The Elusive Bride

Fourteen

30th November, 1822

Mid-morning

In our carriage on the road to Lyon

That evening they arrived in Lyon. They’d made excellent time, and Gareth thanked the twist of fate that had sent them the Juneau cousins, Gustav and Pierre, as coachmen. Experienced, with just the right touch of belligerence, they’d already proved themselves up to the task of pressing ahead regardless of obstacles like traffic and overturned drays.

They’d barreled through, and they’d reached their first major town without seeing hide nor hair of any cultist.

That, Gareth felt certain, would change all too soon.

With Emily, smiling sweetly, beside him, he walked into the town’s largest hotel. It was a predominantly timber structure. He would have preferred stone, but the further they’d come north, the weather had turned damp and cold, and smaller establishments came with other hazards, namely easy access to the upper floors.

One glance confirmed that this hotel provided reasonable security. He continued to the counter at the rear of the foyer, Emily on his arm.

There were plenty of rooms to be had. He could easily request adjoining chambers for him and Emily, but didn’t. Their party was already cognizant of the fact that they were sharing a bed, and every Frenchman or -woman who laid eyes on them instantly assumed they were already wed.

Neither Emily nor he made any attempt to correct that mistaken assumption, so there hardly seemed any point in hiring separate rooms.

Even if he did, he’d spend the night in her bed.

Quite aside from the fraught questions of whether he could gather strength enough to resist her lure, and even if he did, whether she would acquiesce and allow him to keep his distance, there was the undeniable fact that he wouldn’t sleep, certainly not well, not unless she was within arm’s reach.

With the rooms organized, he glanced at Emily. She caught his eye, smiled the smile of encouraging approval she often bent on him, then she turned to the clerk and set about ordering their dinner.

He and Emily dined in comfort in the inn’s gilded dining room. In such an establishment, they were forced to observe the division between classes, so the other members of their party were dining in the bar. He and she joined them there afterward.

They chatted only briefly. He conferred with the other men, setting the watches for the night, a habit they’d reinstated after leaving the relative safety of the Juneaux’ inn.

Shortly after, they all retired. After one last glance around the foyer and reception rooms, noting the shutters that had been closed against the night and the heavy locks on the main doors, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs.

Instinct was pricking, battlefield premonition coming to the fore.

He glanced at Mooktu, on first watch, sitting in the bay window at the end of their corridor. “Stay alert.”

The big Pashtun nodded gravely. He, too, scented danger in the wind.

Hoping they would both be proved wrong, Gareth followed Emily into their room and quietly shut the door.

The attack-a typical cultist attack-came in the darkest watch of the night. Gareth himself, standing at the window of their room, Emily asleep in the big bed behind him, caught a glimpse of movement in the street below, hard up against the hotel’s side, then saw the first flicker of flame.

He was downstairs, banging on the manager’s door, Mooktu beside him, before the fire could take hold.

Within minutes the manager had collected his staff. Flinging open the front doors, they rushed out, pails in hands, to douse the flames.

Gareth and Mooktu, with Mullins and Bister, hung back in the shadows of the unlighted foyer-and dealt with the six cultists who slipped in through the untended doors, unsheathed blades glinting in the moonlight.

The four of them met the threat with quiet, deadly, ruthless efficiency-all under the terrified stare of the night clerk who had been left behind the desk.

Later, however, when, this being Lyon and not some outpost of an uncivilized land, the authorities arrived in the form of a disgruntled upholder of the local law, the clerk readily confirmed that the cultists had come in with daggers drawn-that they’d been intent on doing murder and the members of Gareth’s party deserved a medal for protecting him and the many inn guests now gathered about exclaiming.

As said guests, taking in the dead cultists’ outlandish apparel, vociferously agreed with the clerk, the chief gendarme huffed, and ordered the bodies to be carted away.

Gareth paused beside the innkeeper. His eyes on the activity in the crowded foyer, he murmured, “Don’t worry. We’re leaving at first light.”

