The Untamed Bride

Six

Crushed them. Hauled her into his arms and held her as if he were trying to absorb her into his body.

He kissed her in the same way.

As if he wanted to devour her. To own her, claim her.

Have her.

In every imaginable way.

Deliah sank her hands into his hair and kissed him back. With equal fervor, equal need.

Their wills met and merged in a clash of fire and passion.

Of instant conflagration and fiery need.

The anger that had driven her converted in a heartbeat to something more potent, to a compulsion that thrummed in her blood, that filled her head with dizzying desire, that burgeoned, erupted and swept her on.

Her inner self seized control, and it wanted, needed, yearned.

For more. For this. For what it had been starved of for so long.

He angled his head, ruthlessly, relentlessly deepened the kiss, and she pressed against him, into him, and met him caress for caress.

She remembered this, the heat, the urgency.

Yet this time there were flames and fire, and heady des peration.

Del sensed the same, knew beyond doubt that he ought to stop, that if he’d been wise he’d never have kissed her.

Yet he’d had to.

He had to show her because she refused to see, had to demonstrate unequivocally in the most indisputable way that she was his-his in more ways, deeper ways, than could ever be needed to justify his right to protect her.

He wrenched his mouth from hers. “This is why I need to keep you safe.”

Safe from the Black Cobra. Safe from all danger.

Safe. And his.

She blinked up at him, jade eyes drowning in a glory of passion. Then her grip on his head tightened and she hauled his head down, hauled his lips to hers. Catapulted them both into a blazing inferno.

An eruption of molten desire shook him-snared him, lured him.

If he’d been able to think…yet he couldn’t, not with her hands gripping his skull, not with her lips ravenous beneath his.

Not with her tall, curvaceous figure provocatively plastered along the length of his.

She wanted, incited, and he broke, seized, took. Claimed her mouth, then, holding her tight within one arm, raised a hand to her breast and claimed that, too.

Her response was instantaneous, undeniable, encouraging-a murmuring moan trapped in her throat. Her fingers tightened in his hair as his fingers played, learned. Seduced.

Deliah felt the wanton within her rise, felt her blossom and bloom with every evocative touch, with every heavy thrust of his tongue against hers, every increasingly flagrant caress.

No matter her memories, it had never been like this. Never so fiery, never so fraught. She’d never been so desperately needy.

Even through her pelisse, his knowing hands made her breasts swell and ache, a sweeter, sharper ache than she recalled. Griffiths, the bastard, had never made her feel like this. There was no comparison.

This was new, and she had to have. Better, more; she had to know. She reached for the buttons of his coat as he reached for hers.

The next minutes went in a blind flurry of hands and grasping, greedy fingers, of passion escalating degree by inexorable degree as this garment, then that, slid away.

Tugged, pulled, ripped away.

And blind need took over-infected them both, drove them, fired them.

His hands found her skin, hard, hot and urgent. Hers found his, greedy and grasping. The muscled expanse of his chest, his heavy shoulders, the shifting muscles of his back.

Then his lips left hers, slid lower. His mouth fastened over one nipple and she arched, cried out.

Discovery and demand, yielding, then seizing, insisting and commanding, they traded caresses, shared and challenged, uninhibitedly answered the other’s call.

Until they rolled on the bed, skin to naked skin, long limbs tangling, hands sculpting, urging, fingers searching.

Finding.

She arched beneath him as he stroked between her thighs. Lips locked with his, she burned, her hands gripping his sides, urging him over her.

Into her.

He complied. Lifting over her, he parted her thighs with his, spread them wide, set his hips between, and with one powerful thrust joined them.

She lost her breath. Every nerve in her body sparked, then whipped taut. She gasped, might have cried out, the sound muffled by their still rapacious kiss.

He withdrew and plunged in again, deeper still, steel encased in velvet shafting into her body.

And the wild ride began.

Pagan in its power, it held her, compelled her. She danced beneath him, rode with him, through the flames, straight into the heart of the fire.

And they burned. Hotter, more intense than anything she’d dreamed, a fiery need blossomed at her core. Relentlessly, ruthlessly, he fed and stoked the blaze…

Until that need became her all, until it throbbed beneath her fingertips, pounded in her blood, burned beneath her skin.

Silk and passion. She was that and so much more. Del had never known such urgency, such all-consuming, unwavering compulsion to have a woman-to take her and be damned. Regardless-despite-any and all restrictions.

Despite every last one of his rational reservations.

It was madness-this driving desperation, this compulsive conviction. Its claws were sunk deep, not just in his flesh but into his psyche, his soul.

He couldn’t live without having her-some part of him had accepted that as indisputable fact. That primitive side rejoiced as he pinned her beneath him, as her curves-those bounteous curves he’d coveted from first sight-cushioned him, cradled him. As, her long legs spread, she took him in, arched and took him yet deeper, all scalding slickness and wet, clinging heat.

She was tight, tighter than he’d expected, the walls of her sheath clutching, clamping, fisting him.

Taking him.

Lids heavy, breath coming in panting gasps, barely able to see, he was beyond all control, but so was she. This might have been unwise, but he didn’t care-and, thank God, neither did she. If he’d had any doubts, the half-moons her nails were scoring in his skin had banished them.

