The Elusive Bride

Four

8th October, 1822

Afternoon

The deck of our schooner on the Red Sea

Late that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily stepped out of the companionway onto the stern deck. Straightening, she paused to flick the silk out and over her shoulders. After a glance around the immediate area-empty of all life-she set off to indulge in a late stroll.

And if by chance she ran into Gareth Hamilton, she fully intended to encourage him to take advantage of the cover of night and, so to speak, her. At least to take her hand, kiss her fingers-kiss her lips if he would. She’d done with observations and cogitations, considered as far as she could, and had yet to discover any trait or behavior incompatible with his being her “one.”

Physical attraction and interaction seemed the obvious next step. Courtship of a sort, although as yet unstated. How could she assess if they were compatible on that level without actually testing it? Her sisters maintained it was essential to ensure one wasn’t dealing with a frog-the sort who remained a frog, regardless.

The evening had turned balmy. The schooner was sliding through the black water under light sail, the breeze that had whisked them along for the past days having faded to a mere breath. The moon was young, shedding only a pale glow, but there were lanterns placed all around the railings, shining down onto the deck; Emily walked confidently toward the prow.

She’d just drawn level with the middle-mast when a shift in the air behind her had her turning.

A dark, dripping head, a mahogany face with wild, staring eyes, a long lanky body, bare but for a sodden loincloth, materialized out of the darkness. Teeth flashed in a wicked grin. One hand rose, a wicked blade gleaming in the moonlight.

She screamed, loud and long as she whirled and fled.

The man lunged and seized. His fingers caught her shawl.

She let it fall and fled on.

Only to see more cultists step out from the shadows by the railings ahead. She skidded to a halt. They smiled, and hefting knives in anticipation, came on.

“Here-take my hand!”

She looked up. Saw a crouched shadow silhouetted against the sky-but she knew his voice, knew him. She reached with both hands, gripped the hand he was stretching down to her.

He rose and pulled her straight up, swinging her onto the rear of the roof of the forward cabin beside him.

The cultists howled, and flung themselves after her.

Gareth released her the instant her feet touched the roof.

As she whirled to face the threat, his saber flashed-a wild swing that had the cultists ducking.

But they immediately popped up again, and, blades waving, scrambled to gain the higher ground.

With thrust and slash, Gareth beat them back.

Then someone leapt onto the roof behind them. She whirled, but it was Mooktu, coming to his master’s aid.

She stepped back a little to give them both room, but kept a hand locked in the back of Gareth’s robes-enough to keep her anchored, not enough to impede him.

The cultists surged forward and up, more appearing, crowding the deck below Gareth and Mooktu, trying to tempt them forward, arms reaching, hands grasping to pull them down.

Twin bangs rent the night-both companionway doors slamming open. Feet pounded the deck as sailors poured from the fore and aft stairways. Emily glimpsed Mullins and Bister leading the charge from the stern.

The majority of the cultists didn’t spare the newcomers a glance. Eyes fixed on Gareth, they desperately tried to reach him…and her.

Through the wildly shifting shadows, she saw one darker apparition separate from the mass, slipping around the grappling, wrestling men. His gaze fixed on Gareth’s back, the cultist wove silently nearer.

A quick glance showed Gareth was fully occupied with the enemies before him. The cultist ignored her, his attention locked on the more dangerous opponent as he slipped into the shadows beneath the edge of the cabin’s roof.

He’d be up in a second.

Her heart in her throat, Emily glanced about-and saw a metal pail hooked to the jib arm. With her free hand she grabbed it, realized from the weight that it was half full of sand.

Just as a dark hand, followed by a dark arm and shoulder, came over the edge of the cabin roof.

She didn’t stop to think, just swung the pail the opposite way, then, as the cultist’s head cleared the roof’s edge, swung the pail back with all her might.

The solid thunk of the pail sent the cultist reeling. He tumbled back off the roof. Two sailors saw him and pounced.

Emily teetered, almost lost her balance and joined the bloody melee below; her hold on Gareth’s robes pulled her back.