The innkeeper glanced sideways.

Gareth met his eyes.

The innkeeper nodded. “Bon. I will give orders for the kitchen to have breakfast ready early.”

Hiding a cynical smile, Gareth inclined his head. “Merci.”

He passed through the crowd, receiving thanks from some, informing those of their party of the early start. That done, he found Emily. Her cloak thrown over a nightgown, she was talking and exclaiming with a French madame in a stylish wrap and with papers twisted in her bright red hair. Taking Emily’s arm, he excused them, and turned her inexorably to the stairs.

When she glanced his way, brows rising, he said, “We’re leaving at dawn.”

Her lips formed an “oh,” and she continued on.

On reaching her room, they went in. Closing the door, he watched as, slinging her cloak over a stool, she paused by the bed and looked at him.

A pregnant instant passed, then he released the doorknob and walked slowly toward her. “It might be an idea to take off that gown.”

From the dark shadows beneath the trees in the park opposite the hotel, Uncle watched the bodies of the six best assassins he’d brought with him carted away.

He watched without reaction. There was no point gnashing his teeth. In this country, houses were sturdier; they didn’t burn easily, especially not with such dampness in the air.

And the major, clearly, had been prepared, on guard.

The conclusion was obvious. Uncle needed a new plan, a better approach.

His old bones ached with the cold, but that was the least of his pain. Although he was following the Black Cobra’s orders, his pursuit of the major was now driven by emotions that ran much deeper than his quest for honors.

He wanted to, was determined to, cause the upstart major the same pain, the same anguish, the major had dealt him. An eye for an eye, and a life for a life-but whose life?

The woman’s?

Through the open inn doors, he’d glimpsed Miss Ensworth, who the Black Cobra wanted punished for her role in giving rise to the major’s mission. He’d watched, and seen her turn and smile at the major as he’d joined her. An instant later, the major had taken her arm and led her out of sight.

Was she the major’s woman now?

Thinking of how much his leader would like the female’s hide, literally, Uncle smiled. That would make a fitting present-for his leader, and himself.

Akbar loomed at his shoulder. “We should leave.”

Eyes still on the hotel, Uncle nodded. “Indeed. I have much to think upon.”

1st December, 1822

Early evening

A room in a small village inn

They rolled into Dijon the next day. The sun was waning, sliding down the sky to disappear behind the fancy tiled roofs as they tacked through the cobbled streets, pressing deeper into the town.

Once again, they sought refuge at the best hotel. All senses constantly alert, they dined, then, pickets organized, retired.

Nothing had happened over the two days since they’d departed Lyon. All of them felt as if they were incessantly looking over their shoulders.

As he closed the door of the large chamber he and Emily would share, Gareth suspected there was not one of their party who, somewhere in their psyche, couldn’t feel the Black Cobra coiling, preparing to strike again.

Outside a barn in the woods around Dijon, Uncle stood before a fire and surreptitiously warmed his hands. It didn’t do to show weakness, but the chill of these northern nights struck to his bones.

Gathered around the fire, the remaining members of the group he’d led from Marseilles-more than fifteen, more than enough-shifted and cast uncertain glances his way.

Finally, Akbar looked up and asked the question in all their minds. “When do we strike? If we go in force, and take them on the road-”

“No.” Uncle did not raise his voice. He spoke quietly, so they had to listen hard to hear his wisdom. “Fate has shown us that that is not the way. Have we not tried and tried, only to come away with our noses bloodied? No-we need a new plan, a better tactic.” He paused to make sure they would bow to his dictate. When no one protested, not even Akbar, he went on, “They are forever on guard, so we will use that to our advantage. We will wear them down with their own anticipation. We will make them wait, and wait, and wait…and then, when they are worn out with waiting and shut their eyes in weariness, that is when we will strike!”

