The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  All of this, of course, is contingent on the cult not locating us in our bolt-hole here. They will, presumably, now know that we are going about disguised, but there are rather a lot of people in Arab clothing in Alexandria.

  We shall see, but the number of times I have written the word “unlikely” above does not, to my mind, bode well.

  E.

  The next day, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, guarded by Mullins, Bister, and Mooktu, went to the souk for the supplies they would need on their journey to Tunis. Given they’d seen the cultists in the souk the day before, they felt it was better—potentially safer—to go that day rather than the next.

  They accomplished their mission without sighting any cultists, and returned through the crowds thronging the midday streets.

  They were just yards from the guesthouse when Dorcas, stepping around a hole in the road, collided with an Arab man going in the opposite direction.

  “Oh! I’m sorry.” Luckily both kept their feet. Regaining her balance, bobbing her burka-covered head apologetically at the man, Dorcas hurried to catch up with Emily.

  Who, alerted by the words, halted and turned.

  In time to see the man whirl, stare, then snarl and lunge for Dorcas.

  Emily grabbed Dorcas and yanked her away from the man—a cultist! She could see the black head scarf beneath the hood of the Arab-style cloak he wore.

  She also saw the knife in his hand, saw the blood—Dorcas’s blood—staining it. Saw him change his grip and draw back his arm. “Mooktu!”

  The big Pashtun was already there. He closed with the man—just as two more robe-draped cultists materialized out of the crowd.

  Arnia appeared by Emily’s shoulder. “Go! Take her inside. She has been cut.”

  When Emily glanced back at the melee forming, with Bister and Mullins engaging the other two cultists, Arnia grabbed her and pushed her toward the guesthouse gate. “Leave this to us.” A wicked-looking knife appeared in Arnia’s fist. “Go!”

  Emily turned and went, pulling Dorcas with her. Her maid was shaking, but after gulping in air, got her feet moving.

  They were almost at the gate when it was wrenched open. Gareth raced out, followed by Jimmy and Watson.

  Gareth saw her, paused to grasp her arm.

  “We’re all right.” Emily tipped her head at the knot of wrestling bodies. “Three cultists, at least.”

  Gareth nodded and went, the other two at his back.

  Emily bundled Dorcas into the house, then sat her at the table in the front room.

  And saw Gareth’s sword lying on the tabletop.

  “Stay there,” she ordered Dorcas. “I’ll be back.”

  Swiping up the sword, feeling the weight drag but determined to use it if need be, she hurried back to the gate.

  Before she reached it, Arnia opened it and came quickly in, followed by Watson and Jimmy, carrying, amazingly, the supplies the other men had dropped.

  Bister followed a moment later with the last bag.

  He saw Emily, saw the sword in her hand. “Here—you take this and give me that.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, “He won’t want you out there, not now.”

  She could see the sense in that. She took the bag and handed him the sword. “What’s happening?”

  Bister met her eyes, hesitated, then said, “The three of them are dead. We have to do a cleanup, quick, before any of their friends come looking for them.” He hefted the sword. “I’ll take this just in case.” With a nod, he turned and went, closing the gate after him.

  Emily stared at the gate for a moment, then turned and briskly waved the others on. “Let’s get inside, and get things sorted.”

  That’s all she could do—keep on keeping on, and get the things done that needed to be done.

  Gareth returned half an hour later to find Emily ministering to a very shaken, almost hysterical Dorcas.

  The maid, her complexion pasty white, was seated at the table, with Emily crouched beside her, carefully dressing a long gash on the back of Dorcas’s forearm.

  Entering quietly, Gareth heard Emily soothingly murmur, “Truly—you’ll see. It’ll be perfectly all right. It was just a piece of sheer bad luck that the man who bumped into you was one of the cultists—if he hadn’t been, your slip of the tongue wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s hardly your fault he wasn’t paying attention and ran into you.”

  They heard his footsteps. Both turned. Emily stared up at him. “Is it all right?”

  She might have been doing her best to soothe her maid, but her eyes were wide, with a species of shock in the mossy depths.

  Gareth let himself down into the chair at the head of the table. “They’re dead—they won’t be reporting to anyone that we’re here.” Looking at her, knowing how close they’d come to disaster, the best he could do by way of reassurance was to explain, “We found a covered channel not far away. We hid the bodies there. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins are scouting around, keeping an eye on things. They’ll be in as soon as it gets dark.”

  Emily gazed at him for a moment, then, smile brightening, she turned back to Dorcas and briskly patted her arm. “See? It’s all taken care of.”

  4th November, 1822

  Before dinner

  My room in the guesthouse

  Dear Diary,

  There is little to report beyond the tension that rides us all. Alexandria may be a city of fabled antiquity, yet I have seen very little of it. Since our expedition to the souk yesterday, we have remained virtually cloistered in the guesthouse, with two guards on the roof at all times.