He’d glanced around at the first tug, seen, grabbed his robes, and pulled. His gaze met hers. Then he turned back to hacking at the desperate cultists.

And desperate they were. They wouldn’t retreat. Wouldn’t give up.

In the end, they were all slain and their bodies tipped overboard.

Gareth didn’t stand down until the last body splashed into the water. Even then, he waited until Bister checked, with Mullins doing one last circuit of the deck before signaling that all was clear.

He straightened, easing the fingers cramped about the hilt of his saber. His and Mooktu’s new robes were liberally bloodied. A quick check confirmed none of it was theirs.

Only then, with the grip of battle fading, did he look at Emily.

She was still standing on the roof alongside him, watching the activity on the deck below. Her arms were tightly folded, hands gripping her elbows as if she were cold. Shock, yes, but not hysterics, for which small mercy he was grateful.

For the much greater mercy that she was still alive, he metaphorically went down on his knees and gave thanks.

He’d known she was up on deck. He’d heard her footsteps. He’d started circling, on the opposite side as she, avoiding her as he had whenever possible over the last days.

Her scream had put paid to that.

It had ripped through the night, and ripped through him. His heart had stopped, then started pounding so hard he’d been sure the cultists would hear and see him as he climbed up and over the roof.

But she was still alive; she didn’t appear to have taken any wound.

And she’d very effectively covered his back, which was the last thing he’d expected.

He was sincerely grateful for that, too.

The deck below was clearing. Mooktu grunted, then dropped down off the roof and strode away to reassure Arnia, who had appeared at the stern.

With his free hand, Gareth touched Emily’s slender back. “Come. I’ll lift you down.”

He dropped down to the less bloodied side of the deck, then, setting aside his saber, turned to her, reached up, set his hands about her waist and gripped.

And swung her down.

Felt his heart pound just a little harder as he set her on her feet before him. As he looked into the face that haunted his dreams. Chest swelling, he had to force his hands to ease their grip and let go.

Bister unwittingly helped, coming up to take his saber to clean it.

He’d just handed it over when Captain Ayabad turned from giving orders to have the decks sluiced and swabbed.

Gareth spoke before the captain could. “I’ll have four of my men help scour the decks tomorrow.”

Ayabad inclined his head. “And while they are doing that, I think, Major, that you and I will have a talk. There are things I don’t know that it appears I need to know.”

Gareth nodded curtly. “In the morning, we’ll talk.”

“Bon.” Ayabad, tall, dark, of similar age to Gareth, again inclined his head, then his teeth flashed as he turned to Emily. “I must thank you, mam’zelle, for an entertaining evening.”

Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”

Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel-flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.

By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.

Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.

He turned to her just as she looked up at him.

Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up on her toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.

His instincts surged, purred, reached-

Ruthlessly he slapped them down.

It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…

Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.

His hungry, starving lips.

He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.

To taste, then claim, then devour.

Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…

Her lips lingered.

Then, on a sigh, she drew back.

As her heels touched the deck, he straightened-reluctantly. Disappointedly.

Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.

“Thank you, Major.”

He forced his gaze up to her eyes.

They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”

He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.

He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.

It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.

Not to her.

He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in the opposite direction. There was nothing between them-he’d be a fool to think there was.

This-whatever it was-was all in his mind.

10th October, 1822

Very early morning

In my cabin in the schooner, bobbing on the Red Sea

The next morning, as he’d promised, Gareth went to speak with the captain.

In order to give himself every advantage in the negotiations that were sure to ensue, he took Emily with him.

He tapped on the captain’s cabin door, and when Ayabad bade them enter, opened the door and ushered Emily, fetchingly dressed in a flimsy spring green gown, over the threshold.

Ayabad came to his feet in a rush, then hurried to hold a chair for Emily, who returned his greeting coolly and sat.

Drawing up a second chair, Gareth sat alongside her.

She’d been as pleased as punch when he’d asked her to accompany him; he was growing adept at reading her expressions. Of course, she didn’t comprehend exactly why he’d requested her presence, but he saw no harm in allowing her to imagine he needed her counsel, and distracting Ayabad was, he judged, a strategically wise move.

