The Elusive Bride

Ten

15th November, 1822

Late

My room in the guesthouse in Tunis

The next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, all in their Arab disguises, left the guesthouse and walked down the street toward the scents and sounds of the medina.

No directions were necessary.

They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.

The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.

Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.

“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”

Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”

Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”

Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”-his gaze swept them-“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”

There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen-lead on.”

The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.

Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something-organizing, shopping-was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today-just in case.”

Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.

It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.

Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.

That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.

Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.

He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.

Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.

Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?

He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.

These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.

So their attackers had been sent, but by whom? The Black Cobra, or someone else? The bey? Someone in the palace?

Regardless, given they were locals, killing any would be unwise.

A knife flashed and nicked Gareth’s arm. Jaw clenching against the sting, he shook aside all distractions and refocused his energies on defeating the men.

A crowd started to gather in the street. Their assailants, finding no easy way to penetrate his and Mooktu’s deadly defense, called to others in the crowd. Called for help.

Most hung back, shocked and shaking their heads. But three young men came forward, eyes eager as they drew the typical short Arab blades from scabbards at their waists. Then they grinned, and pushed their way in to join the fight.

Just as the gate alongside Mooktu opened, and Bister, Mullins, and Jimmy rushed out, swords in hands.

And then the fight was truly on.

It was messy. It was confused.

Then one pair of opponents bumped into some onlookers, sending a woman sprawling, and that started a fight among some of the onlookers-and then it was impossible to tell what was going on.

Women joined the fray on the edges, thumping men over the head with basins, bundles, and baskets.

To Gareth’s horror, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia emerged from the gate. Armed with ladles, they started laying about them.

For one godforsaken instant chaos reigned, then shouts came from the rear of the crowd. Large, muscled bodies started forging their way in.

The bey’s guards.

Gareth looked at Emily, trying to catch her eye to direct her back into the guesthouse-to no avail. Giving up, he fought his way to her side, arriving there just as the captain of the guard reached her.

It was the same man who had led the detachment to fetch them earlier in the day.

His dark eyes met Gareth’s. After a moment, he said, “You must, if you please, all come with me.”

It took another ten minutes to restore calm, but the captain evenhandedly gathered all those involved-those of Gareth’s party as well as all the locals, including the women. The captain had brought a full troop with him. The miscreants were formed two-by-two into a long line and, flanked by the guards, marched to the palace.

Walking with Mooktu at the head of the procession, Gareth looked back, confirming that the five locals who had initially attacked them, plus the three who had later joined in, had had their hands tied. All the rest had been left unrestrained. The captain had spoken in Arabic to those locals who had hung back and abstained from involvement, and had clearly got the basic story straight. Gareth took that as a good sign.

Glancing at Emily and Arnia, walking directly behind him and Mooktu, he murmured, “When we get to the palace, leave the talking to me.”

Emily looked up at him through the lace panel of her burka. “I seriously doubt the bey will deign to speak with me. With us.” With her eyes, she included Arnia, then looked away, head tilting as if beneath the burka she’d put her nose in the air. “Men always think men know everything.”

Gareth thought he heard a small “humph.” He also had the feeling she wasn’t talking solely about the bey.

Facing forward, he tried to remember if there was a British consulate anywhere in Tunisia, or even in neighboring Algeria, currently Tunisia’s overlord.

When they reached the palace, they were all ushered into a large hall, then left waiting there with the guards, armed, keeping watch over them. Unlike his earlier visit, this time they did not have to wait long. A bare ten minues had passed when a door at the end of the hall opened, and the bey, an average-sized man of middle years, tending slightly portly, with a silk turban wound about his head and a wide silk sash going over one shoulder and around his waist, came striding through, his personal guards at his back.

The captain bowed low.

The bey waved him up, and demanded an explanation for the crowd in his hall.

The captain’s story was brief and to the point-and accurate, much to Gareth’s relief.

