The Elusive Bride

She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort-no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

If he truly loved her.

For her, nothing else would do.

Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?

To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her-he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay-and now she’d given herself to him-all but seduced him-that, to his mind, settled that.

Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

Why perhaps?

His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”-she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state-“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so… lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes-that’s how it should feel.”

And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed-a quiet vow in the fading moonlight-that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

Twelve

19th November, 1822

Early morning

Still in my bed, but now alone

Dear Diary,

WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man-the right man-is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter-the reality was better than my dreams.

Of course, there was-as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man-a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.

Yes, we will-that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”-but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.

I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.

He will need to do better than that-especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.

So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger-my ultimate goal-I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.

As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.

Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.

E.

By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way-at last-to Marseilles.

Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.

With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.

Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there-this was the Mediterranean- but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.

His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he