The Elusive Bride

Eleven

18th November, 1822

Morning

Lurking in my room in the guesthouse in Tunis

That afternoon, the entire party sat about the low table in the main salon, slouched among the cushions, confident that the guards stationed outside would alert them to any incursion, and celebrated Gareth’s and Bister’s success in hunting down the captain Laboule had recommended, and securing passage on his xebec to Marseilles.

They would leave the next day on the mid-morning tide.

They’d just drunk a toast in orange juice to the next leg of their journey, when a rap sounded on the courtyard gate.

A distinctly official-sounding rap.

Gareth rose, Mooktu beside him, as the gate opened to reveal the familiar figure of the captain of the guard. They’d learned he was the captain for this district, one that rarely saw dignitaries or palace-worthy residents. He was, he had assured them, grateful for the imposition of their presence-and its ramifications.

He smiled as he spotted Gareth in the open doorway of the salon.

Stepping into the courtyard, Gareth returned the smile, but his instincts were pricking.

“Major Hamilton.” The captain bowed. “I bring another invitation to you and your lady to dine at the palace this evening.”

“Thank you.” Gareth glanced around and saw that Emily had followed him to the doorway.

The captain had spoken loud enough for her to hear. Stepping out into the sunshine, she came to join them. As she neared, he read the question in her eyes, saw the slight shrug as she realized he could give only one answer.

Returning his attention to the captain, Gareth inclined his head. “We are honored.”

The captain beamed. “I will come for you as before, at the same time.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Emily smiled graciously. “We’ll be waiting.”

The captain bowed low and retreated. Once the gate had closed behind him, Gareth took Emily’s arm and turned her back to the house. “Any ideas?”

She grimaced. “All I can imagine is that the bey wants to take advantage of our presence to rehearse his courtiers and the begum in their European roles some more.”

Passing into the salon, she looked at Dorcas. “We’re to dine at the palace again-we’ll need to delve into my trunks for another gown.”

The captain led them to a different entrance again. Smaller, less grand, the doorway was tucked away down one side of the palace, and was reached through a heavily screened courtyard. The man waiting to receive them was larger, oddly flabby, his robes much less gaudy and gilded than the bey’s butler.

The man didn’t speak, merely bowed low and, after taking Emily’s cloak and handing it to an underling, gestured for them to follow him. As they were led down a series of corridors, Gareth noted that the décor was less ornate, less grand. Perhaps they were to dine with the bey en famille?

That notion strengthened when their guide halted and waved them into a relatively small but richly appointed salon giving onto a private courtyard. Following Emily in, Gareth saw the begum reclining amid the cushions set about a traditional low table, one just big enough for four.

Seeing them, the begum smiled. She inclined her head in response to Emily’s curtsy, but her eyes skated over his companion to fix on him. “Major and Majoress Hamilton, I am very glad you honor me with your presence.”

The purring tone, combined with the way the begum’s gaze rested so heavily, almost hungrily, on him, raised the hairs on Gareth’s nape.

Emily boldly walked forward, cutting off the begum’s view of Gareth. “I take it the bey will be joining us?”

She’d already noted that the table was set for three.

The begum fiddled with her rings. “My husband was called away unexpectedly-some problem to the south. I thought to surprise him by learning more of your ways.” She craned her neck to look around Emily, smiled and gestured to the places to either side of her. “Major, Majoress-please sit.”

The previous night’s dinner had been served at a European-style table with proper chairs. Emily regarded the piled cushions. She suspected the begum wasn’t interested in learning more about table manners. When Gareth’s hand touched her back, a subtle prompt, she stepped forward and sank down to the begum’s left.

Perching on the cushions in any manner that combined modesty and grace wasn’t easy. It took a few moments to rearrange her legs and skirts. She glanced at the begum to see if there was any trick to it, and very nearly gawped.

The bey’s wife had wriggled straighter, lithely sitting cross-legged amid the silk cushions, and had let the old gold silk shawl that had been draped over her shoulders fall, leaving her clad primarily in shimmering, translucent amber-bronze gauze.

Shocked, Emily looked-and detected a few inches of impenetrable bronze silk in strategic places. But really! The woman was all but bare!

The begum hadn’t noticed her reaction. She was smiling widely at Gareth, her gaze, her whole attention locked on him.

Emily half expected her to lick her lips.

She looked at Gareth. Once again in his uniform, he’d taken the third place at the table, on the begum’s right, settling cross-legged on the cushions. He was wearing one of his blandest expressions, but after all they’d been through, she’d grown adept at reading him. Tension sang in the line of his shoulders; every muscle was taut, ready to react. He was watching the begum much as he might a potentially dangerous animal he had to sit beside.

He was watching the begum’s eyes, apparently neither attracted nor interested in all else that was on show.

