Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Once the xebec gained clearer water further out in the bay, the captain must have put on more sail, for it positively leapt forward.

By the time they were passing between the headlands, the hull was all but flying over the waves. But then they met the Mediterranean proper, and the deeper swells slowed the craft.

From the porthole in the stern, Emily had an excellent view of both headlands as the xebec slipped through, finally free of the harbor’s mouth.

She had an excellent view of the cultists on each point.

A perfectly clear view of the spyglass one was holding, trained on the xebec’s deck.

She saw that cultist turn and say something to another. Saw the second cultist grab the spyglass and look through, then nod excitedly. After one more look, both turned and ran…she couldn’t see where.

But she’d swear they’d been smiling.

Once the headlands faded into the early-morning sea mist, she quit the cabin and made her way onto the deck.

She found Gareth leaning on the railing to one side. She leaned beside him. “Did you see them on the headland?”

He nodded, glanced at her, met her eyes. “It wasn’t possible for us all to get below. With the added weight, some of us needed to help the sailors.”

She looked out across the waves, toward where, a long way ahead, she imagined Europe lay. “I can’t be sure, but I think they saw us.”

After a moment, he lifted a hand, placed it over hers on the rail. Gently squeezed. “They did-I think we must assume that. But they didn’t see which direction we took. The captain stayed on an uninformative course until we were out of sight.”

Emily stayed where she was, digesting that information and its implications. Absorbing the warmth of his large hand covering hers. “So they’ll know we left, and that we’re on some xebec, but, with any luck, they’ll search for us-”

“In every direction but the one in which we’re going.”

She nodded, reassured, but stayed where she was, content enough in that moment.

In the house opposite the British consulate, Uncle paced incessantly. “This is unacceptable! We are hunting these people-how is it then that three more of your number have disappeared?” His tone demanded an answer, an answer the cowed men abased before him could not give. “Have they deserted our cause? No! How could that be when they know the vengeance the Black Cobra will take? How our revered leader will strike, and maim, and torture until they scream-”

He broke off as his new lieutenant, Akbar, came striding in.

Akbar made obeisance, then straightened and reported, “They were seen-the major and his party-on a fast vessel leaving the harbor an hour ago.”

Uncle was silent. Silent for so long those abased before him started trembling even more than when he’d been berating them. The silence stretched as Uncle hauled his formidable temper back under control. Finally he drew breath, and, fighting not to grind his teeth, quietly asked, “And where is this vessel sailing to?”

Akbar’s lashes flickered. “The men do not know. It wasn’t possible to tell which heading they took before the sea mist swallowed them.”

Uncle drew in an even longer, tighter breath. Slowly exhaling, he said, “I suggest you set inquiries in train. There are only so many ships that can have left this morning. Ask until you learn where that one was heading.”

Akbar bowed low, then turned and left.

Uncle looked down at the trembling men at his feet. “Get out.”

They tripped over themselves obeying.

Alone in the room, Uncle slowly wandered. Akbar was ambitious. He would do whatever was needed to extract the necessary information. “Not that it matters,” Uncle muttered. “We have men in every port-the Black Cobra has seen to that. The major and his woman will not escape.” His hands clenched, his lips slowly curved. “And I will personally ensure that the major suffers long and suitably for taking Muhlal from me.”

6th November, 1822

Before dinner

The cramped shared stern cabin on the xebec,

somewhere in the Mediterranean, heading for Tunis

Dear Diary,

Contrary to my hopes, a xebec is a ship designed for trade, not for passengers. There is no privacy anywhere. Indeed, we women are lucky to have a cabin to ourselves. The men of our party are sharing with the crew.

It is impossible to have a private conversation anywhere, let alone indulge in non-verbal communication. Add to that that there is nothing to see and less to do, and it is no wonder Dorcas, Arnia, and I are already bored beyond bearing. The men, on the other hand, appear to be merging with the crew-I even saw Watson getting sailing lessons. Gareth and the captain get on well. Exceptionally well. With Gareth striding about in a combination of robes and cavalry breeches and boots, his sword at his side, he, like the captain, looks like a buccaneer.

Watching him striding about the deck is one of the few distractions available to me.

E.

10th November, 1822

Before dinner

On the xebec, in the tiny cabin

Dear Diary,

I have nothing to report. We have been sailing along at a rapid clip for the last five days without incident of any kind. Gareth’s ploy to lose the cultists in our escape from Alexandria appears to have succeeded-we have remained unmolested, even at night. There seems little reason to fear further attack, at least not on this leg of our journey. Gareth still posts pickets, and Bister and Jimmy spend a good portion of each day up on the main mast, but we have all largely relaxed our vigilance. The absence of the tension to which we’ve grown accustomed is now every bit as noticeable as the tension itself was.

This should be a perfect opportunity for Gareth and myself to further explore the potential connection between us-I can hardly credit that we have not had a chance to address this burning issue since those few moments stolen between the Berbers’ tents!-but such personal interaction is utterly impossible under the interested noses of the crew.

I have even tracked the crews’ movements to see if there is any time or place in which they are routinely absent, but no. It is beyond frustrating. If I thought it would do any good, I would tear out my hair.

Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No further forward.

E.

11th November, 1822

Before dinner

Still on the blasted xebec

Dear Diary,

The captain must have heard my griping. Either that, or Gareth mentioned my threat to leap overboard if we are served fish for one more night. He-the captain-has in the last few minutes very cordially informed me that we are to make landfall-a halt for a whole day!-in Malta tomorrow. The ship must take on drinking water, and he hopes to trade some of the salt he is carrying. My spontaneous and heartfelt response was “Thank Heaven!” at which Captain Laboule grinned. Although he is a mussulman, it appears my words are nevertheless acceptable gratitude for divine intervention.

But to have a whole day ashore! I am both relieved and filled with anticipation. Surely, Gareth and I will be able to find a suitable place, and sufficient time, to advance our mutual understanding.

It strikes me that in exploring and mapping out our way forward together, we are undertaking another journey, one running parallel and superimposed upon our more physical journey to England.

I look forward to tomorrow in hope and expectation.

E.

A lthough founded by the Knights of Malta centuries before, Valletta was currently under British rule, a fact Gareth hadn’t forgotten and took pains to impress on the other members of his party.