The Untamed Bride

suggested determination, backbone and a forthrightness beyond the norm.

Duly noting that last, he bowed. “Indeed-Colonel Derek Delborough.” Sadly, not at your service. Quashing the wayward thought, he smoothly continued, “I believe your parents made some arrangement with my aunts for me to act as escort on your journey north. Sadly, that’s not possible-I have business to attend to before I can return to Humberside.”

Deliah Duncannon blinked, with an effort dragged her senses from their preoccupation with shoulders and a wide chest which should by all rights have been encased in a uniform, replayed his words, then abruptly shook her head. “No.”

Moving further into the room, she set her boxes and bags on the table, distractedly wondering whether a uniform would have increased his impact, or lessened it. There was something anomalous in his appearance, as if the elegant civilian garb was a disguise. If the intention had been to screen his innately vigorous, even dangerous physique, the ploy had failed miserably.

Freeing her hands, she reached up to extract the long pin securing her hat. “I’m afraid, Colonel Delborough, that I must insist. I’ve been waiting for the better part of a week for you to arrive, and I really cannot journey on without a suitable escort.” Setting her hat on the table, she swung to face the recalcitrant ex-colonel-significantly younger and immeasurably more virile than she’d envisioned him. Than she’d been led to expect. “It’s quite unthinkable.”

Regardless of his age, his virility, or his propensity to argue, for her, it was, but the last thing she intended to do was explain.

His lips-mobile and distractingly masculine-firmed. “Miss Duncannon-”

“I expect you’re imagining that it will simply be a matter of bundling me into a carriage with my maid and household, and pointing north.” Pausing in the act of removing her leather gloves, she glanced at him and caught a telltale twist of those disturbing lips; that had, indeed, been precisely what he’d planned. “I have to inform you that that’s very definitely not the case.”

Dropping her gloves on the table behind her, she lifted her chin and faced him squarely-staring down her nose as well as she could given he was more than half a head taller than she. “I must insist, sir, that you honor the obligation.”

His lips were now a thin line-one she wanted to see relax and curve into a smile…what was the matter with her? Her pulse thrummed in her throat, her skin prickled with unexpected awareness, and he was still a good six feet away.

“Miss Duncannon, while regrettably my aunts overstepped their authority in seeking to oblige a neighbor, I would, in normal circumstances, do all in my power to, as you phrase it, honor the commitment they made. However, in this instance, it is entirely-”

“Colonel Delborough.” She hauled her gaze from his lips, for the first time met his gaze directly, deliberately locking her eyes on his. “Permit me to inform you that there is no reason you could advance, none whatever, that will induce me to excuse you from escorting me north.”

His eyes were dark brown, richly hued, unexpectedly in triguing, fringed with the longest, thickest lashes she’d ever seen. Those lashes were the same color as his burnished, lightly waving hair-a sable more black than brown.

“I regret, Miss Duncannon, that that is utterly impossible.”

When she set her chin, retreated not an inch, but kept her gaze meshed unwaveringly with his, Del hesitated, then, far more aware than he wished to be of her sinfully sensual mouth, stiffly added, “I’m presently on a mission, one vital to the country, and must see it to its conclusion before I’ll be free to indulge my aunts’ wishes.”

She frowned. “But you’ve resigned your commission.” Her gaze slid to his shoulders, as if confirming the absence of epaulettes.

“My mission is civilian rather than military.”

Her finely arched brows rose. Her gaze returning to his face, she considered him for an instant, then, in a deceptively mild-sarcastically challenging-tone, said, “So what do you suggest, sir? That I wait here, at your convenience, until you are free to escort me north?”

“No.” He struggled not to clench his teeth; his jaw was already tight. “I would respectfully suggest that, in the circumstances, and at this present season with much less traffic on the highways, it would be perfectly acceptable for you to head north with your maid-and I believe you mentioned a household? As you’ve already ordered a carriage-”

Her green eyes flashed. “With all due respect, Colonel, you are talking through your hat!” Belligerent, determined, she stepped forward, face tipping up as if she intended to go nose-to-nose with him. “The notion of me traveling north, in this season or any other, with no suitable gentleman arranged and accepted by my parents as escort, is quite simply ineligible. Unacceptable. Absolutely ‘not done.’”

She’d come so close that a wave of tempting warmth slid over the front of him, cascading down to heat his groin. So long had it been since he’d experienced such an explicit reac tion he was, for just an instant, distracted enough to simply stand and enjoy it, drink it in…

Her gaze abruptly shifted to his left. She was tall enough to see over his shoulder. He saw her focus, saw her gorgeous jade-green eyes widen-then flare.

“Good God!”

She seized his lapels and dragged him, hauled him, tumbled him down to the floor.

For one crazed instant, his brain interpreted her actions as lust gone wild-then the reverberating explosion and the tinkle of shattered glass raining down upon them jerked his wits back to reality.

She had never left it. Trapped half beneath him, she wriggled and squirmed to get free, her horrified gaze locked on the shattered pane.

Slamming a mental door on the effect of her curvaceous form bucking beneath him, he gritted his teeth and pushed back to his knees. After a quick glance out of the window at the stunned crowd milling in the darkened street, he got to his feet, and was assisting her to hers when the door slammed open.

Mustaf stood in the doorway, saber in his hand. Cobby stood beside him, a cocked pistol in his. Beyond them towered another Indian, swarthy and tall-Del stiffened instinctively. He started to step in front of Miss Duncannon, only to have her hand on his arm hold him back.

“I’m quite all right, Kumulay.” Her small, warm hand still resting on Del’s bicep, she looked up at him. “It wasn’t me the man was trying to kill.”

Del met her eyes. They were still wide, her pupils dilated, but she was utterly in control.

A hundred thoughts churned through his head. Every instinct screamed “Chase!” but this time that wasn’t his role. He looked back at Cobby, who had lowered his gun. “Get ready to leave immediately.”

Cobby nodded. “I’ll get the others.” He and Mustaf drew back.

The other man-Kumulay-remained in the open doorway, his impassive gaze locked on his mistress.

Del glanced at her. Met the green shards trained on his face.

“You are not leaving without me.” Each word was carefully enunciated.

He hesitated, giving his mind one more chance to come up with an alternative, then, jaw set, nodded. “Very well. Be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Finally!” More than two hours later, Del shut the door of the post chaise Miss Duncannon had been farsighted enough to hire, and dropped onto the seat beside his unlooked-for charge.

Her maid, Bess, an Englishwoman, sat in the corner on her other side. Along the seat opposite, in a colorful array of saris and woollen shawls, sat Amaya, Alia and another older Indian woman and two young girls, the latter three all members of Miss Duncannon’s household.

Why she had a largely Indian household he had yet to learn.

The carriage rocked into motion, rolling ponderously up the High Street. As the vehicle tacked around Bargate, then headed on toward the London road, Del wondered, not for the first time over the last two and more hours, what had possessed him to agree to Miss Duncannon traveling on with him.

Unfortunately, he knew the answer, and it was one that left him with no other possible course. She’d seen the man who’d shot at him-which meant the man had almost certainly seen her.

Given cultists rarely, if ever, used firearms, that man was most likely Larkins, Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman