The Elusive Bride (16 page)

There, she struck gold.

A door on one side wall was placed close to the junction with the outer wall. Opening the door, she went through—and found herself in a narrow corridor connecting with the next room along. The door at the other end of the corridor was shut. Smiling to herself, she went forward, then halted and stood looking out of the lead-paned windows to the harbor far below.

Gareth hesitated in the doorway.

Without looking his way, she pointed out and down. “There’s our ship.”

After an instant’s pause in which she could almost hear his resigned sigh, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door, then came to join her.

“See?” she said, as he paused beside her. Once she was sure he was following her gaze to the line of ships below, she went on, “That’s the tiny vessel we’ll be returning to in less than an hour, to spend the next several days cooped up with a score of others, unable to exchange so much as a private word.”

Turning to him, she studied his profile, all she could see of his face. “Given what we’ve already exchanged, what has already passed between us, any other gentleman would be gladly seizing the opportunity”—just so he didn’t miss the
point, she flung out her arms—“
this
opportunity, to at the very least kiss me again.”

He glanced sideways at her, then half turned so she could see more of his face.

She narrowed her eyes on his. “So why aren’t you?
Why
are you suddenly avoiding me?”

Saying the words made them real. She’d known that’s what he was doing, but hadn’t—until that moment—allowed those words to form in her mind. They were too damning—and no young lady with any claim to modesty would ever voice such words aloud…she wasn’t a great believer in self-sacrificing modesty.

So she glared, folded her arms—refused to acknowledge the prick of the words, the sharp yet hollowing hurt—and waited.

Waited.

“I’m giving you time to come to your senses.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You need to realize what this—our attraction—is about. What it springs from. What drives it.”

She frowned. “I know what—”

“No. You don’t.”

She studied him through narrowing eyes, registering his rigid conviction. Slowly she raised her brows. “Indeed? So why don’t you enlighten me?”

He’d walked into that one. Gareth gritted his teeth, kept his gaze locked with hers…as the seconds ticked by and she didn’t soften, didn’t waver, didn’t back down, he accepted he had no choice. Drawing in a short breath, he plunged in. “What’s occurred between us is the result of surviving danger—the outcome, a natural and unsurprising outcome, of the dangerous episodes we’ve weathered together. It’s something everyone feels afterward, after such clashes. I’m used to it, so I recognize it, but you wouldn’t have experienced it before, and…” He felt his face harden. “Regardless of what you imagine what’s happened between
us means, that, in reality, is all it means. It’s an outcome of having survived a brush with death.”

Her frown had evaporated into an expression of stunned blankness. Her gaze distant, her voice, too, seemed to come from far away. “That’s not—”

“What you think, but
that
is what it is.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, her face devoid of expression, her jaw a trifle slack, then she said, “You have no idea what I think. No idea why I feel what I do.”

“What you
think
you feel has nothing to do with it. I
know
what this is—know why you want me to kiss you again—and therefore I know, unquestionably, that honor dictates that as a gentleman, as the one more experienced, I should refuse and keep a proper distance.”

Enough of explanations. He swung into the attack. “You should be thanking me for not accepting your invitation to further dalliance.” He made his tone resolute, even dictatorial. “Most men in my position would take advantage, but you deserve better.”

Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze focusing more intently on him. “So…you’re saying I’m suffering from…what? Some form of danger-induced delusional desire from which you need to save me?”

He hestitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s all this is.”

“You need to save me from myself.” Emily dragged in a shaky breath. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m a great deal more experienced than you.”

“I se-ee.” Her temper erupted and made her voice quaver. Her eyes as narrow as they could get, she pinned him. Rage of a kind she’d never before felt pouring hotly through her veins, she opened her mouth—and discovered she couldn’t get a word out.

She drew breath, held it, tried again to speak, but fury clogged her throat.

You have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about!

“
Arrgh!
” Flinging up her hands, she swung around,
stalked to the door at the end of the corridor, hauled it open, and swept out.

So much for finding a suitable place. So much for arranging a suitable time.

So much for developing a relationship with him—he didn’t even believe she genuinely wanted one!

Aggravated phrases, irritated declarations—all the things she’d love to say, to heap on his head if only she could speak, if only she could trust herself to berate him without furious tears strangling her voice—rang in her head as without pause she stalked straight out of the palace and on down the street.

Her expression must have been all suppressed fury; after one glance, everyone moved out of her way. She didn’t look back to see if Gareth was following, but she heard footfalls behind her, and knew it was him.