Emily felt a soupçon of relief. The begum was very beautiful, albeit in a sultry, rather predatory way.

Sensing her gaze, Gareth glanced fleetingly at Emily. Through the brief contact she sensed his unease. He was uncomfortable and wanted to be anywhere but there.

Recalling the purpose for which they’d ostensibly been invited, she cleared her throat, smiled somewhat condescendingly when the begum glanced her way, then leaned closer and confided, “I feel I should warn you, my dear begum, that the attire in which you are honoring us tonight would not do at any European court.”

The begum frowned, and glanced down at her translucent blouse. “These garments are considered entirely appropriate for a lady to wear to dine with guests in her husband’s house.”

“I daresy they are-here. But in Europe, appearing anywhere in such attire would cause a scandal, I do assure you. And, you will pardon me if I have this incorrect, but I assumed the bey’s reason for asking us to coach you and the others in European ways was to avoid any unnecessary incidents.”

The begum’s attention was now all Emily’s, but after a moment of frowning thought, the bey’s wife turned and appealed to Gareth. “Is it as your majoress says? That if I go clad like this”-she spread her diaphanously draped arms-“I will create a bad impression?”

Tight lipped, his eyes commendably locked on the begum’s face, Gareth nodded. “It would not be well received by society. People would disapprove, and the grandes dames would most likely”-he paused, then amended-“would absolutely not invite you to their select soirees.”

“Oh.” Arms lowering, the begum deflated. She looked back at Emily. “So.” Her eyes scanned Emily’s evening gown. “I must cover up like you?”

Emily glanced down at her pale amber silk gown with its scooped neckline and raised waist, both lightly trimmed with lace. The skirt sported a single lace flounce above the hem and a row of amber and silver buttons ran down the center front from neckline to hem. “In style, yes, but your gowns could have richer decoration.” She reached out and touched the fine gold-thread embroidery on the begum’s sleeve. “Like this. In Europe, status is denoted by quality of materials and richness of ornamentation, rather than by different styles.”

“I see.” The begum looked not so much thoughtful as calculating, but then the large butlerlike man appeared in the doorway. She glanced at him, then turned to smile at Gareth. “Our meal is now ready, so we will eat.” She looked back at the butler and issued a command in Arabic. With a deep bow, he withdrew.

A smile played about the begum’s lips. She turned to Gareth. “And then you may instruct me in what I most wish to know.”

Gareth exchanged a glance with Emily, and fervently prayed that gowns, bonnets, and social manners were all that was on the begum’s mind, and that the impression he was receiving from the woman’s glances and smiles was being scrambled in translation.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that was the case, but while the begum continued to believe he and Emily-his majoress-were married, he-they-should be safe.

The meal placed before them on intricately carved brass dishes owed nothing to European sensibilities. Luckily, he and Emily had been eating Arab fare for some time. They partook of the various dishes and numerous side dishes without hesitation. Unlike most English misses he’d encountered, Emily did not eat like a bird, and her tastes, he’d noted, were distinctly adventurous.

Soon after the meal began, Emily complimented the begum on her chef’s efforts, and from there neatly turned the conversation to the comments it was considered good taste to make over a hostess’s table.

The topic carried them through the many courses until the begum’s eunuch-Gareth had finally placed the oddness about the butlerlike individual-placed sweetmeats and jellied fruits on the table, poured thimblefuls of thick, rich coffee, then, leaving the ornate coffeepot on the table, bowed low and, at a word from the begum, withdrew.

Immediately the begum turned to Gareth, an anticipatory gleam lighting her eyes. “And now, Major, if you please, you will teach me all about dalliance. I have heard that the pastime is much indulged in at all the European courts.”

She leaned closer. Gareth had to fight not to lean back.

Her eyes locked on his, her voice once more lowering to a decadently sultry purr, the begum declared, “You will instruct me in how it is done.” Her gaze fell to his lips. The tip of her tongue appeared and slid slowly, languorously, over her lower lip. “You will demonstrate every little detail.”

She already had a good grasp of the basics. Gareth stopped the thought from converting into speech, but how was he to refuse without offending the begum-without landing him, and even more Emily, in hot Tunisian water?

Exceedingly hot given he couldn’t afford to risk asking any British official for help.

Eyes locked on the begum as she shifted still nearer, he wracked his brains for some way out. He didn’t dare look at Emily, look away from the danger.

The begum started to stretch upward, to tip her face invitingly to his.

He wanted to leap to his feet and walk away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. The offense would be too great. Desperately battling his instincts, he felt as if he’d been turned to stone.

“No!” The outraged injunction burst from Emily’s lips.

