The Elusive Bride (11 page)

Or was her wanting him more the outcome of being involved in dangerous and violent action? That wouldn’t be surprising. He was the only one suitable to whom she could cling. But reaction born of fear and the need it evoked was no proper basis for marriage.

He inwardly scoffed. What did he know of marriage?

The answer whispered across his mind as sleep dragged him down.

He knew no more about marriage than he knew about his future, yet he knew beyond question that unless Emily wanted him for the right reason, he wouldn’t have either, couldn’t have either—not with her.

The cultists attacked mid-morning the next day.

The caravan was wending its slow and ponderous way along the top of a dune when horsemen rose up in a dark wave from a sand valley just ahead, and came pounding over the dunes, shrieking and yelling, swords cleaving the air.

The nomads reacted with well-trained precision. While the guards wheeled their mounts, then streamed forward to meet the threat head-on, all those with the carts and the camel train grouped and clumped together, both animals and baggage providing protection for those on foot.

From her elevated perch almost at the center of the huddle, Emily had an excellent view of the clash. Squinting into the
sun, she saw cultists amid the attacking horsemen, their black scarves streaming as they flew across the sand.

What surprised her were the others—other Berbers. She looked at their defenders—their guards with Gareth and Ali-Jehan in the lead, Mooktu and Bister close behind, all flashing swords and scimitars as they charged—then glanced down and located Anya, sitting with the older women, calmly waiting.

“There are other Berbers with the cultists!”

Anya looked up at her. Thought, then with unimpaired calm, nodded. “The El-Jiri. They are always ready for a fight.”

Emily glanced back just as the opposing groups of horsemen met—like two waves crashing and smashing together. She winced at the scream of steel sheering off steel, the crash and pounding of blows, audible even at a distance.

Her heart climbing steadily up her throat, she watched, waited, strained her eyes to see…

Gareth broke through, followed closely by Mooktu and Ali-Jehan. All three wheeled, swords swinging, then fell on the attackers’ rear.

It was over so fast that Emily, still catching her breath, was left wondering if all battles were so quickly won. She doubted it, but suddenly the body of attackers fractured, splintered and scattered, Berbers in their darker robes breaking off in twos and threes to ride down the dune and head back the way they’d come.

The guards chased them, but only so far. Once the attackers’ flight was assured, the guards reined in, then wheeled and trotted back.

They joined Gareth and Ali-Jehan. Emily quickly verified that all the others were there, that the only bodies lying unmoving in the sand belonged to cultists. She looked back at their defenders, riding back toward them. Every single man had a huge grin on his face.

“Amazing,” she muttered, relieved yet mystified at the transparent delight illuminating every male face.

“They were successful, yes?”

Emily looked down at Anya. All the women, surrounded as they were, couldn’t see the action. “They’re riding back, grinning like small boys.”

Anya smiled widely. “They have won, and they are happy. There will be much rejoicing in our camp tonight.”

As Anya had foretold, the mood in camp that evening was distinctly festive. While the women prepared the evening meal, the men gathered in a large clump outside Ali-Jehan’s tent.

With great cries to his health, they toasted Gareth, then settled to some deep discussion, which he seemed to be leading. As far as Emily could tell from the other side of the camp, he was drawing diagrams in the sand, pointing to this and that, holding his audience in the palm of his hand.

Bister came to check her knives.

She handed them over, then drew him aside and pointed to the male huddle. “What’s that all about?”

Bister settled on the edge of a cart to hone the edges of one knife on a whetstone. “None of that lot have seen a real cavalry charge before.”

“So?”

“There’s differences, see, in how a cavalryman sits, how he holds his sword. They just wade in, shoulders wide, all but asking to be cut down. We go in low, blade extended—makes both offensive and defensive work easier.” Bister nodded toward the knot of men. “That’s what he’s explaining.”

Emily looked across the fire pit. “Is that why the fight ended so quickly?”

“Partly.” Bister looked up, handed her back her knife, and grinned. “He also told us to go for the cultists—that if we accounted for them, the others would flee. He was right, but Ali-Jehan and the others are a trifle miffed they didn’t get more of a fight.”

