The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  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

  Dear Diary,

  I fear that in the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I am in danger of becoming quite wanton. I kissed him again, in the middle of the day, on the stern deck, in full view of anyone who might have been watching. I’m not sure anyone was, but I was in such a temper that I strode off before checking.

  My temper, of course, was all his fault. He admitted he commenced our journey thinking of me as a charge—a burden to be borne. No doubt out of honor. Huh! I refuse to be cast in such a light—to have him view me in such a patronizing way—but after recent events, he is, it seems, adjusting his perspective. Just as well. Him being my “one” necessitates his seeing me as the lady with whom he wishes to spend the rest of his life.

  Which was in large part the reason I kissed him again—to assist in rescripting his view. And for that I cannot be sorry. My next step, clearly, is to get him to kiss me back. I did hope, for a moment, but he patently needs further encouragement to step over that line.

  I am now adamant about pursuing him further. No one would expect me to desist given he is shaping up so well. With every day that passes, I grow more convinced—everything I see in him is laudable and attractive…well, except for his tendency to assume absolute command. And his continuing reticence over allowing himself to respond to me. I know he is not immune to the attraction that flares between us.

  Sadly, no further opportunity to advance my cause presented itself yesterday. After stealing that second kiss, I did not feel I could initiate another, not without risking his seeing me as fast. Today is unlikely to offer any new chance to go forward, but tomorrow Captain Ayabad says we will be putting in at Suakin. We will be spending the day there, on dry land, which might well result in further opportunities.

  We shall see.


  E.

  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.