She’d been watching the begum in a sort of stupor, unable to credit that the woman would actually try to kiss Gareth in front of her-his majoress. Once the spell had been broken, she had no difficulty in continuing, “No, no, no!”

Reaching out, she caught the begum’s arm and bodily hauled the woman upright-away from Gareth and his lips.

At least his lips had been edging back, away from the begum’s, but what the devil was he thinking, to let her get so close?

Emily glared into the begum’s shocked face. “That is not the way it is done-not anywhere in Europe.”

The begum frowned-a frown that rapidly converted to a scowl. “I have heard it is common that married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands. And that the gentlemen may be married or not-that for them marriage says nothing. Is this not true?”

The words were a challenge, one Emily knew well enough to meet head-on. “Yes, but as in all things, as a foreigner you’ve missed the subtleties, the nuances.” She drew breath, shot a sharp glance at Gareth hoping he’d have the sense to remain silent, then locked her gaze once more with the begum’s. “Not all married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands, and not all married gentlemen indulge with ladies not their wives. Only a percentage, in some circles a very small percentage, of married people seek…er, entertainment with others not their spouses.”

The begum’s expression darkened, tending moody. She glanced at Gareth. “This is true?”

Before he could answer, Emily stated, “Yes, it’s true.” The instant the begum looked back at her, she continued, “And in your case, when attending a European court as the bey’s wife, you will need to maintain the strictest level of decorum, if on no other count than self-defense.”

Confusion, and a touch of concern, flared in the begum’s eyes.

Aha! Emily thought, and plowed on, “You will need to be on guard against any would-be seducers, for the only European gentlemen, married or not, who would approach the wife of a visiting potentate with a view to dalliance would have only one thing on their minds-either to discredit your husband by creating a scandal-you know how men are-or to learn more about your husband’s business through you.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “Or perhaps to blackmail you.”

She refocused on the begum. “Well, that’s more than one thing, but you can see the danger.”

Abruptly realizing her approach had been less than complimentary, she hurriedly added, “It would be totally different if you were there unofficially, not linked to your husband but just as yourself.” Pausing to draw breath, she added sincerely, “You are a very lovely woman, after all, and I’m sure you would find many gentlemen willing to dally with you, but”-she shook her head-“not this time. Not while you are traveling as the bey’s wife.”

The begum’s expression had grown increasingly despondent as Emily’s lecture had progressed. The silence lengthened as she stared at Emily, then she glanced at Gareth. “You-”

“Neither the major nor I dally with others.” Emily made the statement definite, definitive-it was true enough over recent times. She didn’t look at Gareth, but caught the begum’s eyes as she turned back to her. “I should perhaps add that in European cultures it is customary for the gentleman to make the first approach.”

“But…” The begum looked thoroughly disgusted. “What use is that? One might be waiting forever.”

“Indeed.” Emily managed not to glare at Gareth as she said it. “However, now we’ve told you-warned you-about dalliance in our societies, I believe it’s getting late, and we should thank you for your hospitality and return to our guesthouse.” She shifted to unwind her legs from their cramped position.

The begum made a distinctly unladylike sound. “So,” she grumped, “although I will walk in your ballrooms and drawing rooms, I will still be as cloistered as I am here at home.” She looked up as Emily managed to get to her feet. The begum narrowed her eyes, then pointed at Emily. “Aha! Now I understand the reason for your gowns-why you dress so, all covered up, when you go into your society. Why outside your home, you dress like a nun, rather than a wife.”

Emily bit back the information that they dressed in the same manner in the home as out of it.

With fluid grace, the begum rose in all her barely clad beauty. She waved her hands. “Let me see this gown. I have not one like it.”

Emily slowly pirouetted. She glanced at Gareth as she did. He’d risen as she had, but his face was, even to her tutored eyes, an impenetrable mask. She had no clue what he was thinking.

The begum frowned, then met Emily’s eyes as she faced her once more. “So I will need to get my seamstresses to make up gowns like this, or my husband will be displeased and made ashamed when we reach the European courts?”

Emily hesitated, misliking the calculating gleam in the begum’s dark eyes, but with no alternative, she nodded.

The begum smiled. “In that case, Majoress Hamilton, you will be doing me a great service if you will exchange gowns with me. We are much of a height and size-as a great favor to me, you will swap gowns, will you not?”

Emily tried not to look at the diaphanous creation the begum was draped in. Alongside the calculation, there was something else in the begum’s eyes-a need to take something from this meeting. Something positive she could show others…Emily had heard that the begum lived in the harem, that she was the first wife, true, but just the first among many…

Emily nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, Gareth followed Emily through the gate into the courtyard of their guesthouse. With a brusque nod, he farewelled the captain, pushed the gate shut, and latched it.

