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
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.”
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