The bey ran his eye down the line of those gathered. Then he ran his gaze back and fixed it on Gareth. “Major-I believe we met briefly this afternoon.” This time the bey spoke flawless English.

Gareth bowed. “Your Excellency.”

“Am I to take it that certain of these men attacked you as you returned to your lodgings?” When Gareth inclined his head, the bey raised his brows. “Which ones?”

Gareth shifted so he could point along the line. “These five first, then when they called for support, those three joined in.”

“Very good.” The bey marched down the line until he stood directly in front of the five. “Why did you attack these people, who I had only just welcomed to our fair city?”

The five fell to their knees, then further, prostrating themselves. After uttering various obeisances, one hurriedly said, “We were hired, Excellency, by another foreigner.”

The bey frowned, and glanced back at Gareth. “Who?”

“He wore a turban like the tall one”-the attacker pointed at Mooktu-“but his had a black band.”

Gareth shared a glance with Mooktu and Mullins beyond him.

The bey noticed, and came striding back to halt before Gareth. “You know of this black-turbaned man.”

A statement, not a question. Gareth met the bey’s dark eyes. “Sadly, yes, Your Excellency. It appears we’ve been followed-or perhaps this person reached here before us-but they are acting on behalf of an Indian cult leader who wishes revenge against a lady, the Governor of Bombay’s niece, who was instrumental in gathering vital evidence against the cult leader. The cult threatens the government and the people of India.”

As Gareth had suspected, as a ruler himself the bey had no time for anyone who threatened any government.

“This cult,” the bey declared to the room at large, “is to be given no help by my people.” He paused, then returned to the five still kneeling men. “You have been foolish beyond belief in attacking one I had welcomed at the behest of a foreigner. Captain!”

The captain approached. “Yes, Excellency?”

“Take these five, and the other three as well, and have them sweep the streets about the palace and clean the palace stables for the next three months. Then perhaps they will think again before they take coin from a foreigner to attack one of this city’s guests.”

The eight men all prostrated themselves. It was a lenient sentence, but, Gareth felt, a wise one. He and his party would soon be gone, but the bey would remain and continue to rule these people.

The bey briefly interrogated, then dismissed the other onlookers who had joined the fight. As they all filed out, relieved to have been spared any punishment, the bey strode back up the hall to where Gareth and his party remained.

The bey’s gaze raked the three women, all incognito behind their burkas, then lifted to Gareth’s face. “This lady, the governor’s niece-she travels with you?”

Gareth nodded. “It is my duty to keep her safe from the cult on our journey back to England.”

“Good.” The bey clapped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Come-walk a little way with me.” He glanced back at the women. “And if it is not against your rules, as I believe it is not, perhaps your lady might join us?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Emily lifted her burka, putting it back from her face, then stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Excellency.”

The bey appeared pleased by the graceful obeisance. He bowed in return. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Gallantly he offered his arm. “This is how it is done, is it not?”

Emily smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Just so, Your Excellency.”

“Good.” Looking to Gareth, the bey waved him on. “Come-walk with me in the cloisters.”

Gareth glanced pointedly at the others of their party, standing quietly waiting.

Following his glance, the bey raised a hand. “My apologies. Your people may return to your lodgings. I will send guards to escort them, and the captain will escort you and your lady there shortly.”

Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Leaving the others filing out of the hall with the guards, Gareth walked by Emily’s side as the bey led them through a wonderfully carved archway into the tiled cloisters surrounding a courtyard.

They strolled, the bey pointing out various mosaics and sculptures, which they dutifully-and quite sincerely-admired. Once they had completed a circuit of the courtyard, the Bey ushered them into a small parlor overlooking the courtyard pool, and waved them to fat cushions. Once they’d all sat, he got down to buisness.

