Authors: Stephanie Laurens
“No one saw us,” Mooktu reported. “I saw two of the cultists through the crowd, but that was after we’d left the shop. They didn’t give us a second glance.”
“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea—and an excellent one.”
“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”
“No—it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”
The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place of
spoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.
Gareth paid the tavern owner and he
salaamed
them out of the door.
They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured—two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.
Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.
Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.
They passed two cultists on the main street.
Passed another two close by the docks.
All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.
They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.
The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”
Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.
When he glanced around and saw everyone—he did a quick head count—gathered in a knot further down the
deck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.
Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.
Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.
But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.
The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.
Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point—at the schooner.
They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.
They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together—to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.
They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.
The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.
7th October, 1822
Very late
In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension—which was positively palpable during
those moments on the dock and while we waited for the schooner to sail—has not abated. I do not know why, but it is clear Gareth—and the others, too—fear the Cobra will locate us, that we are not yet free.
I have to admit that in following Gareth, I did not foresee this degree of danger and the consequent abiding tension. It is very distracting. True, I am being given the chance to observe his character under pressure, which will undoubtedly be more revealing than if we were meeting in conventional and unthreatening surrounds, but that pressure has other effects, and affects me, too.
I have discovered that I do not appreciate living under dire threat of imminent and awful death, but in the circumstances, I am determined to make the most of it.
E.
Once again she joined him as dawn lit the sky.
The deck of the schooner was empty of all others except for the night watchman yawning by the helm. Coming to stand beside him at the railing in the bow, she shook back the tendrils of hair that had come loose and, eyes closed, lifted her face to the morning breeze.
Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.
He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin—nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…
Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…
“There’s a surprising number of ships around—I didn’t think there would be so many.”
He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India—even China—destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”
She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”—he gestured to his new robes—“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”
She nodded. “That’s the problem—the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”
He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”
She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”
“I fear so.”
Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak of the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable—a shared moment.
Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.
Companionship.
That’s all this was.
“You—and the other three—you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”
The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through—we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right—each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before she looked away. “I’m glad. Given Captain MacFarlane died while escorting me, I feel I have an interest in avenging him, too.”
That
came as no surprise. Gareth could still so easily bring James’s youthful engaging smile to mind. His sunny vitality had often made Gareth—and the others, too—feel like world-weary old men. James had always been popular with young ladies. Gareth slanted a glance at Emily. It wasn’t hard to imagine what romantical notions having such a dashing young man die in your defense would evoke.
Her comment, however, again raised the niggling question of whether—strange though it seemed—she’d changed her plans to follow him. But why him, and not Del, or one of the other two?
The question made him uncomfortable, and how on earth could he phrase it without sounding entirely too full of himself?
“So.” She turned to face him, leaning back against the rail. “What do you plan to do once this is all over and you’re back in England?”
He stared down at her. “I haven’t really thought.” He hadn’t, not at all. His mental slate should have been blank, but to his considerable surprise his mind was thinking now, supplying all manner of desirable images…all of which involved her. He blinked, turned aside. “I should check the decks. I’m supposed to be on picket duty.”
A frown showed more in her eyes than her expression. “But you would hear any other vessel draw close.”
“They might swim. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Very well—I’ll walk with you.”
“No!” That was the last thing he needed. It wasn’t just his mind that was reacting to her nearness. He scrambled to find a cause for his vehemence. “The light’s strengthening, and you’re not in disguise. And”—he pointed to the group of slower ships they were steadily coming up on—“we’ll soon be close to those ships. No telling how far ahead of us the cultists have reached.”
She stared—all but glared—at the ships ahead. Then her lips firmed, one step away from a petulant pout.
His errant mind suggested he kiss the expression from her lips…
“Oh, very well.”
Thank God.
She turned to the companionway, but bent a sharp glance his way. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
He inclined his head noncommittally. The instant her feet hit the companionway stairs, he set off to stride down the deck, grateful for the camouflage his new robes afforded him. One issue he didn’t need to worry quite so much about.
But he could see further problems looming.
They were on a journey that would be strewn with dangerous situations, most likely becoming increasingly fraught the closer they got to England, yet he’d had no choice but to bring her along, and now had no option but to keep her with him. Quite aside from his evolving fascination with her, her safety wasn’t something he could countenance putting at risk. Unfortunately, said evolving fascination looked set to play havoc with his interactions with her—interactions where he, in any case, would have been feeling his way.
He’d commanded men for over a decade. Women, unfortunately, were something else again.
8th October, 1822
Afternoon
The deck of our schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
I am starting to question how much one can learn of another while constantly on edge. On guard. With one’s head forever twisted to look over one’s shoulder. I swear I now have a permanent crick. Unfortunately we know the cultists are out there. Bister and, later, Mullins sighted their telltale black scarves.
