gangplank would be rolled out, chatting amiably with some sailors. Cobby would be first among the passengers to disembark. He would scout the immediate area, then, if all was clear, signal Mustaf to bring the women down.

Del would bring up the rear, then, once they’d assembled on the dock, lead the way directly up the High Street to the Dolphin Inn.

As luck would have it, Wolverstone had nominated the inn Del habitually used when passing through Southampton. He hadn’t, however, been there for years, not since he’d set sail for India in late ’15, just over seven years ago.

It felt like more.

He was quite certain he’d aged more than seven years, and the last nine months, while they’d been hunting the Black Cobra, had been the most draining. He almost felt old.

Every time he thought of James MacFarlane, he felt helpless.

Seeing more scurrying below, hearing the change in the bosun’s orders, feeling the slight bump as the padding slung along the ship’s side met the dock, Del shook off all thoughts of the past and determinedly fixed his mind on the immediate future.

Sailors leapt down to the dock, hauling thick ropes to the capstans to secure the ship. Hearing the heavy rattle and splash as the anchor went down, then the squealing scrape as the railing was opened and the gangplank angled out, Del headed for the companionway to the main deck.

He swung off it in time to see Cobby scamper down the gangplank.

Reconnaissance, in this instance, wasn’t simply a matter of scanning for those with dark skins. Southampton was one of the busiest ports in the world, and there were countless Indians and men of other dark-skinned races among the crews. But Cobby knew what to look for-the furtiveness, the attention locked on Del while attempting to remain inconspicuous. If there were cultists waiting to strike, Del was confident Cobby would spot them.

Yet it was more likely the cultists would watch and wait-they preferred to strike in less populated surrounds where escape after the event was more assured.

Del strolled to stand with Mustaf, Amaya and Alia. Mustaf nodded, then went back to scanning the crowd; he’d been a sowar-a cavalryman-until a knee injury had seen him pensioned off. The knee didn’t discompose him in other ways; he was still a good man in a fight.

Alia bobbed her head, then resumed casting shy glances at the young sailors who rushed back and forth along the deck.

Amaya looked up at Del with liquid brown eyes. “It is very very cold here, Colonel-sahib. Colder than my cousin’s house in Simla in the winter. I am being very very glad I was buying these shawls from Kashmir. They are just the thing.”

Del smiled. Both Amaya and Alia were well wrapped in the thick woolen shawls. “When we stop at a big town, we’ll have to get you some English coats. And gloves, too. They’ll help keep out the wind.”

“Ai, yes-the wind, it is like a knife. I am understanding that saying now.” Amaya nodded, plump hands folded in her lap, thin gold bangles on her wrists peeking from beneath the edge of one shawl.

Despite her sweet face and matronly disposition, Amaya was quick-witted and observant. As for Alia, she would instantly obey any order from her uncle, aunt, Del or Cobby. When necessary, the small group operated as a unit; Del wasn’t overly worried over having Amaya and Alia with them, even on the upcoming, more dangerous leg of their journey.

Regardless, knowing the Black Cobra cultists’ vindictiveness, he wouldn’t take the chance of leaving the women anywhere, even with Mustaf to guard them. To strike at him, the Black Cobra was perfectly capable of wiping out his household, simply to inspire fear, and to demonstrate his power.

Human life had long ago lost all meaning for the Black Cobra.

A shrill whistle pulled Del’s attention back to the dock. Cobby caught his eye, snapped a jaunty salute. All clear.

“Come.” Del took Amaya’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go down and head for our inn.”

Cobby had commandeered a man with a wooden cart. Del waited with the women while their luggage was ferried down the gangplank and loaded in the cart, then he set off, leading the way off the dock and straight up High Street. The Dolphin wasn’t far; Mustaf followed with the women close behind, with Cobby bringing up the rear, ambling alongside the carter, eyes constantly shifting this way and that as he chatted.

As Del walked up the street, he found his gaze drawn downward-to the cobbles that covered the ground, to the first steps he was taking on English soil after so many years away.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. An odd sense of peace, perhaps because he knew this time his travels were over, a sense of anticipation over what his new and as yet unstructured future might hold, all tinged with a healthy dose of apprehension over what lay between this moment and being able to get started on shaping his new life.

Their mission to bring the Black Cobra to justice.

He was in it now. There was no going back, only forward. Ahead, through whatever fire the opposition might send his way.

Raising his head, he filled his lungs, looked about. It felt exactly like the moment after the charge began.

