The Elusive Bride

Thirteen

25th November, 1822

Evening

A comfortable room in a tiny inn in Marseilles

The next morning, garbed as any young Frenchwoman with her cloak over her shoulders, Emily walked the short distance to the town market.

Gareth strode by her side, his expression impassive, his eyes constantly scanning. He didn’t trust anyone else with her safety, an irritating development, but one he wasn’t in any mood to resist.

If he wasn’t by her side, he’d be distracted, unable to make sound decisions, so there wasn’t any point fighting the now insistent compulsion.

Dorcas followed behind them, a basket over her arm, Mullins by her side. Recalling what he’d noticed on the xebec’s deck during the battle, Gareth suspected there was a budding romance there. Regardless, he was glad of Mullins’s company, and Bister was ambling around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind in his usual role of scout.

They had no difficulty finding the market-they followed the noise and the smells. Some were savory, others less so, but once they reached the square and merged into the loud, constantly shifting crowd, all individual aromas melted into the rich potpourri of the market.

Although they didn’t need food in the general sense, they’d agreed that once on the road they wouldn’t stop for lunch, but would eat on the run as it were. After circling the stalls selling fresh fruit, Emily bought a sack of crisp apples, a selection of other fruits and vegetables that would keep, and handfuls of various nuts in their shells.

While Dorcas tucked the packages into her basket, Emily turned to him. “Can you see where the stalls selling cured meats and cheeses are?”

Raising his head, he looked over the crowd, saw those stalls along a distant wall. He also saw two cultists strolling down the aisle toward them. The pair were still some way ahead, but they weren’t shopping.

He’d taken Emily’s arm before he’d thought. Bending close, he spoke quietly as he turned her. “Cultists ahead-we’ll backtrack, then circle around. The stalls you want are along the far wall.”

She met his eyes, nodded, then calmly gathered Dorcas and Mullins as they passed. In good order they retreated out of the cultists’ path.

While escorting Emily to the distant stalls, he kept an eye on the pair, and sent Bister scouting further to see if there were any others in the market.

Emily was negotiating the price of two nice hams when Bister returned.

“Just those two.” He frowned. “You’d think they’d leave off their turbans and those black scarves, but no.” He shrugged. “Just as well for us, I suppose.”

Gareth returned a noncommittal grunt. If the cultists left off their insignia, given the number of foreigners from every land under the sun to be found in Marseilles, he and the others would be in very big trouble. Not for the first time, he gave thanks for the cultists’ arrogance.

They spent another half hour in the crowded market, every minute on high alert. By the time they quit the main square, loaded with the hams, blocks of hard cheese, and the fruits and vegetables, and headed via a series of narrow streets back to their inn, Emily felt exhausted, emotionally wrung out.

She felt like a piano wire that had been strung too tight for too long-she wanted nothing more than to snap and sag.

To find relief…release.

Much like another sort of tension, and the blissful release she’d discovered it could lead to.

She slanted a glance at Gareth, striding close beside her. Although he was looking ahead, alert and focused, she was sure that if she took one step in the wrong direction, away from him, his entire attention would snap back to her. If she walked into a room he was in, he glanced at her immediately. Every time she left him, she felt his gaze on her back until she’d passed out of his sight.

If she was in his presence, even if he wasn’t looking at her, he knew exactly where she was.

The knowledge buoyed her, and comforted, too. If she had to walk through ever-present danger, having a possessive predator at her side was no bad thing.

But there was a counterside to that. Said ever-present danger was a very big hurdle in her path. While he remained focused on the enemy, and even more on protecting her, the chances of him initiating any intimate interlude were, she estimated, effectively nil.

Being intimate was a time when his guard was down. He wouldn’t suggest it.

He’d warned that the danger-and therefore the tension-was only going to escalate, at least until they reached England, and probably beyond that. If they were to share any more interludes between now and the end of his mission, she would have to instigate them.

But should she?

She glanced at him as they turned into the street in which their inn stood. She detected no lessening in the battle-ready tension that held him, no easing of his all-but-constant surveillance of their surroundings.

Should she distract him-not now, but tonight?

Or should she acquiesce to what she knew would be his choice, and wait until they reached England and his mission was complete before again addressing their putative relationship?

If she waited, social mores would come to his aid. Once at home, it would be difficult for her to refuse his suit, even to delay, if he pressed. She was fairly certain he would. As matters stood, their marriage was no longer in question-it was the nature of said marriage they had yet to resolve.

