The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  Six

  20th October, 1822

  Before dinner

  My room in Cathcart’s house

  Dear Diary,

  I am rushing to write this before dinner. Although I sat down with plenty of time, I stared into space for so many minutes that now I must hurry to get my thoughts down. I have further developments to report, having spent a sizable portion of the afternoon in Gareth’s arms while we explored the depth and potential of our mutual attraction. The result is as yet undecided, for when we called a halt, by mutual accord, I for one needed to think and cogitate—not having indulged in either activity throughout the time his lips were on mine.

  The truth is we have reached a point beyond which I cannot wisely go, not until and unless I am absolutely certain that Gareth Hamilton is my “one”—that one and only gentleman for whom I have waited for so long.

  What will make me certain, I do not know—just as I do not know what, on this dangerous journey of ours, tomorrow will bring. Our way forward is as yet unclear. Regardless, we must forge on to England, eluding cultists and all dangers the fiend throws in our path. In similar fashion I will grasp every opportunity to convince myself that Gareth is my “one,” but whether I will be able to do so this side of Dover remains to be seen.

  I am, however, determined to press on.

  E.

  Late the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon repairing the hem of her green gown, when a stir in the courtyard had her looking out to see Gareth greeting a smiling Cathcart.

  Cathcart had gone to speak with a Berber sheik about their joining the man’s caravan. From Cathcart’s expression, he was the bearer of good tidings.

  Both men turned and came striding toward the house. Emily put aside her mending, and looked up expectantly as Cathcart led Gareth into the room.

  Cathcart swept her a bow. “Your carriage has been arranged, mademoiselle. You will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.” Straightening, Catchcart grimaced. “Sadly, there is no carriage as such, and, equally sadly, I fear that when Ali-Jehan says dawn, he truly does mean the instant when the sun pops over the horizon. Which”—Cathcart flung himself onto the other divan and smiled commisseratingly at Emily—“means we’ll have to leave here even earlier.”

  “This Ali-Jehan understands that we might be pursued, and even attacked?” In the Arab robes he now seemed so comfortable in, Gareth stood looking down at his friend.

  Cathcart grinned. “To Ali-Jehan, that point was a powerful inducement.”

  Gareth humphed. He didn’t, to Emily’s eyes, look entirely pleased.

  “Well,” she put in brightly, “that’s excellent news!” When both men looked at her, she continued, “We have to forge on, and journeying with a caravan will certainly be an adventure.” She caught Gareth’s eye. “One quite the equal of seeing the pyramids.”

  He humphed, and prowled forward to sit on the other end of the divan she’d favored.

  Turning back to Catchart, she smiled. “We must thank you, sir, for your help and hospitality. You’ve provided a much-needed respite.” She raised her brows in query. “Is there any message we can carry for you back to England? To family, perhaps?”

  Cathcart thanked Emily for her kind thought but declined. Gareth watched as his friend continued to bask in the glow of Emily’s readily bestowed approbation. He tried not to growl or grind his teeth. She had no real interest in Cathcart—it had been he she’d permitted to kiss her—but Gareth wasn’t entirely sure Cathcart, happily accepting her feminine accolades, had no interest in her.

  She glanced at him at that moment, a conspiratorial, inclusive expression in her eyes, then she turned back to Cathcart and continued to charm him…

  Gareth realized he was scowling, and banished the expression. At least outwardly. Inwardly, he scowled even more. She knew. That’s what that brief glance was all about. She knew her charming of Cathcart was provoking him.

  Of all the developments in the last hour, that pleased him least of all.

  21st October, 1822

  Before dinner

  My room in Cathcart’s house

  Dear Diary,

  After Cathcart’s confirmation that we are to leave tomorrow, our party paid another necessary visit to the souk. The tension was palpable throughout, but despite keeping our eyes peeled, we saw no cultists at all—which, instead of making us feel less tense, only escalated the uncertainty. None of us believes the fiend has given up. His calling off his hounds only raises the question of what else he’s planning—how else he intends to corner us.

  But as for our journey’s next stage, while I raised no open demur, I am not entirely sanguine about traveling with a caravan. However, as there appear to be no viable alternatives, then I will, of course, hold my head high and soldier on.

  On the personal front, I have noted a certain dog-in-the-manger tendency on Gareth’s part. A degree of possessiveness in his attitude to me, and on that count I am uncertain how to respond. While I am not thrilled by this develo
pment, and can see definite problems looming, I suspect that with certain types of males, possessiveness is ingrained, and not easily eradicated.