  Only Gareth and Mooktu go out, and always they go together, patrolling the surrounding areas for any signs of cultists assembling for an attack. So far, there has been no alarm, but they have seen far too many cultists slipping through the crowds to allow any of us to relax.

  In such a fraught atmosphere, further exploring the evolving connection between Gareth and myself has been impossible. I haven’t asked, but I hope a xebec is a reasonable-sized craft, one that will afford us a modicum of privacy in which to further our as yet undeclared courtship.

  Until we are free of Alexandria, there is nothing I can do but wait.

  E.

  They left the guesthouse at dawn, and quietly made their way through silent streets to the docks. Mullins had had the bright idea to exchange their trunks—solid English trunks—for simple wooden ones, also solid but clearly Arabian, that Jemal had lying in his storeroom. They’d all seen the value in that, and had subsequently worked diligently to eradicate any hint of the English, even of the European, from their collective appearance. The party that arrived that morning at the docks, already bustling with ships preparing to leave on the morning tide, was utterly indistinguishable from the many others waiting to board.

  Gareth, head swathed in the typical head scarf, which, happily, largely obscured his features, led them down the docks with a long-legged, unhurried stride. His attitude conveyed the impression that he owned a small Arab kingdom somewhere.

  The rest of them followed in their customary order. When Gareth paused at the foot of a gangplank, looked up at the ship, then hailed the captain by name, Emily turned her head quickly, took in the vessel—and only just managed to stifle her groan.

  A xebec was smaller than a schooner.

  And piled with goods.

  Where the devil were they all going to fit?

  The question continued to resound in her head as the captain formally welcomed Gareth aboard, then beckoned the rest of them up onto the deck.

  There, Emily’s frustrated suppositions were confirmed. The three burka-enveloped women were quickly conducted belowdecks—to a single cabin in the stern, with three hammocks strung in the small space.

  Their luggage followed them in short order. Once that was set on the floor, leaving them just room enough to walk from door to hammock to small porthole, and the door had shut, Emily fought her way free of her burka, and, with unrestricted vision, looked around again. Bu
t…“There’s not even anywhere to sit!”

  Men! The word, loaded with fulminating frustration, echoed in her head. Dorcas frowned, Arnia muttered. Emily didn’t even have room enough to pace.

  The ship rocked. Emily caught hold of the door frame, then, realizing the vessel was definitely putting out, used the hammocks for balance to cross to the porthole. Peering out, she saw the docks receding—quickly. “At least this thing seems to go quite fast.”

  She, Dorcas and Arnia were under strict orders to remain belowdecks to reduce the chance of their party being recognized by the cultists certain to be watching from the twin headlands of the large harbor.

  Once the xebec gained clearer water further out in the bay, the captain must have put on more sail, for it positively leapt forward.

  By the time they were passing between the headlands, the hull was all but flying over the waves. But then they met the Mediterranean proper, and the deeper swells slowed the craft.

  From the porthole in the stern, Emily had an excellent view of both headlands as the xebec slipped through, finally free of the harbor’s mouth.

  She had an excellent view of the cultists on each point.

  A perfectly clear view of the spyglass one was holding, trained on the xebec’s deck.

  She saw that cultist turn and say something to another. Saw the second cultist grab the spyglass and look through, then nod excitedly. After one more look, both turned and ran…she couldn’t see where.

  But she’d swear they’d been smiling.

  Once the headlands faded into the early-morning sea mist, she quit the cabin and made her way onto the deck.

  She found Gareth leaning on the railing to one side. She leaned beside him. “Did you see them on the headland?”

  He nodded, glanced at her, met her eyes. “It wasn’t possible for us all to get below. With the added weight, some of us needed to help the sailors.”

  She looked out across the waves, toward where, a long way ahead, she imagined Europe lay. “I can’t be sure, but I think they saw us.”

  After a moment, he lifted a hand, placed it over hers on the rail. Gently squeezed. “They did—I think we must assume that. But they didn’t see which direction we took. The captain stayed on an uninformative course until we were out of sight.”

  Emily stayed where she was, digesting that information and its implications. Absorbing the warmth of his large hand covering hers. “So they’ll know we left, and that we’re on some xebec, but, with any luck, they’ll search for us—”

  “In every direction but the one in which we’re going.”

  She nodded, reassured, but stayed where she was, content enough in that moment.

  In the house opposite the British consulate, Uncle paced incessantly. “This is unacceptable! We are hunting these people—how is it then that three more of your number have disappeared?” His tone demanded an answer, an answer the cowed men abased before him could not give. “Have they deserted our cause? No! How could that be when they know the vengeance the Black Cobra will take? How our revered leader will strike, and maim, and torture until they scream—”

  He broke off as his new lieutenant, Akbar, came striding in.

  Akbar made obeisance, then straightened and reported, “They were seen—the major and his party—on a fast vessel leaving the harbor an hour ago.”

