Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.
After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.
Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.
Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say—I must apologize. All these are local dishes—I didn’t think to order more English fare—”
“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”
“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”
“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”
While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.
Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.
She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’ brings you to my doorstep?”
When Gareth glanced at the door, Roger added, “They’ve all returned to the kitchens. There’s no one about to hear.”
Gareth nodded, and between mouthfuls of unusually spiced but delicious sustenance, he told Roger the whole tale, from Hastings’s directive to their need for the robes they had arrived on his doorstep in.
Roger was one of the few men in the world in whom he had sufficient confidence to entrust with the unvarnished truth. He’d known Roger since they were both pupils at Winchester Grammar School; neither had ever let the other down. While Gareth had gone into the army, Roger had opted for the diplomatic service, but they’d kept in touch, which was why Gareth had stopped at Suez on his way out to India.
As Gareth had expected, Roger grasped the implications of just who the Black Cobra was immediately.
Frowning, Roger pushed away his empty plate. “You can lie low here, of course—my staff are sound—but you’d be wise to keep your appearances in the streets to a minimum, and as far as possible avoid the area around the consulate.” He met Gareth’s eyes, then glanced at Emily. “I’ve seen a few turbans with unusual black silk bindings recently.”
“Cult members.” Emily’s eyes widened.
Gareth nodded. “I feared they’d be here, ahead of us, keeping watch.”
“That’s what they’re doing, all right. The only place I’ve seen them is in the streets around the consulate.”
“We’ve no reason to go into that area, but”—Gareth trapped Roger’s eyes—“you’ll need to be careful, too. Someone at the consulate might remember our connection from when I was here six years ago.”
Roger pulled a face. “Possible, but unlikely, but I will take care to ensure I’m not followed, not back here, and not to where I suspect I’ll have to go to arrange your transport onward.”
“Speaking of which.” Gareth picked up the last of the flat bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “I don’t think we should go via Cairo.”
“I wasn’t about to suggest it. I imagine if we have some of these cultists here, then Cairo will be swarming with them. Far better if you leave that wasps’ nest alone, and head straight to Alexandria.”
“Is it possible to do that?” When he’d come the other way, he’d traveled from Alexandria up the Nile to Cairo, then part by river, part overland, to Suez.
Roger nodded. “It’s straightforward enough, and”—he glanced at Emily—“given your entourage, it has the added benefit of being the last option anyone would expect you to take.”
Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.
“Why not?” Emily asked.
Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”
Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they—the Berbers—unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.
Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them—those I’d trust—are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”
“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.
“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”
Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”
Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms—and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”
“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.
He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.
“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”
19th October, 1822
Before bed
In my room in Cathcart’s house in Suez
Dear Diary,
Well, at last I can report that I have indeed seen some development in Gareth’s attitude to me, although one can hardly describe it as decisive in any way. Over dinner he turned into a veritable bear, growling and grumpy, and all because his friend Cathcart paid me due attention. Not undue attention, but merely the customary appreciation any sociable and sophisticated gentleman might pay to a lady supping at his table and of a mind to be engaging. At no point did Cathcart step over the line. Gareth, on the other hand, turned positively surly. Not that he made any open fuss, but as he is normally even tempered, his disaffection was apparent to me—and I largely suspect, old friend as he is, to Cathcart as well.
I wonder what he made of it.
Regardless, although he didn’t find those he was seeking today, Cathcart is doing his best for us, and therefore entitled to my smiles.
If Gareth sees no reason to engage my attention, and invite my smiles himself, then he shouldn’t complain if I bestow them—smiles only, mind you—elsewhere.
I am not of a mind to indulge him in his present mood. He can hardly view Cathcart as a rival. It is
Gareth I’ve kissed—three times! If he doesn’t act, and commence pursuing me soon, I will have to take more drastic action.
E.
The following afternoon, Gareth found himself wandering the corridors of Cathcart’s house with nothing to do, nothing requiring urgent—or even nonurgent—attention. It had been so long since he’d been at loose ends that he literally felt at a loss.
