Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Emily breathed easier. She, Dorcas, and Arnia wandered back up the aisle toward the basketweavers’ alley. As they neared, Bister and Mullins emerged from the crowded alley and fell in with them again.

“Let’s get back to the guesthouse,” Mullins growled.

Emily nodded. “Yes. We’ll go now.”

They made it back to the guesthouse without further incident. Once there, once she could throw off the burka and think and pace, Emily’s imagination came unhelpfully alive.

The cultists hadn’t recognized her, but why would they? Covered by the burka, there was nothing of her to see. But Gareth…he was taller than most Arabs. Tall, and broad-shouldered. Even in England, in a crowd he would stand out. And while he’d adopted the Berber style of headdress, covering his neatly cut hair, if the cultists got a look at his eyes, at his cheekbones above his lean, sculpted cheeks, let alone his chin, they couldn’t fail to recognize him as an Englishman.

Arms crossed, she was pacing back and forth in the front room, telling herself she shouldn’t panic until dark fell and they were still not back, when the rattle of the gate latch stopped her in her tracks.

The gate swung inward-and Gareth stepped through, followed by Watson and Mooktu.

She had never been so relieved to see anyone in her life.

She was halfway across the courtyard to meet him before she realized.

The almost relaxed expression-the smile that had been in his eyes-slid away as he searched her face. “What happened?”

The words were rapped out, and then he was there. Fingers closing about her elbow, he turned her and urged her back into the front room, glancing up at the roof as he did.

“Cultists,” she managed to say, pausing on the threshold. “In the souk-not here. But they didn’t see us. Or rather, they saw us but thought we were locals. They didn’t react at all.”

Gareth stared at her. His blood ran cold as horrific visions of what might have happened cascaded through his mind-what the cultists would have done had they caught her-

He blinked, shook his head to clear the visions. She was here, with him, and patently unharmed.

Watson and Mooktu slipped past them, heading deeper into the room. Mooktu continued on, no doubt to find Arnia.

Emily looked into Gareth’s face. “I was so worried they’d see you-you’re much more recognizable than we are.” Turning, she walked into the room.

Releasing her, he followed more slowly.

“We were in our burkas, and Mullins and Bister were behind us, so had time to hide before the cultists could get a good look at them.” She turned to face him. The worry and utter relief he’d seen blazoned in her face earlier had faded. She seemed happy, quite cheery, now.

She studied his face, then tilted her head. “But you’re back early. Does that mean-”

She broke off. They both turned to the gate as it opened again. This time it was Bister, even more heavily disguised than usual with scarves swathing his head and face, who strolled in.

He closed the gate, then, all nonchalance falling away, came striding quickly to them.

He nodded to Emily, then reported to Gareth. “After we got the ladies back here, I thought I’d take a quick gander to see if I could follow those damned cultists back to their nest. I didn’t find those two again, but two others, also wandering the streets, keeping an eye out, true enough, but not searching like they knew who they were searching for.”

“Did you find their base?” Gareth asked.

“Yes, and you’re not going to like it. They’re in a house opposite the consulate, strolling in and out as calm as you please. Bad enough, but while I was watching, a party rode in. A group of assassins, but in the lead was an older, bearded man. Point is, I think I saw him on the docks at Aden.”

Gareth’s face felt like stone. “Tall, slightly stooped, black beard, definitely older?”

Grimly, Bister nodded. “That’s him.”

Damn! They had one of the cult’s upper echelon on their heels.

Emily was looking from his face to Bister’s. From her increasingly sober expression, she understood the implications. “I was going to ask,” she said, “whether your returning early meant you’d found a ship to take us to Marseilles?”

“Not quite.” He met her eyes. “Watson asked around. Seems our best chance of avoiding the cultists and reaching Marseilles in reasonable time is to go west along the coast. We found a merchant with a xebec and space for us all heading that way, but he isn’t ready to leave yet.”

He glanced at Bister, then at all the others who had come into the room to hear the news. “One of the cult members who was in Aden when we arrived there has just arrived here. From now on, we need to assume the cultists are specifically searching for us, that they know the composition of our party-how many men, how many women, approximate ages, and so on.” He paused, then walked to the table and halted at its end. He looked around at the faces, all familiar now. “Alexandria”-with a wave he indicated the area around them-“this quarter in particular-is not a good place to get caught in. Trapped in. Although this house is defendable, if the cult learns we’re here, they’ll be able to hem us in and keep us here.”

Until they wear us down.

Until they pick off enough of us to overrun the house.

And then…

Emily had come to stand beside him. She shifted, head rising met his gaze. “We’ll just have to ensure they don’t locate us, then.”

He saw the determination, the never-say-die expression in her eyes. Glanced at the others, saw the same resolution in theirs. He nodded. “So-we do everything humanly possible not to get noticed for the next two days.” He glanced back at Emily, caught her eyes. “We sail for Tunis at dawn three days from today.”

3rd November, 1822

Early morning

Tucked away in my room in the guesthouse

in Alexandria

Dear Diary,

I am starting to suspect Gareth has a natural tendency to gravitate to persons who appreciate a good fight. He mentioned last night that the captain of the xebec on which we will sail to Tunis expressed disappointment that the cultists-Gareth having felt it necessary to mention their possible interference-were unlikely to engage with us on this leg of our journey.

Huh! For myself, I will be inexpressibly grateful for a respite from the cult’s persistent hounding. Gareth and Watson feel certain that they-the cult-will be expecting us to take the customary diplomatic route through Athens and then overland, and that by the time they realize we’ve gone west along the coast of Africa, and then reorganize to follow, we’ll be too far ahead for them to catch. A xebec, Gareth tells me, is a fast ship, and once on it and clear of Alexandria, we are unlikely to be caught.

All of this, of course, is contingent on the cult not locating us in our bolt-hole here. They will, presumably, now know that we are going about disguised, but there are rather a lot of people in Arab clothing in Alexandria.

We shall see, but the number of times I have written the word “unlikely” above does not, to my mind, bode well.

E.

The next day, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, guarded by Mullins, Bister, and Mooktu, went to the souk for the supplies they would need on their journey to Tunis. Given they’d seen the cultists in the souk the day before, they felt it was better-potentially safer-to go that day rather than the next.

They accomplished their mission without sighting any cultists, and returned through the crowds thronging the midday streets.

They were just yards from the guesthouse when Dorcas, stepping around a hole in the road, collided with an Arab man going in the opposite direction.