Gareth swore, jammed his sword into his waistband, and grabbed Emily’s pole. “Come on.”
He leapt over bodies to the side railings. Leaving Bister, who had followed, to cut the ropes to the grapples that had successfully lodged over the schooner’s rails, Gareth half straddled the rails, set the end of the pole below the deck line of the cultists’ smaller vessel, and pushed.
Using all his weight, he managed to keep the smaller ship from getting any closer, but…“Mooktu! To me!”
A minute later, Mooktu appeared, looked, saw, then vanished.
A minute after that, he reappeared with a similar long pole, and set it to the other boat closer to the bow. And pushed, too.
Bister went to help Mooktu.
Emily grabbed Gareth as he nearly overbalanced. Sinking her hands in his robes, leaning back, she anchored him in place.
The cultists were all screaming, trying to find poles to knock theirs aside and pull the ships closer.
Gareth snapped a look over his shoulder. “Mullins! Jimmy!”
The pair had just fought free of their assailants.
“Get more sail on—quickly!”
Jimmy leapt up onto the stern housing. Mullins clambered up behind him. Together they managed to unfurl a small midship sail, then they hauled and tugged—and the topsail unfurled.
For one instant, the sails billowed, then they filled, grew taut.
The schooner leaned, then leapt forward.
The cultists on the smaller ship screamed in fury, then raced to let their own sails down. But the schooner was bigger and carried much more sail. As the smaller ship fell behind, Gareth turned his attention to the cultists left on board.
But seeing they were now on their own and couldn’t win, this time the cultists remaining dived overboard. Within minutes, all the fighting was over.
Captain Ayabad gave orders for more sail to be set. They’d come out of the narrow channel from Suakin on only the jib, which was how the other craft had been able to slide so close so easily.
Eventually Ayabad made his way to the stern, where Gareth and the others were all slumped, catching their breaths after disposing of all the bodies overboard.
Ayabad nodded to Gareth, bowed to Emily. “My apologies. I should have been more aware, but I did not think these vermin would attempt to board like that.”
Gareth grimaced. “Neither did I.” He glanced at the exhausted members of their group. “A few cuts, some bruises and knocks, but we took no lasting damage.” He looked at Ayabad. “Your men?”
“Some injuries, but none life-threatening. These cultists—they are not well trained.”
“Most aren’t,” Gareth replied. “Those used as guards and assassins are, but the majority are farmers with knives in their hands.”
Ayabad nodded. “It shows. However, after this, if you have no objection, I am inclined to make for Suez by the fastest possible tack.”
Gareth nodded his agreement. “We’ve been lucky so far—no sense in inviting another attack.”
By evening the schooner’s decks were clean once more, with everything shipshape and as it should be as they cleaved through the shallow waves under full sail, running before an increasingly stiff breeze.
After tending the injuries of their own small company—a number of slashes and two deep cuts—Emily had gone with Arnia and Dorcas to offer their potions and salves to Captain Ayabad and his crew. The sailors were happy enough to have more gentle hands patching their hurts, but Emily gathered from their comments that, much like their captain, they’d enjoyed the battle.
After dinner, once the sun had set and night had wrapped the waters in velvet darkness, she went up to the stern deck. Given their speed, she doubted there was any lingering danger. Leaning on the stern railings, she stared out into the night.
As she’d hoped, Gareth joined her.
She heard his footsteps before she sensed his large body beside her.
He leaned on the railings, much as she was doing, looking out over the rippling water of their wake. “It’s a lovely night—so peaceful. Who would have thought that just hours ago this deck was a battlefield?”
She glanced at him. The light of the moon reflected off the water, sending shadows to dapple his face. “That’s life, isn’t it? The battle and the triumph?”
His lips curved. He inclined his head fractionally. “This time, our injuries were minor, so I suppose the triumph is ours to enjoy.”
“Do you think, after today, that we’ll reach Suez without further incident?”
He glanced back and up at the sails. “Given our speed, with luck, we might. Those we left behind will have to report back to someone. The general cultists operate under the orders of more senior members, and I doubt there were any of those more senior men on that ship. So I don’t think we need to worry about being chased. However…” After a moment, he went on, “We have to assume there’ll be cultists keeping a watch in Suez—not specifically for us but for any of the four of us who might pass through there. It’s one of the major staging points on various routes back to England.”