  Uncle was silent. Silent for so long those abased before him started trembling even more than when he’d been berating them. The silence stretched as Uncle hauled his formidable temper back under control. Finally he drew breath, and, fighting not to grind his teeth, quietly asked, “And where is this vessel sailing to?”

  Akbar’s lashes flickered. “The men do not know. It wasn’t possible to tell which heading they took before the sea mist swallowed them.”

  Uncle drew in an even longer, tighter breath. Slowly exhaling, he said, “I suggest you set inquiries in train. There are only so many ships that can have left this morning. Ask until you learn where that one was heading.”

  Akbar bowed low, then turned and left.

  Uncle looked down at the trembling men at his feet. “Get out.”

  They tripped over themselves obeying.

  Alone in the room, Uncle slowly wandered. Akbar was ambitious. He would do whatever was needed to extract the necessary information. “Not that it matters,” Uncle muttered. “We have men in every port—the Black Cobra has seen to that. The major and his woman will not escape.” His hands clenched, his lips slowly curved. “And I will personally ensure that the major suffers long and suitably for taking Muhlal from me.”

  Nine

  6th November, 1822

  Before dinner

  The cramped shared stern cabin on the xebec,

  somewhere in the Mediterranean, heading for Tunis

  Dear Diary,

  Contrary to my hopes, a xebec is a ship designed for trade, not for passengers. There is no privacy anywhere. Indeed, we women are lucky to have a cabin to ourselves. The men of our party are sharing with the crew.

  It is impossible to have a private conversation anywhere, let alone indulge in non-verbal communication. Add to that that there is nothing to see and less to do, and it is no wonder Dorcas, Arnia, and I are already bored beyond bearing. The men, on the other hand, appear to be merging with the crew—I even saw Watson getting sailing lessons. Gareth and the captain get on well. Exceptionally well. With Gareth striding about in a combination of robes and cavalry breeches and boots, his sword at his side, he, like the captain, looks like a buccaneer.

  Watching him striding about the deck is one of the few distractions available to me.

  E.

  10th November, 1822

  Before dinner

  On the xebec, in the tiny cabin

  Dear Diary,

  I have nothing to report. We have been sailing along at a rapid clip for the last five days without incident of any kind. Gareth’s ploy to lose the cultists in our escape from Alexandria appears to have succeeded—we have remained unmolested, even at night. There seems little reason to fear further attack, at least not on this leg of our journey. Gareth still posts pickets, and Bister and Jimmy spend a good portion of each day up on the main mast, but we have all largely relaxed our vigilance. The absence of the tension to which we’ve grown accustomed is now every bit as noticeable as the tension itself was.

  This should be a perfect opportunity for Gareth and myself to further explore the potential connection between us—I can hardly credit that we have not had a chance to address this burning issue since those few moments stolen between the Berbers’ tents!—but such personal interaction is utterly impossible under the interested noses of the crew.

  I have even tracked the crews’ movements to see if there is any time or place in which they are routinely absent, but no. It is beyond frustrating. If I thought it would do any good, I would tear out my hair.

  Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No further forward.

  E.

  11th November, 1822

  Before dinner

  Still on the blasted xebec

  Dear Diary,

  The captain must have heard my griping. Either that, or Gareth mentioned my threat to leap overboard if we are served fish for one more night. He—the captain—has in the last few minutes very cordially informed me that we are to make landfall—a halt for a whole day!—in Malta tomorrow. The ship must take on drinking water, and he hopes to trade some of the salt he is carrying. My spontaneous and heartfelt response was “Thank Heaven!” at which Captain Laboule grinned. Although he is a mussulman, it appears my words are nevertheless acceptable gratitude for divine intervention.

  But to have a whole day ashore! I am both relieved and filled with anticipation. Surely, Gareth and I will be able to find a suitable place, and sufficient time, to advance our mutual understanding.

  It strikes me that in exploring and mapping out our way forward together, we are undertaking another journey, one running parallel and superimposed upon our more ph
ysical journey to England.

  I look forward to tomorrow in hope and expectation.

  E.

  Although founded by the Knights of Malta centuries before, Valletta was currently under British rule, a fact Gareth hadn’t forgotten and took pains to impress on the other members of his party.

  Standing by the railing as the xebec slid smoothly through the waters of the Grand Harbor, the early morning sun glinting off ripples as the craft approached the quays lining the waterfront beneath the lowest bastions of the spectacularly fortified city, he glanced at the others flanking him. As per his orders, they were all in Arab dress. “We should avoid the area around the Governor’s Palace. We’ll almost certainly see plenty of soldiers in the streets, but they pose little threat—Ferrar’s influence is diplomatic, not military.”

  “But we’ll need to keep our eyes peeled for cultists,” Mullins said.

  Gareth nodded. “There will without doubt be cultists here, keeping watch, but it’s unlikely they’ll have yet been warned to look specifically for us—for a party of our size and composition—or that we might be disguised. As long as we do nothing to attract their attention, we should be able to slide beneath their notice.”