The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “But, for example, a route north along the coast and then east via Turkey, Greece, and Italy to France would surely take much longer.” Emily glanced at Gareth. “Do we have the time to amble?”

  He met her gaze, shook his head. “It’s taken us longer to get here than Wolverstone anticipated. He wants me—us—in England by mid-December.”

  Emily blinked. “Today’s the first of November.”

  “Exactly. So allowing for the necessary days to cross France…we need to reach Marseilles as soon as possible.”

  “In that case,” Watson said, “we’ll have to travel by ship all the way.” He glanced at the others. “Travel by sea is significantly faster than travel by land. On one of the more direct routes, a fast ship could make the run to Marseilles in anything from nine to fifteen days.”

  “But we can’t find passage on one of those,” Mooktu rumbled. He looked at Gareth. “And we don’t have time to wait here until berths become available.”

  Gareth humphed. “Sitting here just waiting for the cultists to stumble over us is not an option in any case.”

  “So we take our next best option.” Emily turned to Watson. “Whatever that is.”

  Watson frowned. “I would say…either via Italy, then Corsica, to Marseilles, or, possibly, west to Tunis, and then north to Marseilles.” He looked at Gareth. “I know the distances, but sailing times are harder to guess. We’ll need to ask around, then see what ships might be heading that way with space enough to take us.”

  Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow. We’ll go down to the docks at first light. It’s less crowded then.”

  “I have been thinking,” Mooktu said, “that if the cultists sent to watch us here have not yet been warned that we are going in disguise, then they are less likely to spot us.”

  “True. So we’ll need to remember to always go disguised.” Gareth glanced around the table. “It would be preferable to stay in our Arab clothes even in here.”

  Emily was perfectly happy to do so; her Arab clothes were less confining and in this climate certainly more comfortable than gown and petticoats. She’d tried to hand back the garments the Berber women had loaned her, but they’d waved their hands and told her to keep them and use them while she was in Arab lands.

  She caught Gareth’s gaze. “We’ll need to go to the souk tomorrow. We’ll do that while you’re at the docks. We’ll take Mullins and Bister, and be extra careful, but it won’t hurt to take a look around.”

  He didn’t like it—she could see that in his eyes—but eventually he inclined his head. “No, it won’t.”

  Eight

  2nd November, 1822

  Early morning

  My room in the guesthouse at Alexandria

  Dear Diary,

  Something has altered between me and Gareth, although I cannot put my finger on exactly what. There is a greater sense of shared endeavor, as if he now accepts that I can contribute in real ways to our survival. The timing suggests that our sojourn with the Berbers is responsible for his altered attitude, but why spending time, largely separated, in a less-civilized society that only exacerbated his protective and possessive streaks should result in a more inclusive attitude is a mystery. However, we are once again under such threat of being discovered by cultists sent to await our arrival and cut off our heads that it is difficult to find time, or space in my mind, to dwell on such personal questions.

  Today I must lead an expedition to the souk to replenish necessary supplies, while Gareth searches for passage onward. The tension is palpable. He hasn’t yet stated it, but I can see he is concerned for us all—and perhaps most especially for me…

  Despite the exigencies of our situation, there are moments such as this when I realize in which direction the changes between us are steering us.

  More anon.

  E.

  The souk in Alexandria was set well back from the harbor, tucked inside the old city wall. There was a central covered marketplace, with alley after alley of stalls, most selling fresh produce or clothing. Narrow, cramped, and winding streets gave off the marketplace, tentacles leading deeper into a labyrinth of tiny shops and clustered workshops. There was a goldsmiths’ alley, and a basketweavers’ alley, and lanes for clothing, metalware, glassware and every conceivable commodity.

  Feeling entirely comfortable in her Berber clothes beneath her enveloping burka, Emily led their party through the marketplace, finding the items they required, then haggling in French—something at which she’d grown increasingly proficient through the journey.

