He, too, kept his gaze on the noisy crowds. “Somewhere you and the others will be safe while I find a schooner to take us to Suez.”
Bister, scouting ahead as usual, returned at that moment with directions to a small family-run tavern down a narrow side street only a few blocks from the docks.
When they reached it, Gareth approved. The front was mostly wall, with only one door and a small glassless window covered by a leather flap, presently lowered against the day’s heat.
They went in. Given the hour, the front room was empty.
Gareth directed Emily and Dorcas to the front corner furthest from the door. Arnia followed. To his relief, although Arnia was usually exceedingly reserved, she seemed to have made some pact with Dorcas, and the pair had reached a working accord—which would certainly make his life easier.
Mooktu, with Mullins, had gone to chat with the proprietor, a middle-aged Arab who smiled and nodded. They returned bearing a tray with a pitcher and mugs. Without words, they pulled together tables, arranged benches, and sat down to refresh themselves.
And plan.
Gareth looked at Watson. “You, Mooktu, and I need to go back to the docks and look for a schooner to hire, preferably one that will take us and only us, no other cargo, and so sail to Suez in the shortest possible time.”
Watson grimaced. “That’ll cost a pretty penny.”
“Money we have,” Gareth returned. “Our safety is my primary concern.”
Watson nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“We need supplies.” Emily waited until Gareth looked her way. Raising her hand, she ticked off on her fingers, “We need flour, lentils, rice, tea, sugar, and all the other things we didn’t have on the barge.”
They’d learned that although their households could happily share the same foods, Indian or English, a steady diet of fish and only fish suited none of them.
Beside Emily, both Arnia and Dorcas were nodding, as were Bister and Jimmy.
Gareth opened his mouth, then shut it as realization dawned.
Emily gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Indeed—if you find a barge to take us straight on, as we all hope, then given the hour we’ll need to go to the souk now. We can’t afford to wait until you get back.”
He stared at her. She could all but see his instinctive refusal to let her go outside forming on his tongue. She pointed to Bister. “If Bister will come with me, and Mullins, too, we can leave Jimmy with Arnia and Dorcas to guard the luggage.”
It was a reasonable division of labor and guards. Her gaze steady on his face, she waited to see if he would accept. If he had it in him to be reasonable.
His lips thinned, but slowly he nodded—forced himself to nod. “All right.” He looked at Bister and Mullins. “But take all care. So far we’ve managed to avoid the cultists. If at all possible, we don’t want to be seen.”
The souk was a bustling hive of humanity, located within a quarter of narrow winding streets. Both traders and customers hailed from many different nations, and all were talking loudly in many different tongues. Luckily, with the expansion of French and British influence, most traders spoke a smattering of pidgin English at least, and some spoke passable French, enough for Emily to get by.
She was firmly determined not to feel cowed by having to deal with such foreign foreigners. And, indeed, she discovered that if she approached with confidence, the traders treated her with deference and politeness, and after her months in Bombay, bargaining was second nature.
They got through their list of required purchases with commendable speed. She was completing the last transaction—for chickpeas—when Gareth and Mooktu joined them.
She smiled and handed Gareth the peas. “Here—you may as well make yourself useful…” Looking into his face, she saw his expression, saw the way his eyes scanned the crowd. “What?”
Without glancing down at her, he quietly said, “As we suspected, there are cultists in town. We saw them, but thus far I don’t think they’ve seen us. If at all possible, I’d like to keep it that way.”
Emily glanced swiftly around. She made no protest when Gareth’s hard fingers closed about her elbow, and with a terse nod to the stall owner, he turned her away, back toward the tavern.
They had to backtrack across the souk to reach the tavern. As they walked, keeping their pace no different to those around them, she murmued, “Did you find a schooner?”
“Yes. We were lucky—we’ll be able to leave this evening.” Eyes constantly surveying the crowd, ready to take evasive action if he spotted any cultist, Gareth registered her nod, but again didn’t glance her way.
He was feeling exceedingly exposed, and not a little vulnerable. Mooktu, in his tribal robes, merged easily into the crowd, but there were few Europeans about, and he, Emily, Bister, and Mullins stood out.
Without warning, Emily halted.
Already frowning, his grip on her elbow tightening, he turned to urge her on. And saw she was staring down an alley of stalls.
She looked up at him, eyes bright. “Disguises.”