She nodded. “So once we reach Suez, we’ll need to be on guard again.” She glanced at him. “How do you plan to travel on from there?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Gareth saw no reason to explain that, until he’d had to take her and her party under his wing, his mission had had a somewhat different tone. Then, he’d intended to act as an open decoy and draw as many cultists after him as he could. With Mooktu, Bister, and Arnia all capable of looking after themselves, he wouldn’t have had to worry unduly about the danger.
Having her with him changed all that.
He straightened from the railing. “I’ll have to call in a few favors, and work out the best route and manner of transport to ensure we evade the cultists’ notice. Suez will also be the last city in which we can be sure of getting suitable supplies this side of Marseilles, so we’ll need to attend to that, too.”
“All without being seen by the cult?”
“Indeed. And speaking of the cult…” He met her eyes, then grimaced. “While I should disapprove mightily of your coming up on deck in the middle of a fight, I can’t be such a hypocrite.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then her lips curved. She looked out over the water again. “Arnia said something about how foolish it was for women to cower and hope their men won, if the women’s presence in the fight might tip the scales and ensure it. I’ve decided I agree with her. Her philosophy might not apply to battlefields and army engagements, but with the sort of skirmishes we’re having to face, she has a valid point.”
No matter how much he recoiled from the notion, not addressing the issue might be worse. She’d managed today, and in the earlier fight, but finding impromptu weapons was relying on sheer luck—which next time might fail.
Quelling his instinctive reaction, he asked, “You don’t know much about weapons, do you?”
Her smile broadened; she cast him a quick glance. “I know a sword has a pointy end, and usually only one sharp edge.”
He snorted. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Bister is very good with knives, and so is Arnia. I’ll ask them to give you lessons, and find you a knife or two of your own. As you say, given what we have to face, it’s better that you shouldn’t be defenseless.”
She’d swung to face him as he spoke. Now she straightened from the railings. Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her expression; it held something more than gracious delight.
“Thank you.” Her lips were lusciously curved. Her eyes seemed to softly glow.
Her movement had brought her close. She stood less than a foot away.
For a moment, they stood locked in each other’s eyes. He could have sworn the moon, the earth, and the heavens stood still. That there was no other reality beyond the pair of them standing in the soft darkness, with the breeze sending loose tendrils of her hair streaming, and plastering her gown to her svelte frame.<
br />
He caught himself as his hands rose, but he couldn’t remember why he shouldn’t. She’d kissed him to thank him—he could do the same in reverse.
Then his hands settled around the delicate curves of her face, his hard palms cradling the fine skin of her cheeks, brushing the fragile bones of her jaw as he tipped her face up to his.
He bent his head. “Thank you for today—for saving me.”
She lifted her lips, and they brushed his. But this time it was he who kissed her, who pressed his lips to hers—gently, slowly, achingly carefully.
She didn’t back away. He felt her hand rise and cup the back of one of his, anchoring her, him—them.
Accepting.
Urging.
He angled his head, and pressed just a little harder, persuaded—when her lips parted, he teased them further, then, still riding his instincts hard, reining them in, he entered, slowly, deliberately, but definitely.
When she made no demur, he pressed deeper, and laid claim.
And something flared.
She moved into him, sending a shocking wash of heat cascading through him. Her lips moved beneath his, drawing him deeper, returning the caress.
And desire was suddenly there, unfurling within him—and her.
Familiar, yet not. More specific, more aware.
He couldn’t mistake it, not in him, or in her.
Unexpected, yet beguiling, appealing, enticing. For long moments he did nothing more than savor the taste, the heady drug of having a willing woman in his arms.
What with one thing and another, this mission, the Black Cobra, it had been some time since he’d last sipped from desire’s cup, but not even that pleasure, and the promise of more, could dim his mind to the reality of which woman he was holding.
Yet the warmth remained, the promise remained—undimmed.
He wasn’t sure what this was—where they were heading. There could be no easy roll in some hammock—not for him, not with her.
This, whatever it was, was different. That much he knew, but what next…that was shrouded in mystery.
He drew back—he had to, for he didn’t know what came next. Not here and now, not with her.
He didn’t even know if she knew what he did—if she recognized the tug of burgeoning desire and understood where it would lead. If they went on, if they blindly followed the road their feet were now treading.
