The next morning, as he’d promised, Gareth went to speak with the captain.
In order to give himself every advantage in the negotiations that were sure to ensue, he took Emily with him.
He tapped on the captain’s cabin door, and when Ayabad bade them enter, opened the door and ushered Emily, fetchingly dressed in a flimsy spring green gown, over the threshold.
Ayabad came to his feet in a rush, then hurried to hold a chair for Emily, who returned his greeting coolly and sat.
Drawing up a second chair, Gareth sat alongside her.
She’d been as pleased as punch when he’d asked her to accompany him; he was growing adept at reading her expressions. Of course, she didn’t comprehend exactly why he’d requested her presence, but he saw no harm in allowing her to imagine he needed her counsel, and distracting Ayabad was, he judged, a strategically wise move.
“Now, Major.” Ayabad resumed his seat behind the small desk. “Perhaps you will be so good as to explain the interests of those who attacked this ship last night, and whether it is likely we will encounter more of their ilk on this voyage.”
Having already decided what to reveal, Gareth smoothly explained the basis of the Black Cobra cult, and the cultists’ interest in Emily as the one who had bravely brought critical evidence to the authorities.
Ayabad was suitably impressed and intrigued. He exclaimed at the tale of Emily’s ride from Poona and asked various questions, which Emily answered with just the right degree of feminine self-effacement.
By the simple expedient of not mentioning the copy of the letter he was carrying, Gareth’s tale, supported by Emily, left Ayabad with the impression that Gareth was acting as Emily’s escort on her journey home to England, because the Black Cobra was expected to seek revenge through attacks such as the one the previous night.
After that, it took little to convince Ayabad that he should support them by continuing to ferry them north to Suez, beating off any cult attacks along the way. Gareth was a shrewd judge of men like the captain; Ayabad and his sailors were only too ready to enliven their lives by joining in a good fight. There was, of course, a fee to be paid. He and Ayabad haggled over the additional sum.
A glance at Emily showed she was horrified-whether by the amount or simply the fact of the extra sum, he couldn’t tell-but to his relief she remained silent, although he, certainly, felt her disapproval.
Emily was indeed incensed, but as Gareth seemed to think nothing of either the captain’s demand, or of the-to her quite horrendous-sums being bandied about, she felt she had to hold her tongue.
Which left her time to note that, given said sums, Gareth Hamilton was no pauper. She hadn’t thought of the expenses he’d been meeting, but the briefest of considerations confirmed he must command resources well beyond that of the average army major. Then again, she’d heard plenty of tales of the wealth accummulated by those in the employ of the East India Company, and Gareth had told her that he and his fellow officers had been, in his words, “Hastings’s own.”
His wealth therefore would not derive from his army stipend alone.
His affluence or otherwise made little difference to her-if he proved to be her “one,” she would marry him regardless-but his relative wealth would certainly help in securing her parents’ approval of the match.
She brought her attention back to the captain’s cabin to discover he and Gareth were shaking hands.
Both were smiling identical smiles.
They both looked like pirates.
She rose as Gareth did, and they took their leave of the captain, who bowed very prettily over her hand. She made a mental note to be sure to do nothing to encourage Ayabad. She judged him a womanizer, undoubtedly with a woman in every port on the Red Sea.
When the door had closed behind them, Gareth smiled at her. “Excellent.” He waved her to the companionway.
She preceded him up the stairs. He fell in beside her as they strolled down the deck.
“That went well.” Gareth glanced at her face. “I wanted to avoid mentioning my mission, and you were a great help in that.” He looked ahead, matching her step for step as they neared the stern. “You behaved in just the right way to evoke Ayabad’s chivalrous streak. I felt sure he had one. He’s an honorable man, which is why I hired him in Mocha.”
She halted by the stern railings, gripping them and staring out over their wake.
Halting beside her, he glanced back along the length of the schooner. The decks had been scoured first thing that morning; there was no sign remaining of the night’s battle. His lips twisted. “I should upbraid you for strolling the deck alone last night, but everyone in our party is feeling rather better for having weathered the attack we all knew would come. We took a few cuts and bruises, but no one sustained any serious injury.”
He paused, recalling-vividly-that moment when, looking down from the roof, he’d seen the cultists closing in on her, seen her helplessness, understood her peril…but he’d been there, and had rescued her, for which she’d been duly appreciative.
And in the midst of the melee, she’d rescued him. He glanced at her, but she was still looking out over the waves. “I haven’t yet thanked you for your assistance last night. Indeed, to commend you on your quick thinking and levelheadedness. If it hadn’t been for you, I might have been seriously wounded.”
Or killed, Emily thought, as she swung to face him.
She caught his gaze. Expectantly waited. If he wanted to thank her, she’d shown him the way.
Her jaw had dropped, mentally if not physically, when he’d revealed his reasons for requesting her presence that morning. Every word he’d uttered since had only succeeded in prodding her temper to greater heights, but if he was going to redeem himself by thanking her appropriately, she was willing to overlook his arrogance.
So she waited.
His gaze traveled her face, returned to her eyes. “I…have to admit that when I suggested we join forces, I imagined myself taking responsibility for you much as a nursemaid with her charge, but you’ve already contributed in a positive way-many positive ways-to our joint party’s well-being, and deserve our, certainly my, thanks and gratitude.”
She waited. Waited.
He seemed to sense her expectation, but all he did was shift uneasily, then say, “I’m sure the others-”
Again. Harder this time.
More definitely, more confidently.
More evocatively.
Provocatively.
She felt the light scrape of his beard beneath her palms, felt again the hardness, the sculpted lines of his cheeks and the bones above them, traced the latter lightly with the tips of her fingers even while she registered, absorbed, and explored again the fascinating hardness of his lips with hers.
Again he didn’t return the kiss, but he did respond-she could sense it. She could all but feel the battle he waged to hold back, to keep the inch of separation between their bodies, to keep his arms from her, to keep his lips from seeking hers.
It was a battle he won-damn him!
Head starting to spin from lack of air, she was forced to draw back.
Gareth hauled in a breath the instant her lips left his, shackled his instincts in iron, nearly swayed with the effort it took.
He frowned down at her as her eyes searched his. “What was that for?”
Her eyes narrowed, golden flints sparking in the mossy green. “That was to shut you up. And to thank me for last night!”
With that, she spun on her heel and, skirts swishing angrily, stalked to the companionway.
Gareth watched her disappear down the steep stair.
Leaving him with the taste of her on his lips.
And thoroughly confused over what was going on.