She was with him, urging him on even as he reached for her knees, and drew first one, then the other, to his hips, opening her to even deeper penetration. She only gasped, clung, rocked beneath him ever more evocatively, wordlessly pleading for release.

The roar in his blood grew, drowning out all but the need to have her climax. To see her surrender, to take her to the very peak of desperate sexual need, then tip her over into sexual bliss.

To feel her beneath him as he did, to sense that moment of absolute surrender.

To see her face, her expression, in the instant ecstasy took her.

He thrust deeper, faster, harder, more powerfully as he felt her rise.

Her fingers bit into his arms as she arched. She gasped into his mouth as her nerves drew that very last fraction tauter.

Then she shattered.

She came apart beneath him on a strangled cry, a sound that satisfied one of his needs. He’d expected to hold back, to take more of her, yet her convulsing sheath clamped tight, and she took him with her, pulled him over the precipice’s edge and on.

Release swept him; he couldn’t deny it. His roar muffled in the curve of her throat, he thrust deep and let go.

And joined her.

Felt her arms close around him and tug him down, wrap about him and hold him close as oblivion rolled in, over, and enveloped them.

For long moments, the heat held them, blessed and golden, a gentle sea.

Slowly, inexorably, satiation swept in, infusing them as they spiraled down, and drifted back to earth.

To the unexpected, unanticipated intimacy of each other’s naked arms.

December 14

Grillon’s Hotel

Deliah woke to a gray morning and the rattling of coals in the grate. Heart leaping, she glanced at the bed beside her-only to discover it empty.

The bed was a four-poster, and at some point in the night Del must have drawn the curtains along one side and across the end; she could see the window and the leaden sky, but the hotel maid at the hearth couldn’t see her.

Or the rumpled, crumpled disaster of the bed.

Bess would be up shortly and undoubtedly would notice, but Deliah had no intention of explaining. Indeed, thinking back, she wasn’t sure she could.

How did one rationalize something so far beyond reason?

She spent two minutes trying, then gave up.

Aside from all else, she could not bring herself to regret a single moment of the night, something Bess would detect, and that would only lead to more questions. Difficult, prickly questions given Bess knew her history with gentlemen and was every bit as protective as Del wished to be.

Would he regret-was he already regretting-the interlude, their unanticipated explosion of mutual madness? Of shared insanity.

She knew he hadn’t intended it any more than she had, but they’d clashed, kissed fierily, and that had been that.

The firestorm of passion sparked by that kiss had swept over them and cindered all caution, and reduced all inhibitions to insubstantial ash.

The result…had been glorious.

Lying in the enfolding warmth, she replayed each scintillating moment, at least those she could recall.

Quite enough to heat her cheeks, to have her shifting beneath the sheet.

Then she remembered what had happened later, when he’d woken her in the depths of the night.

He certainly hadn’t behaved like a man burdened with regrets.

If he had been, he wouldn’t have…done it all again.

Only more slowly, and with much greater attention to detail.

Her body thrummed just from the memory.

The maid had left; the fire was crackling. She heard the door open, and Bess’s quick, light steps. Tossing back the covers, she froze, then set her chin, wrapped the loose sheet about her naked self, and swung her legs out of the bed.

“Good morning, Bess.” Sheet trailing after her, she walked out from around the bed. “Have you seen my robe?”

Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.

Bess stared at her, mouth open, for one long moment, then simply said, “Oh, my God.”

Washed, brushed and wearing one of the walking gowns that had been delivered from Madamae Latour’s salon, Deliah strolled into the sitting room of the suite in an entirely amiable mood.

Over the matter of the gowns she’d decided not to cut off her nose to spite her face. She’d accept them for now, but later she would insist on paying Del in full. In money.

But she needed gowns to wear now. Not anticipating a prolonged halt on their journey north, she had a few carriage gowns, and not much else. She’d charged Bess with shopping for chemises, stockings and similar necessities while she was out tempting the Black Cobra with Del.

He was in the sitting room, seated at the table breaking his fast with Tony and Gervase. At sight of her, all three started to get to their feet. She waved them back. “No-stay where you are.”

While the others subsided, with a careful look, Del pulled out the empty chair between his and Tony’s. With an airy nod and a light smile, she thanked him and sat.

She looked at Tony as Del resumed his seat. “So,” she asked, reaching for the teapot, “did anything come of your watch at the tavern?”

If Del could be a man of the world and evince no telltale sign of the hours they’d spent rolling naked in her bed, then she could do the same.

From the corner of his eye, Del watched her sip tea and nibble a slice of toast and marmalade as Tony and Gervase recounted their disappointingly uneventful evening.

“The Cobra or his minions must have been watching from outside the inn, waiting to see if their hirelings brought a woman.” Gervase shook his head. “We thought of hunting to see if we could spot them, but in that neighborhood there are simply too many seedy characters.”

“And they all look suspicious,” Tony said.

Grimacing in commiseration, Deliah set down her empty cup. “So what are our plans for today?”

They discussed their options for drawing the cultists out.

Del had already told Gervase and Tony of the excitement following his and Deliah’s attendance at the recital. They’d been troubled, and not a little disgusted to have missed the action. They’d resolved they wouldn’t again leave Deliah and him unwatched while out of the hotel. However…

“We need to make it easier, more attractive for them to approach-to come out of hiding and make some move.” Gervase looked at Del and Deliah. “The museum’s a warren-it might appeal to them.”

