Gareth settled to sleep on a rug in Ali-Jehan’s tent. As shuffles and snuffles faded, and snores swelled, a gentle symphony played against the whine of the wind, instead of drifting straight to sleep, his mind insisted on wandering…over the day, and how matters had played out, and how things looked set to go tomorrow, and in the days to follow.
His mind snagged on a mental image of his last glimpse of Emily, as she’d followed Ali-Jehan’s mother into the women’s tent, pausing at the flap to cast one last, frustrated glance his way before she’d followed the other women inside and the tent flap had fallen closed behind her.
The separation, enforced as it would be through this leg of the journey, would, he lectured himself, be helpful. Useful. It would give him time to think. To work through things and understand.
As that kiss in Cathcart’s salon had proved, he’d somehow fallen under Emily’s spell. What he didn’t know was why. Why he wanted her. Was it just lust-a more virulent form-that made him feel so drawn to her, so compelled to make her his? Yet given who she was, if he gave in and surrendered, there could only be one outcome. Marriage.
Was that what he wanted-Emily as his wife?
Was she the lady he needed by his side when he returned to England and set about creating the rest of his life?
He hadn’t-not until the last days-thought of his future beyond beheading the Black Cobra. It hadn’t seemed important, but as making love to Emily would inevitably lead to marriage, then he needed to think of it now.
Think of it, and imagine how she would fit. He lay in the tent, his gaze fixed on the darkened roof, and let the prospect take shape and substance in his mind.
Only to discover that, beyond her, he could see very little of it, his putative future.
He shifted, growing more uneasy as reality impinged. It didn’t matter what he thought, what he wanted, if she didn’t think and want the same.
Was he the man she wanted as her husband?
Even if he was the husband she wanted now, how genuine and deeply rooted was that want? What drove it? What had given it life?
Had she turned to him in lieu of MacFarlane? His friend had surely been a more romantic figure. Was he in effect standing in a dead man’s shoes?
Or was her wanting him more the outcome of being involved in dangerous and violent action? That wouldn’t be surprising. He was the only one suitable to whom she could cling. But reaction born of fear and the need it evoked was no proper basis for marriage.
He inwardly scoffed. What did he know of marriage?
The answer whispered across his mind as sleep dragged him down.
He knew no more about marriage than he knew about his future, yet he knew beyond question that unless Emily wanted him for the right reason, he wouldn’t have either, couldn’t have either-not with her.
The cultists attacked mid-morning the next day.
The caravan was wending its slow and ponderous way along the top of a dune when horsemen rose up in a dark wave from a sand valley just ahead, and came pounding over the dunes, shrieking and yelling, swords cleaving the air.
The nomads reacted with well-trained precision. While the guards wheeled their mounts, then streamed forward to meet the threat head-on, all those with the carts and the camel train grouped and clumped together, both animals and baggage providing protection for those on foot.
From her elevated perch almost at the center of the huddle, Emily had an excellent view of the clash. Squinting into the sun, she saw cultists amid the attacking horsemen, their black scarves streaming as they flew across the sand.
What surprised her were the others-other Berbers. She looked at their defenders-their guards with Gareth and Ali-Jehan in the lead, Mooktu and Bister close behind, all flashing swords and scimitars as they charged-then glanced down and located Anya, sitting with the older women, calmly waiting.
“There are other Berbers with the cultists!”
Anya looked up at her. Thought, then with unimpaired calm, nodded. “The El-Jiri. They are always ready for a fight.”
Emily glanced back just as the opposing groups of horsemen met-like two waves crashing and smashing together. She winced at the scream of steel sheering off steel, the crash and pounding of blows, audible even at a distance.
Her heart climbing steadily up her throat, she watched, waited, strained her eyes to see…
Gareth broke through, followed closely by Mooktu and Ali-Jehan. All three wheeled, swords swinging, then fell on the attackers’ rear.
It was over so fast that Emily, still catching her breath, was left wondering if all battles were so quickly won. She doubted it, but suddenly the body of attackers fractured, splintered and scattered, Berbers in their darker robes breaking off in twos and threes to ride down the dune and head back the way they’d come.
The guards chased them, but only so far. Once the attackers’ flight was assured, the guards reined in, then wheeled and trotted back.
They joined Gareth and Ali-Jehan. Emily quickly verified that all the others were there, that the only bodies lying unmoving in the sand belonged to cultists. She looked back at their defenders, riding back toward them. Every single man had a huge grin on his face.
“Amazing,” she muttered, relieved yet mystified at the transparent delight illuminating every male face.
“They were successful, yes?”
Emily looked down at Anya. All the women, surrounded as they were, couldn’t see the action. “They’re riding back, grinning like small boys.”
Anya smiled widely. “They have won, and they are happy. There will be much rejoicing in our camp tonight.”
As Anya had foretold, the mood in camp that evening was distinctly festive. While the women prepared the evening meal, the men gathered in a large clump outside Ali-Jehan’s tent.