She reached the gate in the railing enclosing the park. Pausing, she glanced back, at his face, scorched him with a look full of fulminating fury, then she swung around, summoned a relaxed expression and plastered it on her face, settled her burka-shawl about her shoulders and, head rising, walked forward to find Dorcas and Watson and return to the xebec.

Their xebec put into Tunis harbor three days later, in the afternoon. They had sighted not one cultist since Alexandria, which was just as well given the sea approach to Tunis lay via a narrow entrance into a so-called lake. The xebec had had to furl its sails and beat in under oars. Outrunning any pursuit would have been impossible.

After farewelling Captain Laboule and his crew, thanking them for their hospitality and commiserating hypocritically over the lack of fighting, Gareth led his party off the deck, onto the docks. All once again in Arab guise, confidently following Laboule’s directions, they hired a small donkey-drawn cart from the many waiting to ferry passengers, luggage, and goods over the short distance from lakeshore to city gate. With the three women perched on their luggage in the cart, Gareth trudged along the sandy road, with the other men flanking the cart.

He kept his gaze from Emily. Since their “discussion” in Valletta, she had made no further advances, offered no further invitations to kiss her.

Just as well. If she had, he wasn’t at all sure he’d have had the strength or willpower to resist.

But he’d done the right thing. Not what he wanted—he wanted her—but honor had dictated that he couldn’t take advantage of her, that he’d had to give her the chance to back away.

And she had.

She’d drawn back, thought of what he’d said, and had seen the truth in his words, his assertion. She’d accepted the opening he’d given her to step back from any further interaction—which, given what had already occurred between them, would have only ended in one place, one activity.

He’d been right, and she’d finally seen that.

Over the days since Valletta, he’d been conscious of her watching him, broodingly, as if she were studying him.

Perhaps wondering at the passionate madness that had infected her, glad he’d explained and she’d seen it for what it was.

He trudged on, and tried not to think of her.

Tried to focus on his mission, on evaluating the possible threat from cultists in this out-of-the-way city. Concentrating on Laboule’s helpful directions, he led the way through the city gate and on toward the medina.

A souk by another name, they could hear a rising cacophony of voices, smell the pungent pervasive scents of spices, long before they saw the narrowing streets and covered alleys ahead.

Just before they reached the medina itself, Gareth turned left, and found the guesthouse Laboule had recommended a hundred yards further on. A quick survey from the street was encouraging. Leaving the others in the street with the luggage, he knocked on the gate in the wall, and was admitted.

The guesthouse was well-suited to their needs, clean, large enough, but not too sprawling, with sufficient rooms and, most important, a single guarded gate to the street. He settled to haggle with the owners. Dropping Laboule’s name helped. In short order he’d hired the guesthouse, once again managing to secure it exclusively for his party.

He went with the owner and his wife to let them in.

Emily was inexpressibly glad to be able to set her burka aside, wash her face and brush out her hair—all while standing on a floor that didn’t rock. In a room that had space enough to stretch both arms out without her fingers touching anything.

The physical relief was wonderful.

“I would be quite happy never to set foot on a xebec again,” she informed Dorcas, busy shaking out her traveling gowns and hanging them up in the armoire.

Dorcas snorted. “From what I overheard, seems likely we’ll be on another of the things for our next leg to Marseilles.”

Emily grimaced. “I heard the same thing.” Laboule had given Gareth the name of another xebec captain who he’d thought would be agreeable to taking them to Marseilles. “But it does seem as if we’ll have at least a few days here, on dry land.”

“We’ll need to go to the souk for supplies.” Dorcas’s voice was muffled as she spoke from inside the armoire.

“Tomorrow, I imagine.” Emily laid aside her brush. “At least it’s close.”

She prayed that, as they all hoped, there were no cultists in Tunis.

If so, if all remained quiet, then their time there might afford her the opportunity to…redirect Gareth. To reeducate him as to the reality of her wishes.

And the real and very definite force driving her desire.

Turning, she caught Dorcas’s gaze. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can organize a pot of tea.”

She was an Englishwoman far from home—there were some things she really hated going without.

The lone, low-ranking cultist sent to Tunis to watch and report should any of the four soldier-sahibs pass through that town had known that his mission was a sop, that the chances of any of the officers the Black Cobra was chasing coming through the town was so remote as to be negligible.

But of course he hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned.

He’d dutifully come to Tunis, and every day had walked out to the docks on the lakeshore, and watched.

Today, this afternoon, he had barely been able to believe his eyes.

Indeed, at first, his senses had deceived him. The group had passed under his nose and it hadn’t even twitched. But then he’d caught a comment passed between the two men walking at the rear of the little procession.