They all agreed that the museum and its many rooms was worth a try.

Del stirred and shot a glance at Deliah. Tried to keep all expression from his face. “It’s too early yet to go to the museum.” He switched his gaze to Tony and Gervase. “I think I’ll take a stroll to Guards’ Headquarters. Laying more false trails can’t hurt.”

“That,” Deliah said, laying aside her napkin, her gaze on Tony and Gervase, “sounds eminently sensible. You two can follow and keep watch. I’ll wait here until you get back, then we can go to Montague House.”

Tony and Gervase agreed readily.

Del inclined his head.

And told himself he had no grounds on which to feel sensitive, let alone irritated, by his recent bedmate’s unaffected manner, by the lack of any hint of susceptibility, or consciousness in her attitude to him.

She was behaving exactly as he should want her to behave. Neither Tony nor Gervase had detected any change in the air between him and her.

Because there wasn’t any. At least, none to be detected. Even by him.

Despite all, he’d expected something-a tremble in her fingers, an almost imperceptible change in her breathing-some indication of her heightened awareness of him.

Entirely against his better judgment, he wanted to speak with her-just to jog her memory of the heated hours they’d shared last night-but all four of them rose from the table and, instead of giving him a chance to hang back and exchange those few words, with an airy wave, Deliah headed for her bedroom.

Leaving him to quit the suite with Tony and Gervase, in a distinctly disgruntled mood.

His mood hadn’t improved when he returned to Grillon’s from visiting the Guards, then taking a quick swing through Whitehall and the Home Office, just to set a few more spectral cats prowling around their pigeon.

Nothing of any moment had been achieved. There’d been no one worthwhile confiding in at any of his stops, and neither Tony nor Gervase had spotted any cultists, although they were sure he’d been followed by at least three different locals working as a team-keeping watch, but too wary to try any direct attack.

Regardless, after last night, if he was to escort Deliah on another foray in which he and she would play welcoming targets, he wanted something a little more lethal than his cane.

His swordstick would feel better in his hand.

Tony and Gervase had elected to wait outside, hanging back at the corner of the street. Although he’d known they’d been close, even he hadn’t always been able to spot them.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and made for his bedchamber. He’d change his cane for his swordstick, then collect Deliah and leave for the museum.

He was still some way from the door to his room when it opened. The Indian boy who was part of Deliah’s household came out. The boy shut the door and, without seeing Del, walked off down the corridor in the opposite direction, no doubt making for the servants’ stairs at the end.

Slowing, Del watched him go, then, reaching his door, opened it and went in.

Cobby was there, folding shirts. He looked up as Del closed the door. “Any luck?”

“No.” Del tossed him his cane, which Cobby deftly caught. “I thought I’d take my swordstick.”

Cobby grinned. “By the wall beside the door.”

Del turned, saw it waiting, and grunted. Picking it up, he paused. “Did Miss Duncannon send a message?”

“No. Haven’t heard from her, nor seen her, since breakfast.”

“What was her boy doing here, then?”

“Sangay? He just looked in to see if I had anything for him to do-any errands or the like. Probably looking for an excuse to get outside.”

Del humphed, nodded. He refocused on the swordstick in his hand. “So it’s off to the museum to trawl for cultists. Wish us luck.”

“I would, only I’m not sure which way that should go. Do you want them to hang back and let you live peaceably, or come at you and try to slit your throats?”

“The latter.” Del turned to the door. “At the moment I could definitely do with engaging a cultist or two.”

Or three. By the time he and Deliah reached the museum, Del was itching for a fight. He knew the sensation well, but never before had it been provoked by a woman, a lady. And all because she was behaving absolutely perfectly.

Except…

He’d spent the short hackney ride to Montague House lecturing himself on the absurdity of wishing her to change into some different, more delicate type of female, the sort prone to displaying her sensibilities. That might make reading her, and managing her, easier, but it would conversely make his life a great deal more difficult.

And he didn’t truly want her to change. He wanted…

If she’d noticed his abstraction, she’d given no sign, but had commented happily on the sights as they’d crossed the town into Bloomsbury. Now she stood in the museum foyer scanning a board listing the current exhibits. “Where should we start? I rather fancy the Egyptian gallery. I’ve heard it’s quite fascinating.”

“The Egyptians it is.” He waved her on.

Discreet signs directed them up the stairs. As they climbed, she glanced at him, then asked, “How did your visit to the Guards go?”

It was the first she’d asked of it-which, now he thought of it, was unlike her. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected-as undistracted-as he’d thought?

“I found a few friends to chat to, but it was all for show. I didn’t even mention the Black Cobra.”

At the top of the stairs, he touched her elbow and indicated another sign down a corridor. They started toward it.

“I know you’ve resigned your commission, supposedly permanently, but was that merely for this mission? Will you rejoin when it’s over, perhaps serve in some other capacity? Or are you truly retiring from the field?”

He thought as they strolled. “The latter was my intention, and still is. Talking to the others today only confirmed that-the reasons for that.”

“Which are?”

An interrogation again, but gentler. He sensed she truly wanted to know. And after last night…“I’m thirty-five. My service has shown me much of the world, and also brought me significant wealth. Militarily, there are few challenges remaining-not for field officers such as myself. It’s time I came home and tried my hand at new challenges.”

