An older male voice reached him, the cadences distinctly Indian. “So we knew the major and his party would be trapped on the coast…and so, here you are.”
A pause ensued, filled with burgeoning malevolence. The hair on Gareth’s nape rose. Was it Emily the unknown man was talking to?
The voice went on, now cloyingly crooning, “And soon—very soon—the major will arrive, and then you will learn why you are here.”
“You think to use me—to torture me—to make him give you the letter?”
Emily, and her voice was strong.
“Why, yes, dear lady. Don’t you think that will work?”
Gareth signaled to Mooktu and Bister, then, pistol raised, stepped across the French door, kicked it wide, and went through.
Emily, at first glance unharmed, was tied to a chair. An older, black-bearded man—the cult commander Gareth had seen in Aden—was standing, stunned, beside a brazier before the hearth.
Gareth scanned the room, pistol tracking as he searched for guards, and found none. Halting between Emily and the old man, he lowered the pistol. Behind him, Bister and Mooktu worked to cut through the cords binding Emily.
Slack-jawed, the old man glanced from him to the window. “Where are my men?”
Emily abruptly stood, massaging her wrists, stamping her feet free of the cords. The old man looked back at them, at Gareth. Realization washed over his face.
He did something none of them had imagined he would—he shrieked. Not a scream, but a sound of pure rage, one that pierced the walls and echoed down corridors.
Gareth jerked up his pistol and fired.
But the man had lunged at the weapons in the brazier; the shot struck him in the shoulder and spun him away. He stumbled back and abruptly sat down before the hearth.
Just as the door burst open and six cultists stormed in.
Gareth swore and drew his sword. Mooktu already had his scimitar flashing. Behind them, Bister leapt for the window. Hands to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle, then ducked a slash from a cultist and raced back to Gareth’s flank, drawing his own sword as he swung to face the enemy.
Trapped behind the three men, Emily gritted her teeth. More blood and knives and wretched cultists. They were more or less in the center of the room. She sensed her men trying to back, being forced back as they strove to prevent any cultist getting behind them. She grabbed the chair to which she’d been tied, went to shove it aside, saw a cultist trying to come around Bister—she heaved and sent the chair crashing into the cultist, knocking him back.
Bister shifted postion to cover that angle. Both Gareth and Mooktu stepped back.
Emily couldn’t see much past their shoulders, but she’d fought cultists with these three before—this fighting was different.
These cultists were stronger, better trained. She remembered Gareth saying the leader would most likely have some of the cult’s feared assassins with him. Mooktu and Gareth shifted. She managed to peek between them, and realized matters were even worse. More cultists were pouring through the door.
She glanced around wildly, searching for some weapon.
But there was nothing. Nothing….
Except for an old, mildewed curtain.
Two steps took her to it. The windows were tall. She grabbed the curtain with both hands and yanked. The material parted from its anchors and fell, covering her in dust and musty, disintegrating silk, but the cotton lining, although thin, was intact.
Intact enough. She flung out the curtain, then, arms stretched to her sides, swiftly gathered the fabric in both hands as she hurried up behind Gareth. As she prayed….
She halted immediately behind him. “Gareth—duck!”
She waited only to see him start to move, then with all her might she flung the curtain up and out.
Mooktu leaned away to let the material whip past him. The curtain fell on the three assassins facing Gareth and Mooktu, trapping their blades, enveloping them in its folds.
Three seconds later, there were three less cultists.
Four more pushed in, but were hampered by the tangle of bodies.
Behind the four, another cultist leapt into the air and flung a dagger—at Emily. She yelped and ducked—felt the blade sheer through her sleeve and graze her upper arm, but only shallowly. “I’m all right, I’m all right!”
Gareth halted his instinctive turning to her. Teeth gritted, he met the cultists before him with renewed ferocity.
Never had he fought with such unfettered recklessness. Never had fear and fury so controlled him.
He slashed, countered, and inwardly swore. Bister had risked his life to give the signal. Where the hell were his troops?
Almost on the thought, he sensed the change—the turning of the tide. Cultists to the rear of the pack pulled back, listened, then rushed for the door.
Grim determination gripped him. With Mooktu at his shoulder, Bister close on his left, he redoubled his efforts, beating back the assassins.
He and Mooktu simultaneously felled the pair before them, then looked up, and realized all the others were at the door, rushing out. The last in line was the old man, moving surprisingly swiftly.
In the doorway he turned, features contorted, dark eyes blazing.
He raised a hand and threw a knife. Not at Gareth. Past him.
Gareth flung himself back and to the side, connecting with Emily and taking her to the floor.
He felt the impact of the knife. A second passed, one of sheer horror and desperation, before pain bloomed and he realized the blade was embedded in his shoulder, not in her.
He sagged. “Thank God.” Head hanging, he almost wept with relief.
She was wriggling, exclaiming, pushing at him.
Slowly, he eased back from her, then sat up.
“My God! The bastard hit you!” She sounded as if she wanted to tear the old man limb from limb. She looked up at Mooktu and Bister. “What are you waiting for? Go after him!”
Mooktu and Bister were only too ready to rush after the assassins.
