The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  He smiled as he spotted Gareth in the open doorway of the salon.

  Stepping into the courtyard, Gareth returned the smile, but his instincts were pricking.

  “Major Hamilton.” The captain bowed. “I bring another invitation to you and your lady to dine at the palace this evening.”

  “Thank you.” Gareth glanced around and saw that Emily had followed him to the doorway.

  The captain had spoken loud enough for her to hear. Stepping out into the sunshine, she came to join them. As she neared, he read the question in her eyes, saw the slight shrug as she realized he could give only one answer.

  Returning his attention to the captain, Gareth inclined his head. “We are honored.”

  The captain beamed. “I will come for you as before, at the same time.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Emily smiled graciously. “We’ll be waiting.”

  The captain bowed low and retreated. Once the gate had closed behind him, Gareth took Emily’s arm and turned her back to the house. “Any ideas?”

  She grimaced. “All I can imagine is that the bey wants to take advantage of our presence to rehearse his courtiers and the begum in their European roles some more.”

  Passing into the salon, she looked at Dorcas. “We’re to dine at the palace again—we’ll need to delve into my trunks for another gown.”

  The captain led them to a different entrance again. Smaller, less grand, the doorway was tucked away down one side of the palace, and was reached through a heavily screened courtyard. The man waiting to receive them was larger, oddly flabby, his robes much less gaudy and gilded than the bey’s butler.

  The man didn’t speak, merely bowed low and, after taking Emily’s cloak and handing it to an underling, gestured for them to follow him. As they were led down a series of corridors, Gareth noted that the décor was less ornate, less grand. Perhaps they were to dine with the bey en famille?

  That notion strengthened when their guide halted and waved them into a relatively small but richly appointed salon giving onto a private courtyard. Following Emily in, Gareth saw the begum reclining amid the cushions set about a traditional low table, one just big enough for four.

  Seeing them, the begum smiled. She inclined her head in response to Emily’s curtsy, but her eyes skated over his companion to fix on him. “Major and Majoress Hamilton, I am very glad you honor me with your presence.”

  The purring tone, combined with the way the begum’s gaze rested so heavily, almost hungrily, on him, raised the hairs on Gareth’s nape.

  Emily boldly walked forward, cutting off the begum’s view of Gareth. “I take it the bey will be joining us?”

  She’d already noted that the table was set for three.

  The begum fiddled with her rings. “My husband was called away unexpectedly—some problem to the south. I thought to surprise him by learning more of your ways.” She craned her neck to look around Emily, smiled and gestured to the places to either side of her. “Major, Majoress—please sit.”

  The previous night’s dinner had been served at a European-style table with proper chairs. Emily regarded the piled cushions. She suspected the begum wasn’t interested in learning more about table manners. When Gareth’s hand touched her back, a subtle prompt, she stepped forward and sank down to the begum’s left.

  Perching on the cushions in any manner that combined modesty and grace wasn’t easy. It took a few moments to rearrange her legs and skirts. She glanced at the begum to see if there was any trick to it, and very nearly gawped.

  The bey’s wife had wriggled straighter, lithely sitting cross-legged amid the silk cushions, and had let the old gold silk shawl that had been draped over her shoulders fall, leaving her clad primarily in shimmering, translucent amber-bronze gauze.

  Shocked, Emily looked—and detected a few inches of impenetrable bronze silk in strategic places. But really! The woman was all but bare!

  The begum hadn’t noticed her reaction. She was smiling widely at Gareth, her gaze, her whole attention locked on him.

  Emily half expected her to lick her lips.

  She looked at Gareth. Once again in his uniform, he’d taken the third place at the table, on the begum’s right, settling cross-legged on the cushions. He was wearing one of his blandest expressions, but after all they’d been through, she’d grown adept at reading him. Tension sang in the line of his shoulders; every muscle was taut, ready to react. He was watching the begum much as he might a potentially dangerous animal he had to sit beside.

  He was watching the begum’s eyes, apparently neither attracted nor interested in all else that was on show.

  Emily felt a soupçon of relief. The begum was very beautiful, albeit in a sultry, rather predatory way.

  Sensing her gaze, Gareth glanced fleetingly at Emily. Through the brief contact she sensed his unease. He was uncomfortable and wanted to be anywhere but there.

  Recalling the purpose for which they’d ostensibly been invited, she cleared her throat, smiled somewhat condescendingly when the begum glanced her way, then leaned closer and confided, “I feel I should warn you, my dear begum, that the attire in which you are honoring us tonight would not do at any European court.”

  The begum frowned, and glanced down at her translucent blouse. “These garments are considered entirely appropriate for a lady to wear to dine with guests in her husband’s house.”

  “I daresy they are—here. But in Europe, appearing anywhere in such attire would cause a scandal, I do assure you. And, you will pardon me if I have this incorrect, but I assumed the bey’s reason for asking us to coach you and the others in European ways was to avoid any unnecessary incidents.”

  The begum’s attention was now all Emily’s, but after a moment of frowning thought, the bey’s wife turned and appealed to Gareth. “Is it as your majoress says? That if I go clad like this”—she spread her diaphanously draped arms—“I will create a bad impression?”