Striding after Emily as she crossed to the salon door, he picked out Mooktu in the shadows, raised a hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t slow. Not knowing how long they would be at the palace, the others had divided the watches for tonight between them. He didn’t need to concern himself with that tonight-besides, thanks to Emily, they now had the begum, traditionally the city’s ruler in her husband’s absence, firmly on their side.

Emily’s cloak fluttered as she gathered it about her and climbed the shallow steps into the salon. Embroidered silk ankle cuffs and tassels peeked from beneath the cloak, and an ankle chain glinted in the moonlight, before she released the cloak and the gloom within swallowed her.

Every muscle locked tight, Gareth grimly followed. He’d never been so grateful for a lady’s cloak in all his life. While Emily and the begum had retired to swap clothes, foreseeing the result and the danger therein, he’d hunted up the eunuch and asked for the cloak, left at the too-distant entrance, to be fetched.

Luckily the eunuch had returned with the cloak before Emily had reappeared. When she’d finally followed the begum, rendered reasonably presentable by Emily’s gown, into the room, he’d sucked in a breath, held it, and tried not to react. At all.

A superhuman feat, one he hadn’t achieved.

But Emily’s blushes had abruptly focused him on something other than his own pain. He’d shaken out the cloak and held it up. She’d all but dashed across the room, anklets tinkling, to take refuge beneath the soft woolen folds.

Once covered, her chin had risen; her confidence had returned. She’d taken her leave of the begum with genuine smiles and courtesy all around.

The subject of gowns apparently united all women.

Still holding the cloak about her, Emily started up the guesthouse stairs. She glanced back as he stepped onto the lowest tread, smiled fleetingly in the moonlight. “That ended a great deal better than I thought it would.”

No thanks to him. Gareth’s jaw tightened. A chaos of roiling emotions condensed into a hot knot inside him, then rose slowly, inexorably, up his throat. “I’ll buy you another gown.”

His tone was angry, irritated-frustrated.

Stepping into the upper corridor, Emily glanced back. “Don’t be nonsensical.” She kept her voice down in deference to the others, who would by now be asleep. She continued along the narrow corridor. “It was just a gown. I have more-more than enough.”

“Nevertheless, when we reach England I’ll arrange to replace it.”

Reaching her door, she halted and swung to face him. Even through the dimness, she could see his stubbornness in the set of his jaw, could sense the…was it disapproval? radiating from him as he halted before her. Eyes narrowing, she tipped up her chin. “I did what was necessary to get us out of there without causing ructions-ructions we can’t afford.”

A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. “If you’d just left it to me-”

“If I’d left it to you that woman would have-” Realizing her voice was rising commensurate with her temper, she uttered a muted sound of frustration, flung open her door, grabbed his jacket front in one fist and jerked, then towed him into the privacy of her room.

She couldn’t have moved him if he hadn’t obliged, but presumably he was as keen as she to continue their discussion. The walls and door were sturdy enough to permit them to indulge in the “discussion” bubbling through her. How dare he not appreciate her saving him from a fate worse than who-knew-what at the hands, and various other parts, of the begum?

Releasing him, she swung to face him, all but nose to nose in the bright moonlight pouring through the open shutters. Her temper was well flown; belligerence had taken hold.

He’d turned to send the door swinging shut. As he turned back to her, she stretched up on her toes and locked her eyes on his. “Listen, you-I got us out of there tonight without losing anything vital-more, while keeping the begum’s favor. What fault can you possibly find in that?”

His eyes, dark and narrowed, locked on hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“By whose decree?”

“Mine. It’s the way things are-everyone knows that.”

He was serious, she could see it in his face, but she wasn’t about to back down. She wanted to forge a lifelong partnership with him, and she intended to start as she meant to go on. Folding her arms, catching her cloak in them to hold it in place, she kept her eyes on his. “Regardless of any and all accepted practice, the only way we’re going to survive this-your mission and this unexpected joint journey-is to work together and protect each other. Tonight I was better placed to deal with the begum than you, so I did, and we walked away unscathed.” Eyes narrowing, she gruffly stated, “You should be grateful.”

Her tone gave Gareth pause. There was a hint of upset, of being upset because he wasn’t applauding her actions, her quick thinking in rescuing them. He let his mind skate back, reliving the moments…his too-intense reactions flared anew and crashed through him again. His face hardened to stone. “Regardless-don’t ever do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Put yourself between me and danger.” When she frowned, not understanding, he gritted his teeth and ground out, “When we first walked into the begum’s presence, you stepped between her and me. Later, you kept deflecting her attention from me to you.”

“I was protecting you!”

“I know. But-again-it’s my job to protect you.”

“Again, I wasn’t under threat. You were!”