Beyond the constant fear of an attack, we go on relatively comfortably. Dorcas thought of draping some of the ubiquitous mosquito netting over a section of the stern, giving me, her, and Arnia some cover beneath which we can sit free of the weight of our burkas. I am seated in our tent of sorts now, watching the passing ships. We are making good time, or so I have been told. The scenery hasn’t notably improved, but the weather is not quite so enervating, at least on the water…
once again I find my eyes trepidatiously scanning the vessel our sleek schooner is passing.
The men of our party take turns on watch, which is distracting and makes engaging Gareth in revelatory conversation somewhat difficult, for he, of them all, is most constantly on duty, ready to respond to any alert.
I would almost rather an attack was made so that we might relieve this unending pressure.
E.
L
ate that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily stepped out of the companionway onto the stern deck. Straightening, she paused to flick the silk out and over her shoulders. After a glance around the immediate area—empty of all life—she set off to indulge in a late stroll.
And if by chance she ran into Gareth Hamilton, she fully intended to encourage him to take advantage of the cover of night and, so to speak, her. At least to take her hand, kiss her fingers—kiss her lips if he would. She’d done with observations and cogitations, considered as far as she could, and had yet to discover any trait or behavior incompatible with his being her “one.”
Physical attraction and interaction seemed the obvious next step. Courtship of a sort, although as yet unstated. How could she assess if they were compatible on that level without actually testing it? Her sisters maintained it was essential to ensure one wasn’t dealing with a frog—the sort who remained a frog, regardless.
The evening had turned balmy. The schooner was sliding through the black water under light sail, the breeze that had whisked them along for the past days having faded to a mere breath. The moon was young, shedding only a pale glow, but there were lanterns placed all around the railings, shining
down onto the deck; Emily walked confidently toward the prow.
She’d just drawn level with the middle-mast when a shift in the air behind her had her turning.
A dark, dripping head, a mahogany face with wild, staring eyes, a long lanky body, bare but for a sodden loincloth, materialized out of the darkness. Teeth flashed in a wicked grin. One hand rose, a wicked blade gleaming in the moonlight.
She screamed, loud and long as she whirled and fled.
The man lunged and seized. His fingers caught her shawl.
She let it fall and fled on.
Only to see more cultists step out from the shadows by the railings ahead. She skidded to a halt. They smiled, and hefting knives in anticipation, came on.
“Here—take my hand!”
She looked up. Saw a crouched shadow silhouetted against the sky—but she knew his voice, knew him. She reached with both hands, gripped the hand he was stretching down to her.
He rose and pulled her straight up, swinging her onto the rear of the roof of the forward cabin beside him.
The cultists howled, and flung themselves after her.
Gareth released her the instant her feet touched the roof.
As she whirled to face the threat, his saber flashed—a wild swing that had the cultists ducking.
But they immediately popped up again, and, blades waving, scrambled to gain the higher ground.
With thrust and slash, Gareth beat them back.
Then someone leapt onto the roof behind them. She whirled, but it was Mooktu, coming to his master’s aid.
She stepped back a little to give them both room, but kept a hand locked in the back of Gareth’s robes—enough to keep her anchored, not enough to impede him.
The cultists surged forward and up, more appearing, crowding the deck below Gareth and Mooktu, trying to
tempt them forward, arms reaching, hands grasping to pull them down.
Twin
bangs
rent the night—both companionway doors slamming open. Feet pounded the deck as sailors poured from the fore and aft stairways. Emily glimpsed Mullins and Bister leading the charge from the stern.
The majority of the cultists didn’t spare the newcomers a glance. Eyes fixed on Gareth, they desperately tried to reach him…and her.
Through the wildly shifting shadows, she saw one darker apparition separate from the mass, slipping around the grappling, wrestling men. His gaze fixed on Gareth’s back, the cultist wove silently nearer.
A quick glance showed Gareth was fully occupied with the enemies before him. The cultist ignored her, his attention locked on the more dangerous opponent as he slipped into the shadows beneath the edge of the cabin’s roof.
He’d be up in a second.
Her heart in her throat, Emily glanced about—and saw a metal pail hooked to the jib arm. With her free hand she grabbed it, realized from the weight that it was half full of sand.
Just as a dark hand, followed by a dark arm and shoulder, came over the edge of the cabin roof.
She didn’t stop to think, just swung the pail the opposite way, then, as the cultist’s head cleared the roof’s edge, swung the pail back with all her might.
The solid
thunk
of the pail sent the cultist reeling. He tumbled back off the roof. Two sailors saw him and pounced.
Emily teetered, almost lost her balance and joined the bloody melee below; her hold on Gareth’s robes pulled her back.
He’d glanced around at the first tug, seen, grabbed his robes, and pulled. His gaze met hers. Then he turned back to hacking at the desperate cultists.
And desperate they were. They wouldn’t retreat. Wouldn’t give up.
In the end, they were all slain and their bodies tipped overboard.
Gareth didn’t stand down until the last body splashed into the water. Even then, he waited until Bister checked, with Mullins doing one last circuit of the deck before signaling that all was clear.