The Dolphin was a town landmark. It had stood for centuries and been refurbished several times; it currently sported two wide bow windows fronting the street, the solid front door in between.

Del glanced back along the street. He couldn’t see any likely cultists, but there were plenty of people, carts, and the odd carriage thronging the cobbled thoroughfare-plenty of cover for anyone watching.

They would be watching.

Reaching the inn, he opened the door and went inside.

Securing suitable rooms was no difficulty; his years in India had left him very wealthy and he wasn’t of a mind to stint either himself or his small household. The innkeeper, Bowden, a solidly built ex-sailor, responded appropriately, cheerily welcoming him to the town and summoning lads to help with the luggage as the others joined Del in the foyer.

With the rooms organized and their bags dispatched, and the women, Mustaf and Cobby following the luggage up the stairs, Bowden turned to Del. “Just remembered. I’ve two letters waiting for you.”

Del turned back to the counter, brows rising.

Reaching beneath it, Bowden produced two missives. “The first-this one-came on the mail coach nearly four weeks ago. The other was left last evening by a gentleman. He and another gentleman have looked in every day for the last week or so, asking after you.”

Wolverstone’s escorts. “Thank you.” Del accepted the letters. It was midafternoon, and the inn’s public rooms were quiet. He sent an easy smile Bowden’s way. “If anyone should ask for me, I’ll be in the tap.”

“Of course, sir. Nice and quiet it is in there at present. Just ring the bell on the bar if you need anything.”

With a nod, Del sauntered into the dining room and through an archway into the tap, a cozy room toward the back of the inn. There were a few patrons, all older men, gathered about small tables. He went to a table in the corner where the light from the rear window would allow him to read.

Sitting, he examined the two missives, then opened the one from the mystery gentleman.

The lines within were few and to the point, informing him that Tony Blake, Viscount Torrington, and Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, were holding themselves ready to escort him further on his mission. They were quartered nearby and would continue to call at the inn every evening to check for his arrival.

Reassured that he would be moving forward, in action again soon, he refolded the letter, tucked it inside his coat, then, mildly intrigued, opened the second missive. He’d recognized the handwriting, and assumed his aunts had written to welcome him home, and to ask and be reassured that he was, indeed, heading up to Humberside, to the house at Middleton on the Wolds that he’d inherited from his father, and that remained their home.

As he unfolded the two pages, crossed and recrossed in his elder aunt’s spidery script, he was already composing his reply-a brief note to let them know that he had landed and was on his way north, but that business dealings on the way might delay him for a week or so.

Reading his aunt’s salutation, followed by an enthusiastic, even effusive, welcome, he smiled and read on.

He wasn’t smiling by the time he reached the end of the first page. Laying it aside, he deciphered the rest, then tossed the second sheet on the first and quietly, but comprehensively, swore.

After staring at the sheets for several minutes, he gathered them up, rose and, stuffing the sheets in his pocket, made his way back to the inn’s foyer.

Bowden heard his footsteps and came out from his office behind the counter. “Yes, Colonel?”

“I understand a young lady, a Miss Duncannon, was due to arrive here some weeks ago?”

Bowden smiled brightly. “Yes, indeed, sir. I’d forgotten-she asked after you, too.”

“Indeed. I take it she’s left and headed north?”

“Oh, no, sir. Her ship was delayed, too. She didn’t get in until last week. Quite relieved, she was, to learn you’d been delayed, too. She’s still here, waiting on your arrival.”

“Ah. I see.” Del suppressed a grimace and started making plans. “Perhaps if you could send word to her room that I’ve arrived, and would appreciate a moment of her time?”

Bowden shook his head. “No use at present-she’s out, and she’s taken her maid with her. But I can tell her as soon as she comes in.”

Del nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is there a private parlor I might hire?” Somewhere where he and his unexpected burden could discuss her onward journey.

“I’m sorry, sir, but all our parlors are presently taken.” Bowden paused, then said, “But it’s Miss Duncannon herself as has the front parlor-perhaps, seeing she’s waiting to see you, you might wait for her in there?”

“An excellent notion,” Del responded dryly. “And I’ll need to hire a carriage.”

But again Bowden shook his head. “I’d like to oblige, Colonel, but this close to Christmas all our carriages are spoken for. Miss Duncannon herself took the last of our post chaises.”

“Fortuitous,” Del murmured. “I was wanting the carriage for her.”

“Well, then.” Bowden grinned. “All’s well.”

