The Elusive Bride

He inclined his head noncommittally. The instant her feet hit the companionway stairs, he set off to stride down the deck, grateful for the camouflage his new robes afforded him. One issue he didn’t need to worry quite so much about.

But he could see further problems looming.

They were on a journey that would be strewn with dangerous situations, most likely becoming increasingly fraught the closer they got to England, yet he’d had no choice but to bring her along, and now had no option but to keep her with him. Quite aside from his evolving fascination with her, her safety wasn’t something he could countenance putting at risk. Unfortunately, said evolving fascination looked set to play havoc with his interactions with her-interactions where he, in any case, would have been feeling his way.

He’d commanded men for over a decade. Women, unfortunately, were something else again.

Four

8th October, 1822

Afternoon

The deck of our schooner on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

I am starting to question how much one can learn of another while constantly on edge. On guard. With one’s head forever twisted to look over one’s shoulder. I swear I now have a permanent crick. Unfortunately we know the cultists are out there. Bister and, later, Mullins sighted their telltale black scarves.

Beyond the constant fear of an attack, we go on relatively comfortably. Dorcas thought of draping some of the ubiquitous mosquito netting over a section of the stern, giving me, her, and Arnia some cover beneath which we can sit free of the weight of our burkas. I am seated in our tent of sorts now, watching the passing ships. We are making good time, or so I have been told. The scenery hasn’t notably improved, but the weather is not quite so enervating, at least on the water…once again I find my eyes trepidatiously scanning the vessel our sleek schooner is passing.

The men of our party take turns on watch, which is distracting and makes engaging Gareth in revelatory conversation somewhat difficult, for he, of them all, is most constantly on duty, ready to respond to any alert.

I would almost rather an attack was made so that we might relieve this unending pressure.

E.

Late that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily stepped out of the companionway onto the stern deck. Straightening, she paused to flick the silk out and over her shoulders. After a glance around the immediate area-empty of all life-she set off to indulge in a late stroll.

And if by chance she ran into Gareth Hamilton, she fully intended to encourage him to take advantage of the cover of night and, so to speak, her. At least to take her hand, kiss her fingers-kiss her lips if he would. She’d done with observations and cogitations, considered as far as she could, and had yet to discover any trait or behavior incompatible with his being her “one.”

Physical attraction and interaction seemed the obvious next step. Courtship of a sort, although as yet unstated. How could she assess if they were compatible on that level without actually testing it? Her sisters maintained it was essential to ensure one wasn’t dealing with a frog-the sort who remained a frog, regardless.

The evening had turned balmy. The schooner was sliding through the black water under light sail, the breeze that had whisked them along for the past days having faded to a mere breath. The moon was young, shedding only a pale glow, but there were lanterns placed all around the railings, shining down onto the deck; Emily walked confidently toward the prow.

She’d just drawn level with the middle-mast when a shift in the air behind her had her turning.

A dark, dripping head, a mahogany face with wild, staring eyes, a long lanky body, bare but for a sodden loincloth, materialized out of the darkness. Teeth flashed in a wicked grin. One hand rose, a wicked blade gleaming in the moonlight.

She screamed, loud and long as she whirled and fled.

The man lunged and seized. His fingers caught her shawl.

She let it fall and fled on.

Only to see more cultists step out from the shadows by the railings ahead. She skidded to a halt. They smiled, and hefting knives in anticipation, came on.

“Here-take my hand!”

She looked up. Saw a crouched shadow silhouetted against the sky-but she knew his voice, knew him. She reached with both hands, gripped the hand he was stretching down to her.

He rose and pulled her straight up, swinging her onto the rear of the roof of the forward cabin beside him.

The cultists howled, and flung themselves after her.

Gareth released her the instant her feet touched the roof.

As she whirled to face the threat, his saber flashed-a wild swing that had the cultists ducking.

But they immediately popped up again, and, blades waving, scrambled to gain the higher ground.

With thrust and slash, Gareth beat them back.

Then someone leapt onto the roof behind them. She whirled, but it was Mooktu, coming to his master’s aid.

She stepped back a little to give them both room, but kept a hand locked in the back of Gareth’s robes-enough to keep her anchored, not enough to impede him.

The cultists surged forward and up, more appearing, crowding the deck below Gareth and Mooktu, trying to tempt them forward, arms reaching, hands grasping to pull them down.

Twin bangs rent the night-both companionway doors slamming open. Feet pounded the deck as sailors poured from the fore and aft stairways. Emily glimpsed Mullins and Bister leading the charge from the stern.

The majority of the cultists didn’t spare the newcomers a glance. Eyes fixed on Gareth, they desperately tried to reach him…and her.

Through the wildly shifting shadows, she saw one darker apparition separate from the mass, slipping around the grappling, wrestling men. His gaze fixed on Gareth’s back, the cultist wove silently nearer.

A quick glance showed Gareth was fully occupied with the enemies before him. The cultist ignored her, his attention locked on the more dangerous opponent as he slipped into the shadows beneath the edge of the cabin’s roof.

He’d be up in a second.

Her heart in her throat, Emily glanced about-and saw a metal pail hooked to the jib arm. With her free hand she grabbed it, realized from the weight that it was half full of sand.

Just as a dark hand, followed by a dark arm and shoulder, came over the edge of the cabin roof.

She didn’t stop to think, just swung the pail the opposite way, then, as the cultist’s head cleared the roof’s edge, swung the pail back with all her might.

The solid thunk of the pail sent the cultist reeling. He tumbled back off the roof. Two sailors saw him and pounced.

Emily teetered, almost lost her balance and joined the bloody melee below; her hold on Gareth’s robes pulled her back.

He’d glanced around at the first tug, seen, grabbed his robes, and pulled. His gaze met hers. Then he turned back to hacking at the desperate cultists.