His jaw was going to crack. “Be that as it may-”

“Arrgh!” She flung up her hands. Her cloak slid from her shoulders. “You ungrateful man!”

With a soft thump, her cloak hit the floor.

She stood in the moonlight shafting through the open window, clad in gauze so fine he could see every curve lovingly outlined by the moonlight.

Abruptly she stepped close, face tilted to his, glaring at him from mere inches away. “Or did you want to lie with her?”

“Of course not…” His words faded along with the ferocious scowl he’d intended to reinforce them. Beyond his control, his gaze had lowered, locking on her body, on the curves and mounds and tempting hollows imperfectly concealed-tantalizing revealed-by embroidered gossamer silk.

His mouth watered. His fingers curled.

His face, his features, had blanked. He couldn’t have summoned an expression to save himself.

When the begum had worn the outfit, he hadn’t had a problem. After the first glance, he’d felt voyeuristic and uncomfortable, and had had no difficulty averting his eyes.

But Emily in gossamer silk, Emily’s body…

“The only woman I want to share a bed with-”

He stopped, shocked. He’d said that aloud.

And even he could hear the lust thickening his voice.

His gaze remained locked on the pale, subtle curves of her breasts.

The silence stretched.

He had to think, but couldn’t. Lust had suborned his brain.

“Yes?” A soft, expectant-hopeful-prompt.

He dragged in a tight breath, looked up, met her eyes-saw in the mossy hazel understanding and…

Enough blatant encouragement to knock his defenses flat.

He swore, and reached for her, hauled her to him.

Bent his head, crushed her lips beneath his-and kissed her with all the pent-up fury, frustration, and sheer need inside him.

She grabbed his head and kissed him back, equally fierily, equally hungrily.

The clash of emotions made his head spin. Transmuted anger and frustration to potent passion and powerful, spiraling desire in one short heartbeat.

Made him achingly hard, every muscle turned to steel.

Releasing her arms, he set his hands deliberately to her silk-clad body, and felt his pulse leap.

He closed his hands about her waist, and sensed her heart thud.

He’d been furious not just because she’d put herself in danger, but because he would have been helpless to protect her had things gone badly. Yet he’d had to let her handle it-he hadn’t known how to, so he’d had to sit and keep silent, and let her risk…

Angling his head, he sank into her mouth, ravaged, plundered.

The countering pressure of her lips, the evocative taste of her, the hunger in the passion that rose to meet his, reassured him as nothing else could.

She’d pulled it off, and they were safe. Alive.

And both of them now wanted, each of them needed…

The other.

The rational remnant of his brain quibbled that this was a typical reaction to triumphing over danger. He shouldn’t take advantage-

He shut out that chiding voice. He didn’t understand her motives, but he couldn’t, wasn’t strong enough to, deny her. Or himself. To hold back from what they both so openly, and blatantly desperately, wanted.

Needed.

Had to have.

He flexed his fingers, felt silk shift, sliding against skin equally smooth. Beneath his palms, the material had heated. He let his hands slide, glide over her back, felt the gossamer silk shift over silken skin in evocative, provocative temptation.

Spreading his hands over the long supple planes, he pulled her to him. Stepped into her as he did.

Gathered her-all warm womanly curves encased in featherlight silk-against him, locking her to him.

And she came.

Eagerly, wantonly, Emily pushed her arms up, stretched up on her toes the better to meet his lips, the better to return the increasingly fiery kiss. Winding her arms about his neck, with an abandon born of absolute certainty, she plastered herself to him.

She-her senses-leapt, then rejoiced as his arms locked and tightened, steel bands trapping her against his hard length. Obeying the dictates of her racing heart, she sank into him.

Gave herself up to the intoxicating heat, to the swirl of her senses, the giddy thud of her pulse.

Wanted-she wanted.

Even as, high on her toes, leaning into him she yielded her mouth and knowingly taunted him to take, she desperately wanted.

More.

All.

Now.

Here in this room, bathed in moonlight, she wanted him with a certainty that blazed through her veins.

An absolute longing, one she’d never felt before, one far too vibrant, too acute to be questioned.

Her need simply was, just as she was his.

Just as he was hers.

Nothing else mattered. Nothing else held the power to break the compulsion-one she wholeheartedly embraced.

His hands slid, palms burning, over the sensitive skin of her back, the silk a tantalizing, senses-teasing barrier. It whispered of sultry nights, promised heated delights as it shifted over her skin, caressing not just where his hands pressed, but elsewhere, further, sending prickling awareness washing over her.

Sending heat sinking into her. He angled his head and plundered her mouth anew, reclaiming her attention, his tongue sliding heavily over and along hers as, with a blatancy she found impossibly arousing, he feasted.

Hot, heavy, his hands traced her hips, slid down, around, gripped.