“Indeed.” Del pointed to the room to the right of the foyer. “The front parlor?”

“Aye, sir. Go right in.”

Del did, shutting the door behind him.

With white plaster walls and heavy timber beams crossing the ceiling, the parlor was neither overlarge nor cramped, and boasted one of the wide bow windows looking out on the street. The furniture was heavy, but comfortable, the pair of chintz-covered armchairs well-supplied with plump cushions. A highly polished round table with four chairs stood in the middle of the room, a large lamp at its center, while a crackling fire sparked and flared in the grate, throwing welcome heat into the room.

Gravitating toward the hearth, Del noticed the three watercolors above the mantelpiece. They were landscapes depicting green pastures and meadows, lush fields and richly canopied trees beneath pastel blue skies with fluffy white clouds. The one in the middle, of rolling heathland, a vibrant patchwork of greens, caught his eye. He hadn’t laid eyes on such landscapes for seven long years; it seemed odd to gain his first sense of home via pictures on a wall.

Glancing down, he drew out the letter from his aunts; standing before the fire, he scanned it anew, searching for some insight into why the devil they’d thought to saddle him with the duty of escorting a young gentlewoman, daughter of a neighboring landowner, home to Humberside.

His best guess was that his doting aunts had some idea of playing matchmaker.

They were going to be disappointed. There was no place for a young lady in his train, not while he was a decoy for the Black Cobra.

He’d been disappointed when he’d opened the scroll he’d selected and discovered he hadn’t picked the original letter. Nevertheless, as Wolverstone had made clear, the missions of the three decoys would be vital in drawing out the Black Cobra’s men, and ultimately the Black Cobra himself.

They needed to lure him into striking, and for that they needed to reduce his cultists sufficiently to force him to act in person.

Not an easy task, yet by any reasonable estimation it should be within their collective ability. As a decoy, his role would be to deliberately make himself a target, and he didn’t want any extraneous young lady hanging on his arm while he was so engaged.

A tap on the door had him hesitating, then he called, “Come.”

It was Cobby.

“Thought you’d want to know.” Hand on the knob, his batman hovered by the door he’d closed. “I ducked back down the docks and asked around. Ferrar arrived over a week ago. Interesting thing is he had no bevy of natives with him-seems there was no room left on the frigate for more than him and his man.”

Del raised his brows. “Definitely interesting, but no doubt he’ll have had cultists coming in on other ships.”

Cobby nodded. “So you’d think. But it does mean he won’t necessarily have all that many just at present. Might have to resort to doing his own dirty work.” Cobby grinned malevolently. “Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

Del smiled. “We can but hope.”

He nodded a dismissal and Cobby left, closing the door behind him.

Del glanced at the clock ticking on a sideboard. It was already after three, and what daylight there was would soon fade. He fell to pacing slowly before the fire, rehearsing suitable words with which to break the news to Miss Duncannon that, contrary to his aunts’ arrangements, she would be heading north alone.

It was well after four o’clock, and he’d grown increasingly impatient, before a feminine voice in the foyer, well modulated yet with an unmistakably haughty tone, heralded the return of Miss Duncannon.

Even as Del focused on the parlor door, the knob turned and the door swung inward. Bowden held it open to permit a lady-not so young-in a garnet red pelisse, her dark auburn hair swept up and tucked under a jaunty hat, who was juggling a plethora of bandboxes and packages to enter.

She swept in, her face alight, a smile curving lush red lips, as Bowden hurriedly said, “I believe this is the gentleman you’ve been waiting for, miss.”

Miss Duncannon abruptly halted. Animation leaching from her face, she looked across the room and saw him. After a moment, her gaze slowly meandered upward, until it reached his face.

Then she simply stared.

Clearing his throat, Bowden retreated, closing the door behind her. She blinked, stared again, then baldly asked, “You’re Colonel Delborough?”

Del bit his tongue against an impulse to respond, “You’re Miss Duncannon?” Just one look, and his vision of a biddable young miss had evaporated; the lady was in her late twenties if she was a day.

And given the vision filling his eyes, why she was still a miss was beyond his comprehension.

She was…lush was the word that sprang to his mind. Taller than the average, she was built on stately, even queenly, lines, ripely curvaceous in all the right places. Even from across the room, he could tell her eyes were green; large, faintly slanting up at the outer corners, they were vibrantly alive, awake and aware, alert to all that went on around her.

Her features were elegant, refined, her lips full and ripe, elementally tempting, but the firmness of her chin suggested determination, backbone and a forthrightness beyond the norm.

