The Reckless Bride Read Online Free Page A

decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”
    They’d reached an intersection where a narrow cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.
    “No!”
    The shrill female protest jerked them to a halt. They looked up the street.
    In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.
    There was no one else in the street.
    Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the woman’s next cry.
    Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly protesting, she fought to beat them off, knew nothing until Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.
    A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.
    Rafe turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”
    He’d spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her ageing, yet delicately boned, face. She was old enough to be his grandmother.
    Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.
    The lady—Rafe might have been away from society for more than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine, the head rising high, the haughty features—considered him, then said in perfect upper-class English, “Thank you, dear boy. I’m a trifle rattled, but if you’ll help me to that bench there, I daresay I’ll be right as rain in two minutes.”
    Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to understanding her.
    Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his arm. “Your accent’s straight from Eton, dear boy. And you look vaguely familiar, too—no doubt I’ll place you in a few minutes. Now give me your arm.”
    Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops, equally incensed.
    “They’re recovering,” Hassan said.
    Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to their feet.
    The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.
    The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.
    “Do you want us to catch them?” one of the locals asked.
    The lady waved. “No, no—they were doubtless some layabouts who thought to seize some coins from a defenseless old woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I really do not have time to become entangled with the authorities here.”
    Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he needed, too.
    He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred, but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously accepted—in German that was significantly more fluent and colloquial than Rafe’s.
    When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their businesses, Rafe met the lady’s gray eyes—eyes decidedly too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Rafe Carstairs, ma’am.” He would have preferred to decamp—to run away from any lady who called him “dear boy"—but ingrained manners forced him to ask, “Are you staying nearby?”
    The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. “Lady Congreve. I believe I knew your parents, and I know your brother, Viscount Henley. I’m putting up at the Imperial