“Now, Major.” Ayabad resumed his seat behind the small desk. “Perhaps you will be so good as to explain the interests of those who attacked this ship last night, and whether it is likely we will encounter more of their ilk on this voyage.”

Having already decided what to reveal, Gareth smoothly explained the basis of the Black Cobra cult, and the cultists’ interest in Emily as the one who had bravely brought critical evidence to the authorities.

Ayabad was suitably impressed and intrigued. He exclaimed at the tale of Emily’s ride from Poona and asked various questions, which Emily answered with just the right degree of feminine self-effacement.

By the simple expedient of not mentioning the copy of the letter he was carrying, Gareth’s tale, supported by Emily, left Ayabad with the impression that Gareth was acting as Emily’s escort on her journey home to England, because the Black Cobra was expected to seek revenge through attacks such as the one the previous night.

After that, it took little to convince Ayabad that he should support them by continuing to ferry them north to Suez, beating off any cult attacks along the way. Gareth was a shrewd judge of men like the captain; Ayabad and his sailors were only too ready to enliven their lives by joining in a good fight. There was, of course, a fee to be paid. He and Ayabad haggled over the additional sum.

A glance at Emily showed she was horrified-whether by the amount or simply the fact of the extra sum, he couldn’t tell-but to his relief she remained silent, although he, certainly, felt her disapproval.

Emily was indeed incensed, but as Gareth seemed to think nothing of either the captain’s demand, or of the-to her quite horrendous-sums being bandied about, she felt she had to hold her tongue.

Which left her time to note that, given said sums, Gareth Hamilton was no pauper. She hadn’t thought of the expenses he’d been meeting, but the briefest of considerations confirmed he must command resources well beyond that of the average army major. Then again, she’d heard plenty of tales of the wealth accummulated by those in the employ of the East India Company, and Gareth had told her that he and his fellow officers had been, in his words, “Hastings’s own.”

His wealth therefore would not derive from his army stipend alone.

His affluence or otherwise made little difference to her-if he proved to be her “one,” she would marry him regardless-but his relative wealth would certainly help in securing her parents’ approval of the match.

She brought her attention back to the captain’s cabin to discover he and Gareth were shaking hands.

Both were smiling identical smiles.

They both looked like pirates.

She rose as Gareth did, and they took their leave of the captain, who bowed very prettily over her hand. She made a mental note to be sure to do nothing to encourage Ayabad. She judged him a womanizer, undoubtedly with a woman in every port on the Red Sea.

When the door had closed behind them, Gareth smiled at her. “Excellent.” He waved her to the companionway.

She preceded him up the stairs. He fell in beside her as they strolled down the deck.

“That went well.” Gareth glanced at her face. “I wanted to avoid mentioning my mission, and you were a great help in that.” He looked ahead, matching her step for step as they neared the stern. “You behaved in just the right way to evoke Ayabad’s chivalrous streak. I felt sure he had one. He’s an honorable man, which is why I hired him in Mocha.”

She halted by the stern railings, gripping them and staring out over their wake.

Halting beside her, he glanced back along the length of the schooner. The decks had been scoured first thing that morning; there was no sign remaining of the night’s battle. His lips twisted. “I should upbraid you for strolling the deck alone last night, but everyone in our party is feeling rather better for having weathered the attack we all knew would come. We took a few cuts and bruises, but no one sustained any serious injury.”

He paused, recalling-vividly-that moment when, looking down from the roof, he’d seen the cultists closing in on her, seen her helplessness, understood her peril…but he’d been there, and had rescued her, for which she’d been duly appreciative.

And in the midst of the melee, she’d rescued him. He glanced at her, but she was still looking out over the waves. “I haven’t yet thanked you for your assistance last night. Indeed, to commend you on your quick thinking and levelheadedness. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have been seriously wounded.”

Or killed, Emily thought, as she swung to face him.

She caught his gaze. Expectantly waited. If he wanted to thank her, she’d shown him the way.

