The Elusive Bride

Drove her, consistent and insistent, scaling the familiar peak via a long, tortuous and novel path, while he assessed, weighed, worshipped.

Under his hands she felt precious. Every drift of his fingers over her skin screamed with primal possessiveness, while every brush of his lips, every subtle caress, was laden with reverence.

She felt like a goddess as he stripped her bare, as he drew back, parted her thighs, bent his head and kissed her there-as he used lips, tongue, teeth and his hot, demanding mouth to drive her wild. To, steady and sure, push her ever higher, until she gripped his hair, body bowing as a silent scream ripped from her throat and a cataclysmic climax shattered her.

He lapped, fed, continued to taste her until she eased back to the bed.

Then his hard palms smoothed over her fevered skin-a primitive claiming and a promise of more-as in the night he rose above her, pressed her thighs even wider, and the broad head of his erection found her entrance and he pressed in.

Slowly, deeply, completely.

The feel of him there, solid and hard, hot velvet over steel stretching her sheath, swamped her mind. She knew nothing beyond the fact that he filled her, that he banished the hot, aching, restless emptiness within her, that he completed her and fulfilled her and he was hers as she was his.

He withdrew and thrust in again, deeper still, demanding.

Hands sliding blind, splayed, over and around his chest, arms locking, she embraced him, rose to his rhythm, to the driving beat, meeting him and matching him in the compulsive dance, clinging as it whirled them high.

Worshipped him with her body as much as he worshipped her. Tipped her head back, found his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Engaged him in a duel as heated as the communion of their straining bodies. Nerves flayed by the indescribable friction of tautly encased, hair-dusted muscle, heated and hard, moving constantly, repetitively, over her satin skin, abrading the excruciatingly sensitized peaks of her breasts, by the rhythmic thrusting of his body into hers, the way he rocked her, by the echoes that found expression through the flagrant mating of their mouths, she joined with him and climbed, nails sinking, scoring as they reached the peak and her nerves snapped, unraveled.

He thrust in one last time, hard, deep, and she came apart.

And fell. Plummeted from the peak. Fractured and broke.

Disintegrated as ecstasy swept in, as it claimed her, filled her, buoyed her.

Joy followed, sweeping inexorably in as, over the pounding of her heart, she heard his ragged groan. As he went rigid in her arms, holding deep within her as his seed flooded her womb.

As at the last, muscle by muscle yielding to the inevitable, he collapsed, crushing her beneath him.

A smile curved her lips as she hugged him close, as satiation slid in and claimed them both.

17th December, 1822

Early evening

My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

Dear Diary,

I have a little time before I need to dress for dinner. Today has been a day for consolidation and waiting. As usual, Gareth was gone when I awoke this morning, continuing his recent habit of exhausting me before slipping away with the dawn. Yet the events of the night confirmed my thoughts-the connection between us runs so deep neither he nor I can hold back from it. Indeed, when we come together, it is increasingly in mutual fascination and devotion. Together, we accept, embrace, and worship. On that front, at least, our way forward is clear.

I did not write this morning as, on the wider question of our marriage, I was still formulating my thoughts. And with the snows, although melting, still confining us to the house, in this place of relative safety where danger and its distractions are held at bay, I have indeed been able to make progress-at last.

Speaking with the old ladies-they truly are dears-and through further observing Leonora and Tristan, and Jack and Clarice, I have defined and confirmed what the principal elements necessary to underpin a successful marriage between Gareth and myself are.

Trust. Partnership. An appreciation and acceptance of each other’s strengths, and a willingness to allow for the other’s weaknesses. A sharing freely given and readily accepted in all areas of our lives, allowing the other to share the burdens, to help meet the challenges, and share fully in the triumphs.

Those are the elements I need to explain to Gareth, to make him see and understand how vital they are, and how wonderful our marriage and our future will be if we can work together to embrace them.

I do not imagine that will be simple and easy, but then nothing worthwhile ever is.

So now, dear Diary, I am clearheaded and resolved, and waiting-here is the waiting-on only one thing. The end of Gareth’s mission. The end of the Black Cobra. In my view, that cannot come soon enough.

My resolution and clearheadedness have given birth to a certain eagerness. I feel I am standing on the cusp, not just of great happiness, but of an exciting journey that will fill the rest of my life-but I cannot take the first step until that wretched Black Cobra is caught and put down.

We are hoping to hear from Wolverstone soon.

Pray that it is so.

E.

A messenger from Wolverstone rode in late that evening.

The greatcoated rider handed his packet to Tristan in the front hall. “Would have been here earlier, m’lords, but the drifts are still thick through Suffolk. Howsoever, I was to tell you that as per those orders”-he nodded at the packet-“you shouldn’t have any trouble getting through, seeing as you’ll be in carriages and there’s no more snow coming down.”

“Thank you.” Tristan handed the man over to Clitheroe, then followed the others back into the drawing room, where they’d been sitting and chatting by the roaring fire.

They resumed their seats and waited expectantly as Tristan opened the packet. Frowning, he pulled out two folded sheets, then handed one to Leonora. “From Minerva.” He glanced at Gareth and Emily. “Royce’s duchess.”

Opening the second missive, Tristan scanned the lines within, then glanced up with an anticipatory smile. “Tomorrow we’re to travel via Gravesend to Chelmsford, seeing what cultists we can draw along the way, especially north of the Thames. After spending the night at the Castle Arms in Chelmsford, we’re to head to Sudbury, stop for lunch at an inn, then continue through Bury St. Edmunds to Elveden.” He offered the letter to Gareth. “Delborough is expected to be at Elveden to greet us.”

Gareth took the letter. “That’s excellent news.” He glanced over the instructions, then looked at Jack and Tristan. “So-how will we handle the travel?”

They discussed various options, the ladies contributing as much as the gentlemen, the missive to Leonora having contained an invitation from Minerva for Leonora and Clarice to visit Elveden with their families. Jack and Tristan exchanged a glance, but didn’t argue, clearly deeming Elveden to be safe enough, especially as they would soon be there.

In the end, it was decided that Leonora and Clarice would travel with their children in their own carriages, with their customary retinue of coachmen, grooms, and guards, taking Dorcas, Arnia, Watson and Jimmy with them. They would go via London directly up the Great North Road, then across via Cambridge and Newmarket to Elveden.

Gareth and Emily would go in another carriage, with Mullins driving and Bister and Mooktu as guards. They would follow Wolverstone’s stipulated route, shadowed by Jack and Tristan on horseback.

“The better to eliminate any cultists we find,” as Jack put it.

The two family carriages would leave three hours after Gareth and Emily’s, but as their route lay along major