Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Watson and Mooktu sat as Mullins came to join them. “So what are our options?” Mullins asked.

Dorcas wandered in as Watson replied, “Today we were inquiring about the most direct route, but there are other routes we could take.”

“It also occurs to me,” Gareth said, finger tapping the table, “that the direct route will be the one the Black Cobra will expect us to take. I would expect to run into heavier concentrations of cultists if we go that way.”

Watson spread his hands. “We’re in Alexandria-essentially all of Europe lies north of us. We could go by numerous less-traveled ways.” He looked at Gareth. “Do we have to go via Marseilles?”

Gareth nodded. “My route specifically directs us through Marseilles.”

Watson grimaced. “That reduces our options, but still-we could go via numerous routes around or over the Mediterranean.”

“But, for example, a route north along the coast and then east via Turkey, Greece, and Italy to France would surely take much longer.” Emily glanced at Gareth. “Do we have the time to amble?”

He met her gaze, shook his head. “It’s taken us longer to get here than Wolverstone anticipated. He wants me-us-in England by mid-December.”

Emily blinked. “Today’s the first of November.”

“Exactly. So allowing for the necessary days to cross France…we need to reach Marseilles as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” Watson said, “we’ll have to travel by ship all the way.” He glanced at the others. “Travel by sea is significantly faster than travel by land. On one of the more direct routes, a fast ship could make the run to Marseilles in anything from nine to fifteen days.”

“But we can’t find passage on one of those,” Mooktu rumbled. He looked at Gareth. “And we don’t have time to wait here until berths become available.”

Gareth humphed. “Sitting here just waiting for the cultists to stumble over us is not an option in any case.”

“So we take our next best option.” Emily turned to Watson. “Whatever that is.”

Watson frowned. “I would say…either via Italy, then Corsica, to Marseilles, or, possibly, west to Tunis, and then north to Marseilles.” He looked at Gareth. “I know the distances, but sailing times are harder to guess. We’ll need to ask around, then see what ships might be heading that way with space enough to take us.”

Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow. We’ll go down to the docks at first light. It’s less crowded then.”

“I have been thinking,” Mooktu said, “that if the cultists sent to watch us here have not yet been warned that we are going in disguise, then they are less likely to spot us.”

“True. So we’ll need to remember to always go disguised.” Gareth glanced around the table. “It would be preferable to stay in our Arab clothes even in here.”

Emily was perfectly happy to do so; her Arab clothes were less confining and in this climate certainly more comfortable than gown and petticoats. She’d tried to hand back the garments the Berber women had loaned her, but they’d waved their hands and told her to keep them and use them while she was in Arab lands.

She caught Gareth’s gaze. “We’ll need to go to the souk tomorrow. We’ll do that while you’re at the docks. We’ll take Mullins and Bister, and be extra careful, but it won’t hurt to take a look around.”

He didn’t like it-she could see that in his eyes-but eventually he inclined his head. “No, it won’t.”

2nd November, 1822

Early morning

My room in the guesthouse at Alexandria

Dear Diary,

Something has altered between me and Gareth, although I cannot put my finger on exactly what. There is a greater sense of shared endeavor, as if he now accepts that I can contribute in real ways to our survival. The timing suggests that our sojourn with the Berbers is responsible for his altered attitude, but why spending time, largely separated, in a less-civilized society that only exacerbated his protective and possessive streaks should result in a more inclusive attitude is a mystery. However, we are once again under such threat of being discovered by cultists sent to await our arrival and cut off our heads that it is difficult to find time, or space in my mind, to dwell on such personal questions.

Today I must lead an expedition to the souk to replenish necessary supplies, while Gareth searches for passage onward. The tension is palpable. He hasn’t yet stated it, but I can see he is concerned for us all-and perhaps most especially for me…

Despite the exigencies of our situation, there are moments such as this when I realize in which direction the changes between us are steering us.

More anon.

E.

T he souk in Alexandria was set well back from the harbor, tucked inside the old city wall. There was a central covered marketplace, with alley after alley of stalls, most selling fresh produce or clothing. Narrow, cramped, and winding streets gave off the marketplace, tentacles leading deeper into a labyrinth of tiny shops and clustered workshops. There was a goldsmiths’ alley, and a basketweavers’ alley, and lanes for clothing, metalware, glassware and every conceivable commodity.

Feeling entirely comfortable in her Berber clothes beneath her enveloping burka, Emily led their party through the marketplace, finding the items they required, then haggling in French-something at which she’d grown increasingly proficient through the journey.

It didn’t take long to gather all they required for the next few days. Buying supplies for their journey onward would have to wait until they knew when they would be leaving, and how. Remembering the basketweavers’ alley, she detoured and went down it. She found two very large, pliable baskets woven of palm fronds that would be perfect for carrying extra supplies on board a vessel; after a spirited round of bargaining with the shopkeeper, she acquired both.

They were strolling back down the basketweavers’ alley and had nearly reached the marketplace when two cultists appeared at the alley’s mouth and paused, studying the shoppers thronging the narrow space.

Emily’s heart leapt, then thumped. Hard. Instinctively she halted. Luckily an Arab man crossed in front of her, temporarily blocking her and the rest of their party behind her from the cultists’ view-giving her time to realize that stopping and staring would be very unwise.

When the Arab shifted, then turned and moved away, Emily dragged breath into her suddenly tight lungs and, head high beneath her burka, continued on, idly strolling onward as if she had not a care in the world-praying the others followed her cue and did the same.

The cultists saw them-they couldn’t very well miss them-but their gazes passed over them without a flicker of interest, much less recognition.

Greatly daring, Emily continued on and passed by both cultists. Stepping into the marketplace proper, she walked on until the crowds between her and the alley grew thick enough to risk halting and, while pretending to look at some fabric, cast a sideways glance back.

Dorcas and Arnia had followed at her heels. Bister and Mullins were nowhere to be seen.

Dorcas leaned close to whisper, “Bister and Mullins slipped into a shop. Their faces…”

Emily nodded. Although all their men’s faces were now deeply tanned, their features were still too European to flaunt.

Arnia pressed close on Emily’s other side. “If we stay here, they’ll catch us up.”

Watching the cultists still hovering in the mouth of the alley but now surveying the marketplace, Emily nodded again.

A moment later, the cultists moved on. Unhurriedly. Still looking and searching.