Emily humphed. After a moment, she said, “But there’ll be more attacks, and more cultists, won’t there?” She met Bister’s eyes as he stood. “There were only five with that lot today—there have to be more chasing us.”

Bister nodded. “So the major thinks.” He tipped his head to the men across the camp. “That’s why he’s laying it all out for them—how best to attack and what to watch for from the cultists. We haven’t seen the last of them, for sure.”

The celebrations continued over the meal and on into the night. Emily considered them a trifle overdone. There was, however, no carousing. Cathcart had mentioned there’d be no spirits, beer, or wine carried with the caravan, which, in light of the men’s revelry, Emily could only view as to the good. If there had been ale, they would have been drunk, and there were still cultists out there.

Sitting with the older women outside their tent, she eyed the male gathering with a jaundiced eye. She battled not to scowl, or worse, pout.

If there was celebrating to do, she wanted to join in.

That wasn’t, however, the nomads’ way.

Then Gareth stood. She saw Ali-Jehan say something, to which Gareth replied. When the Berber sheik started to get to his feet, Gareth dropped a hand on his shoulder, clearly telling him to not disturb himself—he, Gareth, would see to it, whatever it was.

Emily tracked Gareth as he beckoned Mullins and Watson, and two of the guards, then led the way out of the circle of tents.

Pickets? Emily hoped so. The notion of more cultists lurking among the dunes wasn’t going to make sleeping easy. None of the other women, except perhaps Arnia and Dorcas, truly understood the danger.

But if the other men who had departed with Gareth were going out to keep watch…

Turning her head, she waited until she could catch Anya’s eye. “Is it permitted to walk around the tents to stretch my legs? They’re rather cramped after spending all day on top of Doha.”

Anya arched her brows, but then nodded. “It is permitted, but do not dally, or we will have to send others to find you.”

Emily waited for no more, but quickly got to her feet. When Dorcas looked at her inquiringly, she shook her head. “I won’t be long.”

Wrapping her
chador
over her head and shoulders, as she’d seen other women do around the camp, she walked down the avenue between two tents and stepped into the moonlight beyond.

The night would have been pitch-black if it hadn’t been for the large moon, hanging low on the horizon. Emily duly gave thanks as she skirted the tents, hoping…

“Where are you off to?”

Gareth stepped out from the gap between two tents as Emily whirled to face him.

“Oh! There you are.” She smiled.

He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here—it’s not safe.”

He’d been in the dark space striding back to the camp’s center when he’d sensed…something. Movement, perhaps. He’d glanced back, and seen her pass by. The moonlight had played on her pale hair, her fair skin.

She’d drawn him like a beacon; turning on his heel, he’d backtracked.

He halted just beyond the rear of the tent as she backtracked, too, drawing near.

Her eyes searched his face. “I thought you were setting pickets.”

“I was.”

“Then it’s safe enough, surely?”

He felt his lips thin. “Possibly.”

She smiled, as if she understood the contradictory impulses clashing within him.
Keep her safe. Ravish her.

He reminded himself that the honorable tack was to keep her safe from him, too.

She stepped close—close enough that he could sense her alluring warmth. Close enough to lay a small hand on his chest.

He stepped back, back into the shadows between the tents.

She followed, her hand never losing contact. He felt the touch almost as acutely as if it were skin to skin.

“I watched the fight from atop Doha. It was…” Eyes darkening, she broke off with an evocative shiver. “Frightening.”

“Frightening?” That shiver made him long to sweep her into his arms. He clenched his fists against the impulse.

She nodded. “Swords, scimitars, unarmored bodies. Not a good combination.” She lifted her chin, eyes locking on his. “Not when the bodies are people I care about.”

He stilled. He told himself not to ask, not to expose his vulnerability. “You care about me?”

She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

His heart leapt, swelled.

He reached for her as she pressed closer, lifting her face to his.

Effortlessly tempting him to bend his head and cover her lips with his.

