Free The Untamed Bride by Stephanie Laurens

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    “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 and his master’s most trusted aide, or Ferrar himself. Del’s money was on Larkins.
    Although Cobby had questioned all those who’d been standing in the street, still stunned and exclaiming over theshooting, no one had seen the man with the gun well enough to describe, let alone identify. All they’d learned was that, as expected, he’d been fair-skinned.
    That the Black Cobra had struck so immediately and decisively had been a surprise, but on reflection, were he in Ferrar’s shoes, Del might have mounted a similar preemptive gambit. If he’d been killed, the ensuing chaos might have proved sufficient for Ferrar to gain access to his room and baggage, and the scroll-holder. It wouldn’t have played out that way, but Ferrar didn’t know that. Regardless, Del was perfectly sure that if it hadn’t been for Miss Duncannon’s quick thinking—and actions—he would very likely be dead.
    It was nearing seven o’clock. The night was dark, the moon cocooned in thick clouds. The carriage lamps beamed through the chill darkness as the four horses reached the macadam of the highway and lengthened their stride.
    Del thought of the rest of their combined households, traveling with the bulk of their luggage in two open wagons, all Cobby had been able to hire at such short notice.
    At least they were away, on the move.
    And they knew that Larkins, and presumably therefore Ferrar, were close, and chasing him. The enemy had broken cover and engaged.
    “I can’t understand,” Deliah said, “why you insisted nothing be said to the authorities.” She spoke quietly, her voice sliding beneath the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves; she had no wish to communicate her dissatisfaction to anyone other than the man beside her. “Bowden said you paid for the windowpane but insisted nothing more be made of the incident.” She waited an instant, then demanded, “Why?”
    She didn’t turn to look at him.