Duly noting that last, he bowed. “Indeed-Colonel Derek Delborough.” Sadly, not at your service. Quashing the wayward thought, he smoothly continued, “I believe your parents made some arrangement with my aunts for me to act as escort on your journey north. Sadly, that’s not possible-I have business to attend to before I can return to Humberside.”

Deliah Duncannon blinked, with an effort dragged her senses from their preoccupation with shoulders and a wide chest which should by all rights have been encased in a uniform, replayed his words, then abruptly shook her head. “No.”

Moving further into the room, she set her boxes and bags on the table, distractedly wondering whether a uniform would have increased his impact, or lessened it. There was something anomalous in his appearance, as if the elegant civilian garb was a disguise. If the intention had been to screen his innately vigorous, even dangerous physique, the ploy had failed miserably.

Freeing her hands, she reached up to extract the long pin securing her hat. “I’m afraid, Colonel Delborough, that I must insist. I’ve been waiting for the better part of a week for you to arrive, and I really cannot journey on without a suitable escort.” Setting her hat on the table, she swung to face the recalcitrant ex-colonel-significantly younger and immeasurably more virile than she’d envisioned him. Than she’d been led to expect. “It’s quite unthinkable.”

Regardless of his age, his virility, or his propensity to argue, for her, it was, but the last thing she intended to do was explain.

His lips-mobile and distractingly masculine-firmed. “Miss Duncannon-”

“I expect you’re imagining that it will simply be a matter of bundling me into a carriage with my maid and household, and pointing north.” Pausing in the act of removing her leather gloves, she glanced at him and caught a telltale twist of those disturbing lips; that had, indeed, been precisely what he’d planned. “I have to inform you that that’s very definitely not the case.”

Dropping her gloves on the table behind her, she lifted her chin and faced him squarely-staring down her nose as well as she could given he was more than half a head taller than she. “I must insist, sir, that you honor the obligation.”

His lips were now a thin line-one she wanted to see relax and curve into a smile…what was the matter with her? Her pulse thrummed in her throat, her skin prickled with unexpected awareness, and he was still a good six feet away.

“Miss Duncannon, while regrettably my aunts overstepped their authority in seeking to oblige a neighbor, I would, in normal circumstances, do all in my power to, as you phrase it, honor the commitment they made. However, in this instance, it is entirely-”

“Colonel Delborough.” She hauled her gaze from his lips, for the first time met his gaze directly, deliberately locking her eyes on his. “Permit me to inform you that there is no reason you could advance, none whatever, that will induce me to excuse you from escorting me north.”

His eyes were dark brown, richly hued, unexpectedly in triguing, fringed with the longest, thickest lashes she’d ever seen. Those lashes were the same color as his burnished, lightly waving hair-a sable more black than brown.

“I regret, Miss Duncannon, that that is utterly impossible.”

When she set her chin, retreated not an inch, but kept her gaze meshed unwaveringly with his, Del hesitated, then, far more aware than he wished to be of her sinfully sensual mouth, stiffly added, “I’m presently on a mission, one vital to the country, and must see it to its conclusion before I’ll be free to indulge my aunts’ wishes.”

She frowned. “But you’ve resigned your commission.” Her gaze slid to his shoulders, as if confirming the absence of epaulettes.

“My mission is civilian rather than military.”

Her finely arched brows rose. Her gaze returning to his face, she considered him for an instant, then, in a deceptively mild-sarcastically challenging-tone, said, “So what do you suggest, sir? That I wait here, at your convenience, until you are free to escort me north?”

“No.” He struggled not to clench his teeth; his jaw was already tight. “I would respectfully suggest that, in the circumstances, and at this present season with much less traffic on the highways, it would be perfectly acceptable for you to head north with your maid-and I believe you mentioned a household? As you’ve already ordered a carriage-”

Her green eyes flashed. “With all due respect, Colonel, you are talking through your hat!” Belligerent, determined, she stepped forward, face tipping up as if she intended to go nose-to-nose with him. “The notion of me traveling north, in this season or any other, with no suitable gentleman arranged and accepted by my parents as escort, is quite simply ineligible. Unacceptable. Absolutely ‘not done.’”

She’d come so close that a wave of tempting warmth slid over the front of him, cascading down to heat his groin. So long had it been since he’d experienced such an explicit reac tion he was, for just an instant, distracted enough to simply stand and enjoy it, drink it in…

Her gaze abruptly shifted to his left. She was tall enough to see over his shoulder. He saw her focus, saw her gorgeous jade-green eyes widen-then flare.