Earlier he’d gone with Emily and the others to the souk to replenish their supplies. On returning to the house, Roger had joined them for a light luncheon before setting off to scout through the Berber tribes currently encamped outside the city walls.
Once Roger had left, Emily had gone out to the front courtyard with Arnia and Bister, who was taking his new role as Emily’s weapons master very seriously. After watching through a window, seeing Bister reaching around Emily and holding her hand while he demonstrated various thrusts and feints, Gareth had, briefly, regretted not volunteering to teach her himself.
But he wanted her proficient, at least to have some defensive skills, and if he’d been her teacher, he—and maybe even she—would have ended distracted.
His Arab robes swirling about him, he’d wandered off to the other, more contemplative, courtyard, but hadn’t found any subject able to hold his interest, contemplative or otherwise. Dwelling on what his three brothers-in-arms were currently doing wasn’t likely to calm his mind.
Thinking about the Black Cobra’s minions was even less help.
Ambling back through the house, he let his feet carry him toward the main salon. Pausing in the archway leading into the large room, he saw Emily sitting on the largest divan, propped among the sumptuous cushions, her gaze fixed on the window, an abstracted, faraway expression on her face.
His boots had made no sound on the thick runner carpeting the corridor; she didn’t know he was there. He seized the moment to study her—her pure profile, the elegant sweep of her neck, the graceful lines of her arms. The alluring curves of her lithe, very feminine body.
He shifted, and she looked up, met his eyes.
“What are you thinking of?” The words were out of his mouth before he’d thought.
She raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Just this and that.”
The faint color in her cheeks gave her away.
He should have asked who she was thinking of.
Him? Cathcart?
Or MacFarlane’s ghost?
It was suddenly imperative he know. Ever since he’d been unwise enough to kiss her on the schooner, he’d been plagued by questions—of what she thought, what she wanted, what was going through her mind. Of what was right, honorable, what was acceptable in the circumstances. Of just how much those circumstances were to blame for her apparent interest in engaging with him. Moving into the room, he stepped around the numerous floor cushions and low tables to the divan. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” She straightened amid the cushions, drawing her skirts in, in a clear invitation for him to sit there, close beside her.
He did. But divans weren’t designed for sitting formally. Emily wriggled her hips, curled her legs beneath her green skirts, shifting around to face him. He lounged among the cushions, arms spread across the colorful silks, one bent knee on the divan so he was angled toward her. “How have you enjoyed your trip thus far?”
She waved in a gesture that encompassed many things. “It’s been…enlightening, illuminating, and undeniably exciting.”
“I fear we won’t make it to the pyramids or the sphinx.”
“As that route would take us through Cairo, I don’t feel overly exercised by that. I would rather arrive in Alexandria alive, and not in the hands of the Black Cobra’s men.”
“Indeed.” He let a moment go by, then asked, “It must have been a shock to learn James had met his death at their hands.”
She frowned for a moment, then her face cleared. “MacFarlane?” She considered, then grimaced and met his eyes. “To be perfectly honest, when he insisted on remaining behind like that, given the numbers, I would have been more surprised had he survived.”
“It was an immensely brave act.”
She inclined her head. “It was an act of great self-sacrifice—I acknowledge that. Had our roles been reversed, I doubt I could have done the same.”
Emily watched Gareth’s face, and wondered why he’d introduced the topic. “Your MacFarlane died a hero, but he is still dead, and those remaining alive have to go on living.” She tilted her head, feeling her way, her eyes locked on his. “Given my chances of continuing to live were significantly improved by his sacrifice, then the best way I can honor him, I feel, is to continue with my life—more, to live life to the full.”
With you.
Her heart was beating just a touch faster. They were alone. Although the others were in the house, no one was near. And he’d made the first move by coming to sit with her—surely a clear declaration of intent.
Expectation welled; she struggled not to jig, not to lean toward him and precipitate—initiate—matters herself.
His gaze lowered to her lips as if he could hear her thoughts, but then he snapped it back to her eyes. “Cathcart. You…he…”
Sudden comprehension burst, epiphanylike, across her mind. Was he—had he been—jealous? Was that what his surliness had been about?