One fist striking the palm of his other hand, he started to pace, eyes scanning the faces. “We must watch-they must feel us there, watching their every move. We will watch, but we will leave them untouched, so they will wear themselves out imagining how and when we will strike. We will let their fears rise and eat them.”

Satisfied with all he saw, he halted, nodded sagely, and stated his decision. “We will keep following them-and we will choose our time.”

6th December, 1822

Evening

Yet another room in a small village inn

The following day, they reached Amiens as the light faded from the sky. It was cold and tending crisp as Gareth returned from bespeaking rooms to oversee the unloading of the carriages. Everyone lent a hand, the faster to get out of the biting wind. After spending years in India, even his blood seemed too thin.

Once all the bags were in, the Juneau cousins led the horses off to the stable, and Gareth followed the others into the warmth.

Later, he and Emily dined together. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet time alone with her, a time during which he could air his thoughts, and she would share hers.

Pouring rich custard over his pudding, he murmured, “I’m starting to think we’re being herded.”

She opened her eyes at him as she took in a portion of trifle, then lowered her spoon. “That doesn’t sound good. Herded into what? Do you think they’re planning an ambush?”

He thought, then shook his head. “I can’t see how they could. That’s the beauty of Wolverstone’s route. We could be heading to any of the Channel ports. Even after we head to Abbeville tomorrow, there are still five major ports, in varying directions, that we might make for.”

“So they won’t be able to stage an ambush because they won’t know which road we’ll be taking until we’re on it?”

He nodded. “Precisely.”

Dessert finished, Emily laid down her spoon and studied him. “So why ‘herded’? What bone are you gnawing at?”

He gave her the ghost of a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a certain grimness behind. “That little foray outside Saint Dizier was all for show, just to remind us they’re there, watching us constantly. I suspect they’re hoping to string us out, to wear us down with waiting. It’s an old tactic.”

When he said nothing more, chin propped in one hand, she prompted, “But that’s not what’s bothering you.”

His gaze met hers. After an instant, he went on, “Following Wolverstone’s plan will keep the cult’s forces strung out-reaching Boulogne shouldn’t be too hard. But the weather’s worsening. I’m no expert on Channel crossings, but I spoke with Watson. Apparently, if the winds come up badly, as they’re threatening to do, the ports can be closed for days.”

“So getting into Boulogne might be simple, but getting out…?”

“We might be held up there for days.”

Days during which the Black Cobra could come at them, again and again, in force.

Gareth didn’t say the words-he didn’t need to. He could see understanding in her eyes.

Eyes he’d grown accustomed to drowning in every night when she welcomed him into her arms, into her body. Eyes he delighted in watching every morning when in the soft light of dawn she came awake as he slid into her.

Those eyes saw him; they locked on him every time he entered a room she was in.

Now those same eyes studied his face. His expression was stark and grim, but he couldn’t find it in him to laugh and lighten the mood.

Those eyes, and she, had to him grown immensely, almost unbelievably, important. He didn’t understand how that had happened, only that it had.

He couldn’t lose her. His future-something he’d had not the faintest idea about when he’d stood at the railings in Aden harbor-was now crystal clear in his mind. And she stood at the heart of it. Without her…

And, somehow, she knew. Knew she meant much more to him than a lady he felt honor bound to wed.

Yet she hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pressed for any declaration, as other ladies might have. She’d simply been there, been herself…and let him fall in love with her. No. Let him fall more deeply in love with her.

He looked into her eyes, and saw her watching, waiting, and he knew for what, but with infinite patience, infinite understanding, and compassion.

Lifting one hand, he held it out, palm up. Waited until she placed her fingers in his. Closing his hand, feeling her delicate digits within his clasp, he said, “If my theory is correct, then we’re more or less safe until we reach Boulogne.”

Her lips curved in comprehension. Needing no further encouragement, he rose, drew her to her feet, and they went to find the others, to arrange the night watches before retiring to their room, to their bed, and the inexpressible comfort of each other’s arms.