So he eased back from the kiss, reluctantly—so reluctantly—drew his lips from hers.
Looked down into her face as her lashes fluttered, then rose. Looked into her eyes, and saw…
Nothing beyond soft delight.
Her lips, sheening from the kiss, lightly curved.
Her hand fell from his. He released her face and she stepped back.
Still smiling that soft, elusive smile.
“Good night, Gareth.”
He heard, but said nothing.
Could do nothing but watch—trusted himself to do nothing more than watch—as she turned and unhurriedly walked to the companionway, then went down.
He heard her footsteps travel the lower corridor, heard her door open, then close.
Only then did he fill his lungs, breathing deeply and long. Then he turned and leaned on the railings again, and stared out at the moonlit water rippling in their wake.
Five
12th October, 1822
Very late night
My cabin in Ayabad’s schooner
Dear Diary,
He kissed me! I am, at last, making headway, and flatter myself that I have, at the very least, engaged his interest. And the kiss was wonderful—so much better in every way than any kiss I have experienced before. He was masterful, yet in no way overwhelming. It was the sort of kiss I have every intention of experiencing frequently—preferably with greater fervency, but that I am sure will come.
Equally promising was his unprompted recognition of my part in the day’s action—and who would have thought that he, an army major, could be so progressive and clear thinking as to accept the need for me to be better able to defend myself—and him, although I doubt the latter occurred to him.
Nevertheless, I have to report that all is progressing most favorably. Given his estimation that we will be safe from further attack until we reach Suez, I have great hopes of what the next few days will bring.
I lay my head down to sleep in excited anticipation.
E.
16th October, 1822
Afternoon
My cabin on the schooner
Dear Diary,
I have written nothing for several days, as, to my irritation, I have nothing of note to report. I had great hopes that Gareth, having broken the ice and kissed me—and we both know it had little to do with gratitude—and having realized the nature of our bond, as I am quite sure he did, would accordingly seek to kiss me again.
Sadly, he has shown no evidence of such sensitivity—indeed, his reaction to the event appears to be to try to keep me at arm’s length! Not that he is denying the attraction that flared between us—I can see knowledge of it in his eyes—but it is more a case of his having decided that we should not be permitted either time or place to further pursue our mutual interest.
I have mentioned, have I not, his distressing tendency to make unilateral decisions?
This must stop, but I have yet to discover a way of getting around his determined stance.
But I will.
E.
19th October, 1822
Very early morning
Cabin on blasted schooner
Dear Diary,
I am penning this in a hurry as we are packing and preparing to quit this restricting vessel. Suez has materialized out of the mists ahead, and we expect to be docking in a few short hours. This section of our journey is at an end, and if its revelations have been significant—I now know Gareth Hamilton bears all the hallmarks of my “one”—and subsequent developments—that kiss!—encouraging, indeed promising, I must report that I have yet to further engage with Gareth.
He has proved to be annoyingly elusive.
Exactly what the next stage of our journey will encompass neither I nor he knows, but I am hopeful it will afford me greater scope to pursue him—or, more accurately, to encourage him to pursue me.
I go forward in hope.
E.
They quit the docks as the sun rose above the eastern quarter of Suez, painting pale walls a glowing amber-pink. Gareth squinted at the buildings silhouetted against the morning sky, minarets and the domes of mosques underscoring that they walked in a foreign land.
Luckily, since the defeat of Bonaparte, this foreign land was increasingly falling under British sway.
Garbed in his Arab robes, he strode confidently forward, as if he belonged, as if he knew where he was going—which he did. He’d stopped in Suez on his way out to India. Walking into the square beyond the docks, he glanced back at the small procession trailing him—Mooktu by his shoulder, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia in their burkas a respectful pace behind, then Bister and Jimmy with the luggage, with Watson and Mullins bringing up the rear.
Facing forward, he led the way across the crowded square to the opening of a street that led, not to the diplomatic quarter, but into a quiet residential area. Halting beneath the awning of a shop that had yet to open, he waited until the three women, Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins drew near and halted, close enough to hear.
He hadn’t told them where he was taking them. He didn’t want any questions or protests along the way, nothing that might mar the image they were projecting. Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching, he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.
Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles—he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”
“So where are we going?�
� Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.
He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”
With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.
He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.
The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.
Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.
A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.
Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”
The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”
“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”
The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.
Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.
He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.
“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”
Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.
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