suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.
He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.
On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach-his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome-that he needed her as his wife-and that was enough.
Probing further…
After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.
No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.
The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.
Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.
He hoped his master would be pleased.
Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.
The attack came with the dawn.
Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.
Feet thundered past-the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.
A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.
He looked at her. “Stay here.”
His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.
Emily looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.
Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.
In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them-our attackers-from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”
Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t think she would be able to wield a knife-just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish-but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.
She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.
Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”
She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.
They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.
And it was definitely cultists they were fighting.
Emily saw the black silk scarves she’d grown to fear wound about far too many heads. Arnia and Dorcas saw backs to attack and moved away. Stepping fully onto the deck, Emily ducked and bent to retrieve her weapon of choice.
She’d grasped the smooth wooden pole, and was dragging it to her when some instinct made her glance around.
A cultist had spotted her. Grinning widely, he came strutting forward, bloody sword in one hand, the other reaching for her.
He wasn’t smiling an instant later when the end of her pole rammed into his groin.
She leapt up as he fell to his knees, kicked his sword out of his hand, then lifted her pole high and brought it crashing down over his head.
He slumped-unconscious, not dead.
She could manage unconscious without a qualm.
Two more cultists went down under her swinging pole, but she had to wait for her moment and get enough space to wield it…and, good God, there were dozens of them. The melee of bodies literally clogged the deck.
Then she saw why. Another ship much like their xebec had drawn close-close enough to send more cultists scrambling over the side onto their deck whenever the gray waves pushed the ships close.
One glance along the deck told the story. Their band, aided by the captain and his crew, were fighting valiantly, and to that point had held their own. But there was no chance they could hold out forever, not against the tide of cultists waiting to jump across and join the fray.
Fear gripped her. Eyes wide, she scanned the deck. Through the faint veil of morning sea mist, she located all of their party, all still on their feet, still doggedly fighting, but two sailors were already down. As she watched, another fell.
Casualties. And there were going to be a lot more. Unless…
A sudden upheaval of the bodies to her left had her hefting her staff and swinging that way.
But it was Gareth who erupted out of the pack. He’d been fighting a little way along the deck.
His eyes met hers. There was cold fury in his, but before he reached her a cultist pressed in. With a snarl, Gareth swung to deal with the attacker, sword swinging fluidly, effortlessly.
