Turning, Alex looked again at the door through which Daniel had gone.

Daniel was, Alex knew, entirely trustworthy.

Yet sometimes trust wasn’t enough.

Alex had a very bad feeling about what was going on. About the quality of their opponents.

Pale eyes still fixed on the doorway, Alex rose, set down the barely touched glass of brandy. “I do hope I’m wrong, my dear. I do so hope I’m wrong.”

Once bitten, twice shy. Alex left the room to change and ride out.


December 21, 1822

The Swan Hotel, Bedford

Linnet sat beside Logan on the top step of the main stairs on the hotel’s first floor. All about them the house was quiet, settled, already in slumber. Darkness enveloped them; rather than keep a candle burning, marking their position, they’d let the night embrace them and let their eyes adjust.

The clocks in the town had tolled midnight a little while before, yet the hotel had been quiet for longer. In this season, there were no guests looking to revel into the night. Most of those she’d seen appeared to be travelers, on their way to some other place.

Like them.

In her case, however, she was no longer sure where she was going. To Elveden later that day, but after that? Where would life take her? Back to Mon Coeur to live out her life alone, surrounded by her people?

She shook free of the circling, distracting thoughts, ran her hand along her thigh, the soft leather beneath her palm familiar and reassuring. She’d changed into a gown for dinner, but then changed back into her breeches. If the cult came for them, now or later that day, she couldn’t run or fight anyone in a gown. Not effectively. And while she was with Logan, fighting alongside him, she needed to be at her most effective.

Her movement had caught Logan’s attention; even through the dimness she could feel his gaze.

Elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped between them, he studied her profile for a moment, then said, “Today… I shouldn’t say it was fun, but it was. So much better than just sitting in a coach, rolling along, waiting for the Cobra to strike. Sitting and waiting isn’t something that comes easily to either of us-or the other two, for that matter. Your plan was inspired, and your help with the execution much appreciated.”

She turned her head and met his eyes. Forced herself to seize the moment, the opening. “I know you mean to reassure me that you’re not repulsed by me wielding a sword.” She put a hand on his arm, squeezed gently. “I know it doesn’t matter to you-that you don’t think less of me because of it. But…” Through the shadows she tried to read his eyes-an impossibility. “Believe me, others-lots of others, indeed, most of society-will see it differently. No-don’t argue, don’t try to tell me otherwise, for that I do know.” She held his dark gaze. “I am not, and never will be, an appropriate wife for the son of an earl. Yes, I know Penny likes to ride wearing breeches, and she would probably love to wield a sword, but that’s not the point. She’s not just gently born but well brought up-she’s able to do all the things I cannot. The social things, doing the pretty in duchess’s drawing rooms, going to balls, knowing what to say.”

Pausing, she drew breath, softly said, “I am who I am, and I cannot change-not just because I would find it hard but because to be who I need to be for all the others who depend on me, I need to be who, and what, I am now.”

He’d opened his mouth once, but at her command had shut it and let her speak without interruption, had listened as closely, as intently as she could wish. He continued to look down at her, a slight frown between his brows.

Logan forced his hands to remain relaxed, lightly clasped. She’d just given him the perfect introduction to declare the truth of his birth, but… she hadn’t yet seen all he wanted to show her before he told her the truth. She hadn’t seen, so didn’t know, all the factors that, to his mind, would convince her beyond all question that marrying a well-born bastard was what she should do.

He told himself he should speak now, regardless, yet… simple fear, for all its simplicity a cold, iron-clad vise, held him back. He couldn’t risk it. Just the thought of failing to convince her chilled him. Shook him. He needed her as his-his wife-too much.

“I don’t want you to change.” He held her gaze with his. “I want you exactly as you are-the buccaneering female privateer, the virgin queen of Mon Coeur. I value all you are now, as you are now, and the truth, the real truth, is that I would fight anyone who tried to force change upon you.”

She sighed, her lips twisting resignedly. “How’s that going to work? How will I meet the needs you’ll have once you take up your rightful position?” She spread her arms. “How am I, me, as I am, going to fit the mold of your wife?”

