The Elusive Bride

Five

12th October, 1822

Very late night

My cabin in Ayabad’s schooner

16th October, 1822

Afternoon

My cabin on the schooner

19th October, 1822

Very early morning

Cabin on blasted schooner

They quit the docks as the sun rose above the eastern quarter of Suez, painting pale walls a glowing amber-pink. Gareth squinted at the buildings silhouetted against the morning sky, minarets and the domes of mosques underscoring that they walked in a foreign land.

Luckily, since the defeat of Bonaparte, this foreign land was increasingly falling under British sway.

Garbed in his Arab robes, he strode confidently forward, as if he belonged, as if he knew where he was going-which he did. He’d stopped in Suez on his way out to India. Walking into the square beyond the docks, he glanced back at the small procession trailing him-Mooktu by his shoulder, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia in their burkas a respectful pace behind, then Bister and Jimmy with the luggage, with Watson and Mullins bringing up the rear.

Facing forward, he led the way across the crowded square to the opening of a street that led, not to the diplomatic quarter, but into a quiet residential area. Halting beneath the awning of a shop that had yet to open, he waited until the three women, Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins drew near and halted, close enough to hear.

He hadn’t told them where he was taking them. He didn’t want any questions or protests along the way, nothing that might mar the image they were projecting. Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching, he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.

Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles-he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”

“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.

He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”

With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.

He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.

The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.

Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.

A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.

Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”

The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”

“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”

The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.

Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.

He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.

“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”

Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet-something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.

After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.

Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.

Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say-I must apologize. All these are local dishes-I didn’t think to order more English fare-”

“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”

“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”

“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”

While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.

Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.

She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’ brings you to my doorstep?”

When Gareth glanced at the door, Roger added, “They’ve all returned to the kitchens. There’s no one about to hear.”

Gareth nodded, and between mouthfuls of unusually spiced but delicious sustenance, he told Roger the whole tale, from Hastings’s directive to their need for the robes they had arrived on his doorstep in.

Roger was one of the few men in the world in whom he had sufficient confidence to entrust with the unvarnished truth. He’d known Roger since they were both pupils at Winchester Grammar School; neither had ever let the other down. While Gareth had gone into the army, Roger had opted for the diplomatic service, but they’d kept in touch, which was why Gareth had stopped at Suez on his way out to India.

As Gareth had expected, Roger grasped the implications of just who the Black Cobra was immediately.

Frowning, Roger pushed away his empty plate. “You can lie low here, of course-my staff are sound-but you’d be wise to keep your appearances in the streets to a minimum, and as far as possible avoid the area around the consulate.” He met Gareth’s eyes, then glanced at Emily. “I’ve seen a few turbans with unusual black silk bindings recently.”

“Cult members.” Emily’s eyes widened.

Gareth nodded. “I feared they’d be here, ahead of us, keeping watch.”

“That’s what they’re doing, all right. The only place I’ve seen them is in the streets around the consulate.”

“We’ve no reason to go into that area, but”-Gareth trapped Roger’s eyes-“you’ll need to be careful, too. Someone at the consulate might remember our connection from when I was here six years ago.”

Roger pulled a face. “Possible, but unlikely, but I will take care to ensure I’m not followed, not back here, and not to where I suspect I’ll have to go to arrange your transport onward.”

“Speaking of which.” Gareth picked up the last of the flat bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “I don’t think we should go via Cairo.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest it. I imagine if we have some of these cultists here, then Cairo will be swarming with them. Far better if you leave that wasps’ nest alone, and head straight to Alexandria.”

“Is it possible to do that?” When he’d come the other way, he’d traveled from Alexandria up the Nile to Cairo, then part by river, part overland, to Suez.

Roger nodded. “It’s straightforward enough, and”-he glanced at Emily-“given your entourage, it has the added benefit of being the last option anyone would expect you to take.”

Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”

Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they-the Berbers-unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.

Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them-those I’d trust-are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”

“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.

“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”

Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms-and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”

“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.

He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.

“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”

19th October, 1822

Before bed

In my room in Cathcart’s house in Suez

The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent-or even nonurgent-attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.

Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.

Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.

But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he-and maybe even she-would have ended distracted.

His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.

Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.

Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.

His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her-her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.

He shifted, and she looked up, met his eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought.

She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Just this and that.”

The faint color in her cheeks gave her away.

He should have asked who she was thinking of.

Him? Cathcart?

Or MacFarlane’s ghost?

