The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (45 page)

The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent—or even nonurgent—attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.

Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.

Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.

But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he—and maybe even she—would have ended distracted.

His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.

Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.

Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.

His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her—her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.

He shifted, and she looked up, met his eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought.

She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Just this and that.”

The faint color in her cheeks gave her away.

He should have asked
who
she was thinking of.

Him? Cathcart?

Or MacFarlane’s ghost?

It was suddenly imperative he know. Ever since he’d been unwise enough to kiss her on the schooner, he’d been plagued by questions—of what she thought, what she wanted, what was going through her mind. Of what was right, honorable, what was acceptable in the circumstances. Of just how much those circumstances were to blame for her apparent interest in engaging with him. Moving into the room, he stepped around the numerous floor cushions and low tables to the divan. “May I join you?”

“Of course.” She straightened amid the cushions, drawing her skirts in, in a clear invitation for him to sit there, close beside her.

He did. But divans weren’t designed for sitting formally. Emily wriggled her hips, curled her legs beneath her green skirts, shifting around to face him. He lounged among the cushions, arms spread across the colorful silks, one bent knee on the divan so he was angled toward her. “How have you enjoyed your trip thus far?”

She waved in a gesture that encompassed many things. “It’s been…enlightening, illuminating, and undeniably exciting.”

“I fear we won’t make it to the pyramids or the sphinx.”

“As that route would take us through Cairo, I don’t feel overly exercised by that. I would rather arrive in Alexandria alive, and not in the hands of the Black Cobra’s men.”

“Indeed.” He let a moment go by, then asked, “It must have been a shock to learn James had met his death at their hands.”

She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared. “MacFarlane?” She considered, then grimaced and met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, when he insisted on remaining behind like that, given the numbers, I would have been more surprised had he survived.”

“It was an immensely brave act.”

She inclined her head. “It was an act of great self-sacrifice—I acknowledge that. Had our roles been reversed, I doubt I could have done the same.”

Emily watched Gareth’s face, and wondered why he’d introduced the topic. “Your MacFarlane died a hero, but he is still dead, and those remaining alive have to go on living.” She tilted her head, feeling her way, her eyes locked on his. “Given my chances of continuing to live were significantly improved by his sacrifice, then the best way I can honor him, I feel, is to continue with my life—more, to live life to the full.”

With you
.

Her heart was beating just a touch faster. They were alone. Although the others were in the house, no one was near. And he’d made the first move by coming to sit with her—surely a clear declaration of intent.

Expectation welled; she struggled not to jig, not to lean toward him and precipitate—initiate—matters herself.

His gaze lowered to her lips as if he could hear her thoughts, but then he snapped it back to her eyes. “Cathcart. You…he…”

Sudden comprehension burst, epiphanylike, across her mind. Was he—had he been—jealous? Was that what his surliness had been about?

She smiled conspiratorially. “I thought, given his efforts are so vital to our cause, that being charming would be wise.” She opened her eyes wide. “Do you think it helped?”

He searched her eyes, then his lips twitched. “Knowing Roger, probably.” He paused, eyes still on hers, then added as he raised one arm from the cushions and, slowly sitting forward, reached for her face, “He’s no more immune to
being appreciated by a lovely lady…” His hand curved about her jaw and he drew her closer; fascinated, mesmerized by the temptation in his eyes, she leaned forward, closer still…until her lids fell, her gaze lowering to his lips in time to see the end of his sentence fall from them. “…than the rest of us.”

Her mind took in the implication. Her lips curved as they met his.

The contact set her heart leaping.

She parted her lips, surrendered her mouth gladly, welcomed him in, and quelled a telltale shudder. His lips were firm, resilient, dominatingly male; his tongue stroked, sensation burgeoned and spread.

She leaned in, sank in, to the kiss.

Felt him shift closer, felt his hand slide from her face. He reached around her, drew her to him, his arm banding her waist as she joyfully obliged.