She glanced at him again-and caught him watching her, rather speculatively, but he immediately looked away.

Was he thinking, imagining, considering, as she was?

She couldn’t imagine the prospect of another interlude hadn’t occurred to him, yet regardless of the prompting of his instincts, she would wager her life he wouldn’t come to her bed. Not unless…

Unless she issued an invitation he couldn’t-wasn’t strong enough to-resist.

The notion tantalized her adventurous side.

So…should she use, indeed capitalize on, the tension, the danger, the stress of the journey to help press her cause? To make it harder for him to pretend that his interest in her was honor driven and nothing else? Or should she-as she was sure he would-play safe?

Reaching the inn, he opened the front door and held it for her. Passing in front of him, she looked into his face.

He was looking down the street.

Stifling a humph, she went inside.

26th November, 1822

Early evening

My room in the inn at Marseilles

By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission-on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.

He knew what he needed-two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.

He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way-for the whole journey from south to north coast-and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.

But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.

He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair-and raised his eyes to hers.

She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.

Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”

He frowned, but before he could reply she leaned closer, laying one hand atop his where his rested on the table. He quashed an impulse to turn that hand and close it about her slim fingers.

“No.” Her gaze slid past him, lingered for an instant, then returned to his face. “I was thinking, for instance, of this inn. It doesn’t have carriages for hire-well, nothing bigger than a gig-but it’s family run. And families have cousins, and uncles, and know other connections in the same business.”

She again looked past him. He realized she was looking at the innkeeper further down the room.

“Why not ask our host?” She looked back and met his eyes. “We’ve been here two days, and they’ve been very good-interested in a nice way, not pushy, and Arnia and Dorcas get on well with the innwife. She helped with a tisane for Jimmy’s headache.” Enthusiasm infused her expression. “It won’t hurt to ask.”

Looking into her face, he tried to remember caution. “We’ll have to take them into our confidence-what if, once we do, they think it too dangerous for us to remain here?”

“They won’t turn us out-not if we explain properly.” It was she who squeezed his fingers. “Come on-let’s try.”

He hesitated for a moment more, then returned the pressure of her fingers, reluctantly released her hand, and rose.

They’d dined relatively late, and the other diners-locals for the most part-had already left. Only three men remained, sharing a jug of wine. The innkeeper was amenable to joining Gareth and Emily at a small table in one corner. At Emily’s suggestion, he summoned his wife to join them. She came, curiosity in her eyes.

Gareth commenced by explaining he and most of their party were English, which came as no surprise, yet with Napoleon’s defeat only seven years past there were formalities to observe. Luckily, most Frenchmen, especially those in trade, had reverted to treating the English with their customary, occasionally arrogant, tolerance. Nevertheless, Gareth omitted to mention his part in the earlier war, saying only that he’d been serving in India until recently, and was presently on a mission coinciding with his return to England.

In the sparsest of terms, he outlined their journey, and explained the existence and the intent of the cultists.

Eyes wide, the innwife asked about the cult. Leaning forward, Emily replied. Before Gareth could reassert control, she’d taken over relating their tale.

Her descriptions were more colorful, her answers more direct, and rather more sensational than his. He wasn’t at all comfortable with her tack, let alone her openness, but one glance at the innkeeper’s and innwife’s faces and he shut his lips, and let Emily hold the stage.

And it was a performance. She seemed to know just what to say, and how to respond to the innkeeper’s many questions. It wasn’t just what she said, but how she said it; her attitude seeded theirs.

All he was required to do was sit back, look suitably serious and sober, and offer corroborative nods and words when appealed to.

By the time Emily reached the point of explaining their requirements, the innkeeper and his wife were their devoted supporters. Their party may be English, but the cult was heathen, and violent and vicious. The innkeeper was in no doubt as to where his duty lay.

Gareth had considered Emily’s notion that the innkeeper’s family connections would be sufficient to get them what they needed a long shot, but she’d been right. Spurred by their story-indeed, clearly thrilled to have been trusted and asked-the innkeeper summoned his sons and dispatched them hither and yon.

An hour later, numerous uncles and cousins had gathered, and the noise in the now otherwise empty front room had escalated as people exclaimed and shouted suggestions. Gareth had never seen the like before, but within a surprisingly short time, two fast traveling carriages had been organized, along with two experienced drivers who were very willing to offer their services in defeating the so-alien cult.

