The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (46 page)

Haneef had shaken his dark head. “Oh, no, miss. Doha is a clever beast—he knows this”—with a wave Haneef had encompassed the caravan—“is his master’s place. He will stay here and wait for Ali-Jehan to return. There is no need for him to chase after him if he knows he will come back.”

That the camel was lazy to boot hadn’t been any great surprise to Emily. “Are you sure it’s not you whom Doha is attached to?”

Haneef had smiled. “Well, I am always here—I have a bad leg and cannot ride well enough to chase raiders.”

Sighting the others across the campsite, Emily picked up her skirts and trudged their way, eyes on her feet so she didn’t trip in the sand. She couldn’t say she was enamored of her camel—he stank remarkably, much worse than horses—but riding him had been a luxury. For the most part, the others had walked.

There were carts with barrel wheels, but some were handcarts pulled by the men who, like Haneef, weren’t the mounted guard. Other carts were drawn by donkeys, and the older women and older men took turns riding in those, but in the main most of the tribe, and most of their party, had trudged steadily through the sand throughout the day.

Finding Dorcas and Arnia amid the bustle of the tribe setting up camp, she gripped her maid’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Dorcas smiled wearily. “Perfectly well.”

Understanding her question, Arnia nodded. “It wasn’t as hard as it looked. They keep a steady and reasonable pace.”

Dorcas nodded in agreement. “It’s like a long, easy stroll. Not so difficult once you get the hang of it.”

Somewhat reassured, Emily turned her attention to the camp taking shape around them. Tents were being erected around a central area, in which others were constructing a large fire pit. Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins were helping men erect one of the large Berber tents. “We didn’t bring tents.”

A snort came from behind Emily. Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow. “You will not need tents—you will share ours, lady.”

Turning her head, Emily met a pair of bright dark eyes in a deeply tanned, heavily wrinkled face. The old woman smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth with a gap in the center. She tapped Emily’s burka in the vicinity of her nose. “In camp, you will not need the covering. We are family here, and for the journey you are one with us. You may take it off.” The old woman nodded at Dorcas and Arnia. “You, too.”

Emily had grown so used to the burka she’d almost forgotten she was wearing it. But once reminded, she immediately felt its restrictions, and its weight. She readily grasped the folds and drew them off over her head.

The old woman studied Emily’s gown, thus revealed. Reaching out, she fingered the fabric. “So fine.” She shook
her head. “It will never last.” She looked at Dorcas and Arnia’s clothes, and clucked her tongue. “Come.” Beckoning, she started for the carts that had been lined up behind the ring of tents. “I am Ali-Jehan’s mother. You call me Anya. You will join me and the other older women in my tent and we will find more suitable clothes for you.”

“Thank you.” Emily inclined her head respectfully.

Anya shot her a shrewdly assessing glance. “And afterward, you will repay us by telling us what is going on, yes?”

Hiding a smile, Emily nodded. “Yes, if you like.” Older ladies were the same the world over, it seemed.

“Good.” Anya waved to the carts. “First, we need to take our things inside.”

They all helped ferry rolled rugs, wool blankets, silk hangings and cotton sheets, cushions and pillows and sets of beaten plates and mugs, all the paraphenalia of nomadic comfort, into the dark tent. They were joined by four other older women, whom Anya introduced as Marila, Katun, Bersheba, and Girla. As they organized the tent, curiosity abounded on all sides.

When they finally settled cross-legged on fine rugs around the small brazier set in the center of the tent, and shared small glasses of rose-hip tea, Anya told them, “The younger women will cook on the big fire.” She pointed out of the open tent flap to the fire pit in the center of the camp. “You may assist if you wish—they are always glad of hands.”

Both Dorcas and Arnia nodded.

“The rules of our camp,” Anya went on, “are that all unmarried women must sleep in the tents of their families. As you have no families here, you must sleep in this tent, and for the most part, stay close by. It is not permitted for unmarried women to wander among the men unchaperoned.”

Emily glanced at Arnia. “Arnia is married.”

Anya inclined her head. “I have observed this. But your husband does not have a tent of his own but is sharing the tent of my son and his guards. Therefore, you”—she looked
at Arnia—“will do best to remain with us here, but you may walk and talk with your husband freely.”

Arnia bent her head in graceful acceptance.

Emily shifted, and set down her empty tea glass. “I will need to speak with Major Hamilton often while in camp.”

Anya narrowed her eyes, looking rather severe. “That is only permissable if he approaches you, and only in the central space in full view.”

“But—”

“This is not negotiable.” Anya’s dark eyes held Emily’s. “You are guests among us, and will, of course, respect and follow our ways.”

Put like that, Emily could do nothing but incline her head. “As you say.”

She had no doubt Watson, Mullins, Jimmy—even Bister and Mooktu—would come to find her if they had any issue to discuss. But Gareth? She was fairly certain he would use the Berbers’ ways as an excuse to avoid discussing anything with her.

“Good.” Anya patted her hand, and set down her empty glass. “Now, let us see what we can find for you to wear.”

Emily, along with Dorcas and Arnia, spent the next hour trying on a selection of clothes the older women found for them. The women who shared Anya’s tent had all been married once, and their daughters and daughters-in-law were among the married women in the camp. As the three newcomers’ requirements were defined, the older women—the dowagers of the tribe, as Emily mentally dubbed them—summoned their younger female relatives, explained their needs and sent them scurrying back to their tents to see what they could find.

Anya’s tent was soon full of shy but giggling girls offering various robes, skirts, vests, and chemises, and waiting their turn to examine the fabrics and styles of Emily’s, Dorcas’s, and Arnia’s own clothes.