Inching closer yet, she placed her hands on the white fabric covering his upper chest. Felt the hardness of the rock-solid muscles beneath her palms and rejoiced. Greatly daring, her lips locked with his, her tongue tentatively tangling with his, she leaned further, reached further, slid her hands up, over his shoulders, then on, until she could clasp his nape, until her fingers tangled in the soft locks of his hair.

She sighed through the kiss, exhilaration and expectation melding. He gathered her closer, then tipped slowly back, sinking deeper into the cushions, taking her with him.

He ended half reclining, with her above and alongside him. She felt his lips curve beneath hers, sensed his satisfaction as, holding her locked within one muscled arm, he raised his free hand, and caressed.

From the swell of one hip to her waist.

His hand lingered, anticipation building, the heat of his palm sinking through her gown to her flesh.

Than his hand moved again, from her waist upward to, with the lightest of whispering touches, stroke her breast.

The shiver that lanced through her tightened her nerves, made
something within her clench…then release as his hand, hard palm and long, knowing fingers settled, cupped. Claimed.

Her fingers firmed, tightening on his skull as he played, as with his tongue and lips he distracted her, only to draw back and let the heat, the warmth, the enticing pleasure of his caresses fill her mind.

She was lost in sensation.

And so was he. Gareth was submerged in the subtle pleasure, his mind awash with tactile delight. It had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms and so unhurriedly pleased her and himself. And even sunk in the moment, he—all of him—knew this wasn’t just any woman. She was who she was—Emily—and that made the moment even more special.

Even more addictive.

Ever more enticing.

The minutes spun on. Delight swelled, grew.

She sank closer, pressing more definitely against him.

Hauling in a breath, he gave in to the building compulsion, closed his hand about the firm mound of her breast—felt his chest tighten as she gasped through the kiss. Her spine bowed slightly as he traced the firm curves, found her nipple, circled it, then closed his fingers about the turgid peak.

She arched into the caress, the movement pressing her flesh more firmly to his palm. He closed his hand again, kneaded, and felt her melt.

Heard her softly moan.

Heat and desire shafted through him, straight to his groin. Instinctively, he shifted to roll her beneath him—

Realized just in time.

Caught himself, stopped.

Halted, teetering on that invisible edge.

If he did—if he took that next step forward—what then?

He’d entered the room with questions. She’d answered some, but he was still unclear about what she truly wanted, let alone why.

She still left him confused, and not just about her.

He broke from the kiss—just as she did, gasping.

One look into her dazed eyes told him she was, suddenly, as uncertain as he.

That she had realized, too, just how far they had gone.

That she, like he, needed to think before they went further.

They stared at each other, gazes locked, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure either of them truly knew.

Their positions, the physical closeness, gradually impinged on their minds as they slowly returned to the here and now.

Muscles tensed—hers and his—and they started to sit up and move apart.

“I think they’re in the salon.”

Watson, heading toward them, with others in his wake.

When her courier-guide appeared in the archway, Emily was sitting primly upright on the divan, with Gareth standing before the nearby window, apparently looking out.

He turned as Watson halted, and arched a brow.

“Thought you’d like to know,” Watson said, “that Mullins and Jimmy spotted a band of cultists patrolling the streets not far from here.”

The bearded cultist known to all as Uncle sat by the pool in a small courtyard. “We know they are here, somewhere in this small city. So where are they?”

The quietly uttered words were loaded with silent menace.

The three cultists kneeling before the pool trembled. One gathered his courage and spoke to Uncle’s feet. “The watchers at the consulate have seen nothing. We are combing the streets, but with the high walls all these houses have…”

Uncle studied the speaker, a faint frown in his eyes. The silence stretched, then he nodded. “The major is proving a worthy opponent. You are right, Saleeb, there is little point wasting our effort searching the warren of these streets. Instead, we must surround the town with eyes and ears and wait for them to show themselves. They must head either north or west. Go out, my sons, and befriend the herdsmen, the nomads, and those others who gather outside the town
walls. Recruit them to watch and listen for us—we have coins aplenty, thanks to the bountifulness of our esteemed leader.” Uncle held up a hand, palm up, at shoulder height. His own son quickly fetched a purse and placed it on the waiting hand.