In a deserted woodcutter’s cottage to the north of Amiens, Uncle paced the dirty floor. “There is no question about it.” He glanced around at his assembled troops, letting his confidence show. “It matters not which port they flee to, once they reach it, they will be trapped.” He waved the missive he’d received minutes before. “Our brothers already gathered on the coast have confirmed a great storm is blowing in. Let our prey run like mice for the coast-once they reach it, they will not be able to go further, to cross the water as they must.” His eyes gleamed with malevolent anticipation. “They will have to stop. And wait.”

Facing them all, he raised his arms. “The weather gods, my sons, have arranged for us the perfect opportunity to capture and torture the major and his lady-to the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”

Eyes shining, fists rising, the men echoed his words. “To the delight and the glory of the Black Cobra!”

“This time we will plan-and this time we will triumph.” Uncle sensed the power flowing, sensed he held them all, even the cynical Akbar, in his palm. “We will wait, and watch, but the instant we know to which town our prey is racing, we will race there, too. And this time we will prepare. No matter that we might follow them to this town, fate has finally thrown her lot in with ours. Have faith, my sons, for, courtesy of fate, we at last have time.”

8th December, 1822

Early morning

Our room at Amiens

They departed from Amiens amid flurries of snow. Their tension had already been high, yet Gareth could feel that tension racking higher with every mile.

Yet, as he’d predicted, nothing occurred during the daylong journey. The Juneau coachmen continued to perform with outstanding skill, whipping their horses along. Bleak winter fields stretching endlessly under a louring gray sky flashed incessantly past.

Despite their relative speed, they didn’t reach Abbeville until evening. Their routine was well established. In less than half an hour, they were all inside and warm, the others sitting down to dinner in their hotel’s bar while he and Emily dined in reserved splendor in the great dining room.

Outside the wind howled, and hail rattled against the windows.

All of them retired early to their beds. Gareth, as he usually did, took the early-morning watch, between two and four o’clock. That way, he could fall asleep with Emily in his arms, and wake with her beside him, too.

She was already snuggled beneath the thick down coverlet when he reached their room, a fair-sized chamber at the end of one corridor. The fire had been built high, then banked for the night. With all the curtains drawn, the room seemed cozy.

It wasn’t warm.

He stripped quickly, and joined her between the sheets, leaving the candle on the bedside table burning.

He shivered as the cold sheets touched his skin. Relaxed again when Emily wriggled and settled, all warm, silken, and blatantly female, against him. Gathering her close, he turned to face her. “I can’t remember England being this cold.”

“It isn’t often.” Draping her arms over his shoulders, she slid her hands into his hair, fingers riffling as beneath the covers she fitted herself to him, her curves cradling his heavier bones and harder frame. “But after India, this is doubtless a shock to your system.”

His system was heating up quite nicely.

He looked into her eyes. For a long moment he drank in the assurance in the mossy hazel, the quiet confidence, the calm anticipation with which she regarded him.

Her lips were lightly, gently, curved.

Slowly he lowered his head and covered them with his.

The flames rose at their calling, steady and sure. More experienced now, there was less urgency, less immediate desperation-more time to savor each moment, to string out each inexorable step on the path to completion.

Knowing they would reach it, knowing that passion, satisfaction, and the ultimate satiation would be theirs, that ecstasy was assured no matter what route they took to reach it.

No matter how long, how tortuous, and drawn out that route might be.

This time, they took a longer road. He kept the pace slow, deliberate, intent.

Focused.

Emily surrendered to the insistent drumbeat, the measured tattoo driving each heavy caress. Wonder bloomed as, from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she watched his face as he paid homage to her breasts. Glancing up, he saw her watching, briefly met her eyes, then, still moving so slowly her nerves tightened, taut with anticipation, he lowered his head, and possessed.

Thoroughly, with a devotion to detail that ripped her wits away, that sent her senses spinning.

