The following day, they reached Amiens as the light faded from the sky. It was cold and tending crisp as Gareth returned from bespeaking rooms to oversee the unloading of the carriages. Everyone lent a hand, the faster to get out of the biting wind. After spending years in India, even his blood seemed too thin.
Once all the bags were in, the Juneau cousins led the horses off to the stable, and Gareth followed the others into the warmth.
Later, he and Emily dined together. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet time alone with her, a time during which he could air his thoughts, and she would share hers.
Pouring rich custard over his pudding, he murmured, “I’m starting to think we’re being herded.”
She opened her eyes at him as she took in a portion of trifle, then lowered her spoon. “That doesn’t sound good. Herded into what? Do you think they’re planning an ambush?”
He thought, then shook his head. “I can’t see how they could. That’s the beauty of Wolverstone’s route. We could be heading to any of the Channel ports. Even after we head to Abbeville tomorrow, there are still five major ports, in varying directions, that we might make for.”
“So they won’t be able to stage an ambush because they won’t know which road we’ll be taking until we’re on it?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
Dessert finished, Emily laid down her spoon and studied him. “So why ‘herded’? What bone are you gnawing at?”
He gave her the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a certain grimness behind. “That little foray outside Saint Dizier was all for show, just to remind us they’re there, watching us constantly. I suspect they’re hoping to string us out, to wear us down with waiting. It’s an old tactic.”
When he said nothing more, chin propped in one hand, she prompted, “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
His gaze met hers. After an instant, he went on, “Following Wolverstone’s plan will keep the cult’s forces strung out-reaching Boulogne shouldn’t be too hard. But the weather’s worsening. I’m no expert on Channel crossings, but I spoke with Watson. Apparently, if the winds come up badly, as they’re threatening to do, the ports can be closed for days.”
“So getting into Boulogne might be simple, but getting out…?”
“We might be held up there for days.”
Gareth didn’t say the words-he didn’t need to. He could see understanding in her eyes.
Eyes he’d grown accustomed to drowning in every night when she welcomed him into her arms, into her body. Eyes he delighted in watching every morning when in the soft light of dawn she came awake as he slid into her.
Those eyes saw him; they locked on him every time he entered a room she was in.
Now those same eyes studied his face. His expression was stark and grim, but he couldn’t find it in him to laugh and lighten the mood.
Those eyes, and she, had to him grown immensely, almost unbelievably, important. He didn’t understand how that had happened, only that it had.
He couldn’t lose her. His future-something he’d had not the faintest idea about when he’d stood at the railings in Aden harbor-was now crystal clear in his mind. And she stood at the heart of it. Without her…
And, somehow, she knew. Knew she meant much more to him than a lady he felt honor bound to wed.
Yet she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed for any declaration, as other ladies might have. She’d simply been there, been herself…and let him fall in love with her. No. Let him fall
He looked into her eyes, and saw her watching, waiting, and he knew for what, but with infinite patience, infinite understanding, and compassion.
Lifting one hand, he held it out, palm up. Waited until she placed her fingers in his. Closing his hand, feeling her delicate digits within his clasp, he said, “If my theory is correct, then we’re more or less safe until we reach Boulogne.”
Her lips curved in comprehension. Needing no further encouragement, he rose, drew her to her feet, and they went to find the others, to arrange the night watches before retiring to their room, to their bed, and the inexpressible comfort of each other’s arms.
In a deserted woodcutter’s cottage to the north of Amiens, Uncle paced the dirty floor. “There is no question about it.” He glanced around at his assembled troops, letting his confidence show. “It matters not which port they flee to, once they reach it, they will be trapped.” He waved the missive he’d received minutes before. “Our brothers already gathered on the coast have confirmed a great storm is blowing in. Let our prey run like mice for the coast- once they reach it, they will not be able to go further, to cross the water as they must.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “They will have to stop. And wait.”
Facing them all, he raised his arms. “The weather gods, my sons, have arranged for us the perfect opportunity to capture and torture the major and his lady-to the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”
Eyes shining, fists rising, the men echoed his words. “
“This time we will plan-and this time we will triumph.” Uncle sensed the power flowing, sensed he held them all, even the cynical Akbar, in his palm. “We will wait, and watch, but the instant we know to which town our prey is racing, we will race there, too. And this time we will prepare. No matter that we might follow them to this town, fate has finally thrown her lot in with ours. Have faith, my sons, for, courtesy of fate, we at last have
