She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t disagree. “So when and where will be suitable for our particular discussion?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was even but, like hers, pitched low. After a moment, he said, “That subject might have to wait until England to be properly addressed.”
“England?” She stared at him, swiftly estimated. “It might be another month before we reach there.”
He nodded, but turned before she could respond. Stepping back, he let Dorcas precede him into the gallery.
Forcing Emily to spin on her heel and, with feigned brightness, lead the way on.
Another month?
Another month with no advance, no firmer definition, no further exploration of what lay between them?
“No,” she muttered beneath her breath. “No, and no.” On that score, he would need to think again.
Of course, now that he knew her aim, he would take evasive action. Nothing she could do—no place she could find in this palace—would be useful in cornering him, not with Dorcas and Watson dogging their steps, providing him with the perfect excuse to avoid any tête à tête.
Allowing him to believe she’d accepted defeat, accepted his decree, she calmly led the way out of the palace. On the pavement, she looked down toward the harbor—and spied the green of trees and lawns clumped on a level between their present height and the quays above the waterline.
Scanning the buildings ahead, she located what she needed. Another palace of another group of knights. Perfect.
She glanced at Dorcas. “Look—gardens.” She pointed to the massed greenery below. The other three looked. Knowing Dorcas’s weakness was for strolling and viewing scenery rather than buildings and museums, Emily smiled at her maid. “Why don’t you and Watson head down there? I want to look through just one more palace.” Halting beside the sign for the next “auberge,” she met Gareth’s eyes. “This one will do.”
Watson and Dorcas were happy to go ahead.
“We’ll wait for you there.” With a nod to them both, Watson set off, Dorcas beside him, one arm looped in his, her other hand clutching her burka-shawl about her shoulders.
Once they were out of earshot, Emily glanced at Gareth. “Come along.” Turning, she marched up the palace steps.
Gareth watched her go, hips swaying beneath her English skirts, inwardly sighed, then followed.
He knew what she wanted to “address,” but that was one topic he wanted to avoid—a subject he’d spent far too many recent hours obsessing over. But his conclusion—the real and unpalatable, but inescapable conclusion—wasn’t one he, or any man alive, would willingly discuss. Just the thought of putting his thoughts into words made him inwardly shudder.
Which meant that, for both their sakes, he had to let her play her game, but he had to win—had to ensure she won no time to “address” anything at all.
What ensued was akin to a game of chess, with her moving this way, he countering with a move that nullifed hers. She glared; he kept his face expressionless, his gaze as bland as he could make it.
And tried not to let his inner self think about how arousing playing this almost taunting, frustrating game of abstaining avoidance with her was.
He knew what he knew. There was no future in becoming aroused over her.
Emily set her lips, set her chin—and inwardly swore she wouldn’t be denied. She didn’t know why he was so intent on avoiding snatching a moment now—out of sight of the rest of their party and of any cultists—but she wasn’t about to let him win. This, she inwardly declared, was a matter of principle.
A matter of need and want and desire.
And not just hers.
Leading the way back down to the ground floor, she swung into another wing of reception rooms. The first salon showed little promise, so she quickly walked back into the corridor and on to the next.
There, she struck gold.
A door on one side wall was placed close to the junction with the outer wall. Opening the door, she went through—and found herself in a narrow corridor connecting with the next room along. The door at the other end of the corridor was shut. Smiling to herself, she went forward, then halted and stood looking out of the lead-paned windows to the harbor far below.
Gareth hesitated in the doorway.
Without looking his way, she pointed out and down. “There’s our ship.”
After an instant’s pause in which she could almost hear his resigned sigh, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door, then came to join her.
“See?” she said, as he paused beside her. Once she was sure he was following her gaze to the line of ships below, she went on, “That’s the tiny vessel we’ll be returning to in less than an hour, to spend the next several days cooped up with a score of others, unable to exchange so much as a private word.”
Turning to him, she studied his profile, all she could see of his face. “Given what we’ve already exchanged, what has already passed between us, any other gentleman would be gladly seizing the opportunity”—just so he didn’t miss the point, she flung out her arms—“this opportunity, to at the very least kiss me again.”
He glanced sideways at her, then half turned so she could see more of his face.
She narrowed her eyes on his. “So why aren’t you? Why are you suddenly avoiding me?”
Saying the words made them real. She’d known that’s what he was doing, but hadn’t—until that moment—allowed those words to form in her mind. They were too damning—and no young lady with any claim to modesty would ever voice such words aloud…she wasn’t a great believer in self-sacrificing modesty.
So she glared, folded her arms—refused to acknowledge the prick of the words, the sharp yet hollowing hurt—and waited.
Waited.
“I’m giving you time to come to your senses.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You need to realize what this—our attraction—is about. What it springs from. What drives it.”
She frowned. “I know what—”
“No. You don’t.”
She studied him through narrowing eyes, registering his rigid conviction. Slowly she raised her brows. “Indeed? So why don’t you enlighten me?”