Every little touch seared like a brand. Fingers, mouth, lips, teeth, and tongue, he used them all in concert, playing, orchestrating, until her body sang, until passion and desire rose up in sweet symphony and buoyed her on their tide.

And swept her away into the heated moment, flooded her veins, flushed her skin.

She was eager and aching, filled with fiery longing when he finally parted her thighs, settled heavily between, and filled her.

Head back, she caught her breath, then sighed. Reached with her whole body, with her arms, her legs, her all, reached for him and wrapped him in her welcome.

Held him there as, head bowed, his ragged breath a song by her ear, he moved on her and in her, the long planes of his back flexing powerfully as he thrust repeatedly, giving them both what they wanted.

What they needed.

Even as his body strove for release, strove to pleasure hers and claim the ultimate prize, some part of Gareth’s mind watched and wondered-was filled with wonder, with a form of silent awe.

Things had changed since they’d left Marseilles, since at her insistence they’d begun sharing a bed every night.

Every night, the pleasure, the assurance, the wonder, grew. Intensified. Became measurably stronger, infinitely more addictive.

The simple act that before had always seemed so straightforward, so momentary and unaffecting, was now so much more. This…was heady, intoxicating. As he thrust deeper into her heated body and felt her clutch, felt her clamp and hold him, felt her arms tight about him, her legs clasping his flanks, her body cradling his…it felt as if she were feeding a part of his soul he hadn’t even known existed, let alone was hungry.

Yet he was hungry for this-not just the physical pleasure and the aftermath of bliss, but the connection, the togetherness, the blessed release of having someone that close, of having someone…who was his.

The reins slithered from his grasp. As they both, he and she, spiraled out of control, as the demands of their striving bodies overwhelmed their minds and took control of their senses, he raised his head, found her lips and kissed her-claimed her, honored her, thanked her.

And let go.

Gave himself to her and took her in return.

And no longer knew where one ended and the other began.

The storm took them, wracked them, shattered their senses, left their bodies boneless, floating on passion’s sea.

Left them melded, fused, joined at the heart.

Welded at the soul.

No longer alone. No longer separate.

The notions circled his mind as he drifted back to earth, to the warmth of their bed, to the haven of her arms.

Dreams made real.

She was that to him, and he would never let her go.

They left Abbeville in the dark before dawn. The cold was intense; frost lay heavy on the ground. Their breaths plumed as they bustled in the stable yard, rushing in organized chaos through the flickering shadows cast by the inn’s flares.

They were away before even a glimmer lightened the eastern horizon. Heading north at a cracking pace, they remained alert, on guard, yet Gareth felt certain they would meet with no resistance.

Sure enough, they reached Boulogne-sur-Mer without incident or delay. Courtesy of their early start, it was mid-afternoon when they rattled into the streets of the bustling town. This time, however, they did not stop in the town center.

As they passed the town hall and headed on down a hill, Emily looked inquiringly at Gareth.

“We need an inn close to the docks.” He leaned forward and looked out of the window. “The Juneaux say they know the area around there.”

The further they went, the more traffic there was. The carriages slowed to a crawl as they negotiated the streets around the marketplace, then continued along a fair-sized street until they reached yet another square. The Juneau cousins halted the carriages along one side.

The instant he opened the carriage door, then stepped down to the cobbles, the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea assaulted Gareth’s senses. It hadn’t been particularly windy above, but here the wind gusted, salty and tangy, damp with sea spray, slapping his face and tugging his hair.

Emily paused in the carriage doorway, looking out. “That’s the Channel out there, isn’t it?”

Gareth nodded. Beyond the quays and the harbor basin Napoleon had excavated in prepartion for the invasion of England that he never launched, out beyond the protective arms of the breakwaters and their lighthouses, lay a seething mass of water, waves churning a bilious gray green beneath a leaden sky.

A few gulls bravely wheeled below slate-colored clouds scudding before the wind. Behind them hung the denser, darker roiling mass of an oncoming storm.