Her jaw had dropped, mentally if not physically, when he’d revealed his reasons for requesting her presence that morning. Every word he’d uttered since had only succeeded in prodding her temper to greater heights, but if he was going to redeem himself by thanking her appropriately, she was willing to overlook his arrogance.

So she waited.

His gaze traveled her face, returned to her eyes. “I…have to admit that when I suggested we join forces, I imagined myself taking responsibility for you much as a nursemaid with her charge, but you’ve already contributed in a positive way-many positive ways-to our joint party’s well-being, and deserve our, certainly my, thanks and gratitude.”

She waited. Waited.

He seemed to sense her expectation, but all he did was shift uneasily, then say, “I’m sure the others-”

Others? She gave up-threw up her hands on a sound of frustration, stepped closer and slapped her palms to his cheeks, hauled his face down, and pressed her lips to his.

Again. Harder this time.

More definitely, more confidently.

More evocatively.

Provocatively.

She felt the light scrape of his beard beneath her palms, felt again the hardness, the sculpted lines of his cheeks and the bones above them, traced the latter lightly with the tips of her fingers even while she registered, absorbed, and explored again the fascinating hardness of his lips with hers.

Again he didn’t return the kiss, but he did respond-she could sense it. She could all but feel the battle he waged to hold back, to keep the inch of separation between their bodies, to keep his arms from her, to keep his lips from seeking hers.

It was a battle he won-damn him!

Head starting to spin from lack of air, she was forced to draw back.

Gareth hauled in a breath the instant her lips left his, shackled his instincts in iron, nearly swayed with the effort it took.

He frowned down at her as her eyes searched his. “What was that for?”

Her eyes narrowed, golden flints sparking in the mossy green. “That was to shut you up. And to thank me for last night!”

With that, she spun on her heel and, skirts swishing angrily, stalked to the companionway.

Gareth watched her disappear down the steep stair.

Leaving him with the taste of her on his lips.

And thoroughly confused over what was going on.

11th October, 1822

Morning

My cabin on Captain Ayabad’s schooner

The next morning saw the schooner sliding over calm waters into the bay in which Suakin Island sat. Connected to the mainland by a causeway, the island itself remained the center of the bustling township. Indeed, as far as Emily could see, buildings covered the entire island, all the way to the waterline.

Their vessel circled to come into the docks. They passed craft of every conceivable type and style, but other than the heavy barges, off to one side, none were larger than the schooners.

Captain Ayabad joined her, Gareth, Dorcas, and Watson in the bow. “We must take on water and supplies, which will occupy most of the day, but I am keen to put out in mid-afternoon, to use the tide to carry us down the channel and back into the Red Sea. So if you are planning to go ashore, you must be back by then.”

Gareth nodded. He looked at Emily. “The market?”

“Yes. We need supplies, too.”

“The souk is roughly in the center of the island.” Ayabad pointed. “That is the Hanafi Mosque-if you go past it a little way, you will find the stalls.”

Gareth thanked him. By the time the schooner was made fast and the gangplank rolled out, their party was ready to depart. After some discussion, Gareth had agreed that Arnia and Dorcas had to see what was available in the souk for themselves. He’d attempted to suggest that Emily might stay on board-the implication was “safe”-but after being cooped up on the schooner for days, she wasn’t about to pass up the chance of stretching her legs.

Or of being present if the cultists attacked again.

In the end, their entire party, bar only Watson-who agreed to remain aboard and keep an eye on their possessions-went ashore. Walking through the narrow streets, which only got narrower beyond the mosque, Emily was very conscious of trying to look everywhere at once.

The others were the same. The last contact with the cultists was days past; none of them imagined they’d given up and gone home.

Once in the souk, the tension only grew. While Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia haggled over flour and dried meat, Gareth and Mooktu loomed beside them, their hard faces and menacing stances making it clear they were guards. Bister, Jimmy, and Mullins lurked nearby. Bister seemed to be educating Jimmy in how to merge with crowds, and how to find the best vantage point from which to keep watch.