He shook hands with the two grizzled war veterans who had volunteered to take the reins and drive them to the north coast with all possible speed. “Thank you.” They’d discussed and settled on their payment. “There’ll be a bonus at the end, too.”

“Heh!” one said, making a very gallic gesture. “The money is one thing, but to be part of an action against a worthy enemy again-that is a better incentive.”

The other nodded emphatically. “But yes. Life has grown boring, you understand. A little excitement-this is what we seek.”

With the good wishes and enthusiastic support of the innkeeper’s family, their departure was organized for the day after the next.

“So you will have only tomorrow to get ready,” the innwife yelled. She flung out her arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “No matter-we will help.”

The gathering turned into something of a family occasion. Gareth took his lead from Emily, and they remained for some time, chatting with those who had come at the innkeeper’s summons to so readily offer them aid.

He was still somewhat stunned that they had, but they were sincere in wanting to assist him and their group against the cultists, and he was equally sincere in his gratefulness.

Eventually Emily bade the company good night and retired. Shortly afterward, he did the same, climbing the stairs to his room. The din from downstairs faded as he closed the door. Crossing to the small side table, he lit the lamp upon it, then quietly, still pondering the garrulous warmth of those downstairs, he undressed.

He’d doused the lamp and was lying on his back, stretched naked beneath the covers, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the dim ceiling, when the handle of his door turned.

He came instantly alert, but in the same instant, somehow, he knew.

Sure enough, the door opened and Emily, clad in white nightgown and cloak, whisked through, whirling to shut the door quietly behind her before turning to peer at the bed.

The room was cloaked in shadows, but she saw him, and relaxed.

Even more alert, and distinctly intrigued, he watched as she clearly debated, then elected to walk to the side of the bed further from the door.

Muscles all but imperceptibly tightening, he waited, unmoving and silent, to see what she would do, say.

She halted when she was close enough to meet his eyes. She narrowed hers fractionally in warning. “Don’t say a word.”

He wondered why she’d thought he would argue.

Letting her cloak fall, she reached for the covers, and slipped into the bed. He shifted to give her room. His greater weight bowed the bed, and with a muffled squeak, she rolled into him.

Just as he lowered his arms and closed them around her, gathered her close. Bending his head, he nuzzled her hair, breathing deep and feeling the essence that was her sink to his very bones. He found her ear with his lips, lightly traced the outer whorl. Sensed her shiver. “What now?” he breathed.

She dragged in a breath. “Now…” She lifted her head, looked into his face, one small hand rising to frame his jaw. Then she levered up on one arm, rising above him. She looked down into his eyes. “Now this.”

And she kissed him.

He kissed her back, took a long moment to savor the sweetness she so flagrantly gifted him with. Sensing she wished it, he let her keep the reins. For now.

She leaned into him, all soft, warm curves and slender, feminine lengths. Lying on his back beneath her, something within him purred. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted and shifted her more fully upon him, settling her so her taut belly lay over his abdomen, the haven between her thighs just above the head of his engorged erection-both promise and torment, temptation and salvation. He vaguely recalled he’d decided to forgo her and this for the present, while they were traveling, but he could no longer remember any pressing reason why.

No convincing reason why he should decline the heaven she was so blatantly offering-and she’d come to him, after all.

She was already his-that was beyond question-so there was no reason he shouldn’t indulge.

So he did.

Increasingly ravenously.

It gradually dawned that while she’d initiated the exchange, and had chosen the position, she didn’t know quite how to proceed.

He showed her. Urged her up so she was on her knees straddling him, reached up, stretched up, and helped her draw her nightgown off over her head.

She flung the garment to the floor. She was already heated, already breathless and panting, already aching for him to fill her. The look she flung at him-eyes blazing fire in the night-said it all.

Before she could reach for him, and make matters that much more complicated, he hauled in a breath, locked his hands about her waist, positioned her, then nudged past her slick swollen folds and eased into her.

Eyes closing, her expression one of fraught bliss, she took over and sank down. Down.

Wriggled at the last, and then, wonder of wonders, she’d enclosed him all.

He sucked in a tight breath, closed his eyes in sheer lust as experimentally, she tightened about him.

Then she settled to ride him.

By the time he’d recalled her reportedly wild and expert ride down from Poona, she’d reduced him to a state of ravening urgency almost impossible to deny.

But he wanted more.

