Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Collecting Mooktu, Bister and Mullins with a glance, he followed Emily into the narrow, winding alley.

It didn’t take her long to discover a shop selling all manner of outer robes. She tried on a burka-a long robe that completely covered a woman from head to toe, with only a small, lace-filled panel across the eyes to see out from.

The instant the burka fell over her head, she became…utterly indistinguishable from all the other women clogging the streets.

“This is wonderful!” Her voice, muffled, came from beneath the black folds. “I can see perfectly well.” She turned this way and that, surveying the small shop. “But no one can see me.”

In a flurry of material, she pushed up the front of the robe and fixed the shopkeeper with a direct glance. “I’ll take this one, and”-she pointed to another in brown-“that one. How much for both?”

Leaving her haggling, spurred on by just how well disguised she’d been, Gareth applied himself to finding robes for himself, and urged Bister and Mullins to do the same.

Initially reticent, they were soon caught up in the transformation. Gareth was pleased with the end result. With any luck, they might-just might-escape the eyes of the cultists. If they could, it would be well worth this small effort.

Leaving the shopkeeper with instructions that there would shortly be some others of their party calling, and that he was to show them similar garments, they left the shop, all now in Arab guise.

No one so much as looked their way.

From beneath her burka, Emily studied the other Arab women, watched how they behaved. She quickly adjusted her position in their party so she was walking a pace behind Gareth. Given Mooktu and Mullins were walking behind her, Gareth made no demur; he, too, must have noticed the local practice.

When he paused at the corner of the souk and glanced back, checking that they were all behind him, she blinked, then smiled delightedly behind the concealing veil of her burka. In his flowing white robes over loose trousers, with a long, loose scarf wound about his head and another dark band cinched about his waist, he looked every inch the desert sheik-a man of mystery, dangerous power, and untold sensuality.

The others…simply looked dangerous.

As he started forward again, she meekly fell into step behind him, still smiling happily to herself.

Once back at the tavern, they sent Mooktu back to the shop with Watson, Jimmy, Dorcas, and Arnia for the others to buy suitable disguises.

While they were gone, Emily, with Mullins’s, Bister’s, and Gareth’s help, reoganized the luggage, packing their recent purchases into two large hemp bags they bought from the tavern owner.

“Arnia said she would cook for us, and Dorcas offered to help.” Emily stepped back from the bag as Gareth and Mullins worked to lash it closed. “I can cook, but I’m afraid I’ve had little experience with these sorts of ingredients.”

Gareth glanced up at her. “I doubt we’ll need to call on your culinary skills.” He suspected he could cook better than she, and he wasn’t any great chef. “Both Mooktu and Bister are passable over a campfire.”

Mullins snorted as he straightened from the now secure bag. “Just as well. If Watson or I had to help…well, you’d probably rather not eat.”

The others returned in good time. They all stood in the, thankfully, still empty tavern and admired their ingenuity. Dorcas, too, was taken with the burka, although for Arnia, who normally wore a scarf wound about her head with a long end she often pulled across her face, the change wasn’t all that remarkable.

“No one saw us,” Mooktu reported. “I saw two of the cultists through the crowd, but that was after we’d left the shop. They didn’t give us a second glance.”

“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea-and an excellent one.”

“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”

“No-it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”

The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place of spoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.

Gareth paid the tavern owner and he salaamed them out of the door.

They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured-two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.

Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.

Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.

They passed two cultists on the main street.

Passed another two close by the docks.

All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.

They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.

The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”

Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.

When he glanced around and saw everyone-he did a quick head count-gathered in a knot further down the deck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.

Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.

Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.

But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.

The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.

Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point-at the schooner.

They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.

They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together-to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.

They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.

The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.

7th October, 1822

Very late

In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension-which was positively palpable during those moments on the dock and while we waited for the schooner to sail-has not abated. I do not know why, but it is clear Gareth-and the others, too-fear the Cobra will locate us, that we are not yet free.