Emily was glad when she could turn to Gareth and inform him that they’d completed their purchases.

He humphed, and signaled the others to form up for their journey back to the ship. No one suggested ambling around to take in the sights.

Gareth heaved an inward sigh of relief when the last of their party passed him on their way up the gangplank. He turned and followed. What they’d all hoped would be a few hours of relaxation had instead been filled with burgeoning tension.

It was now almost palpable, that expectation of attack.

Stepping onto the schooner’s deck, he paused to look back at the town. They hadn’t sighted a single cultist. That didn’t mean they hadn’t been there.

What troubled him more was that his instincts were pricking-not just a little, a lot.

The same instincts had kept him alive through a long career of often unpredictable fighting; he wasn’t about to discount them now. But according to Ayabad, their next stop would be Suez. Once they were away from here, they would have several days of yet more tension to prepare them for whatever welcome the Black Cobra had waiting for them there.

With an inward grimace, he turned and went to join the others in the stern.

Emily remained on deck with the others, watching Suakin Island slide away in their wake. The tide carried them swiftly down the channel linking the bay to the Red Sea proper. With the mouth of the channel in sight, and the wider waters of the Red Sea stretching beyond, she quit the railings and went below.

In the tiny cabin she had to herself, she sat on the edge of the bed built out from the curving outer wall, and pulled her leather-covered diary from her bag. Opening the clasp, she caught the small pencil before it could roll away. She spent a moment reading her last entry, then turned the page and smoothed it down. Pencil clutched in her fingers, she stared across the room, marshaling her thoughts, her impressions of the day.

With a sigh, she looked down and set pencil to paper.

“Hola!”

She looked up at the cry from somewhere on deck.

For one second all was still, then shouts and curses broke out-a rapidly escalating racket punctuated by the pounding of many feet.

Her diary went flying as she dashed to the door. As she hauled it open, the noise she dreaded hearing-the metallic clang and clashing slide of blades-joined the din.

Looking down the corridor, she saw Mullins disappearing up the stair, Watson behind him. Arnia and Dorcas stood at the bottom of the stairway, looking up. As Emily joined them, Arnia muttered something, then thrust a cooking knife into Dorcas’s hand. “Stupid to stay trapped down here when us being up there might tip the balance.”

With another, wicked-looking cook’s knife in her hand, Arnia climbed quickly up.

Dorcas glanced at Emily. “You’d better stay here.” With that, Dorcas went up the ladder.

An instant later, Emily stood looking up the steep stairway at blue sky-intermittently broken by a passing body.

She couldn’t tell anything from the shouts, grunts, and the thudding of feet. Couldn’t tell how many they were battling, or who was winning.

Dorcas was right-she had no weapon, so she couldn’t help. But…

She crept up the stairs. Standing one rung down, she peered out. All she could see was a shifting mass of bodies filling the stern. Taking the last step, clearing the companionway housing, she looked back along the schooner-everywhere she looked was the same.

Then she saw the ship that had slipped in close alongside. There were cultists on board. Every time the swell pushed the vessels close more jumped across onto the schooner’s deck.

Snapping her gaze back to the action around her, she realized Arnia was right-they would need every hand fighting to win this time.

Her assessment had taken less than a minute. Expecting to be noticed by some cultist at any second, she frantically looked around for something to use…and saw the trusty pail she’d wielded before. Avoiding a wrestling pair, she inched around, stretched out, and snagged the pail-just as a cultist focused on her.

Thin lips stretched in a vicious grin. Uttering a horrible yell, he flung himself through the melee at her.

She just had time to draw the pail back, then swing it forward-upward this time. It caught the cultist under the chin and lifted him off his feet, throwing him onto the backs of two other cultists. The three collapsed in a writhing heap. The sailors who’d been fighting the other two leapt on top.

Emily left them to it as she swung the other way-swung the pail again.

She knocked out another cultist, but…“Oh, no!”

Her fingers slid off the pail’s handle and it went flying into the melee.

