Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

Gareth had hoped that by timing their departure to the very last usable minute of the tide, then even if the cultists spotted them-as he felt sure they would-their pursuers wouldn’t be able to sail after them for at least another twelve hours, if not more.

At this point, a day’s head start was all he could hope for.

They got away, swinging out of the harbor and onto the ocean swell, then turning along the coast for the straits without challenge. But as they rounded the last headland, Jimmy caught the reflection off a spyglass directed their way.

Bister drew the younger lad with him to report to Gareth. “I saw it, too, once he pointed it out. Sure as eggs, someone was watching us.”

Gareth grimaced. “No prizes for guessing who. But at least we’ve got away, and with the straits ahead, I doubt they’ll catch us up, not before Mocha.”

Later that evening

Elsewhere in Aden

“Uncle-we have news!”

The tall bearded man known throughout the Black Cobra cult simply as Uncle slowly lifted his gaze from the pomegranate he was peeling. “Yes, my son?”

The younger man he’d sent to supervise the watch on the harbor drew himself up, head high. “We saw the Major Hamilton leave on a barge, but the barge was on the ocean, heading for the straits, before we could get a clear sighting.”

“I see.” Uncle paused to eat a piece of pomegranate, then asked, “Did he have a woman-the Englishwoman he saved from our blades on the docks-with him?”

The young man turned to his colleagues, who had followed him into the courtyard. A whispered conference ensued, then the young man turned back. “She was seen briefly on the docks, but we didn’t sight her on the barge-howsoever there were cabins.”

“Ah.” Unhurriedly Uncle finished the pomegranate, then carefully wiped his hands. Then he nodded and looked to his second-in-command. His only true son. “In that case, I believe my work here is done.”

His son nodded. “We will catch them in Mocha-there are men already there.”

“Indeed.” Uncle slowly stood, stretching to his full, impressive height. “Our illustrious leader has truly foreseen the gentlemen’s paths. There are men watching, ready to act, along all the routes they might take. But my mission-” He broke off and inclined his head to his son. “ Our mission is not just to stop these men reaching England. The Black Cobra demands a greater retribution from those who oppose its might and power.”

Turning to the younger man and his comrades, Uncle raised a hand in benediction. “You have done well enough. You will remain here in case any of the other gentlemen come this way. But I and mine”-he glanced at his son and smiled-“we ride to Mocha.”

His gaze passed on to the older, more hardened men-assassins all-lined up behind his son. His anticipatory smile deepened. “Find horses. The overland route is shorter.”

October 5, 1822

The mouth of the Red Sea

Dawn broke in a pearly golden wash spreading like gilt across the waves. Stepping out of the narrow corridor running the length of the cabins, Gareth drew the salty air deep, slowly exhaled. The barge was angling northwest, following others into the narrowing mouth of the Red Sea, still some way ahead.

Seeing Watson leaning on the railing, eyes on the distant shore, Gareth ambled over. Watson glanced at him, then straightened.

Gareth smiled. “Go in and get some sleep-I’ll take over until Mooktu appears.”

Stifling a yawn, Watson nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s been quiet all night.” He looked over the water. “Lovely morning, but I’m going to find my bed. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a half salute, Gareth settled, still smiling, against the rails. He heard Watson stump off into the cabins. The slap of waves against the hull was soothing, the faint mumble of voices from the stern-the crew chatting-punctuated by the call of a wheeling gull.

Over the last days, while avoiding their mistress, he’d made an effort to get to know her people. If they were to travel on together, he needed to know what manner of troops he had under his command.

Both Watson and Mullins were unreservedly grateful for his rescue of their charge. Mullins had been an infantryman until after Waterloo. He’d returned to his home village in Northamptonshire, looking for employment, and had run into Watson, who, with Bonaparte defeated and the Continent safe again, had been setting up as a travel guide to take young gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the old Grand Tour. Watson was the courier-guide, Mullins the guard. Jimmy, Watson’s sister’s son, had been brought on this trip to learn the ropes.

Over the years, Watson and Mullins had worked frequently for the Ensworth family, who they consequently knew well. The family was large; they’d conducted three male Ensworths around the Continent, as well as escorting the elder Ensworths on various trips. The family were valued and well-liked clients; just the thought of losing Emily-one of the younger of the brood-was enough to make both Watson and Mullins, experienced though they were, literally blanch.

They also liked Emily herself; seen through their eyes, she was a sensible, calm, and even-tempered young lady they had no qualms over conducting halfway around the world.

Both Watson and Mullins were in their middle years, and shared a tendency to corpulence. Although still hale, able, and active, as Gareth had earlier intimated to Emily, neither rode well, and it sounded as if Jimmy’s equestrian abilities owed more to enthusiasm than skill. It was a point he would have to bear in mind in arranging their transport onward.

Mullins took his duties seriously; in Aden he’d asked Mooktu to help sharpen his sword skills. Meanwhile Bister had, unasked, taken Jimmy under his wing; Gareth had seen the pair practicing knife throwing, Bister’s specialty. In terms of protecting the women in the party, they weren’t without resources.

Not that Gareth thought Arnia needed protecting. Like Mooktu, she hailed from the northwestern frontier, and like all the females of those tribes, was as lethal with blades as her menfolk, yet the cultists would be unlikely to recognize the danger Arnia posed, not until it was too late.

Learning about Dorcas, Emily’s very English maid, a tall, bustling and competent female somewhere in her late thirties, had required the application of a certain amount of self-effacing charm, but she’d eventually thawed enough to admit that she rode very poorly, and that she’d been with Emily and her family for most of Emily’s life.

Dorcas, too, was grateful for his rescue and subsequent protection of her mistress, yet she continued to view him with an underlying suspicion she did nothing to hide. As he’d been careful to suppress, and if not that then conceal all evidence of his unhelpful attraction to her charge, he wasn’t sure what lay behind Dorcas’s watchful, ready-to-be-censorious eye.

He heard a footfall- her footfall. He was turning to search for Emily even before she rounded the cabins in a gown of lilac cotton that fluttered in the breeze.

Seeing him, she smiled and strolled his way.

He struggled to keep his answering-too revealing-smile from his face, managed to replace it with a frown. “What are you doing up at this hour?” He glanced around. “You shouldn’t be on deck-it could be dangerous.”

She tilted her head, studied him for a moment, then, smile still flirting about the corners of her rosy lips, she looked out across the waves. “It’s so peaceful and quiet, you’d hear any other vessel approaching, surely?”

She looked back at him, met his eyes.

The best he could do was humph, and lean back on the railing. “Couldn’t you sleep?”