  Tight lipped, his eyes commendably locked on the begum’s face, Gareth nodded. “It would not be well received by society. People would disapprove, and the grandes dames would most likely”—he paused, then amended—“would absolutely not invite you to their select soirees.”

  “Oh.” Arms lowering, the begum deflated. She looked back at Emily. “So.” Her eyes scanned Emily’s evening gown. “I must cover up like you?”

  Emily glanced down at her pale amber silk gown with its scooped neckline and raised waist, both lightly trimmed with lace. The skirt sported a single lace flounce above the hem and a row of amber and silver buttons ran down the center front from neckline to hem. “In style, yes, but your gowns could have richer decoration.” She reached out and touched the fine gold-thread embroidery on the begum’s sleeve. “Like this. In Europe, status is denoted by quality of materials and richness of ornamentation, rather than by different styles.”

  “I see.” The begum looked not so much thoughtful as calculating, but then the large butlerlike man appeared in the doorway. She glanced at him, then turned to smile at Gareth. “Our meal is now ready, so we will eat.” She looked back at the butler and issued a command in Arabic. With a deep bow, he withdrew.

  A smile played about the begum’s lips. She turned to Gareth. “And then you may instruct me in what I most wish to know.”

  Gareth exchanged a glance with Emily, and fervently prayed that gowns, bonnets, and social manners were all that was on the begum’s mind, and that the impression he was receiving from the woman’s glances and smiles was being scrambled in translation.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t think that was the case, but while the begum continued to believe he and Emily—his majoress—were married, he—they—should be safe.

  The meal placed before them on intricately carved brass dishes owed nothing to European sensibilities. Luckily, he and Emily had been eating Arab fare for some time. They partook of the various dishes and numerous side dishes without hesitation. Unlike most English misses he’d encountered, Emily did not eat like a bird, and
her tastes, he’d noted, were distinctly adventurous.

  Soon after the meal began, Emily complimented the begum on her chef’s efforts, and from there neatly turned the conversation to the comments it was considered good taste to make over a hostess’s table.

  The topic carried them through the many courses until the begum’s eunuch—Gareth had finally placed the oddness about the butlerlike individual—placed sweetmeats and jellied fruits on the table, poured thimblefuls of thick, rich coffee, then, leaving the ornate coffeepot on the table, bowed low and, at a word from the begum, withdrew.

  Immediately the begum turned to Gareth, an anticipatory gleam lighting her eyes. “And now, Major, if you please, you will teach me all about dalliance. I have heard that the pastime is much indulged in at all the European courts.”

  She leaned closer. Gareth had to fight not to lean back.

  Her eyes locked on his, her voice once more lowering to a decadently sultry purr, the begum declared, “You will instruct me in how it is done.” Her gaze fell to his lips. The tip of her tongue appeared and slid slowly, languorously, over her lower lip. “You will demonstrate every little detail.”

  She already had a good grasp of the basics. Gareth stopped the thought from converting into speech, but how was he to refuse without offending the begum—without landing him, and even more Emily, in hot Tunisian water?

  Exceedingly hot given he couldn’t afford to risk asking any British official for help.

  Eyes locked on the begum as she shifted still nearer, he wracked his brains for some way out. He didn’t dare look at Emily, look away from the danger.

  The begum started to stretch upward, to tip her face invitingly to his.

  He wanted to leap to his feet and walk away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. The offense would be too great. Desperately battling his instincts, he felt as if he’d been turned to stone.

  “No!” The outraged injunction burst from Emily’s lips.

  She’d been watching the begum in a sort of stupor, unable to credit that the woman would actually try to kiss Gareth in front of her—his majoress. Once the spell had been broken, she had no difficulty in continuing, “No, no, no!”

  Reaching out, she caught the begum’s arm and bodily hauled the woman upright—away from Gareth and his lips.

  At least his lips had been edging back, away from the begum’s, but what the devil was he thinking, to let her get so close?

  Emily glared into the begum’s shocked face. “That is not the way it is done—not anywhere in Europe.”

  The begum frowned—a frown that rapidly converted to a scowl. “I have heard it is common that married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands. And that the gentlemen may be married or not—that for them marriage says nothing. Is this not true?”

  The words were a challenge, one Emily knew well enough to meet head-on. “Yes, but as in all things, as a foreigner you’ve missed the subtleties, the nuances.” She drew breath, shot a sharp glance at Gareth hoping he’d have the sense to remain silent, then locked her gaze once more with the begum’s. “Not all married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands, and not all married gentlemen indulge with ladies not their wives. Only a percentage, in some circles a very small percentage, of married people seek…er, entertainment with others not their spouses.”

  The begum’s expression darkened, tending moody. She glanced at Gareth. “This is true?”

  Before he could answer, Emily stated, “Yes, it’s true.” The instant the begum looked back at her, she continued, “And in your case, when attending a European court as the bey’s wife, you will need to maintain the strictest level of decorum, if on no other count than self-defense.”

  Confusion, and a touch of concern, flared in the begum’s eyes.