He looked again, and saw that the stalls were selling robes and other items of local clothing.
“We can’t merge with the crowds as we are, but if we buy some Arab robes, we’ll be able to waltz right past the cultists.”
“We don’t need to get that close, but…” He looked down and met her eyes, brimming with enthusiasm. Nodded. “Let’s take a look.”
Collecting Mooktu, Bister and Mullins with a glance, he followed Emily into the narrow, winding alley.
It didn’t take her long to discover a shop selling all manner of outer robes. She tried on a burka—a long robe that completely covered a woman from head to toe, with only a small, lace-filled panel across the eyes to see out from.
The instant the burka fell over her head, she became…utterly indistinguishable from all the other women clogging the streets.
“This is wonderful!” Her voice, muffled, came from beneath the black folds. “I can see perfectly well.” She turned this way and that, surveying the small shop. “But no one can see me.”
In a flurry of material, she pushed up the front of the robe and fixed the shopkeeper with a direct glance. “I’ll take this one, and”—she pointed to another in brown—“that one. How much for both?”
Leaving her haggling, spurred on by just how well disguised she’d been, Gareth applied himself to finding robes for himself, and urged Bister and Mullins to do the same.
Initially reticent, they were soon caught up in the transformation. Gareth was pleased with the end result. With any luck, they might—just might—escape the eyes of the cultists. If they could, it would be well worth this small effort.
Leaving the shopkeeper with instructions that there would shortly be some others of their party calling, and that he was to show them similar garments, they left the shop, all now in Arab guise.
No one so much as looked their way.
From beneath her burka, Emily studied the other Arab women, watched how they behaved. She quickly adjusted her position in their party so she was walking a pace behind Gareth. Given Mooktu and Mullins were walking behind her, Gareth made no demur; he, too, must have noticed the local practice.
When he paused at the corner of the souk and glanced back, checking that they were all behind him, she blinked, then smiled delightedly behind the concealing veil of her burka. In his flowing white robes over loose trousers, with a long, loose scarf wound about his head and another dark band cinched about his waist, he looked every inch the desert sheik—a man of mystery, dangerous power, and untold sensuality.
The others…simply looked dangerous.
As he started forward again, she meekly fell into step behind him, still smiling happily to herself.
Once back at the tavern, they sent Mooktu back to the shop with Watson, Jimmy, Dorcas, and Arnia for the others to buy suitable disguises.
While they were gone, Emily, with Mullins’s, Bister’s, and Gareth’s help, reoganized the luggage, packing th
eir recent purchases into two large hemp bags they bought from the tavern owner.
“Arnia said she would cook for us, and Dorcas offered to help.” Emily stepped back from the bag as Gareth and Mullins worked to lash it closed. “I can cook, but I’m afraid I’ve had little experience with these sorts of ingredients.”
Gareth glanced up at her. “I doubt we’ll need to call on your culinary skills.” He suspected he could cook better than she, and he wasn’t any great chef. “Both Mooktu and Bister are passable over a campfire.”
Mullins snorted as he straightened from the now secure bag. “Just as well. If Watson or I had to help…well, you’d probably rather not eat.”
The others returned in good time. They all stood in the, thankfully, still empty tavern and admired their ingenuity. Dorcas, too, was taken with the burka, although for Arnia, who normally wore a scarf wound about her head with a long end she often pulled across her face, the change wasn’t all that remarkable.
“No one saw us,” Mooktu reported. “I saw two of the cultists through the crowd, but that was after we’d left the shop. They didn’t give us a second glance.”
“Good.” Gareth surveyed his small band, now very local-looking. He caught the glint of Emily’s eyes through the lace panel of her black burka, and had to fight to suppress a smile. He inclined his head to her. “Your idea—and an excellent one.”
“Thank you.” She jigged with impatience. “So what now? Is it time to go down to the docks yet?”
“No—it’s too early. The schooner captain didn’t want us there until just before dark.” Gareth glanced at the tavern owner. “Dinner, I think.”
The tavern owner was delighted to serve them a meal. He gaily explained the dishes, and even intervened to show them how the locals used pieces of flat bread in place of spoons. While they ate, other patrons drifted in. By the time they’d finished the food and tried small quantities of the local drink, a species of thick coffee, the tavern was full and it was dusk.
Gareth paid the tavern owner and he salaamed them out of the door.