The word
cultists
had fixed his attention.

He’d slipped from his perch on a stack of fishing pots and followed.

A short time later, crouched in the shadow of the donkey cart behind the one the sahib had approached, wrapped in a long robe and without his black silk head scarf, he’d listened rather than looked. What he’d heard—the accents, the commanding manner—had convinced him.

One of the sahibs had come to Tunis.

Why he was traveling with women—three of them—was beyond the watcher’s ability to guess, but that didn’t matter.

He’d trailed the small party at a distance, had bided his time and waited at the corner of the street down which they’d turned, and had been rewarded. He now knew where the sahib was staying.

Not that he could attack—not on his own. But he had plenty of coin, and knew his orders by heart.

He hurried off to the tavern in which he was staying, begged paper and pencil, and settled to write a message, a report. He knew to whom in the French embassy he should give it. And once he had, he would devote himself to carrying out his august master’s orders with the utmost diligence.

T
he next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, all in their Arab disguises, left the guesthouse and walked down the street toward the scents and sounds of the medina.

No directions were necessary.

They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.

The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.

Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.

“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”

Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”

Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”

Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”—his gaze swept them—“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”

There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen—lead on.”

The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.

Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something—organizing, shopping—was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today—just in case.”

Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.

It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.

Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.

That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.

Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.

He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.

Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.

Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?

He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.

These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.

So their attackers had been sent, but by whom? The Black Cobra, or someone else? The bey? Someone in the palace?

Regardless, given they were locals, killing any would be unwise.

A knife flashed and nicked Gareth’s arm. Jaw clenching against the sting, he shook aside all distractions and refocused his energies on defeating the men.

A crowd started to gather in the street. Their assailants, finding no easy way to penetrate his and Mooktu’s deadly defense, called to others in the crowd. Called for help.

Most hung back, shocked and shaking their heads. But three young men came forward, eyes eager as they drew the typical short Arab blades from scabbards at their waists. Then they grinned, and pushed their way in to join the fight.

Just as the gate alongside Mooktu opened, and Bister, Mullins, and Jimmy rushed out, swords in hands.

And then the fight was truly on.

It was messy. It was confused.

Then one pair of opponents bumped into some onlookers, sending a woman sprawling, and that started a fight among some of the onlookers—and then it was impossible to tell what was going on.

Women joined the fray on the edges, thumping men over the head with basins, bundles, and baskets.

To Gareth’s horror, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia emerged from the gate. Armed with ladles, they started laying about them.

For one godforsaken instant chaos reigned, then shouts came from the rear of the crowd. Large, muscled bodies started forging their way in.

The bey’s guards.

Gareth looked at Emily, trying to catch her eye to direct her back into the guesthouse—to no avail. Giving up, he fought his way to her side, arriving there just as the captain of the guard reached her.

It was the same man who had led the detachment to fetch them earlier in the day.

His dark eyes met Gareth’s. After a moment, he said, “You must, if you please, all come with me.”

It took another ten minutes to restore calm, but the captain evenhandedly gathered all those involved—those of Gareth’s party as well as all the locals, including the women. The captain had brought a full troop with him. The miscreants were formed two-by-two into a long line and, flanked by the guards, marched to the palace.

Walking with Mooktu at the head of the procession, Gareth looked back, confirming that the five locals who had initially attacked them, plus the three who had later joined in, had had their hands tied. All the rest had been left unrestrained. The captain had spoken in Arabic to those locals who had hung back and abstained from involvement, and had clearly got the basic story straight. Gareth took that as a good sign.

Glancing at Emily and Arnia, walking directly behind
him and Mooktu, he murmured, “When we get to the palace, leave the talking to me.”

Emily looked up at him through the lace panel of her burka. “I seriously doubt the bey will deign to speak with me. With us.” With her eyes, she included Arnia, then looked away, head tilting as if beneath the burka she’d put her nose in the air. “Men always think men know everything.”

Gareth thought he heard a small “humph.” He also had the feeling she wasn’t talking solely about the bey.

Facing forward, he tried to remember if there was a British consulate anywhere in Tunisia, or even in neighboring Algeria, currently Tunisia’s overlord.

When they reached the palace, they were all ushered into a large hall, then left waiting there with the guards, armed, keeping watch over them. Unlike his earlier visit, this time they did not have to wait long. A bare ten minues had passed when a door at the end of the hall opened, and the bey, an average-sized man of middle years, tending slightly portly, with a silk turban wound about his head and a wide silk sash going over one shoulder and around his waist, came striding through, his personal guards at his back.