She had to find something else. She’d rounded the stern housing. As she shrank back against the side, her heels stubbed against something. Looking down, she saw a long wooden pole.

Ducking down, she grabbed it and pulled it to her.

And discovered the pole was for dragging in sails-it had a wicked-looking brass hook on one end.

She rose with the pole held between her hands, as she’d seen her brothers do when they fought with staffs. The hook was heavy and weighed down that end. She juggled, found the balance-just as a cultist stepped away from a knot of shifting bodies and, grinning, came at her.

She stood her ground and flicked the hook end up. It caught the cultist in the throat and he halted, gurgling, then went down.

She felled two more, but of course they didn’t stay down, but then Bister popped up out of the melee and used his short sword to ensure they did.

Emily seized the moment to take in what was happening around them. The sailors were holding the rest of the ship, while their party were fighting mostly in the stern. Bodies-all cultists as far as she saw-were piling up. The throng was thinning, but four cultists still had Gareth and Mooktu backed against the stern railing. Jaw setting, she hefted her pole.

“No-wait!” Bister frantically signaled her to give him one end. “Like this.”

He crouched, held the pole low, waved with his other hand.

Emily saw what he meant. Holding her end, she crouched, too, and she and Bister swept in behind the four cultists.

The pole took them across the backs of their knees. With yells and flailing arms, they tumbled back-and Gareth and Mooktu sprang forward and finished them.

Emily was now behind Gareth, pressed up against the rails, with Bister in a similar position on the other side. Mooktu had seized the moment to leap forward and, sword slashing, win through to Arnia and Dorcas, who’d been fighting with Watson, Mullins, and Jimmy off to the side.

And still the cultists came on, hurling themselves forward, but the ranks behind were lessening. Further down the schooner, Emily glimpsed Captain Ayabad, sword swinging, a feral grin on his face, his massive Nubian first mate wielding a scimitar beside him.

The clang of swords at close quarters snapped her attention back to Gareth and Bister, who were furiously defending against another three cultists. Hauling her pole back up, she angled behind Gareth, picked her moment-and jabbed the nearest cultist in the throat.

He recoiled, and Gareth stepped forward to deal with him, allowing Emily to slip past behind him and engage one of the two cultists Bister now faced.

Her intervention allowed Bister to gain the upper hand, then Gareth joined in…and suddenly they were free.

But there were still writhing knots of men covering most of the deck.

Emily drew in a huge breath, looked to the side-then grabbed Gareth’s sleeve. “Look!”

She pointed to the cultists’ ship. It had drifted sufficiently so the gap between the vessels was just too great for men to leap across. On the other ship’s deck, a few dozen cultists yelled and shook their swords in their impatience to get aboard the schooner and fight, their attention locked on a number of their fellows, who were attempting to fling grappling hooks over the schooner’s rails.

Gareth swore, jammed his sword into his waistband, and grabbed Emily’s pole. “Come on.”

He leapt over bodies to the side railings. Leaving Bister, who had followed, to cut the ropes to the grapples that had successfully lodged over the schooner’s rails, Gareth half straddled the rails, set the end of the pole below the deck line of the cultists’ smaller vessel, and pushed.

Using all his weight, he managed to keep the smaller ship from getting any closer, but…“Mooktu! To me!”

A minute later, Mooktu appeared, looked, saw, then vanished.

A minute after that, he reappeared with a similar long pole, and set it to the other boat closer to the bow. And pushed, too.

Bister went to help Mooktu.

Emily grabbed Gareth as he nearly overbalanced. Sinking her hands in his robes, leaning back, she anchored him in place.

The cultists were all screaming, trying to find poles to knock theirs aside and pull the ships closer.

Gareth snapped a look over his shoulder. “Mullins! Jimmy!”

The pair had just fought free of their assailants.

“Get more sail on-quickly!”

Jimmy leapt up onto the stern housing. Mullins clambered up behind him. Together they managed to unfurl a small midship sail, then they hauled and tugged-and the topsail unfurled.

For one instant, the sails billowed, then they filled, grew taut.