She smiled conspiratorially. “I thought, given his efforts are so vital to our cause, that being charming would be wise.” She opened her eyes wide. “Do you think it helped?”
He searched her eyes, then his lips twitched. “Knowing Roger, probably.” He paused, eyes still on hers, then added as he raised one arm from the cushions and, slowly sitting forward, reached for her face, “He’s no more immune to being appreciated by a lovely lady…” His hand curved about her jaw and he drew her closer; fascinated, mesmerized by the temptation in his eyes, she leaned forward, closer still…until her lids fell, her gaze lowering to his lips in time to see the end of his sentence fall from them. “…than the rest of us.”
Her mind took in the implication. Her lips curved as they met his.
The contact set her heart leaping.
She parted her lips, surrendered her mouth gladly, welcomed him in, and quelled a telltale shudder. His lips were firm, resilient, dominatingly male; his tongue stroked, sensation burgeoned and spread.
She leaned in, sank in, to the kiss.
Felt him shift closer, felt his hand slide from her face. He reached around her, drew her to him, his arm banding her waist as she joyfully obliged.
Inching closer yet, she placed her hands on the white fabric covering his upper chest. Felt the hardness of the rock-solid muscles beneath her palms and rejoiced. Greatly daring, her lips locked with his, her tongue tentatively tangling with his, she leaned further, reached further, slid her hands up, over his shoulders, then on, until she could clasp his nape, until her fingers tangled in the soft locks of his hair.
She sighed through the kiss, exhilaration and expectation melding. He gathered her closer, then tipped slowly back, sinking deeper into the cushions, taking her with him.
He ended half reclining, with her above and alongside him. She felt his lips curve beneath hers, sensed his satisfaction as, holding her locked within one muscled arm, he raised his free hand, and caressed.
From the swell of one hip to her waist.
His hand lingered, anticipation building, the heat of his palm sinking through her gown to her flesh.
Than his hand moved again, from her waist upward to, with the lightest of whispering touches, stroke her breast.
The shiver that lanced through her tightened her nerves, made something within her clench…then release as his hand, hard palm and long, knowing fingers settled, cupped. Claimed.
Her fingers firmed, tightening on his skull as he played, as with his tongue and lips he distracted her, only to draw back and let the heat, the warmth, the enticing pleasure of his caresses fill her mind.
She was lost in sensation.
&nb
sp; And so was he. Gareth was submerged in the subtle pleasure, his mind awash with tactile delight. It had been too long since he’d held a woman in his arms and so unhurriedly pleased her and himself. And even sunk in the moment, he—all of him—knew this wasn’t just any woman. She was who she was—Emily—and that made the moment even more special.
Even more addictive.
Ever more enticing.
The minutes spun on. Delight swelled, grew.
She sank closer, pressing more definitely against him.
Hauling in a breath, he gave in to the building compulsion, closed his hand about the firm mound of her breast—felt his chest tighten as she gasped through the kiss. Her spine bowed slightly as he traced the firm curves, found her nipple, circled it, then closed his fingers about the turgid peak.
She arched into the caress, the movement pressing her flesh more firmly to his palm. He closed his hand again, kneaded, and felt her melt.
Heard her softly moan.
Heat and desire shafted through him, straight to his groin. Instinctively, he shifted to roll her beneath him—
Realized just in time.
Caught himself, stopped.
Halted, teetering on that invisible edge.
If he did—if he took that next step forward—what then?
He’d entered the room with questions. She’d answered some, but he was still unclear about what she truly wanted, let alone why.
She still left him confused, and not just about her.
He broke from the kiss—just as she did, gasping.
One look into her dazed eyes told him she was, suddenly, as uncertain as he.
That she had realized, too, just how far they had gone.
That she, like he, needed to think before they went further.
They stared at each other, gazes locked, searching. For what, he wasn’t sure either of them truly knew.
Their positions, the physical closeness, gradually impinged on their minds as they slowly returned to the here and now.