“I have a small favor to ask-a minor indulgence if you can see your way to granting it.” He looked from Gareth to Emily and back again. “It is my great hope to visit various European courts next year, and as it is expected and the European way, I will take my wife-my principal wife, the begum-with me. Also my closest courtiers. However, other than myself, and then only as a young man many years ago, we have little experience of European manners. No recent experience at all.” He paused, then fixed his gaze on Gareth. “I was hoping I might prevail upon you and your lady to attend a dinner here tomorrow night, and give us-myself, the begum, and those who will travel with me-instruction in how to conduct ourselves at a European table.”

Gareth blinked, then looked at Emily-read her surprise, and her curiosity, in her eyes. He looked back at the bey, formally inclined his head. “We will be delighted to oblige, Your Excellency.”

17th November, 1822

Evening

My room in the guesthouse at Tunis

The bey was taking no chances. He sent the captain with three others to escort them through the narrow streets to the palace. Given that both Emily and Gareth had dressed for dinner-she in a pale green silk gown Dorcas had unearthed from her luggage, and Gareth in his red dress uniform-and they were therefore very recognizable, it was a wise precaution.

As they left the guesthouse, scanning their surroundings Gareth murmured, “Just as well it’s already dark.”

Emily nodded, and held her cloak tightly closed as they followed on the captain’s heels.

He led them to a different part of the palace complex. Seeing no reason not to, she openly stared about her, noting the intricate carving, the jewel-hued mosaics, the very Arabic beauty everywhere she looked.

Halting at one especially ornate archway, the captain formally handed them into the care of a garishly dressed individual who appeared to fill a position equivalent to butler-cum-major domo. He spoke passable English, and after bowing low, welcoming them and taking their cloaks, he preceded them down a succession of long corridors, past uncountable doors and galleries, to a large, airy colonnaded room one side of which stood open to a treed courtyard.

The room itself was stylishly magnificent, but as they paused in the doorway, it was the people Emily focused on. They were rather magnificent, too, although to her eyes rather less stylish. Indeed, their liking for gold and jewels and ostentatious ornamentation verged on the garish.

The butler caught the bey’s eye, then in stentorian tones proclaimed, “Major Hamilton and the Majoress Hamilton.”

All heads turned their way. Emily kept her smile easy and relaxed. Clearly, they did think she and Gareth were married. Just as well they’d come prepared.

Smiling expansively, the bey came forward to greet them. He offered his hand to Gareth, and shook hands heartily. Then smiling delightedly, he turned to Emily, and paused.

Sensing he was at a loss as to the acceptable manner in which to greet her, still smiling, she held out her hand. “Take my fingers in your right hand, and nod,” she murmured.

The bey’s smile deepened as he smoothly complied, and she sank into a curtsy. As she rose, he patted her hand. “Thank you.” He released her. “It has been a long time and I wasn’t sure.”

He turned and waved to the room at large. “Now come and let me introduce you to the others. All here will be accompanying me on my travels.” He glanced at the women gathered in a group at one end of the room. “Well, all the men. Of the women, only the begum will be with us.”

As the bey led them across the marble floor, her hand tucked in Gareth’s arm, Emily tried to imagine what it would be like to be a woman alone in a different culture…then realized that for all intents and purposes she was exactly that at that moment.

The bey slowed and, frowning slightly, glanced at her. “I do not recall-is it customary to introduce a wife to other male guests?”

Gareth nodded. Emily stated definitively, “Yes, it is.” The group before them was all male. She glanced at the women. “In fact, it’s usually the case that men and women intermingle and converse from now-the pre-dinner gathering in the drawing room-and through the dinner itself. At the end of the meal, the ladies leave the men at the table to drink port or spirits, and talk among themselves, but only for so long. Then the gentlemen rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, and all remain together until the end of the evening.”

Still frowning, the bey nodded decisively. “We must practice all this.”

Thus it was that Emily found herself cast as social directress for the evening. Under her guidance and instruction, backed by the bey’s authority and example, the men-at first rather stiffly-mingled with their wives. Luckily, the women were more amenable to indulging in broader conversation.