It was suddenly imperative he know. Ever since he’d been unwise enough to kiss her on the schooner, he’d been plagued by questions-of what she thought, what she wanted, what was going through her mind. Of what was right, honorable, what was acceptable in the circumstances. Of just how much those circumstances were to blame for her apparent interest in engaging with him. Moving into the room, he stepped around the numerous floor cushions and low tables to the divan. “May I join you?”

“Of course.” She straightened amid the cushions, drawing her skirts in, in a clear invitation for him to sit there, close beside her.

He did. But divans weren’t designed for sitting formally. Emily wriggled her hips, curled her legs beneath her green skirts, shifting around to face him. He lounged among the cushions, arms spread across the colorful silks, one bent knee on the divan so he was angled toward her. “How have you enjoyed your trip thus far?”

She waved in a gesture that encompassed many things. “It’s been…enlightening, illuminating, and undeniably exciting.”

“I fear we won’t make it to the pyramids or the sphinx.”

“As that route would take us through Cairo, I don’t feel overly exercised by that. I would rather arrive in Alexandria alive, and not in the hands of the Black Cobra’s men.”

“Indeed.” He let a moment go by, then asked, “It must have been a shock to learn James had met his death at their hands.”

She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared. “MacFarlane?” She considered, then grimaced and met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, when he insisted on remaining behind like that, given the numbers, I would have been more surprised had he survived.”

“It was an immensely brave act.”

She inclined her head. “It was an act of great self-sacrifice-I acknowledge that. Had our roles been reversed, I doubt I could have done the same.”

Emily watched Gareth’s face, and wondered why he’d introduced the topic. “Your MacFarlane died a hero, but he is still dead, and those remaining alive have to go on living.” She tilted her head, feeling her way, her eyes locked on his. “Given my chances of continuing to live were significantly improved by his sacrifice, then the best way I can honor him, I feel, is to continue with my life-more, to live life to the full.”

With you.

Her heart was beating just a touch faster. They were alone. Although the others were in the house, no one was near. And he’d made the first move by coming to sit with her-surely a clear declaration of intent.

Expectation welled; she struggled not to jig, not to lean toward him and precipitate-initiate-matters herself.

His gaze lowered to her lips as if he could hear her thoughts, but then he snapped it back to her eyes. “Cathcart. You…he…”

Sudden comprehension burst, epiphanylike, across her mind. Was he-had he been-jealous? Was that what his surliness had been about?

She smiled conspiratorially. “I thought, given his efforts are so vital to our cause, that being charming would be wise.” She opened her eyes wide. “Do you think it helped?”

He searched her eyes, then his lips twitched. “Knowing Roger, probably.” He paused, eyes still on hers, then added as he raised one arm from the cushions and, slowly sitting forward, reached for her face, “He’s no more immune to being appreciated by a lovely lady…” His hand curved about her jaw and he drew her closer; fascinated, mesmerized by the temptation in his eyes, she leaned forward, closer still…until her lids fell, her gaze lowering to his lips in time to see the end of his sentence fall from them. “…than the rest of us.”

Her mind took in the implication. Her lips curved as they met his.

The contact set her heart leaping.

She parted her lips, surrendered her mouth gladly, welcomed him in, and quelled a telltale shudder. His lips were firm, resilient, dominatingly male; his tongue stroked, sensation burgeoned and spread.

She leaned in, sank in, to the kiss.

Felt him shift closer, felt his hand slide from her face. He reached around her, drew her to him, his arm banding her waist as she joyfully obliged.

Inching closer yet, she placed her hands on the white fabric covering his upper chest. Felt the hardness of the rock-solid muscles beneath her palms and rejoiced. Greatly daring, her lips locked with his, her tongue tentatively tangling with his, she leaned further, reached further, slid her hands up, over his shoulders, then on, until she could clasp his nape, until her fingers tangled in the soft locks of his hair.

She sighed through the kiss, exhilaration and expectation melding. He gathered her closer, then tipped slowly back, sinking deeper into the cushions, taking her with him.

He ended half reclining, with her above and alongside him. She felt his lips curve beneath hers, sensed his satisfaction as, holding her locked within one muscled arm, he raised his free hand, and caressed.

From the swell of one hip to her waist.

His hand lingered, anticipation building, the heat of his palm sinking through her gown to her flesh.

Than his hand moved again, from her waist upward to, with the lightest of whispering touches, stroke her breast.

The shiver that lanced through her tightened her nerves, made something within her clench…then release as his hand, hard palm and long, knowing fingers settled, cupped. Claimed.