Uncle hefted the pouch, then presented it to the kneeling man who had spoken. “Here—take this, and with it buy the information we need. Then when the major and his party try to leave, we will know.” He sat back. “Go.”

The three men rose and went, bowing from his presence as fast as they dared.

Leaving Uncle to mull over the vicissitudes of fate.

He’d ordered a night attack on the major’s boat, hoping to kill the woman at least, but she’d shrieked, and despite there being a goodly number of his cultists on the deck, the major and his party had prevailed.

But then a ship carrying a large number of cultists had reached him, sent on from Aden as he’d ordered. He’d sent them and their ship to attack the major’s ship as it had, necessarily slowly, eased out of the Suakin Channel. He’d been certain of success, had already started planning what means he would employ to break the major, only to see his men repulsed again, and their ship left wallowing in the faster schooner’s wake. He’d watched his failure unfold from the deck of another ship not far away—and cursed.

Who would have thought the captain and crew of the schooner would take up arms against his men?

In India, the cultists were not opposed by others. Others stood and watched as they wreaked their vengeance on any they chose. That was the way of things…but that did not seem to be so in this wider world.

He would need to allow for such strange behavior from now on. The major seemed adept at recruiting others to his cause.

“We will find them, Father.”

Uncle looked up at his son, let his lips curve. “Indeed, we will, my son.”

Failure was not an option.

L
ate the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon repairing the hem of her green gown, when a stir in the courtyard had her looking out to see Gareth greeting a smiling Cathcart.

Cathcart had gone to speak with a Berber sheik about their joining the man’s caravan. From Cathcart’s expression, he was the bearer of good tidings.

Both men turned and came striding toward the house. Emily put aside her mending, and looked up expectantly as Cathcart led Gareth into the room.

Cathcart swept her a bow. “Your carriage has been arranged, mademoiselle. You will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.” Straightening, Catchcart grimaced. “Sadly, there is no carriage as such, and, equally sadly, I fear that when Ali-Jehan says dawn, he truly does mean the instant when the sun pops over the horizon. Which”—Cathcart flung himself onto the other divan and smiled commisseratingly at Emily—“means we’ll have to leave here even earlier.”

“This Ali-Jehan understands that we might be pursued, and even attacked?” In the Arab robes he now seemed so comfortable in, Gareth stood looking down at his friend.

Cathcart grinned. “To Ali-Jehan, that point was a powerful inducement.”

Gareth humphed. He didn’t, to Emily’s eyes, look entirely pleased.

“Well,” she put in brightly, “that’s excellent news!” When both men looked at her, she continued, “We have to forge on, and journeying with a caravan will certainly be an adventure.” She caught Gareth’s eye. “One quite the equal of seeing the pyramids.”

He humphed, and prowled forward to sit on the other end of the divan she’d favored.

Turning back to Catchart, she smiled. “We must thank you, sir, for your help and hospitality. You’ve provided a much-needed respite.” She raised her brows in query. “Is there any message we can carry for you back to England? To family, perhaps?”

Cathcart thanked Emily for her kind thought but declined. Gareth watched as his friend continued to bask in the glow of Emily’s readily bestowed approbation. He tried not to growl or grind his teeth. She had no real interest in Cathcart—it had been he she’d permitted to kiss her—but Gareth wasn’t entirely sure Cathcart, happily accepting her feminine accolades, had no interest in her.

She glanced at him at that moment, a conspiratorial, inclusive expression in her eyes, then she turned back to Cathcart and continued to charm him…

Gareth realized he was scowling, and banished the expression. At least outwardly. Inwardly, he scowled even more.
She knew
. That’s what that brief glance was all about. She knew her charming of Cathcart was provoking him.