Getting the party to go in to dinner in the correct order of precedence was both an education and a challenge. The begum in particular, a sultry, black-haired, sloe-eyed beauty of lush and bounteous curves, many of which were barely decently screened by the gauzy draperies the bey’s female court favored, proved difficult. She seemed to have taken it into her head that as the senior lady, it was her place to choose who sat beside her, namely Gareth. Emily had to be quite stern-and invoke the bey’s authority-in disabusing her of that notion, stressing that, as hostess, she had least say in the matter. She had to have the most senior visiting male-in this case, the vizier-on her right, and the second most powerful, one of the bey’s ministers, on her left.

The begum sulked through much of the meal, but as, being visitors of no real power, Emily and Gareth ended facing each other across the middle of the table, Emily found it easy to ignore the woman’s pouts.

Although at first stilted, around the table conversation gradually bloomed, then blossomed as the men found that the women they normally ignored were, if given the chance, engaging interlocutors.

The reverse, Emily strongly suspected, was also true. These women had barely exchanged two words with most of the men in their respective husband’s circles.

She felt reasonably proud of her achievement. And indeed, from his position at the head of the table, the bey was beaming in contented delight.

Directly opposite her, Gareth caught her eye, and with a slight inclination of his head, raised his glass to her.

She smiled and inclined her head back, happiness and that sense of achievement welling and melding.

A little later, when the last dishes were being removed, she caught the begum’s disgruntled eye, and using hand signals, instructed her hostess in how to call the ladies to order and lead them back to the drawing room. The begum bestirred herself enough to be interested, and under her husband’s benevolent gaze, performed the task with aplomb.

Following her from the room, Emily decided that, strange though it was, with any luck at all, they would weather the evening well.

At the end of the evening, the bey insisted the captain see them back to the guesthouse. When they reached the gate in the wall, Gareth turned to find the captain bowing respectfully.

“The bey is pleased.” Straightening, the captain pointed to two figures lounging in the shadows, one at each end of the street. “Throughout the rest of your stay, we will keep watch.”

Gareth met his eyes, nodded. “Thank you-and our thanks to His Excellency.”

The captain almost smiled.

Opening the gate, Gareth followed Emily in, then turned. The captain saluted and walked off. Closing the gate, Gareth heard his footsteps march up the silent street.

Following Emily across the shadow-strewn courtyard, Gareth searched, and found Mullins keeping watch in one corner. Given the late hour, everyone else would long be asleep. The old soldier snapped off a salute. Raising a hand in reply, Gareth continued on into the house.

He would see Emily safely upstairs, and then, as he didn’t feel the least sleepy, perhaps spell Mullins. But first…

Halting in the gloom, he focused on Emily. “You did very well this evening.”

Of necessity he’d been forced to let her take point. He hadn’t liked it, hadn’t liked sitting back and watching her walk such a potentially dangerous diplomatic line, but she’d kept her balance, her poise, throughout.

When she turned and, wide-eyed, looked at him through the pervasive dark, he added, “You gave the bey exactly what he wanted without revealing anything he didn’t need to know.”

He saw her lips curve, caught the flash of white teeth as she smiled. “I enjoyed the challenge.” Slowly, she came toward him. “It helped that they all thought we were man and wife.”

True, but it hadn’t helped him, not when he’d had to listen to the other men comment appreciatively, and then compliment him on having secured such a prize.

She was a prize on many levels-just not his.

The recollection had distracted him. He refocused, to find her much closer-too close. His blood beat just a little harder through his veins; his attention locked on her, captured, captive. Unwilling to break free, even less willing to let go.

Halting a mere inch away, she raised a hand, closed her fingers in his lapel, then tipped her face up to his.

Her eyes caught, trapped, his. For an instant silence stretched, then she murmured, voice siren-low, lips gently curved, “Your reading of my attraction to you as being danger-induced desire…” Her gaze lowered to his lips. Her tongue came out, the tip sweeping her lower lip, then she lifted her gaze to his eyes. “Did it occur to you that you might be wrong?”