In the instant before he did, she brought him back to earth. “Of course.”

Of course
? Because he was the one standing between her and frightening cultists? Because…?

He decided he didn’t need to know. He could think about it later. She was here, with him, and she wanted him to kiss her—wanted to kiss him.

Before he could act, she closed the distance, pressed her soft lips to his. The pressure, light, beguiling, called to him, and he kissed her back.

Angled his head and took charge of the kiss.

Took what he wanted—what, suddenly, he realized he needed.

She gifted him with her mouth, tempted him with her tongue, sank into him as he drew her close.

He slid his arms around her and locked her to him.

Flush against him.

Sensation flashed, streaked through him. Passion erupted, powerful, explicit, focused.

She broke from the kiss. Gasped, “I wanted to celebrate with you, but I was trapped on the other side. With the women. I wanted—”

He kissed her again, more ravenously. More rapaciously.

She answered in kind.

And rocked him back on his mental heels.

Desire flared, hot and arcing, achingly potent, burning and sweet.

In Cathcart’s salon they’d both stepped back, but this…this was fire and life, and everything he wanted.

Everything he needed.

And she wanted it, too.

She couldn’t have made her wishes clearer, and with his own need pounding a tattoo in his blood, he couldn’t deny what he felt. Didn’t want to.

No longer had the power to.

He couldn’t step away.

The kiss deepened, not gently, not slowly, but in spiraling leaps. His hands found her breasts, closed, kneaded. Her fingers slid into his hair and she clung, evocatively gripped.

Held him to her, to the kiss. Anchored him within the whirlpool of passion they’d unleashed.

His hands slid over her, learning, needing to know, wanting to possess.

That she was with him was never in doubt. Her lips were as hungry as his, her mouth as demanding. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly imprinting her flesh on his, the giving tautness of her belly impressing itself against his aching erection.

No invitation had ever been so explicit.

Then she made it more so.

She reached between them, and touched, stroked.

He shuddered—and couldn’t recall ever shuddering in quite that way at any woman’s touch before.

Her touch…he craved it. Craved her in a way that shocked even him.

Filling both hands with the lush promise of her bottom, he
lifted her against him, shifted his hips evocatively, provocatively, and sensed her aroused gasp.

Holding her there in one arm, locked helplessly against him, he sank his free hand into her hair, palmed her skull, and kissed her—voraciously.

He tensed to turn, to press her back against something solid…

There wasn’t anything solid around.

“The night air is fresh and cool, don’t you think?”

The words, uttered in Anya’s calm voice, hauled them both from the kiss.

Lifting their heads, they stared, first at each other, then out along the gap between the tents, toward the voice.

But there was no one there.

“Perhaps the miss is still walking around the tents—she might be on the the other side.”

“Katun,” Emily whispered. Licking her lips, swollen she was sure, she looked into Gareth’s face. “I have to go.”

He nodded.

He set her down, but the reluctance with which his hands released her told its own story—one that gladdened her heart.

She shook out her skirt, resettled her makeshift shawl. Looked up at him, then stretched up and brushed her lips across his. “Until next time.”

With that, she stepped out from between the tents, looked, and saw the two older women strolling slowly, their backs to her. Dragging in a breath, feeling her head clear, she set out in their wake.

They’d guessed, of course. Anya and the other older women eyed her with bright-eyed interest as they all settled in their customary sleeping positions around the large tent.

“That major—he is a handsome one.” Bersheba made the comment to the tent at large, but her eyes were on Emily, carefully folding her skirts and blouse before snuggling into her blankets.

Marila snorted. “He is courageous—that is more important. You heard the sheik—the major is a great warrior.”

Emily could feel Dorcas’s and Arnia’s gazes, equally intrigued, join the older women’s, all trained on her face.

“But men are men, great warriors or not,” Katun stated. “They need to have their…egos stroked. Frequently.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Anya said, “if after the battle today, in which he and my Ali-Jehan led our men to victory, the major was in need of a degree of stroking. Men, after all, are very predictable in their ways. They crave having their bravery acknowledged.”