The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (40 page)

Gareth smiled. “Go in and get some sleep—I’ll take over until Mooktu appears.”

Stifling a yawn, Watson nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s been quiet all night.” He looked over the water. “Lovely morning, but I’m going to find my bed. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a half salute, Gareth settled, still smiling, against the rails. He heard Watson stump off into the cabins. The slap of waves against the hull was soothing, the faint mumble of voices from the stern—the crew chatting—punctuated by the call of a wheeling gull.

Over the last days, while avoiding their mistress, he’d made an effort to get to know her people. If they were to travel on together, he needed to know what manner of troops he had under his command.

Both Watson and Mullins were unreservedly grateful for his rescue of their charge. Mullins had been an infantryman until after Waterloo. He’d returned to his home village in Northamptonshire, looking for employment, and had run
into Watson, who, with Bonaparte defeated and the Continent safe again, had been setting up as a travel guide to take young gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the old Grand Tour. Watson was the courier-guide, Mullins the guard. Jimmy, Watson’s sister’s son, had been brought on this trip to learn the ropes.

Over the years, Watson and Mullins had worked frequently for the Ensworth family, who they consequently knew well. The family was large; they’d conducted three male Ensworths around the Continent, as well as escorting the elder Ensworths on various trips. The family were valued and well-liked clients; just the thought of losing Emily—one of the younger of the brood—was enough to make both Watson and Mullins, experienced though they were, literally blanch.

They also liked Emily herself; seen through their eyes, she was a sensible, calm, and even-tempered young lady they had no qualms over conducting halfway around the world.

Both Watson and Mullins were in their middle years, and shared a tendency to corpulence. Although still hale, able, and active, as Gareth had earlier intimated to Emily, neither rode well, and it sounded as if Jimmy’s equestrian abilities owed more to enthusiasm than skill. It was a point he would have to bear in mind in arranging their transport onward.

Mullins took his duties seriously; in Aden he’d asked Mooktu to help sharpen his sword skills. Meanwhile Bister had, unasked, taken Jimmy under his wing; Gareth had seen the pair practicing knife throwing, Bister’s specialty. In terms of protecting the women in the party, they weren’t without resources.

Not that Gareth thought Arnia needed protecting. Like Mooktu, she hailed from the northwestern frontier, and like all the females of those tribes, was as lethal with blades as her menfolk, yet the cultists would be unlikely to recognize the danger Arnia posed, not until it was too late.

Learning about Dorcas, Emily’s very English maid, a tall, bustling and competent female somewhere in her late thirties, had required the application of a certain amount of
self-effacing charm, but she’d eventually thawed enough to admit that she rode very poorly, and that she’d been with Emily and her family for most of Emily’s life.

Dorcas, too, was grateful for his rescue and subsequent protection of her mistress, yet she continued to view him with an underlying suspicion she did nothing to hide. As he’d been careful to suppress, and if not that then conceal all evidence of his unhelpful attraction to her charge, he wasn’t sure what lay behind Dorcas’s watchful, ready-to-be-censorious eye.

He heard a footfall—
her
footfall. He was turning to search for Emily even before she rounded the cabins in a gown of lilac cotton that fluttered in the breeze.

Seeing him, she smiled and strolled his way.

He struggled to keep his answering—too revealing—smile from his face, managed to replace it with a frown. “What are you doing up at this hour?” He glanced around. “You shouldn’t be on deck—it could be dangerous.”

She tilted her head, studied him for a moment, then, smile still flirting about the corners of her rosy lips, she looked out across the waves. “It’s so peaceful and quiet, you’d hear any other vessel approaching, surely?”

She looked back at him, met his eyes.

The best he could do was humph, and lean back on the railing. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

He was being deliberately off-putting. Just having her near…but the more he replayed their earlier conversation, the more he dwelled on the soft light he’d glimpsed in her eyes, the more he was certain she was carrying a torch for MacFarlane, and he had no intention of trying to compete with that. With his friend’s ghost.

“I seem to have been sleeping too much, if truth be told. And it’s such a lovely morning.”

She settled against the railing beside him.

The warm softness of her body called to his, a siren song weakening his defenses. He told himself he should push back and move away—seize the excuse of being on guard to do a circuit of the barge.

Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, from the corner of his eyes watching the breeze playing with her hair, teasing out tendrils to lie alongside her porcelain cheeks.

After a moment, he forced his attention back to the waves. “I…gather you come from a large family.”

Emily laughed. “That’s an understatement. I have three sisters and four brothers. I’m the second youngest—only Rufus is younger than me.”