Wrong? It took a moment for his mind, distracted by other things, to make sense of what she was suggesting. Trying to see where she was heading, and why, he started to frown.

Emily mentally threw her hands in the air and gave up trying to find the words-the right words to explain just how inaccurate his reading of her motives had been. Was. She’d always believed actions spoke much louder than words. Sliding her hand from his chest over his shoulder to his nape, she stretched up as she drew his head down, and kissed him.

Pressed her lips to his, not in persuasion but in confident expectation. They’d just spent the evening playing husband and wife-effortlessly, seamlessly, convincingly. Surely, he must now see there was only one way that could be, only one reason she had performed the charade so consummately.

She kissed him, moved her lips on his, and let all she knew, all she believed, all she felt well and pour through her. To lead her, free her, and free him.

Lure him.

She parted her lips and welcomed him in, thrilled when he came, when his hands tightened about her waist and he took-took over the kiss, sank into her mouth, and gave her all she asked for. All she wanted.

Him.

In the unfettered dark, in the silence of the night.

The kiss spun out, deepening, broadening, their senses reaching, spreading, searching.

Wanting.

She tipped her head back on a gasp. Her cloak slid from her shoulders as she wound her arms about his neck. As his hands closed about her breasts. Possessively. Passionately.

He kneaded and she moaned, then struggled to mute the sounds he drew from her as he bent his head and set his lips to her throat as his hands worked their magic and she melted.

He shifted, moved, steered her back, guided her until her back met the wall beside the door. He pinned her there and let his hands roam, and she grew hotter, needier, more wanton.

She reveled in the sensations, then he murmured something dark, tugged her suddenly loosened bodice down, exposing one breast, then he bent his head and set his mouth to her flesh and she cried out.

Breathlessly.

Achingly desperately.

The evocative sound shivered through the night. It sank like so many daggers into his psyche, each tipped with need and longing.

Gareth longed. Through all the heat, the welling urgency, above all else he longed to have her. But that have was no longer a simple verb. A possessive one, yes, but it encompassed so much more.

There was so much more he wanted of her. With her.

For her, and for him.

With her supple body in his arms, her soft skin beneath his lips, the taste of her wreathing through his mind, he could think of nothing more, knew nothing beyond that want, that need, that longing.

The soft mounds of her breasts, firm and swollen under his hands, the aureolas tight and puckered, drew him. He bent his head and feasted. Devoured.

She clung, the soft sounds that fell from her lips urging him on, stirring him deeply, ever more provocatively, on a primal level only she had ever breached.

His mouth on her breast, he reached down, caught one of her knees and raised her leg, crooked it around his thigh. Lifting his head, he found her lips, covered them with his as he traced her leg upward, then through the layers of her skirts cupped her bottom.

She gasped as he gripped, then eased his hold and traced. The kiss turned greedy, hungry, then incendiary as he caressed, then kneaded.

The potent mix of hunger, desire, and passion, of escalating need, wouldn’t be denied. She clung and pressed it all upon him, until it filled him as it did her.

Releasing her bottom, he reached around and back, and found her ankle. Slid his hand upward from there, skating beneath her skirts and petticoats, skimming her stockinged calf, slipping higher still to pause and trace the frilly lace garter circling her thigh above her knee, then he reached higher.

Found and traced the outer planes of her thigh, gripped her bottom again, but this time skin to skin. Felt her tighten her arms about his neck, rise in his hold, then settle more firmly in his hand. Tipping her hips toward him, wordlessly offering.

He inwardly swore, but it was far too late to rein in his raging need.

His questing fingers slid over the locked muscle of her thigh, and slid inward. Exploring, seeking. Searching.

Finding.

Her slick swollen flesh slid like silk against his fingertips. He stroked, caressed, circled her tight entrance. Pressed lightly in.

She kissed him ferociously, then arched in his arms, helplessly begging.

He slid one finger in, slowly, reached deep, then stroked, equally slowly, equally deeply.

And she burned.