Eyes closed tight, her entire concentration locked on where they joined, Emily felt the heat, the stoking friction, well, swell and rise, taunting and beckoning, tightening inexorably…then she felt him shift beneath her.

She cracked open her eyes as, releasing her hips, he locked both hands about her breasts.

And played until she was gasping.

Then he rose up, leaned forward, took one tightly furled nipple into his mouth-and suckled.

She only just managed to mute her shriek, but that didn’t deter him. He feasted-there was no other word for it. With lips, tongue, teeth and greedy mouth, he caressed, then blatantly possessed.

Eyes closing, she continued to rise up and slide down, increasingly intently, wanting, reaching, so tight she thought she would shatter, so hot she could feel the flames licking over her, sliding beneath her skin.

He released one breast, slid his hand down, tracing the curves of her waist, her hip, in almost languid, distinctly possessive appreciation. Then that questing hand veered inward, slid between her thighs, and touched her-there, where she was most sensitive, where suddenly her whole being seemed to reside.

With one hard fingertip he toyed, then pressed at the same time she sank fully down and he thrust in hard-and she imploded. Lost all touch with reality as searing delight and incandescant pleasure erupted and lanced through her, streaking and sparking down every nerve before melting and merging into molten streams that flowed down every vein to pool in her throbbing womb.

He held her as she savored, as if he savored, too.

Then he turned. Taking her with him, he rolled, and pinned her beneath him.

A smile on her lips, she wound her arms about his neck, then arched beneath him, head falling back on a gasp as he thrust deeply and heavily into her.

To her immense surprise he withdrew from her, pulling back onto his knees.

Before she could react beyond opening her eyes, he grasped her knees and pulled them wide.

He looked down at her, at her most private place. Even though the shadows lay heavily upon them, she blushed, but she didn’t try to close her knees, didn’t try to inhibit his view.

The blood still pounding in her veins, she waited to see what he wanted, what he would do.

He bent his head and set his lips to her there, and she very nearly screamed.

Pleasure-different, sharper, headier-streaked through her. He pressed deeper, lapping, then probed with his tongue and in desperation she whispered his name-but what she wanted she couldn’t have said. His tongue circled, then probed. She caught her breath, and clutched at his head, but her fingers, tangling in his hair, had no strength.

His exploration, his flagrant tasting of her, sent her senses soaring.

She was his-she knew it, and clearly he did, too, at least on this level.

That was undeniable as he feasted as thoroughly as he had earlier, his hot mouth a brand searing her, his experience trapping her senses, making them and her whole body-her nerves, her skin, her heart, every curve-his.

His to plunder, to savor as he wished.

Head helplessly threshing, she could barely breathe when she whispered his name, an outright plea-she couldn’t take much more of the soul-wringing pleasure.

He heard, thank God. With one long, last lap, he lifted his head, gazed at her for a moment, then unhurriedly surged over her. Fitting his erection to her entrance, he thrust in, slow and relentless, deep and sure, impressing on her every inch of his length, then he sank home, reached down and raised one of her knees, hooked that leg over his hip. Poised on his elbows above her, he looked down at her face through the darkness, his expression a mask of intent, his features locked in the grip of a passion so intense she could feel its heated wings beating against her skin. Then he withdrew, and thrust home.

Again and again, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until she sobbed his name, then, arched beneath him, fingers locked about his upper arms, nails sinking into his skin, she felt herself literally come apart.

Gareth swooped and covered her lips with his, drank her cry, her scream of pure pleasure.

Felt everything that was male within him exult.

Felt the primitive possessive being within him purr with a satisfaction that sank bone deep as he held still for an instant and savored the evocative ripples of her release, felt her sheath contract and grip.

Felt anticipation and blind need claw…

He surrendered and took, gorged, and filled his senses.

Eyes closed, he lost himself in her.

27th November, 1822

Early evening

My room in the inn at Marseilles

His day had been a distracting round of last minute checks and solutions. Nevertheless, as he climbed the stairs that night, Gareth felt quietly sure that they’d done all they could-that, indeed, courtesy of the Juneaux and Emily’s recruiting of them, their party was better placed to succeed in their mad dash north to the Channel than he’d dared hope they would be.

Reaching the upper corridor, he was conscious of a certain tension, familiar, almost reassuring-the tension that came on the night before a battle, when the certainty of being fully prepared warred with the inevitability of having to wait until morning to act.

He was too experienced to let it trouble him. Indeed, he embraced it.

But the other tension sliding through him, coiling beneath the first, was something else entirely.