“There isn’t a mold.” He felt his jaw firm. “And if there is, I’ll break it.” Turning to her, he framed her face between his palms. Searched it, let his gaze linger on each now-beloved feature. Eventually looked into her eyes. “I’ll shatter any mold and re-form it-to fit you. Only you. You are the lady I want. You are all and everything I want. All and everything I will ever need, now and forever. I know you can’t yet see how that can be, how and why that-you and me, married, a team forever-will work, and I can’t explain it here, now. I will once we’re through and safe, and we have time at Elveden.” He held her gaze relentlessly, hoping to impart his certainty, impress it on her with his gaze and his words. “Trust me-you are the lady I want. I won’t have anyone else, and I’ll never stop wanting you. Only you.”

He searched her eyes. “I’ll never stop needing you. Only you.” Slowly, he bent his head, tipped her face, brought her lips to his. Whispered across them, “Like this.”

Then he kissed her.

And for once let his warrior’s shield fall. Let all he felt for her that he normally hid-not the passion and desire but the tenderness, the love, the yearning-rise up and be known, let those softer yet no less intense feelings color his kiss. Let them shine, glow.

Let her see.

Linnet saw. Enthralled, fascinated, she saw, and felt giddy. Raising a hand, she clasped it over the back of one of his-a necessary anchor. She sensed, felt to her bones the gentleness within him.

And, in that instant, believed.

In that instant knew she’d fight for this, to keep this-him and his love, for what else could this be?-forever.

Fathoms deep, oceans wide, she sensed it as something that knew no limits, no bounds.

That encompassed all he was, and was infinite in its promise.

Her lips moved beneath his, softly, as gentle as his had been, returning that promise. That tenderness.

That revelation of infinite, unending love.

For long moments, that reality held them in its palm.

Then a sound reached them.

They broke apart, instantly alert, both too much the warrior to resist the call for so much as a second.

They looked about, searched, scanned the shadows. Listened, intent.

Eventually, Logan breathed, “Any ideas?”

Linnet shook her head as, slowly, silently, they both got to their feet.

Again they listened, turning, heads tilting.

Scrapes-something moving against the outer walls. A thump, a soft, sibilant sound.

She frowned. “It’s after midnight and icy cold. What on earth would anyone be doing outside?”

On the words, they heard a sharp crack. Then another.

Seconds later, they both smelled smoke.

Eyes wide, Linnet stared at Logan. “The cult?”

Frowning, he grasped her hand and started toward their room. “Even for them, this is ridiculous-the building’s mostly stone, and what isn’t is thoroughly damp. It’s not going to burn down. What the hell do they think to achieve?”

As if in answer, someone outside yelled, “Fire!”

And pandemonium broke out.

Sixteen

From the mouth of an alley on the opposite side of Bedford High Street, Daniel Thurgood watched his assembled cultists carry out his orders with their customary zeal. Mounted atop his black horse, he watched the flurry of activity about the hotel with growing anticipation.

An hour ago, he’d ridden into the camp near Eynesbury to discover that his careful planning had borne fruit. While the men following Monteith and his guards had lost their trail, the man he’d stationed in Bedford had already ridden in to report that the major, some woman, and the major’s two guards were passing the night at the Swan Hotel.

He’d brought his own guard of twelve-eight assassins and four fighters, all more experienced than the general run of cultists-with him. Although they’d lost men in their pursuit of Delborough and Hamilton, and many were still scattered along the south and southeast coasts, and Alex retained a significant number to deploy in the east, plus a personal guard much like his, he had more than enough cultists in Bedford that night to accomplish his mission-to seize Monteith and his scroll-holder.

His guard were restless, keen to join in any fun. All twelve were currently on foot behind him, concealed in the deep shadows of the narrow alley. The rest of the cultists, working in groups of eight, had surrounded the hotel, situated at the end of the block, and on the three sides-the street front, the side facing the river, and the rear that gave onto the mews-had set smoking fires flanking every door, and below every window.

Even now the smoke was thickening, billowing up to engulf the building.

He held no illusions of burning the place down-solid stone and slate wouldn’t burn. But it was winter in England; there’d been plenty of split wood and coals neatly stacked in sheds at the hotel’s rear. And all he and his men needed was smoke.