“In Humberside?”

He felt his lips curve. “In Humberside, strange as that may seem.”

Her nose tipped upward. “It doesn’t seem strange to me.”

And that, he thought, was interesting-revealing. Despite her travels, it seemed she, too, had a special place in her heart for the county of her birth.

Before he could turn the tables on her, she asked, “So what form do you imagine this Humberside challenge will take?”

They’d reached the Egyptian gallery; side by side, they turned into it. A succession of smaller connected rooms opening off a central hall, it was tailor-made for an ambush. The silver head of his swordstick felt reassuring in Del’s hand. Taking Deliah’s elbow, he steered her toward the first of the large statues in the hall, one of Isis that towered some eight feet tall. “Let’s examine the statues in this room first, going down this side, then up the other. That’ll give them a moment to find us. Then we can go through the smaller rooms and see if we can tempt them to make a move.”

She nodded. Dutifully considered Isis, and read the description inscribed on a plaque beside it.

“So,” she said, as they moved to the next statue, “what do you plan to do on your return to Middleton on the Wolds?”

His lips quirked. “You’ve missed your calling-you should have been an interrogator.”

Her brows rose haughtily. “I take it you don’t know the answer.”

“Not entirely. I’d toyed with the idea of resigning for some time, but beyond going home to Middleton on the Wolds, I hadn’t got to the stage of making more detailed plans, then this mission arose, and as part of it I resigned. So no, I haven’t any fixed intentions beyond going home.”

“But it’s your house, isn’t it?” She glanced at him. “Delborough Hall, where your aunts live?”

“Yes.” He steered her on. “They’ve been keeping the place-house and estate-running while I’ve been away, more or less since my father’s death. But from their letters I gather they’re eager for me to take up the reins, something I did wonder about.”

“Indeed. They’ve been mistresses there for decades. They might not have wished to surrender control.”

“Apparently now peace has been established, they’re keen to travel and see all the sights the wars prevented them from seeing.”

She smiled. “From what I remember of them, they’ll thoroughly enjoy harassing some poor courier-guide.”

The notion made him grin.

They’d reached the end of the main hall. Glancing up the long room, he saw a number of other people, including two men who didn’t seem the sort to spend their hours studying ancient statuary. “I believe”-he turned back to Deliah-“that we’ve collected two watchers, but sadly, they’re not cultists.”

“But they might be…what’s the term? Scouting? For the cultists. Mightn’t they?”

“They might. Let’s go back along this side-we’ll pass them as we go up the room, then we’ll turn into the first rooms on our right.”

She nodded, and obligingly glided beside him as they perambulated up the room, stopping at every statue to admire and exchange comments.

As they left the main hall for the minor rooms, she returned to her earlier interrogation. “You don’t seem the sort to be a gentleman farmer.” She glanced at him. “Or at least, not to be satisfied with being only that.”

Very true. “I’ve been thinking, what with Kingston so close, and York and Leeds not that far away, that I might look into investing in manufacturing. Manufacturing what, I’m not sure.” He glanced at her. “Textiles, perhaps.”

She dipped her head. “There are all those mills about Leeds. I had wondered if there might be a market for cotton there.”

“And silk.”

“Actually, there are a number of combinations of silk and cotton that are quite valuable commercially.” Her skirts swished as she paused by a glass case housing pieces of pottery. “Are they still following us?”

“Yes. And they’re drawing closer.”

“Hmm. Then again, these rooms are smaller.”

“True.”

They continued ambling, and their watchers continued to follow, close enough to observe them, but not close enough to pose a physical threat. They seemed intent on watching only, thus giving Del no excuse to react.

Whether it was the possibility of impending danger abrading his protectiveness, or the airy nonchalance of her replies, or, loweringly, that he remained acutely aware of her, of the body he’d spent hours possessing thoroughly through the night that now seemed so elusive, drifting close yet beyond his reach, he didn’t know, but her continued apparent imperviousness, her insensibility to his nearness, his presence by her side, pricked him, increasingly on the raw.

Enough to have him reach for her, his hand brushing the side of her breast as he wound her arm with his.

He detected the faintest tremble, the slightest quiver in her breathing, but her serene smile never faltered. A second later, she was enthusing about some ancient scroll.

Once started, he couldn’t seem to stop. Some part of him interpreted her refusal to let any sensual awareness of him show as a challenge, even though his rational mind knew he should be grateful. Instead, as he guided her deeper into the labyrinth of smaller rooms surrounding the main hall, he let his hand linger at the small of her back. Her breath caught. When she tried to move away, he moved with her, letting his palm brush upward, then slide down.

She sucked in a breath, tighter, more constrained, and shot him a sharp, if wary, glance.

Wariness wasn’t what he wanted. When she stopped before another glass case and stared in apparent rapt contemplation, he slipped his arm from hers and stepped behind her, his palm trailing from her waist down over her hip, and around to, as he stood behind her watching her reflection in the glass, lightly caress the swell of her derriere.

This time she sucked in a more definite breath, caught her lower lip between her teeth, then looked up-and glared at him.

Her breasts swelled more definitely. She glanced swiftly across the room to where the two watchers were pretending to examine a wall plaque, then swung to face him. “What are you doing?”

Her hissing tone was music to his ears. She was no longer so unaffected.

