The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (26 page)

“Good. Now you better get back before anyone misses you.”

“Yes, sahib.” Sangay turned and, without looking back, made his way around the stables. Pulling his collar up around his ears, he clutched it closed, then dashed back through a thickening veil of white.

It had started to snow again.

Eventually everyone retired for the night. In the pleasant chamber she’d been given, Deliah held her hands to the cheery fire and gave thanks the day had ended so well.

Straightening, she glanced at the bed, then at Bess, flicking out a nightgown and laying it over a chair. “I’m not sleepy enough for bed yet. I can get out of this gown by myself, and you’ve had a long day, too. You can go.”

Bess grinned. “If you’re sure?”

“Yes.” Deliah waved at the door. “Off with you.”

Bess chuckled, bobbed and went.

Alone, Deliah idly wandered the room, looking at the paintings, at the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Del, she knew, was in a mood. A restless, edgy, and, despite his outward smiles, scowling mood.

She’d felt it, sensed it. She was fairly certain of its cause.

But be damned if she’d apologize for saving his life.

If she hadn’t stepped out onto the carriage step…just the thought of seeing him cut down sent a sensation of pure ice shafting through her.

The coldness spread until she shivered and shook aside her imagined vision. Bending, she held her hands to the fire again.

Once again, she glanced at the bed. Inwardly frowned at her reluctance to get into it.

Eventually she realized it was the afternoon’s incident—the aftermath of it—that was feeding that reluctance.

She hadn’t thought the fight had affected her that deeply. She’d been shocked and frightened at the time, but they’d come through it, more or less unscathed. They’d triumphed, they’d won, albeit it on a restricted canvas.

It was all over now, and all was well.

Yet still she didn’t want to sleep alone in the big bed.

She was eying the pale blue expanse of the coverlet with increasing self-annoyance, when a soft tap on her door had her whirling.

The door opened, and Del looked in. He glanced once around the room, then slipped in and shut the door.

And locked it.

For one instant, Deliah debated whether to take umbrage at his assumption, but decided she couldn’t be that hypocritical. She was far more thankful she wasn’t, it seemed, destined to sleep alone.

Del crossed the room and halted directly before her. He’d dropped his mask. He knew his expression was tending grim, but although her eyes calmly searched his face, she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Not even mildly worried.

He let his inner scowl materialize. “You promised to sit in the middle of the carriage and
not move
.”

“And I did. At first.”

“We didn’t put any time limit on your actions. It was understood you would remain where I’d left you until we quit the scene.”

Her eyes narrowed fractionally. “I also understood you didn’t intend to die. Or even allow yourself to be mortally wounded.”

“I didn’t intend—”

“And neither did I.” She met his determination with blatant intransigence. “Is there any point to this?”

“Yes!” If only he could figure out how to state it. He searched her eyes, seeking inspiration. “If you can’t obey orders—”

“There’s really no point in going over this again.”

“—then how can I trust that you’ll remain safe?” He hauled in a breath. “Damn it, woman, I can’t function if I don’t know that you’ll have the good sense to stay out of the action—”

“And just stand by and watch you get killed?” She came up
on her toes, all but nose to nose. “Permit me to inform you, Colonel, that that’s only going to happen in your dreams!”

Her eyes blazed into his.

Lips thin, he met her glare for glare.

Without warning, she clamped her palms about his face, muttered, “Shut up!” and kissed him.

As if she wanted to devour him.

He fought to hold aloof, succeeded for two heartbeats. Then he was with her in her ravenous need; he met her, matched her, an equal participant in the greedy exchange.

He told himself he should use it—the moment, her wildness, her wanting. Her wantonness. That if he was wise, he’d wield her desire like a whip, withholding gratification until she promised—

She pressed against him, into him, and his thought processes stuttered. Stopped.

Evaporated.

She wound her arms about his neck, pressed her breasts to his chest, slid her hips, her belly, sinuously over his erection, and he was lost.

Lost to all pretense that he wasn’t as helplessly in thrall to her as, it appeared, she was to him. That he didn’t want her as much, didn’t need her as much, didn’t crave her as desperately as her lips, her mouth, every seductive curve of her body announced she craved him.

Her need was visceral, flagrant and declared. Her wanting was tangible, a giddy purpose scenting the air. Her craving was elemental, a primitive itch that demanded to be scratched.

All she felt resonated within him.

Their kiss was all-consuming, a blatant expression of all that was to come. Her hands slid from his hair to grip his shoulders. She pushed; when he stepped back, she steered. With slow deliberation, she backed him to the bed.

He let her.

Curious to see what her wishes were, he complied when
she pressed down on his shoulders; without breaking the kiss, he sank down to sit on the side of the bed.

She came between his widespread thighs. One hand trailed down from shoulder to chest, to waist. To his groin to cup him.

To fondle with intent.

He mentally gritted his teeth and let her play, while he reached around her and found the laces of her gown. Stripping it from her slowly had been his ambition from the first instant he’d seen her in it, in Madame Latour’s salon.

Now he got to, and she allowed him to, realize that ambition. To slowly peel the gold satin from her perfect shoulders, to ease the slinky fabric down, taking her chemise with it, to expose her magnificent breasts.