She turned all but incandescent in his arms, her body surrendered, his to pleasure as he would-

Metal clanked.

He jerked back from the kiss. Turned his head and looked.

Sensed her do the same.

The noise had come from deeper in the house. The kitchen courtyard perhaps. Stationed as he was, Mullins wouldn’t have heard it.

Gareth all but swayed as he looked back at Emily. His breathing sounded ragged and rough in his ears. She was openly panting. His heart pounded under the influence of multiple imperatives. As he met her eyes, he saw that other tension that had relinquished its hold on them both over the last minutes return.

Infusing them both.

She blinked, then mouthed, “Who?”

He shook his head. Carefully, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, from beneath her skirts. Grasping her knee, he eased her leg down, held her until she nodded that she could stand on her own.

He leaned closer. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Drawing back, he reinforced the order with a glare.

She glared back, her expression grim. But her lips remained set in a thin line, and she stayed where she was as he slowly turned, then, soft footed, crept into the corridor leading further into the house.

Of course, she was behind him when he paused by the closed kitchen door.

Rustlings, bumps, the scrape of wood on tile, and the occasional clank came from beyond the ill-fitting door.

Then he heard the snuffling.

Tension draining, he reached out and pushed the door inward.

It swung wide, revealing the intruder.

The goat looked up, and baaed.

It took them half an hour to get the goat retethered and put the kichen to rights. And by then their heated moment had definitely cooled.

Emily was only too ready to light the flame again, but after trailing her back into the front salon, rather than follow her up the stairs-and possibly to her bed-Gareth paused by the front door.

Realizing he was no longer behind her, she turned. Looked at him across the dark expanse of the unlit room.

And suddenly wasn’t sure.

Suddenly realized that although she wanted him, despite all they’d shared, she had no real reason to think he wanted her.

He desired her. If she kissed him and offered, he would take-as her sisters had described it, he was like any man in that.

But did he really want her in the same way she wanted him?

What if he didn’t?

The thought left her feeling suddenly exposed. Suddenly vulnerable in a way she’d never been before.

And as the silence lengthened, as he made no move to walk forward and join her, but just looked at her through the dark…she had to wonder if she’d got it all horribly wrong.

At last he shifted. Nodded. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat. “Aren’t you coming up?” With me?

Gareth forced himself to shake his head. “I’ll relieve Mullins. We still need to keep watch.”

She hesitated for an instant longer, then inclined her head, turned, and slowly climbed the stairs.

He watched until she passed out of sight. Then he relaxed his hands from the fists they’d curled into and stared at the door, but made no move to open it.

After a long moment, he shook his head. He still felt as if someone had hit it. Hard.

Someone had. She had.

She’d scrambled his thoughts and connected with his lustful inner self-that self that wanted nothing more desperately than to have her beneath him, naked or not. She’d lured that more passionate primitive self out and set it-him-free.

But…

He’d been saved by that damned goat.

Even now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bless the animal or wring its neck.

In the deepening dark, the questions that now haunted him stood stark and clear in his undistracted mind. Did she truly want him, or had she been swept away by passion? By a need he still believed owed more to reaction than any true, unmanipulated emotion.

He wanted her-desperately, almost beyond thought-but he wanted her to want him for the same reason.

Simply because.

Because he was the man she truly wanted. Wanted at some fundamental, visceral level that wouldn’t be denied.

He wanted her to want him.

Him. For himself.

Not him because he was the one there and she needed to lie with a man, needed to come alive in a man’s arms to balance her brushes with death.

Not him in place of a fallen comrade.

And definitely not him just to fill the void, to be a husband to whom she could play wife.

None of those alternatives would do. Not for him.

Not for her.

They both deserved better.

His problem was, if it wasn’t with her, he couldn’t imagine his better would ever come to be.

Staring at the dark door was getting him nowhere. Heaving a sigh, he straightened his shoulders, opened the door, and went out to relieve Mullins, and to seek what solace he could in the quiet stillness of the night.