“Good God!”

She seized his lapels and dragged him, hauled him, tumbled him down to the floor.

For one crazed instant, his brain interpreted her actions as lust gone wild-then the reverberating explosion and the tinkle of shattered glass raining down upon them jerked his wits back to reality.

She had never left it. Trapped half beneath him, she wriggled and squirmed to get free, her horrified gaze locked on the shattered pane.

Slamming a mental door on the effect of her curvaceous form bucking beneath him, he gritted his teeth and pushed back to his knees. After a quick glance out of the window at the stunned crowd milling in the darkened street, he got to his feet, and was assisting her to hers when the door slammed open.

Mustaf stood in the doorway, saber in his hand. Cobby stood beside him, a cocked pistol in his. Beyond them towered another Indian, swarthy and tall-Del stiffened instinctively. He started to step in front of Miss Duncannon, only to have her hand on his arm hold him back.

“I’m quite all right, Kumulay.” Her small, warm hand still resting on Del’s bicep, she looked up at him. “It wasn’t me the man was trying to kill.”

Del met her eyes. They were still wide, her pupils dilated, but she was utterly in control.

A hundred thoughts churned through his head. Every instinct screamed “Chase!” but this time that wasn’t his role. He looked back at Cobby, who had lowered his gun. “Get ready to leave immediately.”

Cobby nodded. “I’ll get the others.” He and Mustaf drew back.

The other man-Kumulay-remained in the open doorway, his impassive gaze locked on his mistress.

Del glanced at her. Met the green shards trained on his face.

“You are not leaving without me.” Each word was carefully enunciated.

He hesitated, giving his mind one more chance to come up with an alternative, then, jaw set, nodded. “Very well. Be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Finally!” More than two hours later, Del shut the door of the post chaise Miss Duncannon had been farsighted enough to hire, and dropped onto the seat beside his unlooked-for charge.

Her maid, Bess, an Englishwoman, sat in the corner on her other side. Along the seat opposite, in a colorful array of saris and woollen shawls, sat Amaya, Alia and another older Indian woman and two young girls, the latter three all members of Miss Duncannon’s household.

Why she had a largely Indian household he had yet to learn.

The carriage rocked into motion, rolling ponderously up the High Street. As the vehicle tacked around Bargate, then headed on toward the London road, Del wondered, not for the first time over the last two and more hours, what had possessed him to agree to Miss Duncannon traveling on with him.

Unfortunately, he knew the answer, and it was one that left him with no other possible course. She’d seen the man who’d shot at him-which meant the man had almost certainly seen her.

Given cultists rarely, if ever, used firearms, that man was most likely Larkins, Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman and his master’s most trusted aide, or Ferrar himself. Del’s money was on Larkins.

Although Cobby had questioned all those who’d been standing in the street, still stunned and exclaiming over the shooting, no one had seen the man with the gun well enough to describe, let alone identify. All they’d learned was that, as expected, he’d been fair-skinned.

That the Black Cobra had struck so immediately and decisively had been a surprise, but on reflection, were he in Ferrar’s shoes, Del might have mounted a similar preemptive gambit. If he’d been killed, the ensuing chaos might have proved sufficient for Ferrar to gain access to his room and baggage, and the scroll-holder. It wouldn’t have played out that way, but Ferrar didn’t know that. Regardless, Del was perfectly sure that if it hadn’t been for Miss Duncannon’s quick thinking-and actions-he would very likely be dead.

It was nearing seven o’clock. The night was dark, the moon cocooned in thick clouds. The carriage lamps beamed through the chill darkness as the four horses reached the macadam of the highway and lengthened their stride.

Del thought of the rest of their combined households, traveling with the bulk of their luggage in two open wagons, all Cobby had been able to hire at such short notice.

At least they were away, on the move.

And they knew that Larkins, and presumably therefore Ferrar, were close, and chasing him. The enemy had broken cover and engaged.

“I can’t understand,” Deliah said, “why you insisted nothing be said to the authorities.” She spoke quietly, her voice sliding beneath the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves; she had no wish to communicate her dissatisfaction to anyone other than the man beside her. “Bowden said you paid for the windowpane but insisted nothing more be made of the incident.” She waited an instant, then demanded, “Why?”

She didn’t turn to look at him. The interior of the carriage was a sea of shifting shadows; she couldn’t see well enough to read anything from his face-and she’d already realized that only showed what he wanted it to.