He lifted her against him, molded her hips to his. The insubstantial silk did nothing to mute the thrilling male hardness of him, the solid rod of his erection that pressed through his breeches to impress itself against the taut softness of her belly.

With reined deliberation, he shifted against her, an evocative, provocative thrusting that made her fingers curl.

Heat streaked through her, an eruption of sweet warmth that spread beneath her skin, then slid sinuously down to pool low.

To swell. And throb.

On a gasp she broke from the kiss, desperate to breathe, and caught a glimpse of his face, of the dark fire in his eyes.

Her hands had found his hair, her fingers tangling in the soft locks. Forcing her heavy, passion-weighted lids wider, she stared, oddly aware of her lips hot and swollen, slicked from their kiss, of her harried breathing, of the tightness of her chest.

Of the giddiness of her senses, the yearning in her blood.

Of the need that beat an irresistible tattoo in her veins.

Her eyes searched his, and she saw in the dark depths the heat ease back a notch. Saw rationality and a stubborn, bone-deep honor fight to rise above the heated compulsion, to transcend it and reclaim him.

Yet she stood on the brink. Teetering. So aware…

Of the heat that rose beneath every inch of her skin. That made itself known in the throb of her lips, and even more insistently in the throb of the soft flesh between her thighs.

For the first time she knew, felt, fully experienced the telltale greedy fire that flooded her and made her yearn. That made her body soften, melt. Made it long for a completion she’d never known with a violence that made her ache.

She caught and held his gaze. “Don’t. Stop.” Her tone would have done the begum proud-command, demand, wrapped in sultry, lustful, open greed.

The heat in his eyes flared anew. His chest swelled as he fought-the damned man fought!-to contain it. To suppress it.

But he didn’t succeed.

Every muscle in his large, hard body grew hotter, harder. Forged steel, tempered and scalding, powerful and unyielding.

But if she wanted him tonight, she would have to fight, too.

Fight him-his too-noble nature.

Eyes locked on his, she drew breath-and felt the power within her rise. Sensed, felt, that intangible fire come to her call, felt it well and swell and rise about them.

She didn’t need to think, to look, to wonder. Desire and passion, lust and need-all were there in the heated compulsion that all but crackled between them, around them.

“I want this.”

He still held her against him. Deliberately, boldly, she pressed closer still.

Felt him react, helpless to resist.

Felt the fire between them surge.

Stretching up, she lifted her face and breathed against his lips, “I want you.” Eyes flicking up, at close quarters she held his gaze. “I need you inside me.”

That and only that would quench the fire they’d lit. With achingly sharp clarity she knew that, and only that, would ease the escalating ache, would feed her hunger and satisfy her craving.

That that was what she needed to realize her dreams.

And that was what he-stubborn man-needed, too.

His hands hadn’t eased their grip. The arms locked about her hadn’t loosened.

She could sense the battle raging within him. He was still fighting-but he wasn’t winning.

Inwardly smiling, she drew her hands from his hair, framed his face, held it steady as she stretched the last inch, and kissed him.

Voraciously, hungrily, demandingly.

She poured everything, every ounce of temptation, of enticement, of promise, into that kiss.

She held nothing back. She wanted him to stop thinking, desperately wanted him to cease being noble and take her to her bed.

She wanted him. Wanted this.

All. Now. Here.

Gareth heard her message loud and clear. He knew what he was doing, but he wasn’t at all sure she did. Yet what could he do?

Resistance was futile, breaking from her impossible. His arms, his hands, his body, simply would not let her go. Not now, not after she’d made her wishes so abundantly plain.

I want you. I need you inside me.

What man could refuse such a plea?

Certainly not him. Not given it was her.

He wasn’t even sure when he made up his mind-when exactly he surrendered.

Only knew that he had to be where she wanted, that he needed to be sunk deep within her as much as she needed him there.

That need, at least, was singularly clear, as genuine as the clawing demon that was eating him from inside out.

So he broke from the kiss that had become a ravenous, incandescent exchange, swept her up in his arms, and strode to the bed.

Her eyes glittered in the moonlight, her lips parting in a fleeting, satisfied smile as he laid her down.

Resisting the urge to simply follow her down, cover her, rip the flimsy silk away and sheath himself in her, resisting the driving urgency that already pounded through him, he forced himself to straighten and step back from her grasping hands. Standing, he peeled off his coat.

She watched, smiled-another of her soft, secretive, smug smiles of feminine triumph-then sat up, reaching behind her for the buttons of the barely there silk blouse that shimmered over her skin.

“No.”

Surprised by his guttural decree, she glanced up.

“Leave it on-I want to peel it from you.” Stripping off his cravat, he gestured with his chin. “Lie back and let me look at you.”

Let me plan.