Of all the developments in the last hour, that pleased him least of all.

Roger Cathcart led them to meet the Berbers, a small tribe commanded by Sheik Ali-Jehan, in the coolness of the hour before dawn. The tribe’s camp was located in a dip in the sand dunes northeast of the town.

Camouflaged in her burka, Emily stood in a close group with the others of their party, likewise disguised and gath
ered about their baggage piled on a cart, while Gareth and Ali-Jehan—who proved to be a handsome devil of similar age to Gareth and Cathcart—conducted a low-voiced discussion, with Cathcart looking on. Peering through her burka’s little window, Emily used the minutes to see what she could of this unknown world.

There were numerous encampments dotted about the area. All appeared peopled by nomadic tribes, but not all were the rather haughty and handsome—and thus readily distinguishable—Berbers. From where she stood, Emily could see three other Berber camps, presumably three other tribes. From the other sites, men were observing their group, watching the discussion among the three men.

Turning back to see what was transpiring, Emily caught both Gareth and Ali-Jehan looking her way—specifically looking at her. Then Ali-Jehan asked Gareth a question. He nodded, and they went back to their negotiations.

Eventually Ali-Jehan flashed a white smile. When Gareth offered his hand, Ali-Jehan clasped it in his. With a nod, he released Gareth, then beckoned their group forward as he turned and shouted orders to the various men and women engaged in breaking up their camp.

Cathcart and Gareth turned to meet them as they trudged up.

“Everyone in this tribe speaks English, French, or both,” Cathcart told them. “You’ll be able to make yourselves understood, and with them, you should be safe.” Smiling, he glanced at Gareth. “As safe as it’s possible to be.”

Emily couldn’t interpret the look Gareth and Cathcart exchanged, but then Gareth looked at her. “Dorcas and Arnia will travel with the older women. Mooktu, Bister, and I will ride with the men guarding the caravan. Mullins, Watson, and Jimmy will assist with the carts carrying our luggage.”

Beneath her burka, she frowned. “And me?”

Gareth looked up, over her head. “You have a steed of your own.”

She turned—and saw Ali-Jehan returning with another
man, who was leading a huge camel by a rope rein.

There were other camels linked in a long train, kicking and braying and shuffling about, each loaded with baggage of all sorts, but this camel was different. Instead of baggage, it carried a cushioned contraption lashed behind its hump.

As the camel approached, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a bray Emily took to be a camel protest.

“Oh, no.” She tried to step back.

Gareth’s hand pressed against her back. “Sadly, yes. In the circumstances, on this beast’s back is the safest place for you—the safest way for you to travel across the desert.”

“According to whom?” Emily’s eyes widened as, with a great show of teeth—both from the attendant and the camel—the beast was brought around and made to kneel, his side to her.

Ali-Jehan rounded the beast, drew down a rope stirrup-cum-ladder, then bowed, black eyes alight. “Your steed, dear lady.”

He spoke perfect English, but there was nothing civilized about the way his eyes tried to penetrate her burka.

Ignoring that, knowing full well that he couldn’t see through it—and regardless, she was fully clothed beneath—Emily eyed the camel’s shaggy head. Tentatively she stepped forward. The huge head swung her way, lips curling back.

Gareth pulled her to the side, to the saddle. “Be careful—they spit.”

Emily turned to stare at him. “
Spit?
”

Gareth urged her into the saddle. Rather stunned, she instinctively reached for the high pommel, planted her boot in the stirrup and raised up—and saw, beyond the camel, a string of superb horses.

Rather than swing her hips around and sit in the saddle, she froze, then tried to back down. “They have horses. I can ride perfectly well—I raced down that road from Poona, remember?”

Gareth’s hands grasped her hips and pushed her up. “No—you can’t ride one of their horses.”

“Why not?” She tried to twist enough to glare at him.