  It didn’t take long to gather all they required for the next few days. Buying supplies for their journey onward would have to wait until they knew when they would be leaving, and how. Remembering the basketweavers’ alley, she detoured and went down it. She found two very large, pliable baskets woven of palm fronds that would be perfect for carrying extra supplies on board a vessel; after a spirited round of bargaining with the shopkeeper, she acquired both.

  They were strolling back down the basketweavers’ alley and had nearly reached the marketplace when two cultists appeared at the alley’s mouth and paused, studying the shoppers thronging the narrow space.

  Emily’s heart leapt, then thumped. Hard. Instinctively she halted. Luckily an Arab man crossed in front of her, temporarily blocking her and the rest of their party behind her from the cultists’ view—giving her time to realize that stopping and staring would be very unwise.

  When the Arab shifted, then turned and moved away, Emily dragged breath into her suddenly tight lungs and, head high beneath her burka, continued on, idly strolling onward as if she had not a care in the world—praying the others followed her cue and did the same.

  The cultists saw them—they couldn’t very well miss them—but their gazes passed over them without a flicker of interest, much less recognition.

  Greatly daring, Emily continued on and passed by both cultists. Stepping into the marketplace proper, she walked on until the crowds between her and the alley grew thick enough to risk halting and, while pretending to look at some fabric, cast a sideways glance back.

  Dorcas and Arnia had followed at her heels. Bister and Mullins were nowhere to be seen.

  Dorcas leaned close to whisper, “Bister and Mullins slipped into a shop. Their faces…”

  Emily nodded. Although all their men’s faces were now deeply tanned, their features were still too European to flaunt.

  Arnia pressed close on Emily’s other side. “If we stay here, they’ll catch us up.”

  Watching the cultists still hovering in the mouth of the alley but now surveying the marketplace, Emily nodded again.

  A moment later, the cultists moved on. Unhurriedly. Still looking and searching.

  Emily breathed easier. She, Dorcas, and Arnia wandered back up the aisle toward the basketweavers’ alley. As they neared, Bister and Mullins emerged from the crowded alley and fell in with them again.

  “Let’s get back to the guesthouse,” Mullins growled.

  Emily nodded. “Yes. We’ll go now.”

  They made it back to the guesthouse without further incident. Once there, once she could throw off the burka and think and pace, Emily’s imagination came unhelpfully alive.

  The cultists hadn’t recognized her, but why would they? Covered by the burka, there was nothing of her to see. But Gareth…he was taller than most Arabs. Tall, and broad-shouldered. Even in England, in a crowd he would stand out. And while he’d adopted the Berber style of headdress, covering his neatly cut hair, if the cultists got a look at his eyes, at his cheekbones above his lean, sculpted cheeks, let alone his chin, they couldn’t fail to recognize him as an Englishman.

  Arms crossed, she was pacing back and forth in the front room, telling herself she shouldn’t panic until dark fell and they were still not back, when the rattle of the gate latch stopped her in her tracks.

  The gate swung inward—and Gareth stepped through, followed by Watson and Mooktu.

  She had never been so relieved to
see anyone in her life.

  She was halfway across the courtyard to meet him before she realized.

  The almost relaxed expression—the smile that had been in his eyes—slid away as he searched her face. “What happened?”

  The words were rapped out, and then he was there. Fingers closing about her elbow, he turned her and urged her back into the front room, glancing up at the roof as he did.

  “Cultists,” she managed to say, pausing on the threshold. “In the souk—not here. But they didn’t see us. Or rather, they saw us but thought we were locals. They didn’t react at all.”

  Gareth stared at her. His blood ran cold as horrific visions of what might have happened cascaded through his mind—what the cultists would have done had they caught her—

  He blinked, shook his head to clear the visions. She was here, with him, and patently unharmed.

  Watson and Mooktu slipped past them, heading deeper into the room. Mooktu continued on, no doubt to find Arnia.

