The Untamed Bride by Stephanie Laurens

him now, yet with sharpened spurs.
    Contrary to his expectations, the trip had been anything but uneventful. They’d sailed from Bombay only to fall foul of a storm, which had left them limping down the African coast with one of their three masts crippled. Once they’d reached Cape Town, repairs had taken three full weeks. While there, his batman, Cobby, had ferreted out the information that Roderick Ferrar had passed through a week ahead of them, on the Elizabeth , a fast frigate, also bound for Southampton.
    He’d taken note, and so hadn’t fallen victim to the knives of the two cult assasins left in Cape Town who had subsequently joined the Princess Louise as crew, and lain in wait for him on two separate moonless nights as they’d sailed up the west coast of Africa.
    Luckily, the cultists had a superstitious aversion to firearms. Both assassins were now feeding the fishes, but Del suspected they’d merely been scouts, sent to do what they could if they could.
    The Black Cobra itself lay ahead of him, coiled between him and his goal.
    Wherever that proved to be.
    Gripping the railing of the bridge deck, which, as a senior company officer—albeit resigned—he’d been given the freedom, he looked down at the main deck, to where his household staff—Mustaf, his general factotum, tall and thin, Amaya, Mustaf’s short, rotund wife who served as Del’s housekeeper, and Alia, their niece and maid-of-all-work—sat on their piled bags, ready to disembark the instant Cobby gave the signal.
    Cobby himself, the only Englishman in Del’s employ,short of stature, wiry, quick and canny, and cocky as only a cockney lad could be, stood by the main railing at the point where the gangplank would be rolled out, chatting amiably with some sailors. Cobby would be first among the passengers to disembark. He would scout the immediate area, then, if all was clear, signal Mustaf to bring the women down.
    Del would bring up the rear, then, once they’d assembled on the dock, lead the way directly up the High Street to the Dolphin Inn.
    As luck would have it, Wolverstone had nominated the inn Del habitually used when passing through Southampton. He hadn’t, however, been there for years, not since he’d set sail for India in late ’15, just over seven years ago.
    It felt like more.
    He was quite certain he’d aged more than seven years, and the last nine months, while they’d been hunting the Black Cobra, had been the most draining. He almost felt old.
    Every time he thought of James MacFarlane, he felt helpless.
    Seeing more scurrying below, hearing the change in the bosun’s orders, feeling the slight bump as the padding slung along the ship’s side met the dock, Del shook off all thoughts of the past and determinedly fixed his mind on the immediate future.
    Sailors leapt down to the dock, hauling thick ropes to the capstans to secure the ship. Hearing the heavy rattle and splash as the anchor went down, then the squealing scrape as the railing was opened and the gangplank angled out, Del headed for the companionway to the main deck.
    He swung off it in time to see Cobby scamper down the gangplank.
    Reconnaissance, in this instance, wasn’t simply a matter of scanning for those with dark skins. Southampton was one of the busiest ports in the world, and there were countless Indians and men of other dark-skinned races among the crews. But Cobby knew what to look for—the furtiveness,the attention locked on Del while attempting to remain inconspicuous. If there were cultists waiting to strike, Del was confident Cobby would spot them.
    Yet it was more likely the cultists would watch and wait—they preferred to strike in less populated surrounds where escape after the event was more assured.
    Del strolled to stand with Mustaf, Amaya and Alia. Mustaf nodded, then went back to scanning the crowd; he’d been a sowar—a cavalryman—until a knee injury had seen him pensioned off. The knee didn’t discompose him in other ways; he