He kept hold of her hips and held her where she was. “For a start, in English terms they’re only half broken.”

“I could manage—”

“Perhaps.” Clipped accents were infusing his speech. “But the other reason you’re riding this animal is that it’s Ali-Jehan’s personal pet.”

Growing tired of her ungainly position, and distracted by having his hands gripping her hips, she gave up, swung around, and plopped down into the surprisingly comfortable saddle. She frowned at Gareth, but he was looking down, adjusting the twin rope stirrups. Glancing around, she saw the Berber chieftain striding through his people, yelling orders and gesticulating. “What does that have to do with anything?”

When she looked back, Gareth met her eyes. “It won’t leave him.”

She frowned harder. “So?”

“So”—with a last tug, he stepped back—“if raiders attack the caravan and try to steal you away, they’ll have the devil of a time shifting him. Nothing is more stubborn than a camel.”

He looked at her for an instant, then nodded to the attendant, still standing holding the camel’s head.

The attendant said one word.

Emily bit back a scream as the beast—in a series of ungainly lurches—got back to its feet.

Once it had, she stared down at Gareth. “This is—”

“What will keep you safe.” Hands on hips, he looked up at her. Then he glanced at the attendant. “This is Haneef. He’ll teach you how to guide Doha.”

“Doha?”

Haneef smiled toothily up at her. “He is really a very good beast.”

Uncle eased down to the cushions set before a low table holding an assortment of dishes he neither recognized nor par
ticularly cared for. But in the service of his chosen master he would endure any privation necessary for success.

Before he could reach for the first dish, a stir arose in the courtyard beyond the archway. With a wave, Uncle dispatched his son to see who had arrived. An instant later, Muhlal returned with one of the lowlier cult members in tow.

The man bowed low. “Great one—we have just had word that the major and his party were seen in the grounds beyond the town.”

“And?”

Without lifting his head, the man continued, “They left with a Berber caravan. Those we paid said the caravan goes west.”

Uncle nodded. “Excellent. You may go.”

Surprised, the man looked up. He met Uncle’s eyes and quickly lowered his. “Yes, great one.” The man backed from the room, still bowing.

Once he was gone, Uncle looked up at his son. “You heard?”

Muhlal nodded.

Uncle smiled. “No doubt but that the major will make for the embassy in Cairo.” Uncle waved Muhlal to sit beside him. When he did, Uncle set one hand on his shoulder, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is your chance, my son, to shine in the service of the Black Cobra. Our leader is magnanimous to those who serve well. It has been decreed that the major must be stopped, and if the meddling Miss Ensworth is captured, too, and appropriately rewarded for her temerity, that would be a happy bonus. I suggest you make use of the nomads now in our pay and go after the major and the woman. Capturing them and delivering them to me in Cairo will surely win great glory in the eyes of the Black Cobra.”

Muhlal glowed. “I am in charge?”

Smiling, Uncle nodded. He clapped Muhlal’s shoulder. “Let us eat, and then I will see you on your way. A caravan
is slow. They will not escape you.” When Muhlal eagerly reached for a plate, Uncle’s gaze softened. “And I will be waiting in Cairo to celebrate with you.”

As the sun sank, coloring the wide expanse of the desert sky with oranges, reds, and purples, Emily eased her way out of the high saddle and carefully climbed to the ground.

Doha flicked her a scowl, then ignored her.

Emily inwardly humphed, then shook out her skirts and the enveloping burka, and, leaving Doha to Haneef’s care, turned to find the others. It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the camel’s strange gait. Once she had, and was no longer in danger of tipping off, Haneef had shown her how to use the reins to exert some control—minimal control in Emily’s estimation—over the ungainly beast.

Contrary to her expectations, her first day’s travel had passed without disaster. When the caravan had halted for a light meal and refreshments a little before midday, she had asked Haneef the obvious question—if Ali-Jehan went careening off on his horse through the desert dunes, chasing attackers, for instance, wouldn’t Doha follow him?