“So you’re the baby of the girls?”

“Yes, but that’s something of an advantage. We’re all very close, although of course the other three are all married and have their own households. Nevertheless, we still see each other often.” She was perfectly willing to discuss her family, as it allowed her to turn his way and ask, “What about you? Do you have brothers and sisters?”

He stiffened, straightened. “No.” He glanced down at her, then softened the single syllable with, “I was an only child.”

She noted the past tense. “Your parents…have they passed on?”

Eyes back on the waves, he nodded. “There’s no one waiting for me in England.” He shot another swift glance her way. Half smiled. “Not like you.”

“Ah, yes—there’ll be a fattened calf and all manner of celebrations when I get back.” And if matters unfolded as she hoped, he’d be there to share them. Her delighted smile as she looked out across the waves was entirely genuine. She’d had a sudden disconcerting thought that he might have someone waiting for him in England—some lady, even a fiancée—but his statement had been a blanket one. A species of relief slid through her veins, and left her almost giddy.

He was prickly and stiff, but she wasn’t going to let that deter her. According to her sisters, men—strange beasts—were often that way when they were attracted to a lady but trying to hide it. As for the rest, she’d realized that “Protective” was his middle name, at least as far as women were concerned. However, she’d yet to see any clear indication
that with respect to her, that protectiveness had moved beyond the general to the specific.

But they had plenty of journey ahead of them, plenty of time for her to watch and see.

She was still at the stage of mentally ticking items off the list of characteristics her “one” should possess. Her ideal was fairly clear in her mind, but matching the reality to her list was proving more challenging than she’d expected. There were all sorts of issues one had to take into account.

But at this moment, she was content. She fully intended to work on him, on encouraging him to allow his attitude to her to grow less stilted. A moment’s consideration had her stating, “I believe I’ll take an amble about the deck.”

That brought an instant frown—as she’d expected.

“It would be safer to go back inside the main cabin.” He stepped back from the railing, frowning down at her.

She smiled sunnily back. “If you’re on watch, perhaps you should walk with me—you can view the rest of the barge as we go.” She didn’t give him a chance to refuse, but turned and started to stroll down the walkway between the cabins and the barge’s rail.

Then she turned and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Come on.”

Gareth couldn’t resist. Feeling inwardly grim, he found himself following in her wake—responding all too definitely to that alluring smile.

To his inner self she was far too attractive, and with every passing day, with each new fact he learned about her, grew only more so. She was distraction, and fixation, and potential obsession, and he knew he should back away, but…unlike the men under his command, she was elusive and difficult to manage, and—as she was demonstrating—their journey was going to make keeping his distance close to impossible.

He joined her as, holding back her waving hair, she excitedly pointed to a cormorant diving in the waves. And he wondered why, instead of feeling weighed down, his heart felt light—lighter than it had in a long, long time.

L
ate that evening, while strolling the deck, eyes scanning the waves—increasingly choppy as they passed through the straits, the
Bab el Mandeh
, as the crew called them, that led into the Red Sea—Gareth found Bister in the stern, seated on a coil of rope polishing his knives.

His batman looked up, nodded, and continued to buff. “No sign of any of those idiot fiends.”

Gareth lounged on the railing nearby. “Why idiot? They nearly did for Miss Ensworth in Aden.”

“Which proves my point. They should have laid low and taken us out first, then Miss Ensworth would have been a sitting duck. Only Mullins has a clue how to fight, and they separated him from her easily enough.” Bister held up a knife, examined its edge.

“Not everyone has had the experiences we’ve had, but it would be unwise to treat the cultists too lightly.”

Bister nodded sagely. “Never underestimate the enemy.”

“Indeed.” Gareth looked away to hide his twitching lips. Bister was barely five and twenty. He’d joined Gareth when he’d been all of seventeen—just as gullible and inexperienced as Jimmy.

“Meant to mention.”

Gareth turned back, brows rising.

Bister kept his gaze locked on his blade, kept rubbing. “Miss Ensworth. Jimmy said as she was supposed to go home via the usual route—booked on a ship of the line to Southampton via the Cape. But a day or so before, she up and changed her mind, and decided she should go via Aden.”

Gareth let a few seconds go by. “Did she give any reason for the change in route?”

“Nope—just that she’d taken it into her head to go this way, rather than the other.”

“When, exactly, did she change her mind? Did Jimmy know?”

Bister nodded, still absorbed with his blade. “His uncle heard first, as you might imagine. Jimmy said it was a bare two days before they set out—they left on the seventeenth.”

Gareth and his household had departed on the fifteenth—the day Emily Ensworth had decided to change her plans.