The captain bowed low.

The bey waved him up, and demanded an explanation for the crowd in his hall.

The captain’s story was brief and to the point—and accurate, much to Gareth’s relief.

The bey ran his eye down the line of those gathered. Then he ran his gaze back and fixed it on Gareth. “Major—I believe we met briefly this afternoon.” This time the bey spoke flawless English.

Gareth bowed. “Your Excellency.”

“Am I to take it that certain of these men attacked you as you returned to your lodgings?” When Gareth inclined his head, the bey raised his brows. “Which ones?”

Gareth shifted so he could point along the line. “These five first, then when they called for support, those three joined in.”

“Very good.” The bey marched down the line until he stood directly in front of the five. “Why did you attack these people, who I had only just welcomed to our fair city?”

The five fell to their knees, then further, prostrating themselves. After uttering various obeisances, one hurriedly said, “We were hired, Excellency, by another foreigner.”

The bey frowned, and glanced back at Gareth. “Who?”

“He wore a turban like the tall one”—the attacker pointed at Mooktu—“but his had a black band.”

Gareth shared a glance with Mooktu and Mullins beyond him.

The bey noticed, and came striding back to halt before Gareth. “You know of this black-turbaned man.”

A statement, not a question. Gareth met the bey’s dark eyes. “Sadly, yes, Your Excellency. It appears we’ve been followed—or perhaps this person reached here before us—but they are acting on behalf of an Indian cult leader who wishes revenge against a lady, the Governor of Bombay’s niece, who was instrumental in gathering vital evidence against the cult leader. The cult threatens the government and the people of India.”

As Gareth had suspected, as a ruler himself the bey had no time for anyone who threatened any government.

“This cult,” the bey declared to the room at large, “is to be given no help by my people.” He paused, then returned to the five still kneeling men. “You have been foolish beyond belief in attacking one I had welcomed at the behest of a foreigner. Captain!”

The captain approached. “Yes, Excellency?”

“Take these five, and the other three as well, and have them sweep the streets about the palace and clean the palace stables for the next three months. Then perhaps they will think again before they take coin from a foreigner to attack one of this city’s guests.”

The eight men all prostrated themselves. It was a lenient sentence, but, Gareth felt, a wise one. He and his party would soon be gone, but the bey would remain and continue to rule these people.

The bey briefly interrogated, then dismissed the other onlookers who had joined the fight. As they all filed out, relieved to have been spared any punishment, the bey strode back up the hall to where Gareth and his party remained.

The bey’s gaze raked the three women, all incognito behind their burkas, then lifted to Gareth’s face. “This lady, the governor’s niece—she travels with you?”

Gareth nodded. “It is my duty to keep her safe from the cult on our journey back to England.”

“Good.” The bey clapped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Come—walk a little way with me.” He glanced back at the women. “And if it is not against your rules, as I believe it is not, perhaps your lady might join us?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Emily lifted her burka, putting it back from her face, then stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Excellency.”

The bey appeared pleased by the graceful obeisance. He bowed in return. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Gallantly he offered his arm. “This is how it is done, is it not?”

Emily smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Just so, Your Excellency.”

“Good.” Looking to Gareth, the bey waved him on. “Come—walk with me in the cloisters.”

Gareth glanced pointedly at the others of their party, standing quietly waiting.

Following his glance, the bey raised a hand. “My apologies. Your people may return to your lodgings. I will send guards to escort them, and the captain will escort you and your lady there shortly.”

Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Leaving the others filing out of the hall with the guards, Gareth walked by Emily’s side as the bey led them through a wonderfully carved archway into the tiled cloisters surrounding a courtyard.

They strolled, the bey pointing out various mosaics and sculptures, which they dutifully—and quite sincerely—
admired. Once they had completed a circuit of the courtyard, the Bey ushered them into a small parlor overlooking the courtyard pool, and waved them to fat cushions. Once they’d all sat, he got down to buisness.

“I have a small favor to ask—a minor indulgence if you can see your way to granting it.” He looked from Gareth to Emily and back again. “It is my great hope to visit various European courts next year, and as it is expected and the European way, I will take my wife—my principal wife, the begum—with me. Also my closest courtiers. However, other than myself, and then only as a young man many years ago, we have little experience of European manners. No recent experience at all.” He paused, then fixed his gaze on Gareth. “I was hoping I might prevail upon you and your lady to attend a dinner here tomorrow night, and give us—myself, the begum, and those who will travel with me—instruction in how to conduct ourselves at a European table.”