  My sisters, I am sure, could advise me, but sadly, they are out of reach, and there are no others I might question on such a subject. In this, I truly miss them, and Mama, too.

  I am reasonably sure that when it comes to Gareth Hamilton, I am in need of sage advice.

  E.

  Roger Cathcart led them to meet the Berbers, a small tribe commanded by Sheik Ali-Jehan, in the coolness of the hour before dawn. The tribe’s camp was located in a dip in the sand dunes northeast of the town.

  Camouflaged in her burka, Emily stood in a close group with the others of their party, likewise disguised and gathered about their baggage piled on a cart, while Gareth and Ali-Jehan—who proved to be a handsome devil of similar age to Gareth and Cathcart—conducted a low-voiced discussion, with Cathcart looking on. Peering through her burka’s little window, Emily used the minutes to see what she could of this unknown world.

  There were numerous encampments dotted about the area. All appeared peopled by nomadic tribes, but not all were the rather haughty and handsome—and thus readily distinguishable—Berbers. From where she stood, Emily could see three other Berber camps, presumably three other tribes. From the other sites, men were observing their group, watching the discussion among the three men.

  Turning back to see what was transpiring, Emily caught both Gareth and Ali-Jehan looking her way—specifically looking at her. Then Ali-Jehan asked Gareth a question. He nodded, and they went back to their negotiations.

  Eventually Ali-Jehan flashed a white smile. When Gareth offered his hand, Ali-Jehan clasped it in his. With a nod, he released Gareth, then beckoned their group forward as he turned and shouted orders to the various men and women engaged in breaking up their camp.

  Cathcart and Gareth turned to meet them as they trudged up.

  “Everyone in this tribe speaks English, French, or both,” Cathcart told them. “You’ll be able to make yourselves understood, and with them, you should be safe.” Smiling, he glanced at Gareth. “As safe as it’s possible to be.”

  Emily couldn’t interpret the look Gareth and Cathcart exchanged, but then Gareth looked at her. “Dorcas and Arnia will travel with the older women. Mooktu, Bister, and I will ride with the men guarding the caravan. Mullins, Watson, and Jimmy will assist with the carts carrying our luggage.”

  Beneath her burka, she frowned. “And me?”

  Gareth looked up, over her head. “You have a steed of your own.”

  She turned—and saw Ali-Jehan returning with another man, who was leading a huge camel by a rope rein.

  There were other camels linked in a long train, kicking and braying and shuffling about, each loaded with baggage of all sorts, but this camel was different. Instead of baggage, it carried a cushioned contraption lashed behind its hump.

  As the camel approached, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a bray Emily took to be a camel protest.

  “Oh, no.” She tried to step back.

  Gareth’s hand pressed against her back. “Sadly, yes. In the circumstances, on this beast’s back is the safest place for you—the safest way for you to travel across the desert.”

  “According to whom?” Emily’s eyes widened as, with a great show of teeth—both from the attendant and the camel—the beast was brought around and made to kneel, his side to her.

  Ali-Jehan rounded the beast, drew down a rope stirrup-cum-ladder, then bowed, black eyes alight. “Your steed, dear lady.”

  He spoke perfect English, but there was nothing civilized about the way his eyes tried to penetrate her burka.

  Ignoring that, knowing full well that he couldn’t see through it—and regardless, she was fully clothed beneath—Emily eyed the camel’s shaggy head. Tentatively she stepped forward. The huge head swung her way, lips curling back.

  Gareth pulled her to the side, to the saddle. “Be careful—they spit.”

  Emily turned to stare at him. “Spit?”

  Gareth urged her into the saddle. Rather stunned, she instinctively reached for the high pommel, planted her boot in the stirrup and raised up—and saw, beyond the camel, a string of superb horses.

  Rather than swing her hips around and sit in the saddle, she froze, then tried to back down. “They have horses. I can ride perfectly well—I raced down that road from Poona, remember?”

  Gareth’s hands grasped her hips and pushed her up. “No—you can’t ride one of their horses.”

  “Why not?” She tried to twist enough to glare at him.

  He kept hold of her hips and held her where she was. “For a start, in English terms they’re only half broken.”

  “I could manage—”

  “Perhaps.” Clipped accents were infusing his speech. “But the other reason you’re riding this animal is that it’s Ali-Jehan’s personal pet.”