“No!” Gareth’s firm order had them halting on their way to the door. His left arm held tight against him, he propped himself up on his right. “We don’t know if there are any others lurking. We need to remain here, and let the others finish it. Let them do what they came to do, what they’ve trained to do. What they need to do to salvage the honor of their town.” He paused to breathe in through the pain. Managed to keep his voice steady to say, “We’ll wait here until they’re done.”
Mooktu and Bister understood. They turned and came back.
Emily glared at him, then, lips tight, looked up at Mooktu. “In that case, you can help me get this out.”
By the time the sounds of battle finally died away, Gareth was sitting on a wobbly chair Bister had found in another room, the wound in his upper arm tightly bound. Mooktu had jerked out the dagger—a long, fine krislike blade that, luckily, hadn’t struck anything vital. His arm still worked.
Before he’d allowed anyone to tend to him, he’d insisted on looking at Emily’s wound. Impatient, she’d jigged while he’d widened the tear in her sleeve, but the skin beneath it, although scratched, wasn’t broken.
Of course, his wound had bled. Emily had cursed and, using strips torn from her petticoat’s flounce, had bound it tightly. “We need to get that cleaned as soon as possible.” Standing beside the chair, she’d scowled down at him. “As we’re doing nothing here, can’t we leave?”
He’d looked up at her, smiled, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you. But not yet.”
She’d humphed, but had left her hand in his.
They were still like that, she standing beside him, her hand in his, when the door opened wide and Mullins strode in. The grin on his face told them all they needed to know, but he snapped off a salute, and reported as the others—the Perrots, father and sons, the various seamen, farmhands, and most of their ragtag group—crowded in behind him.
Many were sporting injuries, some more tha
n minor, but all looked thoroughly delighted. Victorious.
The gist of Mullins’s report was that, as expected, most of the cultists had fought to the death. There were only three survivors—two young men who were clearly very low on the cult tree, and the old man.
“They called him Uncle,” Emily said. “He was their leader.”
Perrot asked, “Should we bring him in?”
Gareth thought, then rose to his feet. “No. Better we interrogate him in town.”
At his suggestion, Perrot and the other elders organized a detail to bury the dead, and another to escort the three prisoners to town. That done, and with the more critically wounded sent ahead, the rest of them trailed back down the drive and onto the road.
With Emily beside him, her arm twined with his, her hand beneath his on his sleeve, her fingers gripping, Gareth discovered that no matter how he tried, he couldn’t stop smiling.
Around them, excited tales of cultists defeated and dispatched, of acts of derring-do, circled, but in that moment only one fact had any purchase in his mind.
She was with him. Alive, well, and unharmed.
And he was still alive to rejoice over that.
To him, at that point, nothing else mattered.
Smiling, he ambled by her side down the road.
The light was fading and evening was closing in when, back at the inn, with Gareth’s arm washed and rebound, with all explanations made and exclamations done, a court of the interested crowded the auberge common room to hear him interrogate their prisoners.
As he’d expected, the younger two were little more than terrified boys. They knew nothing, so had nothing to tell. At Perrot’s suggestion, they were escorted away to be handed over to the gendarmes for attacking various locals.
The cult commander, Uncle, was an entirely different subject. Gareth elected to sit back and let Mooktu question him.
Defeated, the wound in his shoulder roughly bound, Uncle was cowed, confused, and clearly unable to believe he and his men hadn’t triumphed, yet malevolence rolled off him, and something that struck the gathered listeners as the distillation of pure evil ran beneath his answers.
Mooktu led him to describe his mission, and all that he’d done in following Gareth’s party. Uncle readily related what he saw as his clevernesses, yet revealed nothing they didn’t already know, or hadn’t already surmised. With every word out of his mouth, Uncle drew the noose tighter; he didn’t seem to understand that his listeners didn’t share his opinion of his greatness, much less his belief in his right to do whatever he chose in the Black Cobra’s name.
Often the crowd shifted uneasily, exchanging glances.
Convinced that Uncle had no information of any value to them, Gareth turned his mind to what to do with the man.
When Mooktu reached the end of his questions, Gareth turned to the crowd. “Did this man attack anyone here?”
As he’d expected, the answer was no.
He looked at Perrot. “Uncle attacked me, and he ordered the kidnapping of Miss Ensworth and threatened her life, and, as you’ve heard, he’s ordered much worse while pursuing us. However, with luck, my party will cross the Channel tomorrow.” He looked inquiringly at Captain Lavalle, who had offered days before to take them.
Lavalle nodded. “The wind has turned. Tomorrow we can sail.”
Gareth looked back at Perrot. “So we can’t hand this man to the gendarmes, for there will be no one here to press charges against him.”
A dark murmur passed around the room. Before dissatisfaction could bloom, Gareth stated, “However, once we sail for England”—he looked at Uncle—“his mission will have failed. And his master, and the cult, have a long-standing practice of punishing failure with death.”