The schooner leaned, then leapt forward.

The cultists on the smaller ship screamed in fury, then raced to let their own sails down. But the schooner was bigger and carried much more sail. As the smaller ship fell behind, Gareth turned his attention to the cultists left on board.

But seeing they were now on their own and couldn’t win, this time the cultists remaining dived overboard. Within minutes, all the fighting was over.

Captain Ayabad gave orders for more sail to be set. They’d come out of the narrow channel from Suakin on only the jib, which was how the other craft had been able to slide so close so easily.

Eventually Ayabad made his way to the stern, where Gareth and the others were all slumped, catching their breaths after disposing of all the bodies overboard.

Ayabad nodded to Gareth, bowed to Emily. “My apologies. I should have been more aware, but I did not think these vermin would attempt to board like that.”

Gareth grimaced. “Neither did I.” He glanced at the exhausted members of their group. “A few cuts, some bruises and knocks, but we took no lasting damage.” He looked at Ayabad. “Your men?”

“Some injuries, but none life-threatening. These cultists-they are not well trained.”

“Most aren’t,” Gareth replied. “Those used as guards and assassins are, but the majority are farmers with knives in their hands.”

Ayabad nodded. “It shows. However, after this, if you have no objection, I am inclined to make for Suez by the fastest possible tack.”

Gareth nodded his agreement. “We’ve been lucky so far-no sense in inviting another attack.”

By evening the schooner’s decks were clean once more, with everything shipshape and as it should be as they cleaved through the shallow waves under full sail, running before an increasingly stiff breeze.

After tending the injuries of their own small company-a number of slashes and two deep cuts-Emily had gone with Arnia and Dorcas to offer their potions and salves to Captain Ayabad and his crew. The sailors were happy enough to have more gentle hands patching their hurts, but Emily gathered from their comments that, much like their captain, they’d enjoyed the battle.

After dinner, once the sun had set and night had wrapped the waters in velvet darkness, she went up to the stern deck. Given their speed, she doubted there was any lingering danger. Leaning on the stern railings, she stared out into the night.

As she’d hoped, Gareth joined her.

She heard his footsteps before she sensed his large body beside her.

He leaned on the railings, much as she was doing, looking out over the rippling water of their wake. “It’s a lovely night-so peaceful. Who would have thought that just hours ago this deck was a battlefield?”

She glanced at him. The light of the moon reflected off the water, sending shadows to dapple his face. “That’s life, isn’t it? The battle and the triumph?”

His lips curved. He inclined his head fractionally. “This time, our injuries were minor, so I suppose the triumph is ours to enjoy.”

“Do you think, after today, that we’ll reach Suez without further incident?”

He glanced back and up at the sails. “Given our speed, with luck, we might. Those we left behind will have to report back to someone. The general cultists operate under the orders of more senior members, and I doubt there were any of those more senior men on that ship. So I don’t think we need to worry about being chased. However…” After a moment, he went on, “We have to assume there’ll be cultists keeping a watch in Suez-not specifically for us but for any of the four of us who might pass through there. It’s one of the major staging points on various routes back to England.”

She nodded. “So once we reach Suez, we’ll need to be on guard again.” She glanced at him. “How do you plan to travel on from there?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Gareth saw no reason to explain that, until he’d had to take her and her party under his wing, his mission had had a somewhat different tone. Then, he’d intended to act as an open decoy and draw as many cultists after him as he could. With Mooktu, Bister, and Arnia all capable of looking after themselves, he wouldn’t have had to worry unduly about the danger.

Having her with him changed all that.

He straightened from the railing. “I’ll have to call in a few favors, and work out the best route and manner of transport to ensure we evade the cultists’ notice. Suez will also be the last city in which we can be sure of getting suitable supplies this side of Marseilles, so we’ll need to attend to that, too.”

“All without being seen by the cult?”

