Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

He stilled. He told himself not to ask, not to expose his vulnerability. “You care about me?”

She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

His heart leapt, swelled.

He reached for her as she pressed closer, lifting her face to his.

Effortlessly tempting him to bend his head and cover her lips with his.

In the instant before he did, she brought him back to earth. “Of course.”

Of course ? Because he was the one standing between her and frightening cultists? Because…?

He decided he didn’t need to know. He could think about it later. She was here, with him, and she wanted him to kiss her-wanted to kiss him.

Before he could act, she closed the distance, pressed her soft lips to his. The pressure, light, beguiling, called to him, and he kissed her back.

Angled his head and took charge of the kiss.

Took what he wanted-what, suddenly, he realized he needed.

She gifted him with her mouth, tempted him with her tongue, sank into him as he drew her close.

He slid his arms around her and locked her to him.

Flush against him.

Sensation flashed, streaked through him. Passion erupted, powerful, explicit, focused.

She broke from the kiss. Gasped, “I wanted to celebrate with you, but I was trapped on the other side. With the women. I wanted-”

He kissed her again, more ravenously. More rapaciously.

She answered in kind.

And rocked him back on his mental heels.

Desire flared, hot and arcing, achingly potent, burning and sweet.

In Cathcart’s salon they’d both stepped back, but this…this was fire and life, and everything he wanted.

Everything he needed.

And she wanted it, too.

She couldn’t have made her wishes clearer, and with his own need pounding a tattoo in his blood, he couldn’t deny what he felt. Didn’t want to.

No longer had the power to.

He couldn’t step away.

The kiss deepened, not gently, not slowly, but in spiraling leaps. His hands found her breasts, closed, kneaded. Her fingers slid into his hair and she clung, evocatively gripped.

Held him to her, to the kiss. Anchored him within the whirlpool of passion they’d unleashed.

His hands slid over her, learning, needing to know, wanting to possess.

That she was with him was never in doubt. Her lips were as hungry as his, her mouth as demanding. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly imprinting her flesh on his, the giving tautness of her belly impressing itself against his aching erection.

No invitation had ever been so explicit.

Then she made it more so.

She reached between them, and touched, stroked.

He shuddered-and couldn’t recall ever shuddering in quite that way at any woman’s touch before.

Her touch…he craved it. Craved her in a way that shocked even him.

Filling both hands with the lush promise of her bottom, he lifted her against him, shifted his hips evocatively, provocatively, and sensed her aroused gasp.

Holding her there in one arm, locked helplessly against him, he sank his free hand into her hair, palmed her skull, and kissed her-voraciously.

He tensed to turn, to press her back against something solid…

There wasn’t anything solid around.

“The night air is fresh and cool, don’t you think?”

The words, uttered in Anya’s calm voice, hauled them both from the kiss.

Lifting their heads, they stared, first at each other, then out along the gap between the tents, toward the voice.

But there was no one there.

“Perhaps the miss is still walking around the tents-she might be on the the other side.”

“Katun,” Emily whispered. Licking her lips, swollen she was sure, she looked into Gareth’s face. “I have to go.”

He nodded.

He set her down, but the reluctance with which his hands released her told its own story-one that gladdened her heart.

She shook out her skirt, resettled her makeshift shawl. Looked up at him, then stretched up and brushed her lips across his. “Until next time.”

With that, she stepped out from between the tents, looked, and saw the two older women strolling slowly, their backs to her. Dragging in a breath, feeling her head clear, she set out in their wake.

They’d guessed, of course. Anya and the other older women eyed her with bright-eyed interest as they all settled in their customary sleeping positions around the large tent.

“That major-he is a handsome one.” Bersheba made the comment to the tent at large, but her eyes were on Emily, carefully folding her skirts and blouse before snuggling into her blankets.

Marila snorted. “He is courageous-that is more important. You heard the sheik-the major is a great warrior.”

Emily could feel Dorcas’s and Arnia’s gazes, equally intrigued, join the older women’s, all trained on her face.

“But men are men, great warriors or not,” Katun stated. “They need to have their…egos stroked. Frequently.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Anya said, “if after the battle today, in which he and my Ali-Jehan led our men to victory, the major was in need of a degree of stroking. Men, after all, are very predictable in their ways. They crave having their bravery acknowledged.”

“Especially by those they seek to protect,” Girla put in.

“Especially if those are also ones they seek to impress,” Katun stated. After a heartbeat, she added, “With their prowess.”

Emily wriggled into her blankets. “I daresay you’re right. Good night.”

She laid her head down, tugged the blankets over her shoulder, and prayed the dark had hidden her flaming cheeks. Older women, it seemed, were incorrigible the world over. What was rather more interesting was that male behavior seemed equally universal.

26th October, 1822

Early afternoon

Anya’s tent in our camp at a desert oasis

Dear Diary,

We arrived at the oasis just after noon. There’s a clear lake, somewhat larger than I expected. It must be spring fed, and is surrounded by palms and various plants that form a ribbon of greenery around its shore. There are two other caravans, both smaller than ours, also camping here, but there is more than enough lakeshore for all. I gather it is customary to spend a few days here, allowing both animals and humans to recoup before trudging out across the desert once more.

The respite is welcome. I swear I sway to Doha’s rhythm even when I am not in the saddle. Even more wonderful there’s water enough to bathe, something I intend to take full advantage of. Despite the tribulations, I must admit I have found living among the Berbers easier than I’d thought.

Likewise, it has, apparently, been easier than I’d expected to make up my mind about Gareth. Given my behavior last night-and I would behave the same given the same opportunity-I have to conclude that my mind has made itself up and is convinced beyond doubt that he is my “one”-the gentleman for me.

No matter that rationally I feel I should be cautious, with respect to him there is nothing of caution in me. After our interlude in Cathcart’s salon I felt sure I would need time to consider before taking the next step-that step which, once taken, cannot be undone-but no. As was made transparently clear to me-and to Gareth-last evening between the tents, I am ready and willing to lie with him.

Not that that is something that can occur while we travel with the caravan, but I had thought it would take more than watching him fight in my defense to convince me.

Apparently heart is not necessarily dependent on mind in this matter.

E.

W hen she emerged from Anya’s tent, Emily discovered that most of the men of their party had decamped, leaving only a small number on guard.