The Elusive Bride

Late the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon repairing the hem of her green gown, when a stir in the courtyard had her looking out to see Gareth greeting a smiling Cathcart.

Cathcart had gone to speak with a Berber sheik about their joining the man’s caravan. From Cathcart’s expression, he was the bearer of good tidings.

Both men turned and came striding toward the house. Emily put aside her mending, and looked up expectantly as Cathcart led Gareth into the room.

Cathcart swept her a bow. “Your carriage has been arranged, mademoiselle. You will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.” Straightening, Catchcart grimaced. “Sadly, there is no carriage as such, and, equally sadly, I fear that when Ali-Jehan says dawn, he truly does mean the instant when the sun pops over the horizon. Which”-Cathcart flung himself onto the other divan and smiled commisseratingly at Emily-“means we’ll have to leave here even earlier.”

“This Ali-Jehan understands that we might be pursued, and even attacked?” In the Arab robes he now seemed so comfortable in, Gareth stood looking down at his friend.

Cathcart grinned. “To Ali-Jehan, that point was a powerful inducement.”

Gareth humphed. He didn’t, to Emily’s eyes, look entirely pleased.

“Well,” she put in brightly, “that’s excellent news!” When both men looked at her, she continued, “We have to forge on, and journeying with a caravan will certainly be an adventure.” She caught Gareth’s eye. “One quite the equal of seeing the pyramids.”

He humphed, and prowled forward to sit on the other end of the divan she’d favored.

Turning back to Catchart, she smiled. “We must thank you, sir, for your help and hospitality. You’ve provided a much-needed respite.” She raised her brows in query. “Is there any message we can carry for you back to England? To family, perhaps?”

Cathcart thanked Emily for her kind thought but declined. Gareth watched as his friend continued to bask in the glow of Emily’s readily bestowed approbation. He tried not to growl or grind his teeth. She had no real interest in Cathcart-it had been he she’d permitted to kiss her-but Gareth wasn’t entirely sure Cathcart, happily accepting her feminine accolades, had no interest in her.

She glanced at him at that moment, a conspiratorial, inclusive expression in her eyes, then she turned back to Cathcart and continued to charm him…

Gareth realized he was scowling, and banished the expression. At least outwardly. Inwardly, he scowled even more. She knew. That’s what that brief glance was all about. She knew her charming of Cathcart was provoking him.

Of all the developments in the last hour, that pleased him least of all.

21st October, 1822

Before dinner

My room in Cathcart’s house

Dear Diary,

After Cathcart’s confirmation that we are to leave tomorrow, our party paid another necessary visit to the souk. The tension was palpable throughout, but despite keeping our eyes peeled, we saw no cultists at all- which, instead of making us feel less tense, only escalated the uncertainty. None of us believes the fiend has given up. His calling off his hounds only raises the question of what else he’s planning-how else he intends to corner us.

But as for our journey’s next stage, while I raised no open demur, I am not entirely sanguine about traveling with a caravan. However, as there appear to be no viable alternatives, then I will, of course, hold my head high and soldier on.

On the personal front, I have noted a certain dog-in-the-manger tendency on Gareth’s part. A degree of possessiveness in his attitude to me, and on that count I am uncertain how to respond. While I am not thrilled by this development, and can see definite problems looming, I suspect that with certain types of males, possessiveness is ingrained, and not easily eradicated.

My sisters, I am sure, could advise me, but sadly, they are out of reach, and there are no others I might question on such a subject. In this, I truly miss them, and Mama, too.

I am reasonably sure that when it comes to Gareth Hamilton, I am in need of sage advice.

E.

Roger Cathcart led them to meet the Berbers, a small tribe commanded by Sheik Ali-Jehan, in the coolness of the hour before dawn. The tribe’s camp was located in a dip in the sand dunes northeast of the town.

Camouflaged in her burka, Emily stood in a close group with the others of their party, likewise disguised and gathered about their baggage piled on a cart, while Gareth and Ali-Jehan-who proved to be a handsome devil of similar age to Gareth and Cathcart-conducted a low-voiced discussion, with Cathcart looking on. Peering through her burka’s little window, Emily used the minutes to see what she could of this unknown world.

There were numerous encampments dotted about the area. All appeared peopled by nomadic tribes, but not all were the rather haughty and handsome-and thus readily distinguishable-Berbers. From where she stood, Emily could see three other Berber camps, presumably three other tribes. From the other sites, men were observing their group, watching the discussion among the three men.

Turning back to see what was transpiring, Emily caught both Gareth and Ali-Jehan looking her way-specifically looking at her. Then Ali-Jehan asked Gareth a question. He nodded, and they went back to their negotiations.

Eventually Ali-Jehan flashed a white smile. When Gareth offered his hand, Ali-Jehan clasped it in his. With a nod, he released Gareth, then beckoned their group forward as he turned and shouted orders to the various men and women engaged in breaking up their camp.

Cathcart and Gareth turned to meet them as they trudged up.

“Everyone in this tribe speaks English, French, or both,” Cathcart told them. “You’ll be able to make yourselves understood, and with them, you should be safe.” Smiling, he glanced at Gareth. “As safe as it’s possible to be.”

Emily couldn’t interpret the look Gareth and Cathcart exchanged, but then Gareth looked at her. “Dorcas and Arnia will travel with the older women. Mooktu, Bister, and I will ride with the men guarding the caravan. Mullins, Watson, and Jimmy will assist with the carts carrying our luggage.”

Beneath her burka, she frowned. “And me?”

Gareth looked up, over her head. “You have a steed of your own.”

She turned-and saw Ali-Jehan returning with another man, who was leading a huge camel by a rope rein.

There were other camels linked in a long train, kicking and braying and shuffling about, each loaded with baggage of all sorts, but this camel was different. Instead of baggage, it carried a cushioned contraption lashed behind its hump.

As the camel approached, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a bray Emily took to be a camel protest.

“Oh, no.” She tried to step back.

Gareth’s hand pressed against her back. “Sadly, yes. In the circumstances, on this beast’s back is the safest place for you-the safest way for you to travel across the desert.”

“According to whom?” Emily’s eyes widened as, with a great show of teeth-both from the attendant and the camel-the beast was brought around and made to kneel, his side to her.

Ali-Jehan rounded the beast, drew down a rope stirrup-cum-ladder, then bowed, black eyes alight. “Your steed, dear lady.”

He spoke perfect English, but there was nothing civilized about the way his eyes tried to penetrate her burka.