Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”

Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they-the Berbers-unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.

Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them-those I’d trust-are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”

“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.

“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”

Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms-and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”

“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.

He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.

“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”

19th October, 1822

Before bed

In my room in Cathcart’s house in Suez

Dear Diary,

Well, at last I can report that I have indeed seen some development in Gareth’s attitude to me, although one can hardly describe it as decisive in any way. Over dinner he turned into a veritable bear, growling and grumpy, and all because his friend Cathcart paid me due attention. Not undue attention, but merely the customary appreciation any sociable and sophisticated gentleman might pay to a lady supping at his table and of a mind to be engaging. At no point did Cathcart step over the line. Gareth, on the other hand, turned positively surly. Not that he made any open fuss, but as he is normally even tempered, his disaffection was apparent to me-and I largely suspect, old friend as he is, to Cathcart as well.

I wonder what he made of it.

Regardless, although he didn’t find those he was seeking today, Cathcart is doing his best for us, and therefore entitled to my smiles.

If Gareth sees no reason to engage my attention, and invite my smiles himself, then he shouldn’t complain if I bestow them-smiles only, mind you-elsewhere.

I am not of a mind to indulge him in his present mood. He can hardly view Cathcart as a rival. It is Gareth I’ve kissed-three times! If he doesn’t act, and commence pursuing me soon, I will have to take more drastic action.

E.

The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent-or even nonurgent-attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.

Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.

Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.

But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he-and maybe even she-would have ended distracted.

His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.

Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.

Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.

His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her-her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.

He shifted, and she looked up, met his eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought.

She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Just this and that.”

The faint color in her cheeks gave her away.

He should have asked who she was thinking of.

Him? Cathcart?

Or MacFarlane’s ghost?

It was suddenly imperative he know. Ever since he’d been unwise enough to kiss her on the schooner, he’d been plagued by questions-of what she thought, what she wanted, what was going through her mind. Of what was right, honorable, what was acceptable in the circumstances. Of just how much those circumstances were to blame for her apparent interest in engaging with him. Moving into the room, he stepped around the numerous floor cushions and low tables to the divan. “May I join you?”

“Of course.” She straightened amid the cushions, drawing her skirts in, in a clear invitation for him to sit there, close beside her.

He did. But divans weren’t designed for sitting formally. Emily wriggled her hips, curled her legs beneath her green skirts, shifting around to face him. He lounged among the cushions, arms spread across the colorful silks, one bent knee on the divan so he was angled toward her. “How have you enjoyed your trip thus far?”

She waved in a gesture that encompassed many things. “It’s been…enlightening, illuminating, and undeniably exciting.”

“I fear we won’t make it to the pyramids or the sphinx.”

“As that route would take us through Cairo, I don’t feel overly exercised by that. I would rather arrive in Alexandria alive, and not in the hands of the Black Cobra’s men.”

“Indeed.” He let a moment go by, then asked, “It must have been a shock to learn James had met his death at their hands.”

She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared. “MacFarlane?” She considered, then grimaced and met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, when he insisted on remaining behind like that, given the numbers, I would have been more surprised had he survived.”