That tension was wholly due to her-to Emily, and her appearance last night in his room. More, her performance, their activities, in his bed. He would have preferred it to be otherwise, but he couldn’t deny it-couldn’t pretend that he didn’t feel expectation rise as he neared his door.

That anticipation didn’t leap as he closed his hand about the knob.

Already half erect, his heart already thudding that telltale touch faster, he opened the door and went in. His gaze went directly to the bed.

It was empty.

In the dimness, his eyes scanned again, just to make sure, but he hadn’t missed any alluring body.

She hadn’t come.

Closing the door, he stood and stared at the bed.

One part of his brain had already skittered off into recriminations-last night he’d done something she didn’t like, or he’d failed to do something she’d expected. Or-

The more rational part of his mind shut out the tirade of unhelpful suggestions. The part of him that was the experienced commander recalled and coolly evaluated.

Why hadn’t she come? That was the question he needed to answer.

It took some moments before he thought back far enough to recall the particular deliberation with which she’d entered his room last night. And then to connect that with the assessing glances she’d thrown his way throughout the day, and especially that evening.

Last night, she hadn’t come to his room on a whim-she’d come with a plan. As part of a plan. And that plan was…?

He swore.

Lips setting, he walked to the window, looked out at the empty street, then shook his head and started to pace.

He shouldn’t do it-he shouldn’t give in. She knew he wanted to-intended to-marry her, and that was enough. If he went to her now, tonight…that would say a little more.

Reveal more.

All of it true, but his need of her was something he would far prefer to hide, especially from her.

While on the xebec, there’d been no question of his joining her at night, and here…it had seemed wiser to keep his distance. For him to keep their future, and her, at a distance, at least until they reached England, whereupon he would have all manner of accepted practices behind which to hide.

To conceal just how deeply his feelings for her ran.

He didn’t even know how those feelings had come to be-what they were due to, or when they’d afflicted him and sunk to his marrow-but they were there now, an obvious vulnerability, at least to him.

If he kept his distance, he could cling to the fiction that he was marrying her because they were generally compatible, and he’d weakened and seduced her, ergo marrying her was the necessary outcome, one with which he was comfortable.

He shouldn’t go to her room, shouldn’t reveal even that degree of need for her.

He could excuse not going on safety grounds-safer for them all if he wasn’t distracted by having her beside him, let alone beneath him.

Then again, one very definite, insistent part of him was quick to point out that her safety would be even better assured if she spent the nights in his arms, and he would be far less distracted by thoughts of whether she was safe or not; if she were lying beside him, he would instantly know.

Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…

He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.

To go, or not to go?

He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…

Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?

Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.

And he discovered her patience was greater than his.

With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.

Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.

She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.

As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.

He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”

Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”

He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”

Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.

Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.

For her lover-her would-be husband-to join her.

He didn’t disappoint.

Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.

Her plan had worked.

More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.

She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed, go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.

And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.

She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk-they fell asleep.

Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed-he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.

His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.

Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later-later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.

Entirely too unwise.

The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.

Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.

In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.

He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…

It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.

God knew, it satisfied him.

28th November, 1822

Early morning

Still abed, scribbling madly

The small yard behind the inn was a frenzy of activity. Gareth ran his eye over the loaded coaches, watched as Mooktu and Bister handed up pistols, powder, and shot to Mullins, who stowed it with the rifles he’d cleaned beneath first one, then the other, driver’s seat.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Around him, the cobbled yard was awash with Juneaux, young and old, come to wave their two men on their way, and to wish the English and Indian party the garrulous clan had taken under their collective wing God speed.

He went to extract Emily from a knot of Juneaux. Many were female, and looked at him with bright, assessing eyes. He had little doubt what thoughts were passing through their heads, especially when one old lady whispered loudly that they made a so-handsome couple.

He pretended not to hear.

Emily was smiling happily. She looked up as he neared, and her smile changed. Quite how he couldn’t have said, but it softened, became more personal, then she made space for him beside her.

He filled it, but only to smile generally at the others and remind her, “We must make a start.”

Or they would be there all day.

Emily heard the unvoiced phrase, and had to agree. But then his hand brushed the back of her waist and she had to work to suppress a delicious little shiver-something the women around her didn’t miss.

They beamed encouragingly.

She had to beam back, had to inwardly acknowledge how very good it felt to be the one Gareth-he of the broad shoulders and so-handsome brown-haired good looks-had come to fetch.