  Growing tired of her ungainly position, and distracted by having his hands gripping her hips, she gave up, swung around, and plopped down into the surprisingly comfortable saddle. She frowned at Gareth, but he was looking down, adjusting the twin rope stirrups. Glancing around, she saw the Berber chieftain striding through his people, yelling orders and gesticulating. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  When she looked back, Gareth met her eyes. “It won’t leave him.”

  She frowned harder. “So?”

  “So”—with a last tug, he stepped back—“if raiders attack the caravan and try to steal you away, they’ll have the devil of a time shifting him. Nothing is more stubborn than a camel.”

  He looked at her for an instant, then nodded to the attendant, still standing holding the camel’s head.

  The attendant said one word.

  Emily bit back a scream as the beast—in a series of ungainly lurches—got back to its feet.

  Once it had, she stared down at Gareth. “This is—”

  “What will keep you safe.” Hands on hips, he looked up at her. Then he glanced at the attendant. “This is Haneef. He’ll teach you how to guide Doha.”

  “Doha?”

  Haneef smiled toothily up at her. “He is really a very good beast.”

  Uncle eased down to the cushions set before a low table holding an assortment of dishes he neither recognized nor particularly cared for. But in the service of his chosen master he would endure any privation necessary for success.

  Before he could reach for the first dish, a stir arose in the courtyard beyond the archway. With a wave, Uncle dispatched his son to see who had arrived. An instant later, Muhlal returned with one of the lowlier cult members in tow.

  The man bowed low. “Great one—we have just had word that the major and his party were seen in the grounds beyond the town.”

  “And?”

  Without lifting his head, the man continued, “They left with a Berber caravan. Those we paid said the caravan goes west.”

  Uncle nodded. “Excellent. You may go.”

  Surprised, the man looked up. He met Uncle’s eyes and quickly lowered his. “Yes, great one.” The man backed from the room, still bowing.

  Once he was gone, Uncle looked up at his son. “You heard?”

  Muhlal nodded.

  Uncle smiled. “No doubt but that the major will make for the embassy in Cairo.” Uncle waved Muhlal to sit beside him. When he did, Uncle set one hand on his shoulder, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is your chance, my son, to shine in the service of the Black Cobra. Our leader is magnanimous to those who serve well. It has been decreed that the major must be stopped, and if the meddling Miss Ensworth is captured, too, and appropriately rewarded for her temerity, that would be a happy bonus. I suggest you make use of the nomads now in our pay and go after the major and the woman. Capturing them and delivering them to me in Cairo will surely win great glory in the eyes of the Black Cobra.”

  Muhlal glowed. “I am in charge?”

  Smiling, Uncle nodded. He clapped Muhl
al’s shoulder. “Let us eat, and then I will see you on your way. A caravan is slow. They will not escape you.” When Muhlal eagerly reached for a plate, Uncle’s gaze softened. “And I will be waiting in Cairo to celebrate with you.”

  As the sun sank, coloring the wide expanse of the desert sky with oranges, reds, and purples, Emily eased her way out of the high saddle and carefully climbed to the ground.

  Doha flicked her a scowl, then ignored her.

  Emily inwardly humphed, then shook out her skirts and the enveloping burka, and, leaving Doha to Haneef’s care, turned to find the others. It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the camel’s strange gait. Once she had, and was no longer in danger of tipping off, Haneef had shown her how to use the reins to exert some control—minimal control in Emily’s estimation—over the ungainly beast.

  Contrary to her expectations, her first day’s travel had passed without disaster. When the caravan had halted for a light meal and refreshments a little before midday, she had asked Haneef the obvious question—if Ali-Jehan went careening off on his horse through the desert dunes, chasing attackers, for instance, wouldn’t Doha follow him?

  Haneef had shaken his dark head. “Oh, no, miss. Doha is a clever beast—he knows this”—with a wave Haneef had encompassed the caravan—“is his master’s place. He will stay here and wait for Ali-Jehan to return. There is no need for him to chase after him if he knows he will come back.”

  That the camel was lazy to boot hadn’t been any great surprise to Emily. “Are you sure it’s not you whom Doha is attached to?”

  Haneef had smiled. “Well, I am always here—I have a bad leg and cannot ride well enough to chase raiders.”

  Sighting the others across the campsite, Emily picked up her skirts and trudged their way, eyes on her feet so she didn’t trip in the sand. She couldn’t say she was enamored of her camel—he stank remarkably, much worse than horses—but riding him had been a luxury. For the most part, the others had walked.