“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 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 the shooting, 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. The interior of the carriage was a sea of shifting shadows; she couldn’t see well enough to read anything from his face-and she’d already realized that only showed what he wanted it to.
Silence stretched, but she waited.
Eventually, he murmured, “The attack was linked to my mission. Can you describe the man with the pistol? It would help.”