His hand touched again, a subtle prod. Squelching her reaction, she turned to the innwife and commenced her farewells.

Exclamations, good wishes, and effusive thanks were shared all around, then with his hand at the back of her waist, Gareth steered her inexorably to the carriages. Finally reaching the door of the first, she turned and waved one last time to the assembled throng, then she took the hand he offered, felt his fingers close strong and warm about hers, and felt that little thrill of delight-of feminine possessiveness-streak through her again. Drawing in a calming breath, she allowed him to help her into the sleek carriage.

Gareth turned to the crowd, and with a genuine but faintly strained smile, bowed and, in more formal words, thanked them. Then he turned to the carriage and climbed up, pulled up the steps and shut the door.

Bister and the coachman were already on the box waiting. Dorcas sat opposite Emily. Gareth claimed the seat beside her as a whip snapped showily, the horses leaned into the traces, and their carriage lurched, then rumbled through the mews and out onto the side street.

Cheers and farewells echoed, then faded as the houses closed around them. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, confirming that the second carriage, carrying Arnia and Mooktu, Watson and Mullins, with Jimmy currently up with the driver, was following close behind.

“I assume we’ll need to go slowly through the town.”

He glanced at Emily, and saw she was peering out of the other window. “Yes-and it might be better to stay back from the windows.”

“Oh.” She drew back immediately. “The cultists are out there somewhere, aren’t they?”

He nodded. They’d been able to forget that over the last day and a half. The Juneaux youngsters had taken positions at both ends of the street, keeping watch for cultists. Bister and Jimmy had supervised, but for the time they’d been under the Juneaux’ protection, they’d felt a great deal safer than they had in weeks.

In Gareth’s case, since leaving the Turkey Cock in Bombay, scroll holder in hand.

Emily and Dorcas played spot the monument as the two carriages preserved a decorous pace through the busy morning streets. Letting their disconcertingly normal exclamations and chatter wash over him, Gareth allowed himself to do something he hadn’t until that point-he thought of the other three, wondered where they were, how they were faring.

All four had been through thick and thin together, ridden side by side into battles uncounted. Even though the last years as commanders had seen them spend more of their time in the saddle apart, it hadn’t lessened their connection-that link that had been forged in the heat of battles in the Peninsula more than a decade before.

By choice, none of them knew what route any of the other three was taking home. He didn’t even know who was carrying the vital original of the document they had to deliver to the Duke of Wolverstone to ensure the end of the Black Cobra’s reign-he only knew it wasn’t him. His was a decoy’s mission, the parchment in his scroll holder, identical to the other three, no more than a copy.

But the Black Cobra and the cultists didn’t know that. Given what was at stake, he had fully expected the Cobra to chase him regardless. In that, he hadn’t been disappointed, which was all to the good.

Yet on this last leg before England, his orders from the man who had for years been known only as Dalziel were specific. He and his party were to do all they could to draw as many of the enemy as possible, and to reduce their numbers as much as fate permitted.

He’d interpreted those orders as indicating that whoever was carrying the vital original would also pass through the Continent on their way to England. Whichever of his three friends was running that most dangerous of gauntlets, their safety in part depended on him-on how effectively he carried out his mission.

He’d set out from India with Bister, Mooktu, and Arnia, all of whom-even Arnia-could take care of themselves in a fight. With just those three in his train, he’d been free to engage the enemy whenever and wherever he could.

But now he had Emily, Dorcas, Jimmy, Mullins, and Watson as well. Mullins could hold his own, but the other four, no matter their resourcefulness, weren’t safe in a fight. All four needed protection, Emily most of all.

Especially Emily, especially now…now she’d come to mean so much to him.

So much more than he’d imagined was possible, than he’d known could possibly be.

As the horses trudged on, he gazed, unseeing, out of the window at the passing streetscapes, and wondered how he was going to carry out his orders while keeping her, and the others who were important to her-all now in his care-safe.

They’d passed through the town center and were ambling through the northern suburbs, already on the highway that would take them to Lyon and beyond, when he became aware of Emily’s gaze on his face.

The feminine commentary had ceased. One glance revealed that Dorcas was already nodding, her eyes closed.

Turning his head, he met Emily’s bright gaze.

Tilting her head, she smiled. “I was wondering…you told me you’re an only child, but do you have cousins, other family?”