He opened his eyes wide. “Me? Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Eyes narrowing, she prodded him in the chest. When he stepped back, she swept past and, with more of a swish than a glide, headed toward the next open door. She spoke over her shoulder in an irritated whisper. “Just because I lost my head last night doesn’t mean I’m going to-”

“Acknowledge it?”

She shot him an angry glance as he drew near. “Acknowledge what? And how?”

He halted just inside the doorway. The room was more of a small alcove; it had only one door, the one at his back. Returning his gaze to her face, he replied, “Acknowledge that you transformed into a veritable houri, and that you enjoyed every minute of what I did to you.”

“A houri? Nonsense!”

“Trust me, I know a houri when I have her beneath me.”

She nearly choked. “What about you, and what I did to you?”

“You want me to acknowledge that?”

“Why not? If you want me to do the same?”

He studied her for an instant, then nodded. “Very well.”

She frowned. “Very well what?”

He reached back and closed the little room’s door.

Her eyes flared wide. “What are you doing?”

He caught her arms, stepped back so his shoulders were against the door, then yanked her to him. Met her eyes as he lowered his head. “I’m doing as you asked-acknowledging how much I enjoyed being inside you.”

He kissed her-and every particle of pretense instantly fell away. Her lips parted beneath his, her mouth instantly yielded. Inviting, inciting; it was as if he’d waltzed them straight back into the fire that had burned so hotly through the night.

He had his answer, all but immediately. She had been pretending not to be affected; the discovery was balm to his primitive male soul.

Yet he couldn’t resist taking the kiss deeper, angling his head and taking more, demanding more. Filling his hands with the bounty of her curves, he lifted her against him, shifted his hips against her, felt her hands grip his head, felt her melt…

Hauling on his reins, he abruptly drew back, staggered that she’d been able to lure him so far so quickly, to so deeply snare him in her sensual web.

A houri, indeed.

Thank God she didn’t know how thoroughly he was smitten.

Deliah blinked dazedly up at him. Her lips throbbed, her skin felt heated. She wanted…

Then she remembered where they were. Feeling his hands gripping her bottom, she wriggled-caught her breath at the press of his erection.

Felt marginally better when he cursed through his teeth and set her down.

She was still horrified. “Don’t you dare do such a thing again-not in public!”

He arched one dark, infuriating brow. “Why not?” His lips lightly curved. “You liked it.”

“That’s not the point!” She felt flustered to her toes. The same toes that had been curling bare seconds before. Which was the point. She clearly couldn’t trust herself-her wayward, wanton, according to him hourilike self-to hold to any socially unimpeachable line. Not when it came to him. Not if he touched her, kissed her.

She felt like fanning herself, but it was the middle of winter-a muff wasn’t much use. Gritting her teeth, she tried to glare at him.

He merely smiled charmingly, stepped aside and opened the door. “Shall we go on?”

All she could do was elevate her chin and swan through the door back into the room they’d left.

Their watchers were still there; her reappearance interrupted a hasty conference, which abruptly ended.

Ignoring the two men, she led the way on.

They completed their circuit of the Egyptian gallery, then she insisted on looking through the Etruscan rooms as well, which gave her blood time to cool, but otherwise failed to advance their cause. Their watchers simply wouldn’t approach them.

Disappointed on that front, they quit the museum, only spotting Tony and Gervase as, a few minutes later, they followed them through the doors.

“Well,” she said, settling onto the seat in the hackney Del had hailed, “that gained us nothing.”

Sitting beside her, he smiled a knowing, self-satisfied, masculine smile.

She stiffened, waited, but he contented himself with looking out of the window as the hackney ferried them back to Grillon’s.

The smile, however, remained on his lips.

They returned to the hotel and repaired to the suite. Minutes later, Tony and Gervase joined them.

“Those two are still watching from down the street,” Gervase said. “They come, they go, but they don’t go far.”

“They have to be the Black Cobra’s hirelings.” Del grimaced. “Unfortunately, I can’t see any benefit in the direct approach. Like the others, they won’t know anything.”

“The best we can do is follow them this evening and hope to get a bead on the man to whom they report.” Tony turned as the door opened. “Ah-luncheon.”

They sat and ate. Deliah preserved a certain aloofness. Even she could hear the warning edge to her voice. Neither Tony nor Gervase could interpret it, but that didn’t matter-he who needed to hear the warning could.

From the look in his eyes when they met hers, Del heard her message loud and clear, but to her irritation he didn’t pay it any great heed. When, the meal concluded and their plans for the afternoon confirmed, he and she left the suite on their next foray-a visit to Hatchards, again shadowed by Tony and Gervase-in ushering her through the door, he let his hand linger at the back of her waist.

Rather than respond, she decided to ignore him. And the reactions he evoked. Nose in the air, she led the way to the stairs.

Hatchards bookshop wasn’t far. Remembering the image they wished to project, when they stepped out into Albemarle Street and Del offered his arm, she took it. Together they strolled down the street and into Piccadilly. The day had remained overcast, the heavy clouds a steel-gray; the brisk breeze carried the scent of snow, although none had yet fallen. She’d brought her umbrella just in case; getting drenched formed no part of her plans.

The bell over Hatchards’ door tinkled as Del opened the door. Deliah walked in; he followed at her heels. “Do you think they’ll come in here?” she murmured.