The facts lined up, but…

Coincidence. It had to be. Aside from all else, she couldn’t have known about his leaving…could she?

Even if she had known, why would she bother changing her plans to follow him? It made no sense.

A niggle of a suggestion tapped his mental shoulder, but that was self-important arrogance if ever he’d heard it.

“Let me know if you learn anything more.” Pushing away from the railing, he continued on his rounds.

Their barge drew into the Mocha docks in the early afternoon.

With Watson’s help, Gareth had their party formed up and ready to disembark the instant the ropes were cinched tight. Within minutes they were moving swiftly along the wharf and into the town, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia walking quickly before the luggage, with the men positioned around them, all on high alert.

As Gareth passed Emily, she reached out and clutched his sleeve. Tugged him close.

Looked up and met his eyes. Hers were narrowed. “What haven’t you told me?”

He considered, but it couldn’t hurt for her to know. “The cultists might have come on by the inland route. We have to assume they’re here, and we don’t want to meet them unnecessarily.”

She held his gaze for an instant, searching his eyes, then nodded and released his sleeve.

He watched her for several moments, but far from exhibiting any degree of fear, she merely scanned the crowds, watchful and now alert. He hadn’t made any conscious decision not to spell out the situation for her as he had for the men. The men had to be on guard. Her…he simply hadn’t thought of it.

“Where are we heading?” She asked the question without looking at him.

He, too, kept his gaze on the noisy crowds. “Somewhere you and the others will be safe while I find a schooner to take us to Suez.”

Bister, scouting ahead as usual, returned at that moment with directions to a small family-run tavern down a narrow side street only a few blocks from the docks.

When they reached it, Gareth approved. The front was mostly wall, with only one door and a small glassless window covered by a leather flap, presently lowered against the day’s heat.

They went in. Given the hour, the front room was empty.

Gareth directed Emily and Dorcas to the front corner furthest from the door. Arnia followed. To his relief, although
Arnia was usually exceedingly reserved, she seemed to have made some pact with Dorcas, and the pair had reached a working accord—which would certainly make his life easier.

Mooktu, with Mullins, had gone to chat with the proprietor, a middle-aged Arab who smiled and nodded. They returned bearing a tray with a pitcher and mugs. Without words, they pulled together tables, arranged benches, and sat down to refresh themselves.

And plan.

Gareth looked at Watson. “You, Mooktu, and I need to go back to the docks and look for a schooner to hire, preferably one that will take us and only us, no other cargo, and so sail to Suez in the shortest possible time.”

Watson grimaced. “That’ll cost a pretty penny.”

“Money we have,” Gareth returned. “Our safety is my primary concern.”

Watson nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“We need supplies.” Emily waited until Gareth looked her way. Raising her hand, she ticked off on her fingers, “We need flour, lentils, rice, tea, sugar, and all the other things we didn’t have on the barge.”

They’d learned that although their households could happily share the same foods, Indian or English, a steady diet of fish and only fish suited none of them.

Beside Emily, both Arnia and Dorcas were nodding, as were Bister and Jimmy.

Gareth opened his mouth, then shut it as realization dawned.

Emily gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Indeed—if you find a barge to take us straight on, as we all hope, then given the hour we’ll need to go to the souk now. We can’t afford to wait until you get back.”

He stared at her. She could all but see his instinctive refusal to let her go outside forming on his tongue. She pointed to Bister. “If Bister will come with me, and Mullins, too, we can leave Jimmy with Arnia and Dorcas to guard the luggage.”

It was a reasonable division of labor and guards. Her gaze steady on his face, she waited to see if he would accept. If he had it in him to be reasonable.

His lips thinned, but slowly he nodded—forced himself to nod. “All right.” He looked at Bister and Mullins. “But take all care. So far we’ve managed to avoid the cultists. If at all possible, we don’t want to be seen.”

The souk was a bustling hive of humanity, located within a quarter of narrow winding streets. Both traders and customers hailed from many different nations, and all were talking loudly in many different tongues. Luckily, with the expansion of French and British influence, most traders spoke a smattering of pidgin English at least, and some spoke passable French, enough for Emily to get by.

She was firmly determined not to feel cowed by having to deal with such
foreign
foreigners. And, indeed, she discovered that if she approached with confidence, the traders treated her with deference and politeness, and after her months in Bombay, bargaining was second nature.

They got through their list of required purchases with commendable speed. She was completing the last transaction—for chickpeas—when Gareth and Mooktu joined them.