  Emily looked into Gareth’s face. “I was so worried they’d see you—you’re much more recognizable than we are.” Turning, she walked into the room.

  Releasing her, he followed more slowly.

  “We were in our burkas, and Mullins and Bister were behind us, so had time to hide before the cultists could get a good look at them.” She turned to face him. The worry and utter relief he’d seen blazoned in her face earlier had faded. She seemed happy, quite cheery, now.

  She studied his face, then tilted her head. “But you’re back early. Does that mean—”

  She broke off. They both turned to the gate as it opened again. This time it was Bister, even more heavily disguised than usual with scarves swathing his head and face, who strolled in.

  He closed the gate, then, all nonchalance falling away, came striding quickly to them.

  He nodded to Emily, then reported to Gareth. “After we got the ladies back here, I thought I’d take a quick gander to see if I could follow those damned cultists back to their nest. I didn’t find those two again, but two others, also wandering the streets, keeping an eye out, true enough, but not searching like they knew who they were searching for.”

  “Did you find their base?” Gareth asked.

  “Yes, and you’re not going to like it. They’re in a house opposite the consulate, strolling in and out as calm as you please. Bad enough, but while I was watching, a party rode in. A group of assassins, but in the lead was an older, bearded man. Point is, I think I saw him on the docks at Aden.”

  Gareth’s face felt like stone. “Tall, slightly stooped, black beard, definitely older?”

  Grimly, Bister nodded. “That’s him.”

  Damn! They had one of the cult’s upper echelon on their heels.

  Emily was looking from his face to Bister’s. From her increasingly sober expression, she understood the implications. “I was going to ask,” she said, “whether your returning early meant you’d found a ship to take us to Marseilles?”

  “Not quite.” He met her eyes. “Watson asked around. Seems our best chance of avoiding the cultists and reaching Marseilles in reasonable time is to go west along the coast. We found a merchant with a xebec and space for us all heading that way, but he isn’t ready to leave yet.”

  He glanced at Bister, then at all the others who had come into the room to hear the news. “One of the cult members who was in Aden when we arrived there has just arrived here. From now on, we need to assume the cultists are specifically searching for us, that they know the composition of our party—how many men, how many women, approximate ages, and so on.” He paused, then walked to the table and halted at its end. He looked around at the faces, all familiar now. “Alexandria”—with a wave he indicated the area around them—“this quarter in particular—is not a good place to get caught in. Trapped in. Although this house is defendable, if the cult learns we’re here, they’ll be able to hem us in and keep us here.”

  Until they wear us down.

  Until they pick off enough of us to overrun the house.

  And then…

  Emily had come to stand beside him. She shifted, head rising met his gaze. “We’ll just have to ensure they don’t locate us, then.”

  He saw the determination, the never-say-die expression in her eyes. Glanced at the others, saw the same resolution in theirs. He nodded. “So—we do everything humanly possible not to get noticed for the next two days.” He glanced back at Emily, caught her eyes. “We sail for Tunis at dawn three days from today.”

  3rd November, 1822

  Early morning

  Tucked away in my room in the guesthouse

  in Alexandria

  Dear Diary,

  I am starting to suspect Gareth has a natural tendency to gravitate to persons who appreciate a good fight. He mentioned last night that the captain of the xebec on which we will sail to Tunis expressed disappointment that the cultists—Gareth having felt it necessary to mention their possible interference—were unlikely to engage with us on this leg of our journey.

  Huh! For myself, I will be inexpressibly grateful for a respite from the cult’s persistent hounding. Gareth and Watson feel certain that they—the cult—will be expecting us to take the customary diplomatic route through Athens and then overland, and that by the time they realize we’ve gone west along the coast of Africa, and then reorganize to follow, we’ll be too far ahead for them to catch. A xebec, Gareth tells me, is a fast ship, and once on it and clear of Alexandria, we are unlikely to be caught.

  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.