Pausing, they both took stock of the shop, tightly packed with bookshelves forming narrow corridors leading into the depths, with a goodly number of customers excusing themselves to each other as they passed up and down the aisles, searching the shelves.

“If I were them,” Del replied, “I’d stay outside and watch. There’s only one door for customers to use. But still, it’s worth a try-we might lure them in. Pick an aisle, and let’s disappear down it and see what happens.”

“Poets, I think.” She set off down the third aisle.

Despite the look he cast her, he followed.

“Did you ever read Byron?”

“No. Not my style.”

She cast him a glance over her shoulder. “You might be surprised. ‘Childe Harold’ was quite…adventurous.”

He merely looked at her.

She smiled and faced forward.

They spent some time loitering deep between the shelves, pretending a spurious interest in this or that, while he kept a weather eye on the others who drifted quietly up and down the aisles.

An assassin would have found the shop very much to his liking. It would have been quite easy to take someone intent on the books unawares. But Del was fast coming to the conclusion that those following them had been hired merely to watch, and nothing else.

Which worried him.

Where was the Black Cobra and his assassins? He couldn’t believe there weren’t more cultists in England, supporting their evil master. Aside from all else, their evil master was far too canny not to have brought as many men as he could with him. And he’d had days, if not weeks, to build up his troops.

His mind absorbed with speculation, his eyes scanning their surrounds, he didn’t see the danger directly before him.

Deliah didn’t intend it, and neither did he. She was about to slip past an elderly gentleman when the man turned, blocking the narrow aisle, then, eyes down, stepped toward them. Deliah stopped dead. The gentleman, apparently hard of hearing, and then shocked to find them so close, took a moment to realize and halt-forcing her to hurriedly step back.

Her neatly rounded derriere pressed snugly into Del’s groin.

An instant later, realizing the problem courtesy of his inevitable reaction, she tried to shift sideways and succeeded in making matters even worse. Biting back a curse, he closed his hands over her shoulders and forced himself to step back.

Oblivious, the elderly gentleman, with profuse apologies and an attempted bow, excused himself and squeezed past.

Deliah swung to face Del. The look with which she pinned him was full of accusation.

Eyes narrowing, he stepped closer.

She started to edge away. Reaching across, he clamped one hand on the shelf beyond her shoulder, caging her; with his shoulder against the shelf alongside her, his body shielded her from anyone starting down the aisle. There was no one else presently in it.

All points she’d already noted.

He leaned close, met her aggravated gaze. “That wasn’t my fault-not in the slightest.”

Her lips thinned. Her eyes searched his, then they widened. Her breath hitched. Her gaze lowered to his lips. “Don’t you dare kiss me-not here.”

Part protest, part order, part whispered plea.

For one defined instant, all about them stilled. The very air seemed brittle, charged, all but crackling.

Her breasts rose and fell. His gaze lowered to the tempting mounds, before rising, inevitably, to her lips…

He saw them quiver. He looked up, into her eyes, and realized she was…every bit as aroused, as tempted, as he.

But she was frightened, not of him but of what might-would-happen if…

“No. Not here.” He straightened, and she sucked in a much-needed breath.

Then she shot him a glance close to a glare. “Good.”

Spine stiff, she entirely unnecessarily shook out her skirts, then, nose once more elevated, preceded him up the aisle.

He fell into step behind her, far enough back so he could appreciate the view as they walked back up the long aisle.

That view did nothing for his painfully unsatisfied state, yet the realization that in the aftermath of their earlier kiss-and its as yet unfullfilled promise-she was every bit as exercised as he, every bit as on edge and wanting, went a long way toward easing his temper.

When they stepped out of the shop and the door closed behind them, he could still feel the charged atmosphere between them, but they were standing in Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t surprised when she squared her shoulders, then, glancing vaguely down the street, said, “It seems senseless to waste the entire afternoon. I assume they’re still watching-why don’t we give them an opportunity they can’t refuse?”

“Such as?”

Deliah bludgeoned her wits to keep them in line, to keep them focused on his mission and what they were supposed to be accomplishing, rather than on what they might instead do if they returned to the hotel.

Her pulse was still tripping, her heart still pounding, but aside from all else, there were Tony and Gervase to consider. She couldn’t see them, but they would be near, watching, waiting.

“What about Green Park?” She turned to look down Piccadilly to where, a little way along, leafless trees overhung the pavement. “I doubt there’ll be many nursemaids airing their charges in this weather.”

She cocked a brow Del’s way. He hesitated, then, it seemed with great reluctance, inclined his head. He offered his arm. Steeling herself, she took it, and let him lead her down the busy street.

The sky was darkening, the clouds louring, and, as she’d predicted, there weren’t many people strolling under the large trees in Green Park. A scattering of maids and governesses were gathering toddlers and young children, preparing to take them home.

To warm hearths and comfort, out of the chill of impending icy rain.

Deliah gave thanks for her thick pelisse. The shiver she fought to suppress wasn’t due to the cold. They were being followed, she was sure of it, and this time with more definite intent-although she might be imagining that. She glanced at Del. “There’s more of them, aren’t there?”

His features hard, his expression impassive, he nodded. “At least three, but I think there are more.”