That louring, threatening mass assured Gareth that his worst fears had come true; they’d be trapped for days. Looking at the cauldron the Channel had become, he confirmed that not a single ship had ventured out.

One glance at Emily’s face as she stepped down to the ground told him he didn’t need to explain the situation to her.

He turned as Gustav Juneau clambered down from his perch to join them.

“There is an auberge we know-this way.” Gustav pointed with his whip to a narrow street leading away from the square. “It is close to the quay, and the people who run it know us.” He glanced at Gareth. “But come and see.”

Gathering Watson, and with Emily on his arm, leaving the others with Pierre Juneau to watch over the carriages, Gareth walked beside Gustav deeper into the dockside quarter.

The auberge Gustav led them to proved perfect for their needs, not least because its guestrooms were all presently empty. Gareth immediately negotiated to hire the whole of the upper floor. In addition, the auberge was within easy reach of the docks, with a direct route to the main quay, and, situated as it was, its common room was always full of sailors.

The owner and his wife, the Perrots, were delighted to accommodate them. “This weather!” Monsieur Perrot gesticulated. “It is very bad for business.”

“True,” Gareth said, “but before you welcome us, there’s something you should know.”

At his insistence, the Perrots sat down with him, Emily, and Gustav at a table in one corner of the common room As he had in Marseilles, he commenced their tale. And as had happened in Marseilles, Emily-this time aided by Gustav-took over.

The Perrots were understandably horrified, but Emily won their sympathy, while Gustav whipped up their nationalistic fervor, until Perrot slapped the table and declared, “You and your party must come to us. We will aid you in this-and our company”-he gestured to the crowded room-“will be happy to assist in foiling this villain.”

Madame Perrot nodded, a martial light in her eye. “He and his heathens will not be able to set this inn alight-it is built of good sound stone.”

Another of its many attributes. Despite his ongoing concern, Gareth knew a moment’s relief. He couldn’t have wished for a better billet, especially given they would, it seemed, be spending several days there.

Emily and Madame went upstairs to survey the rooms. Gustav, after a word with Perrot, stumped out to look at the stables. Gareth and Perrot reached agreement on the charge. Gareth paid half then and there, the other half to be paid on the morning of their departure. As to when that might be…

Appealed to, Perrot pursed his lips, shook his head. “Three days? It may be more. If you go down to the quay later this afternoon, I can tell you who to ask.”

Smothering his frustration, Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked across the common room as Emily returned down the stairs. “We’ll go and fetch the rest of our party.”

They used the rest of the afternoon to settle in. At Gareth’s suggestion and Emily’s insistence, Pierre and Gustav would remain with them for the night, then start back on their long journey home in the morning.

After checking with Perrot, apparently a connection of a connection of the Juneaux, after lunch, Pierre and Gustav headed for the warehouses to see if there was any merchant with goods he wanted to send south.

Shortly after, armed with detailed directions, Gareth set out with Mooktu, Bister, and Jimmy to consult with the local weatherman, an old sailor whom the locals relied on to read the skies, the winds, and the waves.

When they reached the main quay, Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fishing boats, not all at once. Not even at Marseilles.”

“I’ve heard this is the biggest fishing port in France,” Gareth said.

Mooktu nodded toward the neatly sculpted basin in which the fleet bobbed, as protected as they might be from the raging wind. “That is well thought out-a safe harbor.”

“Indeed.” Gareth hoped that would prove true for their party, too.

They found the old sailor.

What he told them left them grim.

“Four days!” Bister trudged alongside Gareth as they returned to the auberge.

There was nothing to say. The old man, his hearing all but gone yet his sight as sharp as ever, had stated categorically that the weather would worsen before it got better, that although the worst of the sleet would be gone by tomorrow, the wind would blow from the wrong quarter for the next three days.

On the fourth day, the weather would turn fair. They would, the old sailor had assured them, be able to set sail then-but not before.