He’d walked into that one. Gareth gritted his teeth, kept his gaze locked with hers…as the seconds ticked by and she didn’t soften, didn’t waver, didn’t back down, he accepted he had no choice. Drawing in a short breath, he plunged in. “What’s occurred between us is the result of surviving danger—the outcome, a natural and unsurprising outcome, of the dangerous episodes we’ve weathered together. It’s something everyone feels afterward, after such clashes. I’m used to it, so I recognize it, but you wouldn’t have experienced it before, and…” He felt his face harden. “Regardless of what you imagine what’s happened between us means, that, in reality, is all it means. It’s an outcome of having survived a brush with death.”
Her frown had evaporated into an expression of stunned blankness. Her gaze distant, her voice, too, seemed to come from far away. “That’s not—”
“What you think, but that is what it is.”
She stared at him wide-eyed, her face devoid of expression, her jaw a trifle slack, then she said, “You have no idea what I think. No idea why I feel what I do.”
“What you think you feel has nothing to do with it. I know what this is—know why you want me to kiss you again—and therefore I know, unquestionably, that honor dictates that as a gentleman, as the one more experienced, I should refuse and keep a proper distance.”
Enough of explanations. He swung into the attack. “You should be thanking me for not accepting your invitation to further dalliance.” He made his tone resolute, even dictatorial. “Most men in my position would take advantage, but you deserve better.”
Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze focusing more intently on him. “So…you’re saying I’m suffering from…what? Some form of danger-induced delusional desire from which you need to save me?”
&
nbsp; He hestitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s all this is.”
“You need to save me from myself.” Emily dragged in a shaky breath. “And you know this because…?”
“Because I’m a great deal more experienced than you.”
“I se-ee.” Her temper erupted and made her voice quaver. Her eyes as narrow as they could get, she pinned him. Rage of a kind she’d never before felt pouring hotly through her veins, she opened her mouth—and discovered she couldn’t get a word out.
She drew breath, held it, tried again to speak, but fury clogged her throat.
You have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about!
“Arrgh!” Flinging up her hands, she swung around, stalked to the door at the end of the corridor, hauled it open, and swept out.
So much for finding a suitable place. So much for arranging a suitable time.
So much for developing a relationship with him—he didn’t even believe she genuinely wanted one!
Aggravated phrases, irritated declarations—all the things she’d love to say, to heap on his head if only she could speak, if only she could trust herself to berate him without furious tears strangling her voice—rang in her head as without pause she stalked straight out of the palace and on down the street.
Her expression must have been all suppressed fury; after one glance, everyone moved out of her way. She didn’t look back to see if Gareth was following, but she heard footfalls behind her, and knew it was him.
She reached the gate in the railing enclosing the park. Pausing, she glanced back, at his face, scorched him with a look full of fulminating fury, then she swung around, summoned a relaxed expression and plastered it on her face, settled her burka-shawl about her shoulders and, head rising, walked forward to find Dorcas and Watson and return to the xebec.
12th November, 1822
Late
Back on the xebec
Dear Diary,
I am speechless. Still. Gareth believes my interest in him is driven by danger-and-survival-induced desire—in his eyes, I am blind and deluded.
Whenever I think of what he said—what he thinks—I am reduced to quivering rage. How dare he? What the devil does he mean by telling me what I feel and why? Bad enough—but how dare he be so wrong!!
I am literally beside myself—I never knew what that phrase meant before today. His temerity clearly knows no bounds!
Mind you, there were a few sentences he uttered that I suspect I should pay more attention to.
Doubtless I will—once I’ve calmed down.
E.
Their xebec put into Tunis harbor three days later, in the afternoon. They had sighted not one cultist since Alexandria, which was just as well given the sea approach to Tunis lay via a narrow entrance into a so-called lake. The xebec had had to furl its sails and beat in under oars. Outrunning any pursuit would have been impossible.
After farewelling Captain Laboule and his crew, thanking them for their hospitality and commiserating hypocritically over the lack of fighting, Gareth led his party off the deck, onto the docks. All once again in Arab guise, confidently following Laboule’s directions, they hired a small donkey-drawn cart from the many waiting to ferry passengers, luggage, and goods over the short distance from lakeshore to city gate. With the three women perched on their luggage in the cart, Gareth trudged along the sandy road, with the other men flanking the cart.
He kept his gaze from Emily. Since their “discussion” in Valletta, she had made no further advances, offered no further invitations to kiss her.
Just as well. If she had, he wasn’t at all sure he’d have had the strength or willpower to resist.
But he’d done the right thing. Not what he wanted—he wanted her—but honor had dictated that he couldn’t take advantage of her, that he’d had to give her the chance to back away.
And she had.
She’d drawn back, thought of what he’d said, and had seen the truth in his words, his assertion. She’d accepted the opening he’d given her to step back from any further interaction—which, given what had already occurred between them, would have only ended in one place, one activity.