Silence stretched, but she waited.

Eventually, he murmured, “The attack was linked to my mission. Can you describe the man with the pistol? It would help.”

The vision she’d seen through the window was etched in her mind. “He was somewhat above average height, wearing a dark coat-nothing all that fashionable, but decent quality. He had on a dark hat, but I could see his hair was close-cropped. Beyond that…I really didn’t have time to note every detail.” She let a moment tick past, then asked, “Do you know who he was?”

“He sounds like one of the men linked with my mission.”

“Your ‘mission,’ whatever it might be, doesn’t explain why you refused to alert the authorities to the action of a felon-any more than it explains why we’re racing away in the dead of night, as if we’d taken fright.” She didn’t know much about Colonel Derek Delborough, but he didn’t seem the sort to cut and run.

He answered in a bored, superior tone. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Humph.” She frowned, disinclined to let him stop talking. His voice was deep, assured, his accents-those of a man accustomed to command-strangely soothing, and after the excitement of the shooting, she was still on edge. Her nerves were still jangling. She grimaced. “Even if you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, you might at least-”

Del transferred his gaze to the unrelieved darkness outside. He’d glanced at her, seen her grimace, seen her lips pout…and felt a nearly overwhelming urge to shut her up.

By sealing those pouting lips with his.

And finding out how soft they were, and what she tasted like.

Tart, or sweet? Or both?

Quite aside from the audience lined up on the opposite seat, he felt reasonably certain any such action would result in him receiving at least one boxed ear. Probably two. Yet having her sitting beside him, her hip less than an inch from his, her shoulder lightly brushing his arm with every rocking motion of the carriage, the warmth of her bathing his side, was a temptation to which his body was shamelessly responding.

The search for the Black Cobra had consumed him for months; he hadn’t spared the time to dally with any woman-and it had been far longer since he’d been with an Englishwoman, and never with a termagant of Miss Duncannon’s ilk.

None of which explained why he was suddenly so attracted to a harridan with lips for which the most experienced courtesans would trade their souls.

He blotted out her voice, her insistent, persistent prodding, focused instead on the heavy rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Leaving Southampton with all speed had been what he’d had to do, no matter how much it had gone against his grain. If he’d been carrying the original letter, then the necessity of keeping it out of Ferrar’s clutches would have trumped any inclination to give chase.

If he’d stood and fought-tried to hunt down Larkins, even dallied to set the Watch on Ferrar’s trail-Ferrar would have guessed that he wasn’t all that concerned with the contents of the scroll-holder he carried. And then Ferrar would have shifted his attention, and that of his cultists, from Del to one of the others.

Were the others ahead of him, or were they yet to land in England?

With luck Torrington and Crowhurst would know. He’d left a short note for them with Bowden.

Given the hour, and the falling temperatures, and that more than half their number were traveling exposed, they couldn’t go far. For tonight, Winchester was his goal.

He prayed he’d be able to resist the impulses provoked by the feminine muttering from beside him long enough for them to reach it.

The Swan Inn in Southgate Street proved sufficient for their needs.

Miss Duncannon predictably grumbled when he refused to stop at the larger Pelican Hotel. “There’s so many of us to accommodate-they’re more likely to have room.”

“The Pelican is largely timber and lathe.”

“So?”

“I have an unreasoning fear of waking to a house in flames.” The Black Cobra’s men had been known to use fire to flush out those they were chasing, without the slightest thought for any others who might get caught in the ensuing blaze. Climbing out of the carriage in the yard of the Swan, Del considered the inn, then turned to hand his burden down. “The Swan, however, is built of stone.”

Taking his hand, she stepped down, paused to look at the inn, then, expressionless, looked at him. “Stone walls in winter.”

He glanced up at the roof, to where multiple chimneys chuffed smoke. “Fires.”

She sniffed, lifted her skirts, climbed the steps to the porch and led the way through the door the innkeeper was holding wide, bobbing and bowing as they passed.

Before Del could take charge, she did, sweeping to the inn’s counter and stripping off her gloves. “Good evening.” The innkeeper scurried around the counter to attend her. “We need rooms for us all-one large chamber for me, another for the colonel, four smaller rooms for my staff and two more for his staff, and the colonel’s parlor maid can room with my lady’s maid-that’s wiser, I think. Now, we’ll all want dinner-I know it’s late, but-”

Del halted just behind her-she knew he was there-and listened to her rattle off orders, directions and instructions, more or less without pause. He could have stepped in and taken over-he’d intended to-but as she was making such an excellent fist of organizing their combined party, there seemed little point.

