And desperate they were. They wouldn’t retreat. Wouldn’t give up.
In the end, they were all slain and their bodies tipped overboard.
Gareth didn’t stand down until the last body splashed into the water. Even then, he waited until Bister checked, with Mullins doing one last circuit of the deck before signaling that all was clear.
He straightened, easing the fingers cramped about the hilt of his saber. His and Mooktu’s new robes were liberally bloodied. A quick check confirmed none of it was theirs.
Only then, with the grip of battle fading, did he look at Emily.
She was still standing on the roof alongside him, watching the activity on the deck below. Her arms were tightly folded, hands gripping her elbows as if she were cold. Shock, yes, but not hysterics, for which small mercy he was grateful.
For the much greater mercy that she was still alive, he metaphorically went down on his knees and gave thanks.
He’d known she was up on deck. He’d heard her footsteps. He’d started circling, on the opposite side as she, avoiding her as he had whenever possible over the last days.
Her scream had put paid to that.
It had ripped through the night, and ripped through him. His heart had stopped, then started pounding so hard he’d been sure the cultists would hear and see him as he climbed up and over the roof.
But she was still alive; she didn’t appear to have taken any wound.
And she’d very effectively covered his back, which was the last thing he’d expected.
He was sincerely grateful for that, too.
The deck below was clearing. Mooktu grunted, then dropped down off the roof and strode away to reassure Arnia, who had appeared at the stern.
With his free hand, Gareth touched Emily’s slender back. “Come. I’ll lift you down.”
He dropped down to the less bloodied side of the deck, then, setting aside his saber, turned to her, reached up, set his hands about her waist and gripped.
And swung her down.
Felt his heart pound just a little harder as he set her on her feet before him. As he looked into the face that haunted his dreams. Chest swelling, he had to force his hands to ease their grip and let go.
Bister unwittingly helped, coming up to take his saber to clean it.
He’d just handed it over when Captain Ayabad turned from giving orders to have the decks sluiced and swabbed.
Gareth spoke before the captain could. “I’ll have four of my men help scour the decks tomorrow.”
Ayabad inclined his head. “And while they are doing that, I think, Major, that you and I will have a talk. There are things I don’t know that it appears I need to know.”
Gareth nodded curtly. “In the morning, we’ll talk.”
Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”
Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel-flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.
By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.
Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.
He turned to her just as she looked up at him.
Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up on her toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.
His instincts surged, purred, reached-
Ruthlessly he slapped them down.
It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…
Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.
His hungry, starving lips.
He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.
To taste, then claim, then devour.
Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…
Her lips lingered.
Then, on a sigh, she drew back.
As her heels touched the deck, he straightened-reluctantly. Disappointedly.
Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.
“Thank you, Major.”
He forced his gaze up to her eyes.
They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”
He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.
He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.
It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.
Not to her.
He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in the opposite direction. There was nothing between them- he’d be a fool to think there was.
This-whatever it was-was all in his mind.
