Outside a barn in the woods around Dijon, Uncle stood before a fire and surreptitiously warmed his hands. It didn’t do to show weakness, but the chill of these northern nights struck to his bones.
Gathered around the fire, the remaining members of the group he’d led from Marseilles-more than fifteen, more than enough-shifted and cast uncertain glances his way.
Finally, Akbar looked up and asked the question in all their minds. “When do we strike? If we go in force, and take them on the road-”
“No.” Uncle did not raise his voice. He spoke quietly, so they had to listen hard to hear his wisdom. “Fate has shown us that that is not the way. Have we not tried and tried, only to come away with our noses bloodied? No-we need a new plan, a better tactic.” He paused to make sure they would bow to his dictate. When no one protested, not even Akbar, he went on, “They are forever on guard, so we will use that to our advantage. We will wear them down with their own anticipation. We will make them wait, and wait, and wait…and then, when they are worn out with waiting and shut their eyes in weariness, that is when we will strike!”
One fist striking the palm of his other hand, he started to pace, eyes scanning the faces. “We must watch-they must feel us there, watching their every move. We will watch, but we will leave them untouched, so they will wear themselves out imagining how and when we will strike. We will let their fears rise and eat them.”
Satisfied with all he saw, he halted, nodded sagely, and stated his decision. “We will keep following them-and we will choose our time.”
6th December, 1822
Evening
Yet another room in a small village inn
Dear Diary,
Tomorrow we will reach Amiens. With every mile further north, the weather has grown increasingly wintry, with gloomy gray skies and an icy wind. We have had to dig deeper into our bags. I am now wearing gowns I have not worn since leaving England.
My campaign continues, and while Gareth has yet to declare his undying and enduring love, I am pleased to report a greater degree of closeness between us, driven no doubt by our shared nights, but also by the emotions stirred by the fiend’s latest tactics.
We have been watchful, of course, but other than sighting the odd cultist from a distance, we had no contact-not until we were leaving Saint Dizier. That skirmish-so openly halfhearted on their part-has solidified our suspicions that the relative quietness we are experiencing is due to the fiend being distracted with planning something far worse.
Something that lies ahead of us, between us and England.
Far from reassuring us, our too-easy success outside Saint Dizier has only made us more edgy, drawing us more tightly together and making us more determined than ever to defeat these villains and gain the shores of England.
Seeing England is a goal we now all cling to.
As for my other goal, I wish I had my sisters to consult. How, precisely, does one wring a declaration from a reticent man?
E.
The following day, they reached Amiens as the light faded from the sky. It was cold and tending crisp as Gareth returned from bespeaking rooms to oversee the unloading of the carriages. Everyone lent a hand, the faster to get out of the biting wind. After spending years in India, even his blood seemed too thin.
Once all the bags were in, the Juneau cousins led the horses off to the stable, and Gareth followed the others into the warmth.
Later, he and Emily dined together. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet time alone with her, a time during which he could air his thoughts, and she would share hers.
Pouring rich custard over his pudding, he murmured, “I’m starting to think we’re being herded.”
She opened her eyes at him as she took in a portion of trifle, then lowered her spoon. “That doesn’t sound good. Herded into what? Do you think they’re planning an ambush?”
He thought, then shook his head. “I can’t see how they could. That’s the beauty of Wolverstone’s route. We could be heading to any of the Channel ports. Even after we head to Abbeville tomorrow, there are still five major ports, in varying directions, that we might make for.”
“So they won’t be able to stage an ambush because they won’t know which road we’ll be taking until we’re on it?”
He nodded. “Precisely.”
Dessert finished, Emily laid down her spoon and studied him. “So why ‘herded’? What bone are you gnawing at?”
He gave her the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a certain grimness behind. “That little foray outside Saint Dizier was all for show, just to remind us they’re there, watching us constantly. I suspect they’re hoping to string us out, to wear us down with waiting. It’s an old tactic.”
When he said nothing more, chin propped in one hand, she prompted, “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
His gaze met hers. After an instant, he went on, “Following Wolverstone’s plan will keep the cult’s forces strung out-reaching Boulogne shouldn’t be too hard. But the weather’s worsening. I’m no expert on Channel crossings, but I spoke with Watson. Apparently, if the winds come up badly, as they’re threatening to do, the ports can be closed for days.”
“So getting into Boulogne might be simple, but getting out…?”
“We might be held up there for days.”
Days during which the Black Cobra could come at them, again and again, in force.
Gareth didn’t say the words-he didn’t need to. He could see understanding in her eyes.
Eyes he’d grown accustomed to drowning in every night when she welcomed him into her arms, into her body. Eyes he delighted in watching every morning when in the soft light of dawn she came awake as he slid into her.
Those eyes saw him; they locked on him every time he entered a room she was in.
Now those same eyes studied his face. His expression was stark and grim, but he couldn’t find it in him to laugh and lighten the mood.
Those eyes, and she, had to him grown immensely, almost unbelievably, important. He didn’t understand how that had happened, only that it had.
He couldn’t lose her. His future-something he’d had not the faintest idea about when he’d stood at the railings in Aden harbor-was now crystal clear in his mind. And she stood at the heart of it. Without her…
And, somehow, she knew. Knew she meant much more to him than a lady he felt honor bound to wed.
Yet she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed for any declaration, as other ladies might have. She’d simply been there, been herself…and let him fall in love with her. No. Let him fall more deeply in love with her.
He looked into her eyes, and saw her watching, waiting, and he knew for what, but with infinite patience, infinite understanding, and compassion.
Lifting one hand, he held it out, palm up. Waited until she placed her fingers in his. Closing his hand, feeling her delicate digits within his clasp, he said, “If my theory is correct, then we’re more or less safe until we reach Boulogne.”
Her lips curved in comprehension. Needing no further encouragement, he rose, drew her to her feet, and they went to find the others, to arrange the night watches before retiring to their room, to their bed, and the inexpressible comfort of each other’s arms.
In a deserted woodcutter’s cottage to the north of Amiens, Uncle paced the dirty floor. “There is no question about it.” He glanced around at his assembled troops, letting his confidence show. “It matters not which port they flee to, once they reach it, they will be trapped.” He waved the missive he’d received minutes before. “Our brothers already gathered on the coast have confirmed a great storm is blowing in. Let our prey run like mice for the coast-once they reach it, they will not be able to go further, to cross the water as they must.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “They will have to stop. And wait.”