By the time the luggage had been unloaded and ferried inside, the innkeeper had sorted out their rooms, arranged for a private parlor to be prepared for them, and sent orders to the kitchen for their meals. Del stood back and watched a round-eyed maid lead his charge upstairs to her chamber, then he turned to the innkeeper. “I need to hire two more carriages.”

“Of course, sir. Dreadfully cold already, and they say there’s worse to come. I don’t have any carriages free myself, but I know the stableman at the Pelican-he’ll oblige me, and I’m sure he’ll have two he can let you have.”

Del raised his eyes to the top of the stairs-and met Miss Duncannon’s direct green gaze. She said nothing, however, but with a faint lift of her brows, continued on into the gallery. “Thank you.” Returning his gaze to the innkeeper, he arranged for the members of his household and hers to be given whatever they wished from the tap, then left the now deserted foyer to climb the stairs to his room.

Half an hour later, washed and brushed, he was in the private parlor when Miss Duncannon entered. Two maids had just finished setting a small table for two before the fire; they retreated with bobbed curtsies. Del strolled to hold a chair for his charge.

She’d removed her pelisse, revealing a garnet-red gown trimmed with silk ribbon of the same hue, over which she’d draped a finely patterned silk shawl.

Sitting, she inclined her head. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Strolling to his chair on the other side of the table, Del murmured, “Del.” When she raised her brows, he explained, “Most people I know call me Del.”

“I see.” She considered him as he sat and shook out his napkin. “As we’re apparently to be in each other’s company for some time, it would be appropriate, I suppose, to make you free of my name. It’s Deliah-not Delilah. Deliah.”

He smiled, inclined his head. “Deliah.”

Deliah struggled not to stare, struggled to keep her suddenly witless mind functioning. That was the first time he’d smiled at her-and she definitely didn’t need the additional distraction. He was ridiculously handsome when serious and sober; when his lips softened and curved, he was seduction personified.

She, better than anyone, knew how dangerous such men were-especially to her.

The door opened and the maids reappeared, ferrying a soup tureen and a basket of bread.

She nodded her approval and the maids served. Deliah eyed the soup with something akin to gratitude, inwardly congratulating herself for having ordered it. One didn’t need to converse while consuming soup. That would give her just a little more time to whip her unruly senses into line.

“Thank you.” With a nod for the retreating maids, she picked up her spoon and supped.

He reached for the bread basket, offered it.

“No, thank you.”

He smiled again-damn him!-and helped himself; she looked down at her soup and kept her gaze on her plate.

It had taken her all of the short journey, and most of the half hour she’d spent out of his sight, to untangle the skein of emotions besetting her. She’d initially attributed her skittering nerves and breathless state to the shock of finding herself looking down the barrel of a pistol, even if the gun hadn’t been pointed at her.

The shot, the subsequent flurry, the rush to leave, the unexpected journey during which he’d remained stubbornly uncommunicative over his mysterious mission-the mission that had led to him being shot at-were all circumstances that might naturally be considered to have contributed to her overwrought state.

Except she’d never been the sort to allow circumstances-no matter how dire or unexpected-to overset her.

In the quiet of her chamber, she’d finally unravelled her feelings sufficiently to lay the truth bare-it had been that moment when she’d found herself on the wooden floor with his hard body covering hers that was the root of her problem. The source of her skittishness.

If she thought of it, she could still feel the sensations-of his weight pinning her, hard muscles and heavy bones trapping her beneath him, his long legs tangling with hers, his heat-then the searing instant of…whatever it had been that had afflicted her. Hot, intense, enough to make her squirm.

Enough to make her treacherous body yearn.

But she didn’t think he knew. She glanced at him as he laid down his spoon.

He caught her eye. “I should thank you for taking charge of the domestic organization.”

She shrugged. “I’m accustomed to managing my uncle’s household. It’s what I’ve been doing in my years away.”

“Jamaica, I believe my aunt wrote. What took you there?”

Setting down her spoon, she leaned her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers and viewing him over them. “Originally I went out to visit my uncle, Sir Harold Duncannon. He’s the Chief Magistrate of Jamaica. I found the climate and the colony to my liking, so I stayed. As time passed, I took charge of his household.”

“Your servants are Indian-are there many Indians in Jamaica?”