They formed up in the street, in the order they’d spent some time over the meal discussing, then started for the docks. Gareth and Watson strode in the lead, confident and assured—two well-dressed, wealthy Arabs heading for their ship. A pace or two behind, Emily, Dorcas and Arnia followed, hands clutching the front of their burkas to keep them in place so they could see through the lace panels, heads down so they could watch where they were placing their feet. The true reason Arab women always appeared so meek as they followed their husbands was now amply clear.
Behind the women, Bister and Jimmy pushed the wooden cart they’d piled with their luggage; they would leave the cart on the dock, as most people did. Behind them came Mooktu and Mullins, in their true roles of guards.
Their procession wended its way down to the docks unhurriedly, as if they belonged. As if their only care was to reach their ship in time to sail.
They passed two cultists on the main street.
Passed another two close by the docks.
All of the cultists saw them. Not one suspected who they were.
They reached the schooner, tied up at one of the further berths.
The captain grinned and hailed Gareth. “Major Hamilton!”
Gareth swore beneath his breath and took the gangplank in three long strides. Reaching the captain, he engaged him with questions about their accommodation, distracting his attention from those who followed in his wake.
When he glanced around and saw everyone—he did a quick head count—gathered in a knot further down the deck, the sudden tension that had gripped him eased. But not by much.
Striding down the deck, he swung open the slatted door of the companionway, and brusquely gestured the women down.
Emily glanced at him but went. Even through the mask of the burka, he felt her disapproving gaze.
But eventually, of their party there was only him, Mooktu, and Bister left on deck, with the captain calling orders to cast off.
The lift and roll of the Red Sea under the deck was comforting. Reassuring. From the stern, Gareth watched Mocha recede.
Saw the cultists gather on the dock, saw them point—at the schooner.
They’d got away without the battle he’d feared. No one placed that many watchers in such a small town without some definite intent, some plan of engagement.
They’d slipped away, but someone had been clever enough to put two and two together—to add up the respective members of their parties. Six men, three women. Given the cultists standing on the dock and pointing, he felt reasonably sure their schooner had been the only one to put out that day with such a complement of passengers.
They’d escaped before they’d been challenged, but they’d been noted.
The Black Cobra’s minions knew where they were.
7th October, 1822
Very late
In a cabin on a schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
We escaped the fiend’s minions in Mocha. However, the tension—which was positively palpable during those moments on the dock and while we waited for the schooner to sail—has not abated. I do not know why, but it is clear Gareth—and the others, too—fear the Cobra will locate us, that we are not yet free.
I have to admit that in following Gareth, I did not foresee this degree of danger and the consequent abiding tension. It is very distracting. True, I am being given the chance to observe his character under pressure, which will undoubtedly be more revealing than if we were meeting in conventional and unthreatening surrounds, but that pressure has other effects, and affects me, too.
I have discovered that I do not appreciate living under dire threat of imminent and awful death, but in the circumstances, I am determined to make the most of it.
E.
Once again she joined him as dawn lit the sky.
The deck of the schooner was empty of all others except for the night watchman yawning by the helm. Coming to stand beside him at the railing in the bow, she shook back the tendrils of hair that had come loose and, eyes closed, lifted her face to the morning breeze.
Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.
He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin—nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…
Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…
“There’s a surprising number of ships around—I didn’t think there would be so many.”
He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India—even China—destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”
She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”—he gestured to his new robes—“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”
She nodded. “That’s the problem—the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”
He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”
She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”
“I fear so.”
Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak o
f the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable—a shared moment.
Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.
Companionship.
That’s all this was.
“You—and the other three—you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”
The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through—we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right—each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before she looked away. “I’m glad. Given Captain MacFarlane died while escorting me, I feel I have an interest in avenging him, too.”
That came as no surprise. Gareth could still so easily bring James’s youthful engaging smile to mind. His sunny vitality had often made Gareth—and the others, too—feel like world-weary old men. James had always been popular with young ladies. Gareth slanted a glance at Emily. It wasn’t hard to imagine what romantical notions having such a dashing young man die in your defense would evoke.
Her comment, however, again raised the niggling question of whether—strange though it seemed—she’d changed her plans to follow him. But why him, and not Del, or one of the other two?
The question made him uncomfortable, and how on earth could he phrase it without sounding entirely too full of himself?
“So.” She turned to face him, leaning back against the rail. “What do you plan to do once this is all over and you’re back in England?”