He straightened, easing the fingers cramped about the hilt of his saber. His and Mooktu’s new robes were liberally bloodied. A quick check confirmed none of it was theirs.
Only then, with the grip of battle fading, did he look at Emily.
She was still standing on the roof alongside him, watching the activity on the deck below. Her arms were tightly folded, hands gripping her elbows as if she were cold. Shock, yes, but not hysterics, for which small mercy he was grateful.
For the much greater mercy that she was still alive, he metaphorically went down on his knees and gave thanks.
He’d known she was up on deck. He’d heard her footsteps. He’d started circling, on the opposite side as she, avoiding her as he had whenever possible over the last days.
Her scream had put paid to that.
It had ripped through the night, and ripped through him. His heart had stopped, then started pounding so hard he’d been sure the cultists would hear and see him as he climbed up and over the roof.
But she was still alive; she didn’t appear to have taken any wound.
And she’d very effectively covered his back, which was the last thing he’d expected.
He was sincerely grateful for that, too.
The deck below was clearing. Mooktu grunted, then dropped down off the roof and strode away to reassure Arnia, who had appeared at the stern.
With his free hand, Gareth touched Emily’s slender back. “Come. I’ll lift you down.”
He dropped down to the less bloodied side of the deck,
then, setting aside his saber, turned to her, reached up, set his hands about her waist and gripped.
And swung her down.
Felt his heart pound just a little harder as he set her on her feet before him. As he looked into the face that haunted his dreams. Chest swelling, he had to force his hands to ease their grip and let go.
Bister unwittingly helped, coming up to take his saber to clean it.
He’d just handed it over when Captain Ayabad turned from giving orders to have the decks sluiced and swabbed.
Gareth spoke before the captain could. “I’ll have four of my men help scour the decks tomorrow.”
Ayabad inclined his head. “And while they are doing that, I think, Major, that you and I will have a talk. There are things I don’t know that it appears I need to know.”
Gareth nodded curtly. “In the morning, we’ll talk.”
“Bon
.” Ayabad, tall, dark, of similar age to Gareth, again inclined his head, then his teeth flashed as he turned to Emily. “I must thank you, mam’zelle, for an entertaining evening.”
Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”
Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel—flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.
By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.
Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.
He turned to her just as she looked up at him.
Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up on
her toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.
His instincts surged, purred, reached—
Ruthlessly he slapped them down.
It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…
Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.
His hungry, starving lips.
He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.
To taste, then claim, then devour.
Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…
Her lips lingered.
Then, on a sigh, she drew back.
As her heels touched the deck, he straightened—reluctantly. Disappointedly.
Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.
“Thank you, Major.”
He forced his gaze up to her eyes.
They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”
He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.
He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.
It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.
Not to her.
He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in the
opposite direction. There was nothing between them—he’d be a fool to think there was.
This—whatever it was—was all in his mind.
10th October, 1822
Very early morning
In my cabin in the schooner, bobbing on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
I am in two minds about having my last wish granted. The attack was truly frightening, and brought home to me—as if that were necessary—the true violence of the cultists’ natures. They are fanatics and think nothing of fighting to the death. If it hadn’t been for my gallant major…but that, of course, was what I gained from the experience, terrifying though it was. Gareth was nothing less than superb in whisking me from the imminent clutches of the fiends, and then protecting me against the rabble. He accounted for numerous of their number. The others, too, and the crew, did their part, I’m sure, but understandably I had eyes only for my rescuer, a fact that enabled me to account for one cultist of my own, protecting the major from a dishonorable attack from the rear, and thus evening the score between us a trifle.
Naturally, later, I had to kiss him. Yes, it was exceedingly bold, but the moment—and the excuse—were there, and I would have been foolish indeed to let the opportunity slip.
And therefore, dear Diary, I am now in a po
sition to report that Major Gareth Hamilton is no frog. Even though the kiss was all on my part—he very properly did not respond—I could sense, and feel…suffice it to say that the aftermath of the experience disturbed my slumber for the remainder of the night.
Naturally, given its success, that kiss can only be my first step. It has opened the door, so to speak, and now I must learn what lies beyond.
I have to admit I am insatiably curious.
E.
The next morning, as he’d promised, Gareth went to speak with the captain.
In order to give himself every advantage in the negotiations that were sure to ensue, he took Emily with him.
He tapped on the captain’s cabin door, and when Ayabad bade them enter, opened the door and ushered Emily, fetchingly dressed in a flimsy spring green gown, over the threshold.
Ayabad came to his feet in a rush, then hurried to hold a chair for Emily, who returned his greeting coolly and sat.
Drawing up a second chair, Gareth sat alongside her.
She’d been as pleased as punch when he’d asked her to accompany him; he was growing adept at reading her expressions. Of course, she didn’t comprehend exactly why he’d requested her presence, but he saw no harm in allowing her to imagine he needed her counsel, and distracting Ayabad was, he judged, a strategically wise move.