The Elusive Bride (23 page)

Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.

It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”

Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”

They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”

Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”

“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”

“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”

Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace—that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business—as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover—a very good bolt-hole—before then.”

“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”

“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets—at least for now, that’s what we need.”

Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops—a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others—all set between residential buildings of various sorts.

The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.

It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything—literally every item her glance lit upon—was neat and clean, spic-and-span.

Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.

Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back—instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants—but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.

He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”

Mullins nodded and sat. The others settled around the table.

“We still need to think of things like that, don’t we?” Watson asked. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Far from it.” Gareth hesitated, then said, “Indeed, if anything we’re in greater danger now, and as a group will be until we reach England. Once there, colleagues will be waiting. I imagine some of you will be able to stay in a safe house while I ferry the scroll holder to its final destination.”

Her gaze on his face, Emily inwardly snorted. He’d better not be thinking of leaving her behind, tucked away in safety, while he faced danger alone.

The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen with trays bearing coffee, a pot of hot chocolate, and sumptuous pastries. They all waited while he served. Her mouth watering, Emily beamed and, with Gareth, thanked him.

Once the innkeeper had retired behind the counter at the back of the room, Gareth glanced around the table at the now familiar faces, then went on, “We have the next few hours to consider our options and make our plans. The closer we get to England, the more desperate our pursuers will grow. We need to decide how we’re going to tackle the journey from here to the Channel—how best to clear the hurdles the cult is sure to place in our path.”

He paused. All the others were listening intently. “We have two options at this point, and we need to choose which one
to take.” He glanced around. “I could make the decision—as I generally do—but in this case, we all need to decide together, because whatever comes of that decision will be something we all have to face. We’re all in this together.”

No one argued. He went on, “We could flee the town now—hire the first two carriages we find and head north at a run before the cultists here in France even know we’ve landed. That’s our first option and it has a certain attraction. However, if we do that, we won’t have time to find coachmen willing and able to help us, to fight on our side if need be, nor will we be able to acquire any of the supplies we will need for the journey—we’d need to rely on stoppping in smaller towns and being able to find what we need there.” He paused, then added, “All of us with pistols are low on powder and shot, and now we’re back in Europe, we have to assume any men the cultists hire will use firearms, so from here on, we’re much more likely to need our own.”

Stirring his coffee, Watson nodded. “In addition to that, from here, there’s really only one route—one halfway fast and direct route—we can take to the Channel ports. If we’re in danger, then we can’t afford to dally, yet once on that road, we’ll be easy to track, easy to find.”

Grimly, Gareth nodded. “Precisely. Either way, whether we flee now, or seize the cover of being in a town as crowded with people of all races as Marseilles to first make proper preparations, once we’re on the road north, the cult will quickly pick up our trail.”

They discussed it—how much they could foresee, what preparations they might make before leaving Marseilles that would help them evade subsequent capture and speed their journey north. Mooktu pointed out that, while they would be easier to track once on the road, in the French countryside the cultists themselves would be much more visible.

When the coffee and cakes were gone and the discussion wound down, Gareth called a vote. To his relief, the decision was unanimous. They would remain in Marseilles until they were ready to make a dash for the Channel coast.

T
he next morning, garbed as any young Frenchwoman with her cloak over her shoulders, Emily walked the short distance to the town market.

Gareth strode by her side, his expression impassive, his eyes constantly scanning. He didn’t trust anyone else with her safety, an irritating development, but one he wasn’t in any mood to resist.

If he wasn’t by her side, he’d be distracted, unable to make sound decisions, so there wasn’t any point fighting the now insistent compulsion.

Dorcas followed behind them, a basket over her arm, Mullins by her side. Recalling what he’d noticed on the xebec’s deck during the battle, Gareth suspected there was a bud
ding romance there. Regardless, he was glad of Mullins’s company, and Bister was ambling around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind in his usual role of scout.

They had no difficulty finding the market—they followed the noise and the smells. Some were savory, others less so, but once they reached the square and merged into the loud, constantly shifting crowd, all individual aromas melted into the rich potpourri of the market.

Although they didn’t need food in the general sense, they’d agreed that once on the road they wouldn’t stop for lunch, but would eat on the run as it were. After circling the stalls selling fresh fruit, Emily bought a sack of crisp apples, a selection of other fruits and vegetables that would keep, and handfuls of various nuts in their shells.

While Dorcas tucked the packages into her basket, Emily turned to him. “Can you see where the stalls selling cured meats and cheeses are?”

Raising his head, he looked over the crowd, saw those stalls along a distant wall. He also saw two cultists strolling down the aisle toward them. The pair were still some way ahead, but they weren’t shopping.

He’d taken Emily’s arm before he’d thought. Bending close, he spoke quietly as he turned her. “Cultists ahead—we’ll backtrack, then circle around. The stalls you want are along the far wall.”

She met his eyes, nodded, then calmly gathered Dorcas and Mullins as they passed. In good order they retreated out of the cultists’ path.

While escorting Emily to the distant stalls, he kept an eye on the pair, and sent Bister scouting further to see if there were any others in the market.

Emily was negotiating the price of two nice hams when Bister returned.