Emily met his dark gaze, hesitated as something within her clenched, a primitive reaction to the clear promise skating beneath his words. But…lips lightly curving, she tipped her head his way, and slowly, langorously, relaxed back against the pillows, noting the way his gaze hungrily traveled from her shoulder, to breast, to hip, to thigh as she did.

Her heart was thudding, steady and sure. There was no chance of her cooling, not with his eyes on her.

Not with him swiftly stripping, garment by garment revealing more of the fascinating musculature of his chest and abdomen. Tossing aside his shirt, belt already gone, he unbuttoned the flap of his breeches as he turned and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, giving her the chance to study his back, the long, defined muscles bracketing his spine, the wide heaviness of his shoulders.

Mouth watering, unable to stop herself, she shifted, reached out and touched. He jerked, flung her a dark look, but said nothing. Let her stroke, let her test the incredible resilience of his skin and the steely muscles beneath.

Let her be seduced anew by his heat. He was burning.

One boot hit the floor. Seconds later its mate joined it.

She drew back her hand. Breath bated, mouth abruptly drying, she waited for him to stand and turn.

He didn’t. He rose up, slid his trousers past his hips and sat again to pull them free of his long legs.

She barely had time to register the maneuver before his trousers hit the floor and he turned, and was on her.

Sunk in the bed alongside, propped on one arm, he loomed over her.

She knew why he’d done it. He was now too close for her to see anything beyond the wide expanse of his chest. Naked and delectable though that was, she’d had further expectations.

Eyes narrowing, she opened her mouth to inform him she had three married sisters-

He kissed her. Filled her mouth with the potent taste of him, with power, passion, and promise.

Swept her away-effortlessly-on a tide of rising need, driven by an escalating, clawing sense of urgency.

His hand closed, hard, over one silk-clad breast. Possessively weighed, caressed. His thumb found her nipple and circled, stroked, teased…until she gasped through the kiss, body arching, pressing her flesh more firmly into his demanding hand.

That seemed all the encouragement he needed.

His hand roved her body, heavy, male, flagrantly demanding and commanding, drawing responses from her she’d never known she’d had it in her to give.

She’d thought she’d been heated before.

Now she burned.

Then he broke from the kiss, slid down and bent his head, licked, laved. Silk clung to her breast, to her tightly furled nipple. He drew back enough to see, then bent his head once more-and drew the turgid bud into his mouth.

And suckled.

She shrieked, fought to mute the sound. Fought to ride the wave of sensation he sent crashing through her. He continued to feast, until she was breathless, until she shifted and moaned.

Then his hand slid between her thighs and one blunt fingertip stroked her through the sodden silk covering her there.

She sobbed, clutched his head, holding him to her as she tilted her hips, wordlessly begging.

The blunt fingertip found her entrance and pressed in, just a little, the wet silk an excruciatingly frustrating barrier preventing real touch, deeper penetration.

She wanted…she knew more than enough to know exactly what she wanted.

Freeing one hand from the tangle of his dark hair, she reached down…and found him. Hotter than flesh should be, velvet over steel. Her fingertips reached just far enough to touch, to reverently trace the broad head.

He’d stilled the instant she’d made contact. Stretching, she reached further, curled her fingers and lightly stroked upward.

He shuddered, softly swore, his breath an exhalation washing over her tortured nipple.

Then he moved.

She just managed to stifle a shriek as he rolled, taking her with him so she landed atop him in a flurry of silk. One large hand palmed her head and he dragged it down, dragged her down into a kiss so rapaciously possessive it literally curled her toes.

His other hand was busy. She only realized when the night air coolly caressed her naked back, then the gauzy blouse parted at the back. His hands helped it slide down her shoulders. She lifted one hand and forearm, then the other, stripped the garment off and flung it away, uncaring of where it landed.

Caring much more about being skin to skin with him, her breasts, full and achingly swollen, brushing, then pressing against the heavy muscles of his chest, her tight nipples tantalizingly abraded by the crisp black hair that adorned it.

She’d barely absorbed that sensation when she felt the tug as the silk harem pants slid down and over her hips.

Expectation leapt; anticipation skittered through her veins.

Nerves tensed, alive to every touch. Waiting as he drew the silk steadily lower, so it no longer screened her belly from his. She held her breath as he shifted, lifting her as he drew the garment down her thighs.

Her mind racing ahead in giddy delight, she remembered the ankle cuffs.

Just as he rolled again, pinning her beneath him.

Hands clutching his arms, she gasped at the sensation of being surrounded, trapped, by hot, hard male, then he kissed her-a forceful, demanding, conquerorlike claiming that left her reeling.

Gareth seized the moment to pull back from her and deal with the cuffs at her ankles, then strip the flimsy harem pants away.