  Aha! Emily thought, and plowed on, “You will need to be on guard against any would-be seducers, for the only European gentlemen, married or not, who would approach the wife of a visiting potentate with a view to dalliance would have only one thing on their minds—either to discredit your husband by creating a scandal—you know how men are—or to learn more about your husband’s business through you.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “Or perhaps to blackmail you.”

  She refocused on the begum. “Well, that’s more than one thing, but you can see the danger.”

  Abruptly realizing her approach had been less than complimentary, she hurriedly added, “It would be totally different if you were there unofficially, not linked to your husband but just as yourself.” Pausing to draw breath, she added sincerely, “You are a very lovely woman, after all, and I’m sure you would find many gentlemen willing to dally with you, but”—she shook her head—“not this time. Not while you are traveling as the bey’s wife.”

  The begum’s expression had grown increasingly despondent as Emily’s lecture had progressed. The silence lengthened as she stared at Emily, then she glanced at Gareth. “You—”

  “Neither the major nor I dally with others.” Emily made the statement definite, definitive—it was true enough over recent times. She didn’t look at Gareth, but caught the begum’s eyes as she turned back to her. “I should perhaps add that in European cultures it is customary for the gentleman to make the first approach.”

  “But…” The begum looked thoroughly disgusted. “What use is that? One might be waiting forever.”

  “Indeed.” Emily managed not to glare at Gareth as she said it. “However, now we’ve told you—warned you—about dalliance in our societies, I believe it’s getting late, and we should thank you for your hospitality and return to our guesthouse.” She shifted to unwind her legs from their cramped position.

  The begum made a distinctly unladylike sound. “So,” she grumped, “although I will walk in your ballrooms and drawing rooms, I will still be as cloistered as I am here at home.” She looked up as Emily managed to get to her feet. The begum narrowed her eyes, then pointed at Emily. “Aha! Now I understand the reason for your gowns—why you dress so, all covered up, when you go into your society. Why outside your home, you dress like a nun, rather than a wife.”

  Emily bit back the information that they dressed in the same manner in the home as out of it.

  With fluid grace, the begum rose in all her barely clad beauty. She waved her hands. “Let me see this gown. I have not one like it.”

  Emily slowly pirouetted. She glanced at Gareth as she did. He’d risen as she had, but his face was, even to her tutored eyes, an impenetrable mask. She had no clue what he was thinking.

  The begum frowned, then met Emily’s eyes as she faced her once more. “So I will need to get my seamstresses to make up gowns like this, or my husband will be displeased and made ashamed when we reach the European courts?”

  Emily hesitated, misliking the calculating gleam in the begum’s dark eyes, but with no alternative, she nodded.

  The begum smiled. “In that case, Majoress Hamilton, you will be doing me a great service if you will exchange gowns with me. We are much of a height and size—as a great favor to me, you will swap gowns, will you not?”

  Emily tried not to look at the diaphanous creation the begum was draped in. Alongside the calculation, there was something else in the begum’s eyes—a need to take something from this meeting. Something positive she could show others…Emily had heard that the begum lived in the harem, that she was the first wife, true, but just the first among many…

  Emily nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, Gareth followed Emily through the gate into the courtyard of their guesthouse. With a brusque nod, he farewelled the captain, pushed the gate shut, and latched it.

  Striding after Emily as she crossed to the salon door, he picked out Mooktu in the shadows, raised a hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t slow. Not knowing how long they would be at the palace, the others had divided the watches for tonight between them. He didn’t need to concern himself with that tonight—besides, thanks to Emily, they now had the begum, traditionally the city’s ru
ler in her husband’s absence, firmly on their side.

  Emily’s cloak fluttered as she gathered it about her and climbed the shallow steps into the salon. Embroidered silk ankle cuffs and tassels peeked from beneath the cloak, and an ankle chain glinted in the moonlight, before she released the cloak and the gloom within swallowed her.

  Every muscle locked tight, Gareth grimly followed. He’d never been so grateful for a lady’s cloak in all his life. While Emily and the begum had retired to swap clothes, foreseeing the result and the danger therein, he’d hunted up the eunuch and asked for the cloak, left at the too-distant entrance, to be fetched.

  Luckily the eunuch had returned with the cloak before Emily had reappeared. When she’d finally followed the begum, rendered reasonably presentable by Emily’s gown, into the room, he’d sucked in a breath, held it, and tried not to react. At all.

  A superhuman feat, one he hadn’t achieved.

  But Emily’s blushes had abruptly focused him on something other than his own pain. He’d shaken out the cloak and held it up. She’d all but dashed across the room, anklets tinkling, to take refuge beneath the soft woolen folds.

  Once covered, her chin had risen; her confidence had returned. She’d taken her leave of the begum with genuine smiles and courtesy all around.

  The subject of gowns apparently united all women.

  Still holding the cloak about her, Emily started up the guesthouse stairs. She glanced back as he stepped onto the lowest tread, smiled fleetingly in the moonlight. “That ended a great deal better than I thought it would.”

  No thanks to him. Gareth’s jaw tightened. A chaos of roiling emotions condensed into a hot knot inside him, then rose slowly, inexorably, up his throat. “I’ll buy you another gown.”

  His tone was angry, irritated—frustrated.