Then it was his turn to fondle, with educated intent.

Her turn to grow even more heated. Until she moaned and drew back from the kiss. Until her spine bowed and she leaned back in his hands, and he bent his head and set his hot mouth to her flesh.

And ardently possessed.

By the time he consented to draw back, to push her gown down, over the swell of her hips until it slid of its own accord, whispering down her legs to puddle on the floor, her ivory skin was flushed with desire, her nipples tightly peaked, her breasts swollen and firm.

Her lids were so heavy she could barely lift them enough to see as she slipped the buttons at his waist free, and took his rampant erection between her hands.

Then it was his turn to close his eyes, to bite back a moan. To feel her hands possessing until the desire that rose beneath his skin seemed too much for his body to hold.

She leaned in, nipped his earlobe. Gained his attention. “I want you inside me. Now.”

She didn’t have to ask twice. His hands tightened about her waist and he lifted her, set her down on her knees on the bed, straddling him.

She didn’t hesitate, but shifted closer. One small hand wrapped about his shaft, she guided the engorged head between her slick lips.

Then sank down.

Took him in.

The air left Deliah’s lungs in a slow exhalation as she sank steadily down and he filled her. Stretched her, completed her.

It felt better than good, even better than blissful, to have the rigid rod of his erection buried so deeply inside her. It felt right. Sublime.

When he nudged deeper, nudged her womb, she reversed direction. She rose upon him, gauging the distance. Just before she lost the fullness of him, she smoothly changed direction and sank down.

Slowly.

She knew the theory of what she, they, were doing, but she’d never before experienced this particular pleasure. Now she was so engaged, she wanted to feel all, learn all, know all there was.

All that might come of loving him like this.

Of using her body to pleasure his like this.

Of taking her pleasure in pleasuring him.

And it was more, much more, than she’d ever imagined. The ride was exhilarating, stupendous, marvelously freeing. She was in charge, and he ceded the reins to her, let her set the pace, let her take him as she would.

Watched her as she did.

Watched as she experimented, then found her rhythm.

Watched as she rode him hard, then harder.

Watched her as she crested, as she rode faster, more desperately, taking him ever deeper as they pushed relentlessly up the final peak.

He held her, his hands tight about her hips, her arms locked about his shoulders, through those last fraught moments when the friction of their joining became a fire that ravaged and consumed.

At the very last moment her eyes locked with his, then she gasped, let her lids fall as she leaned in, and pressed her lips to his. Felt his open.

She slid her tongue between, found his tongue. Stroked, caressed, as the flames erupted, and the world cindered about them.

Del held her, kissed her, felt her sheath clamp tight, all fire and wet heat, about him. Felt her burn between his hands with an incandescent glory.

With a power he couldn’t deny.

Then he felt her soar.

Felt the tug, the command, the need to join her flower and sear, and pull him on.

To her promise of paradise. To all he knew awaited him in her arms.

He wanted her, and she wanted him.

Surrender was his only option. He closed his eyes and did.

Later, much, much later, when they’d recovered enough to together remove his clothes and then crawl between her sheets, he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up unseeing as he listened to their tumultuous heartbeats slow, feeling all residual tension fading into sated languor.

Gradually, his mind cleared.

Leaving, etched with crystal-clear clarity, all she’d revealed—everything the most vulnerable part of him had so desperately needed to know.

He hadn’t known the question he’d needed to ask, but she’d unstintingly given him the answer.

Glancing down at her, curled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her hair fanned over his chest, he saw she was at peace, floating, but not yet asleep.

Beneath the sheet, he slapped her naked rump, not enough to hurt, enough to claim her attention. “Don’t, for the love of God, ever do what you did this afternoon again.”

“I won’t, as long as you don’t attempt to fight three cultists at once in front of me again.” She scowled up at him,
then pouted as she rubbed her abused posterior. “It would have served you right if I hadn’t intervened and saved you. I should have left you to reap your just rewards.”

He was, he realized, still smiling inanely. He couldn’t seem to stop. He’d just reaped all the rewards he presently needed. Still, with a sense of inner wonder, he stated what he now realized was obvious. “You wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, sat still and let that happen.”

“No, you’re right.” She snuggled down against him again. “Sadly, I’m too patriotic for my own good.”

“So you saved me for the good of the country?”

“Of course.”

His smile only broadened, deepened; he felt as if the sun were shining on his soul. He might not appreciate how he felt when she tried to protect him at the expense of her own safety, but at least now he understood why she did.

Understood that she might not be able to refuse the call any more than he could when it came to her.

And, oddly, that felt right. Good. Elementally reassuring.

Fundamentally contradictory, but that seemed the norm for his feelings about her.

His thoughts circled, settled…as far as he could see through the haze of pleasure clouding his brain, there was really only one—or maybe two—questions remaining. How should he propose? And when?

He fell asleep before he could decide.

December 16
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And looked out at a wall of white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he heard the first maids stirring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sangay followed them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What would happen to his maataa?

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

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

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

Curling up in the bed, he shivered harder.

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t seen such a sight for decades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He left.

She rushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like our weeks of white.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muttering mock-direfully, he did the same.

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

Only each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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