He gave himself only one brief instant to drink in the sight of her lying rumpled and aroused, her rich brown hair disarranged and flung across the pillows, her lids at half mast, her lips swollen and sheening, her body lush and ripe-and all his.

Then he stretched over her and let his body down on hers. Thrilled to the sensation of firm curves, supple skin, feminine softness cushioning him, the demon within all but slavering with delight.

Small hands braced on his chest. He found her eyes with his as she pressed, wasn’t entirely surprised when she protested, albeit weakly, “I want to see you.”

“Not now.” The reply was a categorical growl. He didn’t think he could stand the torment-not without reacting. Not while maintaining the control necessary to go slowly. He’d stake his life she was a virgin, so slowly was mandatory. Not that he’d had any experience in that precise arena-under his code virgins were not fair game-but so he’d always heard.

Despite her state, her jaw started to firm.

“Later.” Inspired, he added, “Next time.” Perhaps.

He didn’t wait to see if she agreed, but bent his head and kissed her again.

The heat between them hadn’t waned in the least-now it leapt to life, flames roaring, then escalating rapidly as hands touched and found nothing but hot dewed skin, as he shifted over her, nudging her thighs apart, as she parted them willingly and he settled between.

As she wriggled, accommodating him, then tipping her hips…

He sank into her, had pressed in the first inch even before he’d meant to.

And then there was no holding back.

She was tight. Tight enough to make him shudder. To back the breath up in his chest as he pressed in, and on. As inch by inch he filled her, and her sheath stretched to take him in.

And sure enough, the barrier was there. Every muscle clenched, locked tight under absolute control, he withdrew almost to her entrance, felt her hands clutch frantically, trying to tug him back.

He flexed his spine and thrust powerfully in, forging past the fine barrier to seat himself fully within her, to press deep, to the hilt.

And stop. Holding himself steady, every sense locked on her.

Beneath him, held trapped in the kiss, she’d made not a sound, but she’d frozen.

An instinctive reaction against a sharp pain. He waited; lips on hers, he prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly, that she-

He broke off the thought as she eased beneath him. As gradually, bit by bit, the pain-induced tension fell from her.

Beneath it, supplanting it, he sensed something in her that for all his experience he’d never previously encountered. It took him a moment to find its name.

Fascination.

She was utterly enthralled. Not just with his body, but with the sensation of their joining, of him being sunk so deeply within her.

He kissed her gently, and moved, drawing back slowly, then thrusting in again, and sensed her excitement, that fascination, flare.

Instinct, and the dance, took over.

Emily gave herself up to it, up to him, to the swirling exhilaration of their joining, wholly and completely embracing the act. Her mind couldn’t contain her joy, her delight, the inexpressible relief that as last she was here, with him, and it was all so much better than she’d ever imagined, than her sisters had ever been able to describe.

She reveled, and urged him on. Did all and everything she could to meet him, match him, and learn what pleased him, to grasp every chance to share the abundant pleasure he was lavishing on her, and return it.

Loving was a sharing-she knew that to her bones. She threw herself into it, searching for ways to use her body to pleasure him just as he was using his to pleasure her.

And if they wrestled, she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did. Their lips remained fused, but in the brief moments they parted she delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency that so patently gripped him, and her, and made them strive, body to body, heart to thudding heart.

And then they would dive back-into the kiss, into the flames, into the rising indescribable heat. Even if this was her first time, she was eager to make it count, to welcome the glory, make it hers and search for more…

Until it sizzled in her veins, streaking through her, until it whipped the flames racing over her skin to a conflagration. One that sank deep, then coalesced, that drew in and tightened, inexorably, unrelentingly focusing…

He groaned through the kiss and thrust hard and deep, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. Shattered her, shards of pleasure so sharp they glittered flying down every nerve, every vein.

Until she flew, free of the earth, wholly taken by the glory.

For two heartbeats, Gareth savored her release, teeth gritted held desperately on, but the ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, milked him, and drew him irresistibly on.

Release swept him, deeper than any he’d ever known.

Surrendering, letting his shuddering body have its way, he let go, and followed her into ecstasy.

Bliss. Emily decided there was no other word to describe the sensation.

Lying on her back in her rumpled bed, Gareth a hot heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside her, she stared at the ceiling, a smile on her face, an unusual sense of peace in her heart.

So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.

Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.

He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.

Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.

Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.

She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”

He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”

She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort-no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

If he truly loved her.

For her, nothing else would do.

Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?

To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her-he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay-and now she’d given herself to him-all but seduced him-that, to his mind, settled that.

Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

Why perhaps?

His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”-she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state-“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes-that’s how it should feel.”

And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed-a quiet vow in the fading moonlight-that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

Not ever.