As they neared the auberge, Mooktu studied it, stated, “It is as well that we have such solidly built walls behind which to wait.”

There was nothing to say to that either. Every one of them understood that for the next three days they would essentially be trapped. Fixed in one place. The cultists would soon know where they were. And then…they could expect the might of the Black Cobra to be unleashed against them.

That evening, before they sat down to their dinner-served early so the Perrots and their sons and daughters would be free to deal with the evening trade-Gareth and Emily spoke again with their hosts, restressing the likelihood of an attack.

“There’s no chance,” Gareth warned, “that they’ll leave us alone. It might not be tonight, it might not be tomorrow, but it’s an absolute certainty that a major attack will come.”

He was starting to understand why the French and English had over the centuries so often warred; the French, it seemed, were as enamored of a “good fight”-meaning one where they could indulge in the name of justice-as any Englishman.

The Perrots were unquestionably eager to meet the challenge.

“I will speak with our friends this very evening,” Perrot declared. “They are trapped by this weather, too, and will be glad of the chance for action.”

Unsure just what help might be coming his way, Gareth nevertheless gratefully inclined his head. “We will be happy to have whatever assistance your patrons might offer.”

The news spread. Gradually at first, then with increasing momentum. Every hale and hearty soul who crossed the Perrots’ threshold that night was regaled with the story. The version Gareth overheard when he fronted the bar to replenish their ale mugs was richly embroidered, dramatically, even passionately delivered, yet was essentially nothing more than the truth communicated in fine, histrionic French.

When he returned to their corner table, he found Emily shifted to the side, chatting animatedly to two older women.

Watson had drifted further down the room, and had been captured by a group of swarthy sailors who, Gareth suspected, were interrogating him as to the enemy’s colors.

Gareth set down the refilled mugs before Mooktu and Mullins, and was about to resume his seat when Jimmy appeared by his elbow.

“If you please, Major Hamilton, there’s some men over there who’d like a word.”

Raising his head, Gareth looked in the direction Jimmy indicated, and saw a group of four, all clearly mariners, seated about a table at the back of the room. One, a captain by his cap, saw him looking, and raised his mug in a salute.

Gareth looked at Jimmy. “Where’s Bister?”

Jimmy nodded down the room. “He’s over by the door. His lot speak English well enough to get by.”

Gareth nodded. “Why don’t you go and help him?”

Jimmy eagerly headed off. Picking up his mug, with a murmured word to Mooktu and Mullins, Gareth headed deeper into the room.

Later, he was glad he had. The group of four were all captains, and all volunteeered those of their crews they could spare to help defend the inn against the “heathens.” More important, however, one-the captain who’d saluted him-commanded one of the larger trawlers.

“Once the weather clears, if you wish it, I will take you to Dover. My brother-in-law has wine barrels to deliver there, so I will be going there in any case. My ship is large enough to take your group-there are nine of you, yes?”

Gareth nodded. “I must warn you that, although the cult has little experience of fighting at sea, it’s possible they may attempt to attack any ship with us on board.”

“Pfft!” The captain made a gesture signifying what he thought of the cult’s chances.

“They might,” Gareth persisted, “hire mercenaries-other Frenchmen who are more competent on the waves-to attack your vessel.”

The captain grinned. “No Frenchman-not for miles around-would attempt to come against Jean-Claude Lavalle.”

Gareth glanced at the others. They, too, were grinning. One slung an arm around Lavalle’s shoulders. “Sadly, he is right,” the other captain said. “You are not of your navy, but they would know his name. Lavalle is an old seadog”-he looked at Lavalle with affection-“one none of us dares challenge, even now he is grown gray.”

Lavalle humphed, but smiled.

Gareth couldn’t help but do the same.

By the time he climbed the stairs, very much later than in recent times, Gareth was prey to conflicting feelings. A certain mellowness induced by the readily offered cameraderie and the Perrots’ fine ale butted against the heightened tension, the tightly strung sense of being on full alert that, despite the conviviality of the evening, hadn’t waned in the least.