Gareth didn’t need to ask Uncle for confirmation—awakening terror etched his face, there for all to see. “I suggest,” Gareth said, “that the best way of dealing with this fiend is to hold him here, in the basement of the inn, until tomorrow. Then when my party is safely away, on our way to England, release him, and drive him out of town.” Gareth glanced around the crowd. “There are cultists still roaming the countryside. They’ll find him—and mete out the same punishment he would have dealt to any other of his kind who failed.”
Looking again at Uncle, he continued, “There’s no need for us—any of us—to sully our hands dealing with this sort of man.”
Murmurs rose up, some calling for blood, yet there were enough wise heads among the crowd to ensure agreement. Realizing what they planned, what would happen…Uncle seemed to crumple before their eyes.
When Perrot, having consulted with his neighbors, turned back, slapped the table, and declared, “We will do it—just as you say,” Uncle cowered.
Gareth noted it. With a nod to Perrot, he straightened, was about to rise when, quick as a striking snake, Uncle shot out his hand and clutched Gareth’s wrist.
Gareth’s skin crawled. He froze.
“Please…” Uncle whined.
Seated beside Gareth, Emily seized a wooden platter and thumped it down on Uncle’s wrist.
He snatched back his hand, cradling it to his chest, shot her a look more frightened and shocked than scarifying, but then he turned to Gareth as Gareth pushed to his feet, pulling Emily up with him.
“No! Please…” Uncle held out his other hand beseechingly. “You do not understand. Give me up to the Cobra, I deserve nothing less—but please…tell me—where is my son? Where is his body?”
Gareth frowned. “Your son?”
“He led the party who came against you with the Berbers in the desert.”
Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and the others. “Any ideas?”
Mullins looked at Uncle. “He was the leader of that lot—the cultists with the other group of Berbers?”
Uncle nodded. “Please tell me—where lies his body?”
Mullins snorted. “God only knows.” He looked at Gareth. “I think he was taken with the rest of them.”
“Taken?” Uncle looked from one to the other. “He lives?”
Gareth looked at the hope in the man’s eyes. “Did you send him to lead that raid?”
“It was his chance to gain glory—it is the way of the cult.”
“In that case, you and your cult have delivered your son into slavery. He’d promised the Berbers they could have us to sell—the Berbers took him and his men instead.”
Uncle’s face blanked. After a moment, he whispered, “My son…is a slave?” To him, it was unthinkable.
“No.” Slowly Uncle shook his head. “No, no, no-ooh!” Wrapping his arms around himself, he started to rock, softly keening.
The others stood, Perrot with them. “We will take him down and lock him up.”
Lavalle came forward. “The tide will be favorable tomorrow morning at ten.”
Gareth sighed, glanced at Emily beside him. “This isn’t over yet.” He looked at Uncle, being led off to the basement by the Perrots’ strapping sons. “There are cultists still out there. He knows there are.” Turning, he arched a brow at Bister, who grimly nodded. “And we know there are. There were some we didn’t pick up keeping watch along the road.” Gareth met the captain’s eyes. “We’ll need to make arrangements to ensure we get safely aboard.”
The captain grinned and clapped him on the back. “You have given us much excitement in a time of boredom. Come, sit, and we will drink to your health—all of your healths. And then we will make our plans.”
Hours later, mellowed by good cognac and the sweet taste of triumph, however temporary, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs to their chamber.
Their plans for tomorrow organized, the others had retired some time ago. The common room had largely emptied, the stories all told.
Tomorrow they would leave. The unknown, most unpredictable, unquestionably most dangerous part of their journey was behind them, weathered and survived. Tomorrow they would start a new leg, hopefully with less threatening challenges.
Tonight, however,
was a time for…
Thankfulness. Gratefulness. Rejoicing.
Emily heard him shut the door, shut out the world. She paused by the bed, waited for him to draw near, then turned directly into his arms.
He smiled. His hands fastening about her waist, he bent his head to kiss her—
She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, wait. There’s something I have to say.”
He studied her eyes, arched his brows.
Her palms on his chest, she held his gaze. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
His lips curved.
“However,” she went on, increasingly stern, “while I most sincerely appreciate being saved, next time, do you think you could manage not to get hurt yourself?”
Curling her fingers in his lapels, she went up on her toes the better to say, “I don’t like you being hurt. When you get hurt, it hurts more than if I’m hurt—just in a different way. I panic when you’re hurt—and I don’t panic. I’m an indomitable Englishwoman and I’ve traveled the world, but you being hurt is something I can’t bear.” From close quarters, she stared into his eyes, one, then the other, then categorically stated, “I love you—do you understand that? I love you—so you mustn’t get hurt. Not anymore.”
She held his gaze for an instant more, then pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck, stretched the last inch and pressed her lips to his. “But thank you.” She kissed him.
“Thank you.” Another kiss.
“Thank you.” She whispered the last thank you over his lips, then met them in a kiss that this time didn’t end, but lengthened, strengthened, deepened as he took over, took charge, took her mouth, and she gave.
Surrendered.
Murmured, when his lips left hers to skate down the arching column of her throat, “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not.” His breath feathered over the sensitive skin where shoulder met neck. “I’m…cowed.”
She laughed, a short burst of disbelief that ended in a hiss as his hands closed about her breasts. After that, conversation was on neither of their agendas. Only one thing was.
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