They strolled on a few paces. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Del wasn’t sure he agreed. “It’s what we wanted to do.” To draw the cultists into an attack. Only he didn’t think they were cultists, although he still held a faint hope. More importantly, however, he had Deliah beside him-and that went against every tenet in his book.

With every step he took deeper into the park, he felt increasingly torn, one part of him urging him to take Deliah’s arm and march her straight back to the safety of the hotel, while the rest of him argued that this was a chance-a chance his mission committed him to take-to engage the enemy’s troops and reduce their number. His decoy’s mission hinged on that.

And she would fight him every step of the way if he tried to remove her from the action she’d instigated.

They slowed, but remaining apparently oblivious was essential to tempt an attack. Yet the edge of the park drew steadily nearer, and still their pursuers hung back.

“What do we do?” she asked. “Turn and saunter back?”

Mentally reviewing the areas through which they’d passed, he grimaced. “It’s too open-they’re worried others will see and come to our aid. There’s still plenty of people walking along Piccadilly-anyone could glance into the park and see.”

“In that case”-with her furled umbrella, she waved ahead-“let’s continue on into St James’s Park. Lots more bushes under the trees there, and even fewer people.”

Let alone the sort who might assist them. With the light fading, and the weather closing in, the denizens left in St. James’s Park were more likely to be pickpockets and thieves than upstanding citizens.

Del’s jaw set. He didn’t want to, but…with a stiff nod, he guided her on.

Leaving Green Park, they crossed the end of the Mall, all but deserted, and strolled, apparently nonchalantly, on into the glades of St. James’s Park.

The bushes closed around them, and every instinct Del possessed heightened, sharpened.

Beside him, he felt Deliah tense, alert, her senses no doubt reaching out, scanning, as were his.

“Tony and Gervase will be near.” He uttered the reassurance beneath his breath.

She tipped her head in acknowledgment, but said nothing.

The attack, when it came, was potentially more deadly than he’d foreseen. They were ambling, outwardly without a care, down a grassed avenue wide enough for three men abreast, when three thugs swung out of the bushes ten paces ahead, and faced them, blocking the way.

Movement to their rear told him there were men there, too; gripping Deliah’s arm, he pulled her behind him as he swung to place their backs to a wide tree trunk.

Two more men blocked the path they’d already trod, cutting off any retreat. At that point, the trees and bushes lining the path were too thick to easily push through.

The enemy had chosen a decent setting for their ambush, yet they were all Englishmen. Del inwardly swore as, with a click, he loosened the sword concealed in his stick. Three of the men started forward, two from one end, one from the other, leaving one man standing guard at either end of the short stretch. With a flourishing swish, Del unsheathed his sword. Stepping back, crowding Deliah between the tree and him, he beckoned. “Come on, then.”

The sword had given them pause. They already had knives in their hands. They exchanged glances, then looked back at him.

Then they launched a concerted attack.

The fighting was fast and furious, but Del had been in tighter, more dicey situations. He hadn’t, however, fought before with a demented female armed with a parasol beside him.

He should have expected it, yet he hadn’t. Far from cowering behind him-where she ought to at least have stayed-Deliah slipped out to stand alongside him, with her parasol laying into any of the men who came within beating range.

Her active participation as well as her furious flaying threw the three men facing him off balance.

Before matters got too fraught, and the two thugs standing back thought to intervene, Tony and Gervase slid silently from the bushes, and the two thugs dropped where they stood.

The remaining three suddenly realized that instead of being the ones springing a trap, a trap had been sprung on them.

But it was far too late for escape. With ruthless efficiency, Tony, Gervase and Del subdued them, using their fists, rather than any blades.

Then came silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing.

In the deepening gloom of early twilight, they hauled all five men into a row on the grass, sitting them propped against each other. None were in any state to make a bid for freedom.

The men were still groggy, but they could hear.

“Who sent you?” Gervase began the interrogation.

With short, sharp questions coming from all four of them-Deliah joined in, of course, and as her sharper tone made the men holding their heads wince, Del let her fire away-they soon extracted the expected story. The five had been hired by a man-a suspiciously tanned Englishman with close-cropped dark hair-to stalk them, watch closely, and act on any opportunity to seize either Deliah or Del.

As before, the would-be abductors had been told to bring any baggage they might acquire to a tavern, this time in a seedy alley in Tothill Fields.

Turning to Del, Deliah and Gervase, Tony shook his head. “No point going there-it’ll be the same story as last night.”

Gervase grunted an assent. He eyed the five figures slumped before them. “What should we do with them?”

While Del, Tony and Gervase evaluated the merits of turning the men over to the Watch, Deliah stood with her arms crossed and scowled at their prisoners.

They knew she was watching; none dared meet her eye. They shifted, but none showed any sign of getting to their feet and running.

As Del and the other two were in the throes of concluding they might as well let the five go-no real point in going to the Watch and having to spend hours explaining why men continued to attack them-sitting quietly and watching and waiting was wise.

And that, Deliah thought, illustrated what was different about these men. They weren’t like the lumbering louts of yesterday; these men were harder, smarter, quicker-distinctly more deadly.

They were quite a different breed.

“Very well.” Del turned to the men. “You can-”

“Wait.” Deliah shot a glance Del’s way. When he raised a brow but obediently waited, she refocused on the man in the center of the line. He was, she judged, the oldest, and appeared the most sharply observant. “Before you scurry back to your sewers, tell me-do you know others like you? Do you have contacts you can use to get out a warning?”

