The Elusive Bride (21 page)

And sure enough, the barrier was there. Every muscle clenched, locked tight under absolute control, he withdrew almost to her entrance, felt her hands clutch frantically, trying to tug him back.

He flexed his spine and thrust powerfully in, forging past the fine barrier to seat himself fully within her, to press deep, to the hilt.

And stop. Holding himself steady, every sense locked on her.

Beneath him, held trapped in the kiss, she’d made not a sound, but she’d frozen.

An instinctive reaction against a sharp pain. He waited; lips on hers, he prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly, that she—

He broke off the thought as she eased beneath him. As gradually, bit by bit, the pain-induced tension fell from her.

Beneath it, supplanting it, he sensed something in her that for all his experience he’d never previously encountered. It took him a moment to find its name.

Fascination.

She was utterly enthralled. Not just with his body, but with the sensation of their joining, of him being sunk so deeply within her.

He kissed her gently, and moved, drawing back slowly, then thrusting in again, and sensed her excitement, that fascination, flare.

Instinct, and the dance, took over.

Emily gave herself up to it, up to him, to the swirling exhilaration of their joining, wholly and completely embracing the act. Her mind couldn’t contain her joy, her delight, the inexpressible relief that as last she was here, with him, and it was all so much better than she’d ever imagined, than her sisters had ever been able to describe.

She reveled, and urged him on. Did all and everything she could to meet him, match him, and learn what pleased him, to grasp every chance to share the abundant pleasure he was lavishing on her, and return it.

Loving was a sharing—she knew that to her bones. She threw herself into it, searching for ways to use her body to pleasure him just as he was using his to pleasure her.

And if they wrestled, she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did. Their lips remained fused, but in the brief moments they parted she delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency that so patently gripped him,
and her, and made them strive, body to body, heart to thudding heart.

And then they would dive back—into the kiss, into the flames, into the rising indescribable heat. Even if this was her first time, she was eager to make it count, to welcome the glory, make it hers and search for more…

Until it sizzled in her veins, streaking through her, until it whipped the flames racing over her skin to a conflagration. One that sank deep, then coalesced, that drew in and tightened, inexorably, unrelentingly focusing…

He groaned through the kiss and thrust hard and deep, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. Shattered her, shards of pleasure so sharp they glittered flying down every nerve, every vein.

Until she flew, free of the earth, wholly taken by the glory.

For two heartbeats, Gareth savored her release, teeth gritted held desperately on, but the ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, milked him, and drew him irresistibly on.

Release swept him, deeper than any he’d ever known.

Surrendering, letting his shuddering body have its way, he let go, and followed her into ecstasy.

Bliss. Emily decided there was no other word to describe the sensation.

Lying on her back in her rumpled bed, Gareth a hot heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside her, she stared at the ceiling, a smile on her face, an unusual sense of peace in her heart.

So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.

Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.

He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not
that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.

Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.

Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.

She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”

He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”

She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort—no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she
hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

If he truly loved her.

For her, nothing else would do.

Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize.
Perhaps?
What the devil did that mean?

To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her—he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay—and now she’d given herself to him—all but seduced him—that, to his mind, settled that.

Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

Why
perhaps
?

His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”—she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state—“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

Before?
He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes—that’s how it should feel.”

And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed—a quiet vow in the fading moonlight—that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

B
y noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way—at last—to Marseilles.

Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.

With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis
had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.

Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there—this was the Mediterranean—but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.

His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.

He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.

On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach—his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome—that he needed her as his wife—and that was enough.

Probing further…

After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.

No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.

The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.

Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.

He hoped his master would be pleased.

Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.

The attack came with the dawn.

Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.

Feet thundered past—the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.

A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.

He looked at her. “Stay here.”

His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.

Emily looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.

Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.

In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them—our attackers—from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”

Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t
think she would be able to wield a knife—just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish—but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.

She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.

Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”

She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.

They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.

And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.

Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.

She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.

A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.

He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.

She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.

He slumped—unconscious, not dead.

She could manage unconscious without a qualm.

Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to
wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.

Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close—close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.

One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.

Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.

Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless.…

A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.

But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.

His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.

She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.

Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get
below
!”

Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close—close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley—the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship,
taut in the breeze—the fair wind was still blowing—then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn—”

She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”

He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.

An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”

“Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.

Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.

He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”

He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.

Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”

“Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket—a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.

But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”

Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”

He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area—you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two
away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”—he nodded at the bottles they held—“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”

He turned to Emily. “You stay here,
down here
, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare—it had always worked on soldiers.

It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her—desperately wanted to taste her lips for just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.

Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.

Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.

His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.