The Berber style of dress was much better suited to crossing the desert. A lighter, loose robe worn over a simple sheath
of a chemise was ideal for wearing beneath the burka. Once the burka was doffed in favor of a
chador
, a head scarf with veil, the skirts and vests were donned over the robes, giving warmth, weight, and color.

The three of them were finally deemed suitably garbed to pass as Berber. Anya approved with a brisk nod. “Good. Now let us join the others outside.”

Across the camp, Gareth was lounging on cushions before the brazier in Ali-Jehan’s tent while learning the ins and outs of Berber life from his host. The sheik concluded with a philosophical shrug. “I rule the tribe and the caravan, but my mother rules the camp. This is the way of things. So you will not be able to meet with your women privately while with us.”

Gareth nodded and drained his glass of refreshing tea. “I foresee no difficulties adhering to your ways.” He omitted to mention that none of the three women of his party were “his.” If Ali-Jehan and his unmarried men—many of whom had found cause to pause alongside Emily’s camel throughout the day, ostensibly inquring after her comfort—had leapt to the conclusion that Emily was, in their terms, “his,” he saw no reason to correct their mistake. Safer for her—safer for him, too. She was, after all, in his care.

“Now, come.” Ali-Jehan clapped his shoulder and rose. “We should join the others—it’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

Gareth followed him from the tent. The central area was abuzz, people clustering here and there, chatting and watching the food cooking over the fire pit. Women bustled back and forth, no longer concealed beneath their robes, but most with
chadors
wound about their heads and draped over their faces.

It was a colorful sight, familiar in some ways, yet the presence of the women lent the camp a different air.

“We sit here.” Ali-Jehan gestured to an area about one end of the rectangular fire pit. “All the men sit at this end.”

Gareth joined him on the colorful rug flung over the sand,
drawing his legs up to sit as the others were, cross-legged. He saw Bister and Mooktu, and Watson and Jimmy, and finally located Mullins scattered among the grouped men. Each was talking animatedly to one or more of their hosts.

“This black snake leader.” Ali-Jehan broke off as a woman approached, bearing a tray of flat bread and spiced meat. After helping himself, Ali-Jehan waited for Gareth to do the same, then went on, “You have told me a little of this person.” He caught Gareth’s gaze. “Tell me more.”

As they ate, Gareth obliged. Others of the caravan’s guards, the warriors of the tribe, edged closer to listen. Gareth saw no reason not to give them the full tale, from when he and his colleagues had received their orders from the Governor-General, to their last clash with the cultists on the Red Sea.

From the comments and exclamations his story provoked, the Berbers’ reaction to the atrocities of the Black Cobra was similar to his, their favored solution—beheading—eerily echoing that of his colleague Rafe Carstairs.

By the time he reached the present, the fire had died down and the wind had risen, sending heavy shadows flickering over the tents. The women had retired earlier, leaving the men to their talk.

When a comfortable silence finally fell, Ali-Jehan slowly nodded. “It is an honorable thing you do—your journey to stop this fiend’s reign of terror.” He eyed Gareth measuringly, continuing to nod. “We will assist you in this—it is the right thing to do.”

The other tribesmen murmured agreement. Gareth inclined his head. Across the group, he met Mooktu’s eyes, and saw his own confidence reflected there.

Cathcart had been right in choosing Ali-Jehan and his tribe for them to journey on with. The accents were different, the clothing, too, but they were brothers beneath the skin.

Ali-Jehan grinned, and got to his feet. “Now to sleep, and to pray to Allah that this fiend shows his face, so we can exact the vengeance of the righteous upon him.”

The guards rose along with Gareth and his men, entirely at one with that idea.

Gareth settled to sleep on a rug in Ali-Jehan’s tent. As shuffles and snuffles faded, and snores swelled, a gentle symphony played against the whine of the wind, instead of drifting straight to sleep, his mind insisted on wandering…over the day, and how matters had played out, and how things looked set to go tomorrow, and in the days to follow.

His mind snagged on a mental image of his last glimpse of Emily, as she’d followed Ali-Jehan’s mother into the women’s tent, pausing at the flap to cast one last, frustrated glance his way before she’d followed the other women inside and the tent flap had fallen closed behind her.

The separation, enforced as it would be through this leg of the journey, would, he lectured himself, be helpful. Useful. It would give him time to think. To work through things and understand.

As that kiss in Cathcart’s salon had proved, he’d somehow fallen under Emily’s spell. What he didn’t know was why. Why he wanted her. Was it just lust—a more virulent form—that made him feel so drawn to her, so compelled to make her his? Yet given who she was, if he gave in and surrendered, there could only be one outcome. Marriage.

Was that what he wanted—Emily as his wife?

Was she the lady he needed by his side when he returned to England and set about creating the rest of his life?

He hadn’t—not until the last days—thought of his future beyond beheading the Black Cobra. It hadn’t seemed important, but as making love to Emily would inevitably lead to marriage, then he needed to think of it now.

Think of it, and imagine how she would fit. He lay in the tent, his gaze fixed on the darkened roof, and let the prospect take shape and substance in his mind.

Only to discover that, beyond her, he could see very little of it, his putative future.

He shifted, growing more uneasy as reality impinged. It didn’t matter what he thought, what he wanted, if she didn’t think and want the same.

Was he the man she wanted as her husband?

Even if he was the husband she wanted now, how genuine and deeply rooted was that want? What drove it? What had given it life?

Had she turned to him in lieu of MacFarlane? His friend had surely been a more romantic figure. Was he in effect standing in a dead man’s shoes?