Her fingers firmed, tightening on his skull as he played, as with his tongue and lips he distracted her, only to draw back and let the heat, the warmth, the enticing pleasure of his caresses fill her mind.

She was lost in sensation.

And so was he. Gareth was submerged in the subtle pleasure, his mind awash with tactile delight. It had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms and so unhurriedly pleased her and himself. And even sunk in the moment, he-all of him-knew this wasn’t just any woman. She was who she was-Emily-and that made the moment even more special.

Even more addictive.

Ever more enticing.

The minutes spun on. Delight swelled, grew.

She sank closer, pressing more definitely against him.

Hauling in a breath, he gave in to the building compulsion, closed his hand about the firm mound of her breast-felt his chest tighten as she gasped through the kiss. Her spine bowed slightly as he traced the firm curves, found her nipple, circled it, then closed his fingers about the turgid peak.

She arched into the caress, the movement pressing her flesh more firmly to his palm. He closed his hand again, kneaded, and felt her melt.

Heard her softly moan.

Heat and desire shafted through him, straight to his groin. Instinctively, he shifted to roll her beneath him-

Realized just in time.

Caught himself, stopped.

Halted, teetering on that invisible edge.

If he did-if he took that next step forward-what then?

He’d entered the room with questions. She’d answered some, but he was still unclear about what she truly wanted, let alone why.

She still left him confused, and not just about her.

He broke from the kiss-just as she did, gasping.

One look into her dazed eyes told him she was, suddenly, as uncertain as he.

That she had realized, too, just how far they had gone.

That she, like he, needed to think before they went further.

They stared at each other, gazes locked, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure either of them truly knew.

Their positions, the physical closeness, gradually impinged on their minds as they slowly returned to the here and now.

Muscles tensed-hers and his-and they started to sit up and move apart.

“I think they’re in the salon.”

Watson, heading toward them, with others in his wake.

When her courier-guide appeared in the archway, Emily was sitting primly upright on the divan, with Gareth standing before the nearby window, apparently looking out.

He turned as Watson halted, and arched a brow.

“Thought you’d like to know,” Watson said, “that Mullins and Jimmy spotted a band of cultists patrolling the streets not far from here.”

The bearded cultist known to all as Uncle sat by the pool in a small courtyard. “We know they are here, somewhere in this small city. So where are they?”

The quietly uttered words were loaded with silent menace.

The three cultists kneeling before the pool trembled. One gathered his courage and spoke to Uncle’s feet. “The watchers at the consulate have seen nothing. We are combing the streets, but with the high walls all these houses have…”

Uncle studied the speaker, a faint frown in his eyes. The silence stretched, then he nodded. “The major is proving a worthy opponent. You are right, Saleeb, there is little point wasting our effort searching the warren of these streets. Instead, we must surround the town with eyes and ears and wait for them to show themselves. They must head either north or west. Go out, my sons, and befriend the herdsmen, the nomads, and those others who gather outside the town walls. Recruit them to watch and listen for us-we have coins aplenty, thanks to the bountifulness of our esteemed leader.” Uncle held up a hand, palm up, at shoulder height. His own son quickly fetched a purse and placed it on the waiting hand.

Uncle hefted the pouch, then presented it to the kneeling man who had spoken. “Here-take this, and with it buy the information we need. Then when the major and his party try to leave, we will know.” He sat back. “Go.”

The three men rose and went, bowing from his presence as fast as they dared.

Leaving Uncle to mull over the vicissitudes of fate.

He’d ordered a night attack on the major’s boat, hoping to kill the woman at least, but she’d shrieked, and despite there being a goodly number of his cultists on the deck, the major and his party had prevailed.

But then a ship carrying a large number of cultists had reached him, sent on from Aden as he’d ordered. He’d sent them and their ship to attack the major’s ship as it had, necessarily slowly, eased out of the Suakin Channel. He’d been certain of success, had already started planning what means he would employ to break the major, only to see his men repulsed again, and their ship left wallowing in the faster schooner’s wake. He’d watched his failure unfold from the deck of another ship not far away-and cursed.

Who would have thought the captain and crew of the schooner would take up arms against his men?

In India, the cultists were not opposed by others. Others stood and watched as they wreaked their vengeance on any they chose. That was the way of things…but that did not seem to be so in this wider world.

He would need to allow for such strange behavior from now on. The major seemed adept at recruiting others to his cause.

“We will find them, Father.”

Uncle looked up at his son, let his lips curve. “Indeed, we will, my son.”

Failure was not an option.