He’d been right, and she’d finally seen that.
Over the days since Valletta, he’d been conscious of her watching him, broodingly, as if she were studying him.
Perhaps wondering at the passionate madness that had infected her, glad he’d explained and she’d seen it for what it was.
He trudged on, and tried not to think of her.
Tried to focus on his mission, on evaluating the possible threat from cultists in this out-of-the-way city. Concentrating on Laboule’s helpful directions, he led the way through the city gate and on toward the medina.
A souk by another name, they could hear a rising cacophony of voices, smell the pungent pervasive scents of spices, long before they saw the narrowing streets and covered alleys ahead.
Just before they reached the medina itself, Gareth turned left, and found the guesthouse Laboule had recommended a hundred yards further on. A quick survey from the street was encouraging. Leaving the others in the street with the luggage, he knocked on the gate in the wall, and was admitted.
The guesthouse was well-suited to their needs, clean, large enough, but not too sprawling, with sufficient rooms and, most important, a single guarded gate to the street. He settled to haggle with the owners. Dropping Laboule’s name helped. In short order he’d hired the guesthouse, once again managing to secure it exclusively for his party.
He went with the owner and his wife to let them in.
Emily was inexpressibly glad to be able to set her burka aside, wash her face and brush out her hair—all while standing on a floor that didn’t rock. In a room that had space enough to stretch both arms out without her fingers touching anything.
The physical relief was wonderful.
“I would be quite happy never to set foot on a xebec again,” she informed Dorcas, busy shaking out her traveling gowns and hanging them up in the armoire.
Dorcas snorted. “From what I overheard, seems likely we’ll be on another of the things for our next leg to Marseilles.”
Emily grimaced. “I heard the same thing.” Laboule had given Gareth the name of another xebec captain who he’d thought would be agreeable to taking them to Marseilles. “But it does seem as if we’ll have at least a few days here, on dry land.”
“We’ll need to go to the souk for supplies.” Dorcas’s voice was muffled as she spoke from inside the armoire.
“Tomorrow, I imagine.” Emily laid aside her brush. “At least it’s close.”
She prayed that, as they all hoped, there were no cultists in Tunis.
If so, if all remained quiet, then their time there might afford her the opportunity to…redirect Gareth. To reeducate him as to the reality of her wishes.
And the real and very definite force driving her desire.
Turning, she caught Dorcas’s gaze. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can organize a pot of tea.”
She was an Englishwoman far from home—there were some things she really hated going without.
The lone, low-ranking cultist sent to Tunis to watch and report should any of the four soldier-sahibs pass through that town had known that his mission was a sop, that the chances of any of the officers the Black Cobra was chasing coming through the town was so remote as to be negligible.
But of course he hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned.
He’d dutifully come to Tunis, and every day had walked out to the docks on the lakeshore, and watched.
Today, this afternoon, he had barely been able to believe his eyes.
Indeed, at first, his senses had deceived him. The group had passed under his nose and it hadn’t even twitched. But then he’d caught a comment passed between the two men walking at the rear of the little procession.
The word cultists had fixed his attention.
He’d slipped from his perch on a stack of fishing pots and followed.
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A short time later, crouched in the shadow of the donkey cart behind the one the sahib had approached, wrapped in a long robe and without his black silk head scarf, he’d listened rather than looked. What he’d heard—the accents, the commanding manner—had convinced him.
One of the sahibs had come to Tunis.
Why he was traveling with women—three of them—was beyond the watcher’s ability to guess, but that didn’t matter.
He’d trailed the small party at a distance, had bided his time and waited at the corner of the street down which they’d turned, and had been rewarded. He now knew where the sahib was staying.
Not that he could attack—not on his own. But he had plenty of coin, and knew his orders by heart.
He hurried off to the tavern in which he was staying, begged paper and pencil, and settled to write a message, a report. He knew to whom in the French embassy he should give it. And once he had, he would devote himself to carrying out his august master’s orders with the utmost diligence.
Ten
15th November, 1822
Late
My room in the guesthouse in Tunis
Dear Diary,
Since reboarding the xebec in Valletta, the restrictions of the voyage prevented me from re-engaging with Gareth—which, in retrospect, was a good thing. Not only did the enforced disengagement give me time to calm down and regain the ability to think clearly, it also gave me time to fully reevaluate my position in light of Gareth’s views.
Quite aside from confirming just how completely unattuned to the female imperatives the male brain—even a superior specimen—is, a point on which my sisters have frequently remarked, our largely one-sided discussion in Valletta, once I was able to consider it in a calmer frame of mind, was distinctly revealing.
Far from dissuading me that he is my “one,” Gareth’s arrogant but nobly motivated stance underscored the fact—as if I didn’t know it—that with him I am utterly and completely safe. Even from him.
Of course, this leaves me in the position of having to open my misguided major’s eyes as to my own true motivations and feelings, but I am confident, dear Diary, that that is well within my powers.
The Elusive Bride Page 16