“Just those two.” He frowned. “You’d think they’d leave off their turbans and those black scarves, but no.” He shrugged. “Just as well for us, I suppose.”

Gareth returned a noncommittal grunt. If the cultists left
off their insignia, given the number of foreigners from every land under the sun to be found in Marseilles, he and the others would be in very big trouble. Not for the first time, he gave thanks for the cultists’ arrogance.

They spent another half hour in the crowded market, every minute on high alert. By the time they quit the main square, loaded with the hams, blocks of hard cheese, and the fruits and vegetables, and headed via a series of narrow streets back to their inn, Emily felt exhausted, emotionally wrung out.

She felt like a piano wire that had been strung too tight for too long—she wanted nothing more than to snap and sag.

To find relief…release.

Much like another sort of tension, and the blissful release she’d discovered it could lead to.

She slanted a glance at Gareth, striding close beside her. Although he was looking ahead, alert and focused, she was sure that if she took one step in the wrong direction, away from him, his entire attention would snap back to her. If she walked into a room he was in, he glanced at her immediately. Every time she left him, she felt his gaze on her back until she’d passed out of his sight.

If she was in his presence, even if he wasn’t looking at her, he knew exactly where she was.

The knowledge buoyed her, and comforted, too. If she had to walk through ever-present danger, having a possessive predator at her side was no bad thing.

But there was a counterside to that. Said ever-present danger was a very big hurdle in her path. While he remained focused on the enemy, and even more on protecting her, the chances of him initiating any intimate interlude were, she estimated, effectively nil.

Being intimate was a time when his guard was down. He wouldn’t suggest it.

He’d warned that the danger—and therefore the tension—was only going to escalate, at least until they reached England, and probably beyond that. If they were to share any
more interludes between now and the end of his mission, she would have to instigate them.

But should she?

She glanced at him as they turned into the street in which their inn stood. She detected no lessening in the battle-ready tension that held him, no easing of his all-but-constant surveillance of their surroundings.

Should she distract him—not now, but tonight?

Or should she acquiesce to what she knew would be his choice, and wait until they reached England and his mission was complete before again addressing their putative relationship?

If she waited, social mores would come to his aid. Once at home, it would be difficult for her to refuse his suit, even to delay, if he pressed. She was fairly certain he would. As matters stood, their marriage was no longer in question—it was the nature of said marriage they had yet to resolve.

She glanced at him again—and caught him watching her, rather speculatively, but he immediately looked away.

Was he thinking, imagining, considering, as she was?

She couldn’t imagine the prospect of another interlude hadn’t occurred to him, yet regardless of the prompting of his instincts, she would wager her life he wouldn’t come to her bed. Not unless…

Unless she issued an invitation he couldn’t—wasn’t strong enough to—resist.

The notion tantalized her adventurous side.

So…should she use, indeed capitalize on, the tension, the danger, the stress of the journey to help press her cause? To make it harder for him to pretend that his interest in her was honor driven and nothing else? Or should she—as she was sure he would—play safe?

Reaching the inn, he opened the front door and held it for her. Passing in front of him, she looked into his face.

He was looking down the street.

Stifling a humph, she went inside.

By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission—on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.

He knew what he needed—two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.

He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way—for the whole journey from south to north coast—and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.

But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.

He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair—and raised his eyes to hers.

She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.

Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”

He frowned, but before he could reply she leaned closer, laying one hand atop his where his rested on the table. He quashed an impulse to turn that hand and close it about her slim fingers.

“No.” Her gaze slid past him, lingered for an instant, then returned to his face. “I was thinking, for instance, of this inn. It doesn’t have carriages for hire—well, nothing bigger than a gig—but it’s family run. And families have cousins, and uncles, and know other connections in the same business.”

She again looked past him. He realized she was looking at the innkeeper further down the room.

“Why not ask our host?” She looked back and met his eyes. “We’ve been here two days, and they’ve been very good—interested in a nice way, not pushy, and Arnia and Dorcas get on well with the innwife. She helped with a tisane for Jimmy’s headache.” Enthusiasm infused her expression. “It won’t hurt to ask.”

Looking into her face, he tried to remember caution. “We’ll have to take them into our confidence—what if, once we do, they think it too dangerous for us to remain here?”

“They won’t turn us out—not if we explain properly.” It was she who squeezed his fingers. “Come on—let’s try.”

He hesitated for a moment more, then returned the pressure of her fingers, reluctantly released her hand, and rose.

They’d dined relatively late, and the other diners—locals
for the most part—had already left. Only three men remained, sharing a jug of wine. The innkeeper was amenable to joining Gareth and Emily at a small table in one corner. At Emily’s suggestion, he summoned his wife to join them. She came, curiosity in her eyes.

Gareth commenced by explaining he and most of their party were English, which came as no surprise, yet with Napoleon’s defeat only seven years past there were formalities to observe. Luckily, most Frenchmen, especially those in trade, had reverted to treating the English with their customary, occasionally arrogant, tolerance. Nevertheless, Gareth omitted to mention his part in the earlier war, saying only that he’d been serving in India until recently, and was presently on a mission coinciding with his return to England.

In the sparsest of terms, he outlined their journey, and explained the existence and the intent of the cultists.