Stephanie Laurens - The Brazen Bride

The Brazen Bride

The Black Cobra Quartet

Stephanie Laurens

Contents

December 10, 1822

One oclock in the morning

On the deck of the Heloise Leger , the English Channel

H ell hath no greater fury than the cataclysmic storms that raked the English Channel in winter.

With elemental tempest raging about him, Major Logan Monteith leapt back from the slashing blade of a Black Cobra cult assassin. Raising his saber to counter the second assassins strike, using his dirk, clutched in his left fist, to fend off the first attackers probing knife, Logan suspected hed be learning about the afterlife all too soon.

Winds howled; waves crashed. Water sluiced across the deck in a hissing spate.

The night was blacker than Hades, the driving rain a blurring veil. Falling back a step, Logan swiped water from his eyes.

As one, the assassins surged, beating him back toward the prow. Blades met, steel ringing on steel, sparks flaring, pinpricks of brightness in the engulfing dark. Abruptly, the deck cantedall three combatants desperately fought for balance.

The ship, a Portuguese merchantman bound for Portsmouth, was in trouble. Logan had been forced to join its crew five days before, when, on reaching Lisbon, hed discovered the town crawling with cultists. Battered by pounding waves, buffetted and tossed on the storm-wracked sea, as the deck leveled, the ship wallowed and swung, no longer held into the wind. Whether the rudder had broken or the captain had abandoned the wheel, Logan couldnt tell. He couldnt spare the time to squint through the rain-drenched dark at the bridge.

Instinct and experience kept his eyes locked on the men facing him. Thered been a third, but Logan had accounted for him in the first rush. The body was gone, claimed by the ravening waves.

Saber swinging, Logan struck, but immediately was forced to block and counter, then retreat yet another step into the narrowing prow. Further confining his movements, reducing his options. Didnt matter; two against one in the icy, pelting rain, with his grips on his dirk and his saber cramping, leather-soled boots slipping and slidingthe assassins were barefoot, giving them even that advantagehe couldnt effectively go on the offensive.

He wasnt going to survive.

As he met and deflected another vicious blow, he acknowledged that, yet even as he did his innate stubbornness rose. Hed been a cavalry officer for more than a decade, fought in wars over half the globe, been through hell more than once, and survived.

Hed faced assassins before, and lived.

Miracles happened.

He told himself that even as, teeth gritted, he angled his saber up to block a slash at his headand his feet went from under him, pitching him back against the railing.

The wooden scroll-holder strapped to his back slammed into his spine.

From the corner of his eye, he saw white teeth flash in a dark facea feral grin as the second assassin swung and slashed. Logan hissed as the blade sliced down his left side, cutting through coat and shirt into muscle, grazing bone, before angling across his stomach to disembowel him. Instinct had him flattening against the railing; the blade cut, but not deep enough.

Not that that would save him.

Lightning cracked, a jagged tear of brilliant white splitting the black sky. In the instants illumination, Logan saw the two assassins, dark eyes fanatically gleaming, triumph in their faces, gather themselves to spring and bring him down.

He was bleeding, badly.

He saw Death, felt ittasted ashes as icy fingers pierced his body, reaching for his soul.

He dragged in a last gasp, braced himself. Given his mission, given his occupation for the last several years, Saint Peter ought at least consider letting him into Heaven.

A long-forgotten prayer formed on his lips.

The assassins sprang.

Crack!!

Impactsudden, sharp, catastrophicflung him and the assassins overboard. The plunge into turbulent depths, into the churning fury of the sea, separated them.

Tumbling in the icy dark, instinct took hold; righting himself, Logan struck upward. His dirk was still in his left fist; hed released his saber, but it was tied to his belt by its lanyardhe felt the reassuring tap of the hilt against his leg.

He was a strong swimmer. The assassins almost certainly werentit would be a wonder if they could swim at all. Dismissing themhe had more pressing concernshe broke the surface and hauled in a huge breath. He shook his head, then peered through the water weighing down his lashes.

The storm was at its height, the seas mountainous. He couldnt see beyond the next towering wave, while with elemental rage the wind whipped and strafed, shrieking worse than a thousand banshees.

The ship had been in open water in the middle of the Channel when the storm had hit, but he had no idea how far the tempest had tossed them, nor any clear idea of direction. No idea if land was close, or...

Hed been losing blood when hed hit the water. How long he would last in the cauldron of icy waves, how soon his already depleted strength would fail

His hand struck somethingwood, a plank. No, even better, a section of planking. Desperate, Logan grabbed it, grimly hung on as the next wave tried to slap him away, then, gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and onto the makeshift raft.

The cold had numbed his flesh, yet the cut down his side sent burning pain lancing through his entire body.

For a long moment, he lay prone on the planks, gasping, then, gathering his ebbing strength, steeling himself, he inched and edged further onto the planks until he could lock his right hand over the ragged front edge. His feet still dangled in the water, but his body was supported to his knees; it was the best he could do.

The waves surged. His raft pitched, but rode the swell.

Beneath the lashing roar of the storm, waves crashed. Cheek to the wet wood, he listened, concentrating, and confirmed that the waves were smashing against something nearby.

The ship was, he thought, wallowing in the unrelieved blackness to his right. Breaking up. Sinking. Given how he and the assassins had been flung, the impact must have been midship. Whipping up his failing strength, he lifted his head, searched, saw debris but no bodiesno other survivorsbut only he and the assassins had been so far forward in the prow.

Lightning cracked again, and showed him the ships bare masts silhouetted against the inky sky.

As the simultaneous clap of thunder faded, he heard a sucking, rushing sound. Recognizing the portent, he peered at the ship.

The listing, tipping, capsizing ship.

Out of the night, the main mast came swinging down....

He didnt even have time to swear before the top of the mast thumped down across him and the world went black.

L innet! Linnet! Come quickly! Come see !

Linnet Trevission looked up from the old flagstones of the path that ran from the stable to the kitchen door. Shed left the stable and was nearing the kichen garden; directly ahead, the solid bulk of her home, Mon Coeur, sat snug and serene, anchored within the protective embrace of stands of elm and fir bent and twisted into outlandish shapes by the incessant sea winds.

At present, however, in the aftermath of the storm that had raged for half the night, the winds were mild, coyly coquettish, the winter sun casting a honey glow over the houses pale stone.

Linnet! Linnet!

She smiled as Chester, one of her wardsa tow-headed scamp of just sevencame pelting around the side of the house, heading for the back door. Chester! Im here.

The boy looked up, then veered onto the stable path.