They were to marry, so she needed to know. He shook his head. “No. There’s just me, now. My parents were only children, too. They married later in life, so were older when I was born. My father was a vicar, but he was one of those the archdiocese used to fill vacancies temporarily, so we constantly moved about the county.” He held her gaze. “So I have no family, and there really isn’t anywhere I call home.”

“Where were you born?”

“Thame, Oxfordshire. You?” Turnabout was fair, and he wanted to learn about her more than he wanted her to learn about him. There was so little to tell.

Happiness lit her face as she said, “I was born at Eldridge Hall, my parents’ house-it’s just outside Thornby, in Northamptonshire. That’s home-for me, and all my brothers and sisters. At least it was until they married-there’s only me and Rufus still left in the nest, as it were, but the others visit often.”

“You’re one of eight, as I recall. I take it you have lots of cousins, too?” That, he realized, explained her ease with the Juneaux, her facility in interacting with them-something he’d lacked. Not that he’d known he’d lacked, not until he’d seen her engage with the large family in a way he would never have thought to do…probably couldn’t have done even if he’d wished. He simply didn’t know how, didn’t know the ways.

“Yes, there’s quite a clan-a horde of uncles, aunts, and cousins on both sides.”

He didn’t need to ask how she got on with her family-the answer was there in her affectionate smile, in the light that glowed in her eyes.

He’d never shared that sort of connection with anyone, not when he was a child, not later…until he’d joined the Guards and, from the first, had fallen in with Del, Rafe, and Logan.

“I don’t have any siblings”-he met her eyes-“but you might say I have brothers-in-arms.”

She looked into his eyes, studied them. “Those three in the officers’ mess?”

He nodded. She didn’t ask, didn’t press, but as they rolled on up the highway and the northern outskirts of Marseilles fell behind, he told her how he’d met the other three-told her tales of their exploits and adventures. When she laughed, he asked about her brothers and sisters, and she reciprocated, opening his eyes to a love he’d never known. The closest thing to it was the camaraderie, the connection, he shared with the other three, yet even that fell short of the warmth, depth, and breadth of togetherness Emily described, that she’d experienced and embraced within her family.

The more she told him, the more he yearned for something he’d never known. When he married her…

The thought circled in his brain as he and she fell silent, and the carriage rumbled steadily on.

“He is like a cobra himself.” The eldest of the three cultists sent to watch the highway leading north out of Marseilles hawked and spat on the rocky ground. “I would not be angering Uncle for anything today. He was in such a mood after the others from the docks came yesterday to report that they hadn’t seen the major or his party.”

The three were perched among rocks and boulders on a shoulder overlooking the highway.

The youngest grinned slyly. “Those men were lucky. I heard Akbar say that Uncle has lost so many men already that he won’t discipline any-he needs every able-bodied man he has, at least for now.”

“Ah-that explains it.” The third man nodded. “I have never known Uncle to be so lenient before. Usually, one mistake, and-” He drew his finger across his throat. “The cult does not tolerate failure.”

“This is true.” The eldest nudged the youngest with the toe of his boot. “You will be wise to remember that if-as seems likely-the major manages to take this road north before the others can catch him in the town. If that happens, Uncle will gather most of us and head north in pursuit-and I know for a fact that the Black Cobra has placed many, many of us along this channel up there. If the major goes that way, Uncle will follow, and then he’ll have plenty of men-and then it will once again be death if you fail.”

The youngest shrugged. The elder two exchanged glances.

Then the youngest raised the spyglass he held and trained it on the first of two carriages bowling north along the road.

The elder two settled back and returned to staring at the sky. Countless carriages had already passed by.

“Hi!” The excited exclamation broke their absorption. The youngest bounced with excitement, then lowered the spyglass and held it out. “That is them-I am sure of it. Look at the men beside the drivers. The first is the major’s batman, yes?”

The eldest had taken the spyglass. After a moment, he nodded. He handed the glass on to the third man, then turned to the youngest. “You stay here until they pass, then follow, but not close. Stay off the road and do not let them see you. We”-he collected his comrade with a glance-“will go and take the good news to Uncle. When he and the rest of us catch up with you, Uncle will commend you as you rightly deserve.”

Meanwhile the elder two, who had been staring at the sky for hours, would reap the glory of Uncle’s approbation, but the youngest cultist knew that that was the way of the world, so he nodded. “I will follow them, and wait for Uncle and the others to join me.”

Without further ado, the elder two scrambled back over the rocks to where they’d left their stolen mounts.