“Indeed. And speaking of the cult…” He met her eyes, then grimaced. “While I should disapprove mightily of your coming up on deck in the middle of a fight, I can’t be such a hypocrite.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then her lips curved. She looked out over the water again. “Arnia said something about how foolish it was for women to cower and hope their men won, if the women’s presence in the fight might tip the scales and ensure it. I’ve decided I agree with her. Her philosophy might not apply to battlefields and army engagements, but with the sort of skirmishes we’re having to face, she has a valid point.”

No matter how much he recoiled from the notion, not addressing the issue might be worse. She’d managed today, and in the earlier fight, but finding impromptu weapons was relying on sheer luck-which next time might fail.

Quelling his instinctive reaction, he asked, “You don’t know much about weapons, do you?”

Her smile broadened; she cast him a quick glance. “I know a sword has a pointy end, and usually only one sharp edge.”

He snorted. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Bister is very good with knives, and so is Arnia. I’ll ask them to give you lessons, and find you a knife or two of your own. As you say, given what we have to face, it’s better that you shouldn’t be defenseless.”

She’d swung to face him as he spoke. Now she straightened from the railings. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her expression; it held something more than gracious delight.

“Thank you.” Her lips were lusciously curved. Her eyes seemed to softly glow.

Her movement had brought her close. She stood less than a foot away.

For a moment, they stood locked in each other’s eyes. He could have sworn the moon, the earth, and the heavens stood still. That there was no other reality beyond the pair of them standing in the soft darkness, with the breeze sending loose tendrils of her hair streaming, and plastering her gown to her svelte frame.

He caught himself as his hands rose, but he couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t. She’d kissed him to thank him-he could do the same in reverse.

Then his hands settled around the delicate curves of her face, his hard palms cradling the fine skin of her cheeks, brushing the fragile bones of her jaw as he tipped her face up to his.

He bent his head. “Thank you for today-for saving me.”

She lifted her lips, and they brushed his. But this time it was he who kissed her, who pressed his lips to hers-gently, slowly, achingly carefully.

She didn’t back away. He felt her hand rise and cup the back of one of his, anchoring her, him-them.

Accepting.

Urging.

He angled his head, and pressed just a little harder, persuaded-when her lips parted, he teased them further, then, still riding his instincts hard, reining them in, he entered, slowly, deliberately, but definitely.

When she made no demur, he pressed deeper, and laid claim.

And something flared.

She moved into him, sending a shocking wash of heat cascading through him. Her lips moved beneath his, drawing him deeper, returning the caress.

And desire was suddenly there, unfurling within him-and her.

Familiar, yet not. More specific, more aware.

He couldn’t mistake it, not in him, or in her.

Unexpected, yet beguiling, appealing, enticing. For long moments he did nothing more than savor the taste, the heady drug of having a willing woman in his arms.

What with one thing and another, this mission, the Black Cobra, it had been some time since he’d last sipped from desire’s cup, but not even that pleasure, and the promise of more, could dim his mind to the reality of which woman he was holding.

Yet the warmth remained, the promise remained-undimmed.

He wasn’t sure what this was-where they were heading. There could be no easy roll in some hammock-not for him, not with her.

This, whatever it was, was different. That much he knew, but what next…that was shrouded in mystery.

He drew back-he had to, for he didn’t know what came next. Not here and now, not with her.

He didn’t even know if she knew what he did-if she recognized the tug of burgeoning desire and understood where it would lead. If they went on, if they blindly followed the road their feet were now treading.

So he eased back from the kiss, reluctantly-so reluctantly-drew his lips from hers.

Looked down into her face as her lashes fluttered, then rose. Looked into her eyes, and saw…

Nothing beyond soft delight.

Her lips, sheening from the kiss, lightly curved.

Her hand fell from his. He released her face and she stepped back.

Still smiling that soft, elusive smile.

“Good night, Gareth.”

He heard, but said nothing.

Could do nothing but watch-trusted himself to do nothing more than watch-as she turned and unhurriedly walked to the companionway, then went down.

He heard her footsteps travel the lower corridor, heard her door open, then close.

Only then did he fill his lungs, breathing deeply and long. Then he turned and leaned on the railings again, and stared out at the moonlit water rippling in their wake.