“These days, yes. After the slave ships stopped, many Indian and Chinese workers were brought in. All my staff were originally with my uncle’s household, but over the years became more mine than his, so I gave them the choice of staying in Jamaica or coming to England with me.”

“And they chose England.” Del broke off as the maids reappeared. While they cleared the first course and laid out platters of succulent roast beef, roast potatoes and pumpkin, ham, and a jug of rich gravy, he had time to consider what her staff’s loyalty said of Miss Deliah-not Delilah-Duncannon.

“Thank you.” She nodded graciously to the maids, and they departed. Before he could frame his next question, she fixed her gaze on him. “You, I gather, have been with the East India Company for some time.”

He nodded, picking up the serving fork. “I’ve been in India for the past seven years. Before that, it was Waterloo, and before that, the Peninsula.”

“Quite a lengthy service-am I to take it you’re retiring permanently?”

“Yes.” They served themselves, and settled to eat.

Five minutes passed, then she said, “Tell me about India. Was the campaigning there the same as in Europe? Massed battles, army against army?”

“At first.” When he glanced up and saw her plainly waiting for more, he elaborated, “Over the first years I was there, we were extending territory-annexing areas for trade, as the company describes it. More or less routine campaigning. Later, however, it became more a case of…I suppose you could say keeping the peace. Keeping the unruly elements in check to protect the trade routes-that sort of thing. Not really campaigning, no battles as such.”

“And this mission of yours?”

“Is something that grew out of the peacekeeping, as it were.”

“Being something more civilian than military?”

He held her gaze. “Indeed.”

“I see. And will pursuing your mission necessitate you leaving me behind at some point well south of Humberside?”

He sat back. “No.”

She arched her brows. “You seem to have experienced a quite dramatic change of heart regarding my presence consequent on you being shot at. I’m not sure I see the connection.”

“Regardless, you see me resigned to your company-I’m waiting on confirmation of our exact route, but I believe we’ll need to spend a few days, perhaps a week, in London.”

“London?”

He’d hoped she’d be distracted with thoughts of shopping-she had been out of the country for years, after all-but from the calculation in her eyes, he could tell she was trying to see what going to London told her of his mission.

“Incidentally,” he said, “why Jamaica?”

After a moment, she shrugged. “I was in need of new horizons and the connection was there.”

“How long ago did you leave England?”

“In ’15. As a colonel, were you in charge of a…what? Squadron of men?”

“No.” Again she waited, open curiosity coloring her eyes and her expression, until he added, “In India, I commanded a group of elite officers, each of whom could take command of company troops and deal with the constant small insurrections and disturbances that are always blowing up in the subcontinent. But tell me, was there much of a social circle in…Kingston, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes, Kingston. And yes, there was the usual social circle of expatriates, much like any colony, I expect. How was India in that regard?”

“I was stationed mostly in Calcutta-the company headquarters are there. There were always balls and parties in the so-called season, but not so much of the matchmaking one finds at Almack’s and the like.”

“Indeed? I would have thought-”

They continued to trade question and answer as they progressed through the courses. Del tried to ascertain why she’d felt the need for “new horizons” while avoiding falling into the conversational pits she dug and revealing more than she needed to know about his mission.

He might have to take her with him to ensure her safety, but he intended to do all in his power to keep her ignorant of and entirely separate from his mission, and as far as possible out of the Black Cobra’s sight.

It was only after they’d risen from the table and together walked out of the parlor and up the stairs that he realized he’d spent an entire evening alone with an unmarried lady, doing nothing more than talking, and he hadn’t even thought of being bored.

Which he usually was. Thus far in his life, women, even ladies, had fulfilled one and only one role; he’d had very little interest in them outside that sphere. Yet although he’d focused on Deliah’s luscious lips far too often for his comfort, he’d been too engaged in their mutual interrogation-her quick wits had ensured he’d had to keep his own about him-to dwell on her sexual potential, much less act on an attraction that, he was surprised to discover, had not just survived the last hours but had, if anything, grown.

She paused outside the door of the chamber next to his and glanced up at him. Her lips curved lightly-a genuine smile tinged with a hint of appreciation and a soupçon of challenge. “Good night…Del.”

He forced his lips into an easy smile. Inclined his head. “Deliah.”

Her smile fractionally deepened, but her tone was entirely innocent when she added, “Sleep well.”

Del stood in the shadowed corridor and watched the chamber door close behind her, then he slowly walked the few paces to his own, reasonably certain that her last wish was very unlikely to be granted.