Although the Perrots’ strapping sons had offered to stand guard overnight, Gareth had gently declined, pointing out that the men of his party would more readily recognize any cultist, and had been drilled in how to react. So, as usual, Mooktu was presently on guard in the upstairs corridor, seated by the head of the stairs, from where he could see the entire common room, all the way to the front door. Gareth exchanged a smile and nod with him as he went past. Mooktu would be relieved by Bister, who would in turn be relieved by Gareth, and Mullins would stand the early-morning watch. Watson, meanwhile, had a small room by the rear stairs, and was by all accounts a very light sleeper.

The sight of Mooktu refocused Gareth on the challenge he would face the next day. Entering the inn’s main bedchamber, he absentmindedly closed the door, mentally juggling his options for managing the ragtag army he had, courtesy of that evening, apparently acquired.

“What is it?”

The query snapped him back to the here and now. To Emily, propped on one arm, one sweetly turned shoulder showing bare above the covers, her expression a medley of interest and demand.

Even as he strolled to the bed, his gaze caught by the way the candlelight flowed over the perfect silk of her exposed shoulder, he realized she expected to be told, that she expected him to share. To include her and, if she volunteered one, to listen to her opinion.

For a man like him-one who’d commanded troops for a decade-to discuss such matters with a female, let alone seek her opinion…

Halting by the bed, he smiled, leaned down, and kissed her.

Long, deep, lingeringly.

Eventually he pulled back, sat on the edge of the bed to take off his boots.

And told her all.

Propped against the pillows, she listened with her customary concentration. It was a heady realization that, when he spoke with her, even of mundane matters, he could be assured of having her complete attention-that he commanded it.

He’d never wanted any other woman’s attention, but he savored hers.

He left her chewing on his problem for tomorrow-what to do with the various seamen, young and old, who’d formed the notion of haunting the inn in the hopes of engaging with any cultists-heathens-who happened to drop by.

Standing, he shrugged out of his coat. “They’re going to get under the Perrots’ feet, and although I’m happy to supply them with ale, they won’t be any use to us drunk.”

She frowned. After a moment, she said, “They’re all sailors, aren’t they?” When, free of his shirt, he nodded, she drew in a breath, hauled her gaze up to his face, stared for a moment, then blinked, and said, “They won’t be used to drilling. Or shooting muskets. Or…any of the things your troop sergeants would normally school your men in.”

Hands at his waistband, he raised his brows, considering.

“You have Mooktu and Bister, and Mullins, too-they could help you…” Her words faded as he tossed his breeches on a chair, then reached for the covers.

Emily shifted, swallowed, whispered as she reached for him, “But that’s tomorrow.”

Tonight, he was hers.

He came to her, sliding into her arms, and something within her rejoiced.

His lips found hers and she kissed him, and let all the concerns of the day flow away. Just let them go.

Let the here and now have her, gave herself over to the reassurance and comfort, the warmth and strength of him as he surrounded her, as he stroked, caressed, and she returned the pleasure.

Hands traced, fingers wandered, palms shaped.

Excitement sparked. Need bloomed, burgeoned, and grew.

The fire that ignited, the flames that leapt, then roared, were familiar and welcome.

She opened her arms and embraced them, and him, took him into her body, let him fill her, and her heart, let the beat escalate and passion pour through him and her, and sweep them on.

Until desire gripped, and she clung, and he held her and thrust over and over until they both shuddered and she cried his name.

Ecstasy rushed in like a wave, and washed them to that distant shore where bliss spread, golden and molten, through them, over them, enfolded them.

No matter the challenges, no matter what was to come, this they had-this was already theirs.

Satiation dragged her down and she sank into slumber, at peace in the here and now.

No matter the danger, no matter the risk, he would yet be hers, and she forever would be his.