She smiled and handed Gareth the peas. “Here—you may as well make yourself useful…” Looking into his face, she saw his expression, saw the way his eyes scanned the crowd. “What?”

Without glancing down at her, he quietly said, “As we suspected, there are cultists in town. We saw them, but thus far I don’t think they’ve seen us. If at all possible, I’d like to keep it that way.”

Emily glanced swiftly around. She made no protest when Gareth’s hard fingers closed about her elbow, and with a terse nod to the stall owner, he turned her away, back toward the tavern.

They had to backtrack across the souk to reach the tavern.
As they walked, keeping their pace no different to those around them, she murmued, “Did you find a schooner?”

“Yes. We were lucky—we’ll be able to leave this evening.” Eyes constantly surveying the crowd, ready to take evasive action if he spotted any cultist, Gareth registered her nod, but again didn’t glance her way.

He was feeling exceedingly exposed, and not a little vulnerable. Mooktu, in his tribal robes, merged easily into the crowd, but there were few Europeans about, and he, Emily, Bister, and Mullins stood out.

Without warning, Emily halted.

Already frowning, his grip on her elbow tightening, he turned to urge her on. And saw she was staring down an alley of stalls.

She looked up at him, eyes bright. “Disguises.”

He looked again, and saw that the stalls were selling robes and other items of local clothing.

“We can’t merge with the crowds as we are, but if we buy some Arab robes, we’ll be able to waltz right past the cultists.”

“We don’t need to get that close, but…” He looked down and met her eyes, brimming with enthusiasm. Nodded. “Let’s take a look.”

Collecting Mooktu, Bister and Mullins with a glance, he followed Emily into the narrow, winding alley.

It didn’t take her long to discover a shop selling all manner of outer robes. She tried on a burka—a long robe that completely covered a woman from head to toe, with only a small, lace-filled panel across the eyes to see out from.

The instant the burka fell over her head, she became…utterly indistinguishable from all the other women clogging the streets.

“This is wonderful!” Her voice, muffled, came from beneath the black folds. “I can see perfectly well.” She turned this way and that, surveying the small shop. “But no one can see me.”

In a flurry of material, she pushed up the front of the robe and fixed the shopkeeper with a direct glance. “I’ll take this one, and”—she pointed to another in brown—“that one. How much for both?”

Leaving her haggling, spurred on by just how well disguised she’d been, Gareth applied himself to finding robes for himself, and urged Bister and Mullins to do the same.

Initially reticent, they were soon caught up in the transformation. Gareth was pleased with the end result. With any luck, they might—just might—escape the eyes of the cultists. If they could, it would be well worth this small effort.

Leaving the shopkeeper with instructions that there would shortly be some others of their party calling, and that he was to show them similar garments, they left the shop, all now in Arab guise.

No one so much as looked their way.

From beneath her burka, Emily studied the other Arab women, watched how they behaved. She quickly adjusted her position in their party so she was walking a pace behind Gareth. Given Mooktu and Mullins were walking behind her, Gareth made no demur; he, too, must have noticed the local practice.

When he paused at the corner of the souk and glanced back, checking that they were all behind him, she blinked, then smiled delightedly behind the concealing veil of her burka. In his flowing white robes over loose trousers, with a long, loose scarf wound about his head and another dark band cinched about his waist, he looked every inch the desert sheik—a man of mystery, dangerous power, and untold sensuality.

The others…simply looked dangerous.

As he started forward again, she meekly fell into step behind him, still smiling happily to herself.

Once back at the tavern, they sent Mooktu back to the shop with Watson, Jimmy, Dorcas, and Arnia for the others to buy suitable disguises.

While they were gone, Emily, with Mullins’s, Bister’s, and Gareth’s help, reoganized the luggage, packing their recent purchases into two large hemp bags they bought from the tavern owner.

“Arnia said she would cook for us, and Dorcas offered to help.” Emily stepped back from the bag as Gareth and Mullins worked to lash it closed. “I can cook, but I’m afraid I’ve had little experience with these sorts of ingredients.”

Gareth glanced up at her. “I doubt we’ll need to call on your culinary skills.” He suspected he could cook better than she, and he wasn’t any great chef. “Both Mooktu and Bister are passable over a campfire.”

Mullins snorted as he straightened from the now secure bag. “Just as well. If Watson or I had to help…well, you’d probably rather not eat.”

The others returned in good time. They all stood in the, thankfully, still empty tavern and admired their ingenuity. Dorcas, too, was taken with the burka, although for Arnia, who normally wore a scarf wound about her head with a long end she often pulled across her face, the change wasn’t all that remarkable.