The Elusive Bride

“England?” She stared at him, swiftly estimated. “It might be another month before we reach there.”

He nodded, but turned before she could respond. Stepping back, he let Dorcas precede him into the gallery.

Forcing Emily to spin on her heel and, with feigned brightness, lead the way on.

Another month?

Another month with no advance, no firmer definition, no further exploration of what lay between them?

“No,” she muttered beneath her breath. “No, and no.” On that score, he would need to think again.

Of course, now that he knew her aim, he would take evasive action. Nothing she could do-no place she could find in this palace-would be useful in cornering him, not with Dorcas and Watson dogging their steps, providing him with the perfect excuse to avoid any tete a tete.

Allowing him to believe she’d accepted defeat, accepted his decree, she calmly led the way out of the palace. On the pavement, she looked down toward the harbor-and spied the green of trees and lawns clumped on a level between their present height and the quays above the waterline.

Scanning the buildings ahead, she located what she needed. Another palace of another group of knights. Perfect.

She glanced at Dorcas. “Look-gardens.” She pointed to the massed greenery below. The other three looked. Knowing Dorcas’s weakness was for strolling and viewing scenery rather than buildings and museums, Emily smiled at her maid. “Why don’t you and Watson head down there? I want to look through just one more palace.” Halting beside the sign for the next “auberge,” she met Gareth’s eyes. “This one will do.”

Watson and Dorcas were happy to go ahead.

“We’ll wait for you there.” With a nod to them both, Watson set off, Dorcas beside him, one arm looped in his, her other hand clutching her burka-shawl about her shoulders.

Once they were out of earshot, Emily glanced at Gareth. “Come along.” Turning, she marched up the palace steps.

Gareth watched her go, hips swaying beneath her English skirts, inwardly sighed, then followed.

He knew what she wanted to “address,” but that was one topic he wanted to avoid-a subject he’d spent far too many recent hours obsessing over. But his conclusion-the real and unpalatable, but inescapable conclusion-wasn’t one he, or any man alive, would willingly discuss. Just the thought of putting his thoughts into words made him inwardly shudder.

Which meant that, for both their sakes, he had to let her play her game, but he had to win-had to ensure she won no time to “address” anything at all.

What ensued was akin to a game of chess, with her moving this way, he countering with a move that nullifed hers. She glared; he kept his face expressionless, his gaze as bland as he could make it.

And tried not to let his inner self think about how arousing playing this almost taunting, frustrating game of abstaining avoidance with her was.

He knew what he knew. There was no future in becoming aroused over her.

Emily set her lips, set her chin-and inwardly swore she wouldn’t be denied. She didn’t know why he was so intent on avoiding snatching a moment now-out of sight of the rest of their party and of any cultists-but she wasn’t about to let him win. This, she inwardly declared, was a matter of principle.

A matter of need and want and desire.

And not just hers.

Leading the way back down to the ground floor, she swung into another wing of reception rooms. The first salon showed little promise, so she quickly walked back into the corridor and on to the next.

There, she struck gold.

A door on one side wall was placed close to the junction with the outer wall. Opening the door, she went through-and found herself in a narrow corridor connecting with the next room along. The door at the other end of the corridor was shut. Smiling to herself, she went forward, then halted and stood looking out of the lead-paned windows to the harbor far below.

Gareth hesitated in the doorway.

Without looking his way, she pointed out and down. “There’s our ship.”

After an instant’s pause in which she could almost hear his resigned sigh, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door, then came to join her.

“See?” she said, as he paused beside her. Once she was sure he was following her gaze to the line of ships below, she went on, “That’s the tiny vessel we’ll be returning to in less than an hour, to spend the next several days cooped up with a score of others, unable to exchange so much as a private word.”

Turning to him, she studied his profile, all she could see of his face. “Given what we’ve already exchanged, what has already passed between us, any other gentleman would be gladly seizing the opportunity”-just so he didn’t miss the point, she flung out her arms-“this opportunity, to at the very least kiss me again.”

He glanced sideways at her, then half turned so she could see more of his face.

She narrowed her eyes on his. “So why aren’t you? Why are you suddenly avoiding me?”

Saying the words made them real. She’d known that’s what he was doing, but hadn’t-until that moment- allowed those words to form in her mind. They were too damning-and no young lady with any claim to modesty would ever voice such words aloud…she wasn’t a great believer in self-sacrificing modesty.

So she glared, folded her arms-refused to acknowledge the prick of the words, the sharp yet hollowing hurt-and waited.

Waited.

“I’m giving you time to come to your senses.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You need to realize what this-our attraction-is about. What it springs from. What drives it.”

She frowned. “I know what-”

“No. You don’t.”

She studied him through narrowing eyes, registering his rigid conviction. Slowly she raised her brows. “Indeed? So why don’t you enlighten me?”

He’d walked into that one. Gareth gritted his teeth, kept his gaze locked with hers…as the seconds ticked by and she didn’t soften, didn’t waver, didn’t back down, he accepted he had no choice. Drawing in a short breath, he plunged in. “What’s occurred between us is the result of surviving danger-the outcome, a natural and unsurprising outcome, of the dangerous episodes we’ve weathered together. It’s something everyone feels afterward, after such clashes. I’m used to it, so I recognize it, but you wouldn’t have experienced it before, and…” He felt his face harden. “Regardless of what you imagine what’s happened between us means, that, in reality, is all it means. It’s an outcome of having survived a brush with death.”

Her frown had evaporated into an expression of stunned blankness. Her gaze distant, her voice, too, seemed to come from far away. “That’s not-”

“What you think, but that is what it is.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, her face devoid of expression, her jaw a trifle slack, then she said, “You have no idea what I think. No idea why I feel what I do.”

“What you think you feel has nothing to do with it. I know what this is-know why you want me to kiss you again-and therefore I know, unquestionably, that honor dictates that as a gentleman, as the one more experienced, I should refuse and keep a proper distance.”

Enough of explanations. He swung into the attack. “You should be thanking me for not accepting your invitation to further dalliance.” He made his tone resolute, even dictatorial. “Most men in my position would take advantage, but you deserve better.”

Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze focusing more intently on him. “So…you’re saying I’m suffering from…what? Some form of danger-induced delusional desire from which you need to save me?”

He hestitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s all this is.”

“You need to save me from myself.” Emily dragged in a shaky breath. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m a great deal more experienced than you.”