The Elusive Bride

Hiding a cynical smile, Gareth inclined his head. “Merci.”

He passed through the crowd, receiving thanks from some, informing those of their party of the early start. That done, he found Emily. Her cloak thrown over a nightgown, she was talking and exclaiming with a French madame in a stylish wrap and with papers twisted in her bright red hair. Taking Emily’s arm, he excused them, and turned her inexorably to the stairs.

When she glanced his way, brows rising, he said, “We’re leaving at dawn.”

Her lips formed an “oh,” and she continued on.

On reaching her room, they went in. Closing the door, he watched as, slinging her cloak over a stool, she paused by the bed and looked at him.

A pregnant instant passed, then he released the doorknob and walked slowly toward her. “It might be an idea to take off that gown.”

From the dark shadows beneath the trees in the park opposite the hotel, Uncle watched the bodies of the six best assassins he’d brought with him carted away.

He watched without reaction. There was no point gnashing his teeth. In this country, houses were sturdier; they didn’t burn easily, especially not with such dampness in the air.

And the major, clearly, had been prepared, on guard.

The conclusion was obvious. Uncle needed a new plan, a better approach.

His old bones ached with the cold, but that was the least of his pain. Although he was following the Black Cobra’s orders, his pursuit of the major was now driven by emotions that ran much deeper than his quest for honors.

He wanted to, was determined to, cause the upstart major the same pain, the same anguish, the major had dealt him. An eye for an eye, and a life for a life-but whose life?

The woman’s?

Through the open inn doors, he’d glimpsed Miss Ensworth, who the Black Cobra wanted punished for her role in giving rise to the major’s mission. He’d watched, and seen her turn and smile at the major as he’d joined her. An instant later, the major had taken her arm and led her out of sight.

Was she the major’s woman now?

Thinking of how much his leader would like the female’s hide, literally, Uncle smiled. That would make a fitting present-for his leader, and himself.

Akbar loomed at his shoulder. “We should leave.”

Eyes still on the hotel, Uncle nodded. “Indeed. I have much to think upon.”

1st December, 1822

Early evening

A room in a small village inn

Dear Diary,

After the excitement of the night-and its unexpected but quite delightful consequences-we dragged ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn, and were soon on the road. Under Gareth’s exhortations, the Juneaux went at a cracking pace, putting distance between us and Lyon, also making us a difficult target to attack along the way.

As planned, we are making no prolonged or predictable halts, but using our stored victuals for lunches and snacks. All in all, we are bearing up well, but…why can’t these blessed cultists simply go away?

The men’s battle-ready tension, which had eased somewhat, has returned in full measure. In Gareth’s case, I would say in greater strength. Who would have imagined the fiend, centered in India, would have such long arms? Regardless, as it should by now be obvious that his troops are not going to succeed, one would think he might desist and slink away.

Sadly, I doubt any of us expect that-which is only adding to the escalating tension. At least, thus far, conditions have not deteriorated to the point where Gareth feels compelled to forgo my bed.

Indeed, if anything, I sense the opposite, which is all to my good.

On reflection, as long as they keep their distance and do nothing to harm anyone, I believe I can tolerate the cult’s continuing presence.

E.

They rolled into Dijon the next day. The sun was waning, sliding down the sky to disappear behind the fancy tiled roofs as they tacked through the cobbled streets, pressing deeper into the town.

Once again, they sought refuge at the best hotel. All senses constantly alert, they dined, then, pickets organized, retired.

Nothing had happened over the two days since they’d departed Lyon. All of them felt as if they were incessantly looking over their shoulders.

As he closed the door of the large chamber he and Emily would share, Gareth suspected there was not one of their party who, somewhere in their psyche, couldn’t feel the Black Cobra coiling, preparing to strike again.

Outside a barn in the woods around Dijon, Uncle stood before a fire and surreptitiously warmed his hands. It didn’t do to show weakness, but the chill of these northern nights struck to his bones.

Gathered around the fire, the remaining members of the group he’d led from Marseilles-more than fifteen, more than enough-shifted and cast uncertain glances his way.

Finally, Akbar looked up and asked the question in all their minds. “When do we strike? If we go in force, and take them on the road-”

“No.” Uncle did not raise his voice. He spoke quietly, so they had to listen hard to hear his wisdom. “Fate has shown us that that is not the way. Have we not tried and tried, only to come away with our noses bloodied? No-we need a new plan, a better tactic.” He paused to make sure they would bow to his dictate. When no one protested, not even Akbar, he went on, “They are forever on guard, so we will use that to our advantage. We will wear them down with their own anticipation. We will make them wait, and wait, and wait…and then, when they are worn out with waiting and shut their eyes in weariness, that is when we will strike!”

One fist striking the palm of his other hand, he started to pace, eyes scanning the faces. “We must watch-they must feel us there, watching their every move. We will watch, but we will leave them untouched, so they will wear themselves out imagining how and when we will strike. We will let their fears rise and eat them.”

Satisfied with all he saw, he halted, nodded sagely, and stated his decision. “We will keep following them-and we will choose our time.”

6th December, 1822

Evening

Yet another room in a small village inn

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow we will reach Amiens. With every mile further north, the weather has grown increasingly wintry, with gloomy gray skies and an icy wind. We have had to dig deeper into our bags. I am now wearing gowns I have not worn since leaving England.

My campaign continues, and while Gareth has yet to declare his undying and enduring love, I am pleased to report a greater degree of closeness between us, driven no doubt by our shared nights, but also by the emotions stirred by the fiend’s latest tactics.

We have been watchful, of course, but other than sighting the odd cultist from a distance, we had no contact-not until we were leaving Saint Dizier. That skirmish-so openly halfhearted on their part-has solidified our suspicions that the relative quietness we are experiencing is due to the fiend being distracted with planning