The man in the center returned her regard steadily. “Might have. Why?”

“Because you need to understand what’s going on here.” Deliah felt Del place a hand on her arm; she nodded slightly in acknowledgment, but continued, “The man who hired you-you noticed his tanned skin. He’s lately come from India. He’s the servant of a man from India-a fiend who’s been terrorizing the country there, among other things butchering and torturing Englishmen, English soldiers and civilians, and even women and children.”

She held the man’s gaze. “The reason the fiend-he’s known as the Black Cobra-sent his servant to hire you was because the Colonel here”-with a wave she indicated Del-“and three others who’ve yet to land in England are carrying information that must get into the right hands in our government to bring the fiend down. Naturally, the Black Cobra doesn’t want that-he wants to be able to keep killing Englishmen in India. So you might tell all your friends that, if they agree to work for any man, even a gentleman, lately from India, then they’re most likely being used as cannon fodder for the Black Cobra, so he can keep killing Englishmen.”

The five men on the ground had grown restive as she’d spoken. When she finished, the man in the center exchanged glances with his mates, then looked up at her, nodded. “We’ll spread the word. Not many of us hold with working for furriners.”

“Good.”

“Do any of you know Gallagher?” Tony asked. “Enough to get word to him?”

All five looked wary, but after a moment, the leader allowed, “I could perhaps get word through.”

“Tell him Torrington sends his regards, and Dearne-Grantham-is part of this caper, too, just not in London. Pass on all the lady told you. Gallagher will understand.”

The men’s attitude had undergone a significant shift, from adversaries almost to allies. The leader nodded more definitely. “I’ll do that.”

He started to rise, then halted, looked at Del.

Del nodded. “Go. And if you’ve got any English blood in you, spread the word.”

With nods, the men clambered to their feet, paused, then bobbed awkward bows to Deliah before lumbering off south toward the nearby slums.

“Well,” Gervase said, “that wasn’t quite a total loss.” He looked at Deliah, and his gaze hardened. “Although, in future, it might help if you would consent to leave the fighting to us. An umbrella is hardly an effective weapon.”

Slowly Deliah raised her brows, then she extended the um brella she still held in one hand, regarded it with approval. “This, I will have you know, is the very latest patented design. It has a steel shaft, a steel frame and mechanism, and, most importantly, it has a steel point.” Raising the umbrella, she displayed the steel spike at its tip. “In terms of an unexpected weapon, one a lady might carry, it’s ideal-and if you had questioned the man with the red spotted bandana just now, he would have told you that getting jabbed with a steel spike made him think twice about getting closer.”

“Yes, but,” Tony interceded, “the point is that you’re a lady, and we’re here, three gentlemen, and having you-”

“Getting in the way?”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Having you embroiled in the action,” Tony carefully continued, “is seriously distracting.”

“For you,” Deliah countered. “But for me, what would be totally unacceptable would be for me to meekly cower behind you like some helpless ninny, when in fact, as I just proved, I can perfectly effectively contribute.” Her eyes darkened. “I will remind you, gentlemen, that I’m a part of this enterprise whether I wish it or not. That being so, if you think I’m the sort of female to hide behind your coattails and leave all the fighting to you, you will need to think again.”

Nose elevating, she swung around-casting a sidelong glance at Del.

He bit his lip and kept his mouth firmly shut. The others would have done better to save their breaths.

Deliah humphed, then looked up at the sky, now a dark slate-gray. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Head high, she led the way, umbrella swinging defiantly.

Disgruntled, disapproving, but with no option for relief, with Gervase and Tony bringing up the rear, Del fell in alongside her.

December 14

Grillon’s Hotel

Deliah reached her bedroom in a less than chipper mood.

Stripping off her gloves, then struggling out of her pelisse, she muttered, “They could at least have recognized my contribution. Acknowledged the wisdom of my idea to tell the men about the Black Cobra, and hopefully put an end to the supply of local hirelings. But no. They had to harp about me not wilting like a proper gentlewoman.”

She was disgusted with them all. Although, to his credit, Del had kept silent.

Not that he’d disagreed. She knew perfectly well he’d felt the same as the other two.

She humphed. Draping the pelisse over a chair, she carried her gloves to the bureau. Pulling open the top drawer, she went to drop the gloves in. Paused.

Her handkerchiefs were jumbled. She frowned, then opened the next drawer down. Her shawls were rumpled.

A quick survey of the dressing table and the armoire convinced her.

She looked up as the door opened.

Bess came in, packages in her hands. “There you are.”

“As you see. Has anyone unexpected called?”

“No. Why?”

Deliah cast another glance around. “I can’t be absolutely certain, but I think someone has searched through my things.”

“What?” Bess bristled. “The only other of our party who’s been up to the suite since you left is Sangay, the colonel’s boy. He came looking for the colonel’s gloves. But I was out for most of the afternoon, shopping for those things you wanted.” She raised the packages.

Deliah grimaced. “I don’t think anything’s missing.” She looked at the dressing table. “My silver-backed brushes are still there, and all my jewelry, so it couldn’t have been a thief.”

She sighed. “Never mind.” She focused on the packages. “Let’s see what you found.”