him-commanded one of the larger trawlers.
“Once the weather clears, if you wish it, I will take you to Dover. My brother-in-law has wine barrels to deliver there, so I will be going there in any case. My ship is large enough to take your group-there are nine of you, yes?”
Gareth nodded. “I must warn you that, although the cult has little experience of fighting at sea, it’s possible they may attempt to attack any ship with us on board.”
“
“They might,” Gareth persisted, “hire mercenaries-other Frenchmen who are more competent on the waves-to attack your vessel.”
The captain grinned. “No Frenchman-not for miles around-would attempt to come against Jean-Claude Lavalle.”
Gareth glanced at the others. They, too, were grinning. One slung an arm around Lavalle’s shoulders. “Sadly, he is right,” the other captain said. “You are not of your navy, but they would know his name. Lavalle is an old seadog”-he looked at Lavalle with affection-“one none of us dares challenge, even now he is grown gray.”
Lavalle humphed, but smiled.
Gareth couldn’t help but do the same.
By the time he climbed the stairs, very much later than in recent times, Gareth was prey to conflicting feelings. A certain mellowness induced by the readily offered cameraderie and the Perrots’ fine ale butted against the heightened tension, the tightly strung sense of being on full alert that, despite the conviviality of the evening, hadn’t waned in the least.
Although the Perrots’ strapping sons had offered to stand guard overnight, Gareth had gently declined, pointing out that the men of his party would more readily recognize any cultist, and had been drilled in how to react. So, as usual, Mooktu was presently on guard in the upstairs corridor, seated by the head of the stairs, from where he could see the entire common room, all the way to the front door. Gareth exchanged a smile and nod with him as he went past. Mooktu would be relieved by Bister, who would in turn be relieved by Gareth, and Mullins would stand the early-morning watch. Watson, meanwhile, had a small room by the rear stairs, and was by all accounts a very light sleeper.
The sight of Mooktu refocused Gareth on the challenge he would face the next day. Entering the inn’s main bedchamber, he absentmindedly closed the door, mentally juggling his options for managing the ragtag army he had, courtesy of that evening, apparently acquired.
“What is it?”
The query snapped him back to the here and now. To Emily, propped on one arm, one sweetly turned shoulder showing bare above the covers, her expression a medley of interest and demand.
Even as he strolled to the bed, his gaze caught by the way the candlelight flowed over the perfect silk of her exposed shoulder, he realized she expected to be told, that she expected him to share. To include her and, if she volunteered one, to listen to her opinion.
For a man like him-one who’d commanded troops for a decade-to discuss such matters with a female, let alone seek her opinion…
Halting by the bed, he smiled, leaned down, and kissed her.
Long, deep, lingeringly.
Eventually he pulled back, sat on the edge of the bed to take off his boots.
And told her all.
Propped against the pillows, she listened with her customary concentration. It was a heady realization that, when he spoke with her, even of mundane matters, he could be assured of having her complete attention-that he commanded it.
He’d never wanted any other woman’s attention, but he savored hers.
He left her chewing on his problem for tomorrow-what to do with the various seamen, young and old, who’d formed the notion of haunting the inn in the hopes of engaging with any cultists-heathens-who happened to drop by.
Standing, he shrugged out of his coat. “They’re going to get under the Perrots’ feet, and although I’m happy to supply them with ale, they won’t be any use to us drunk.”
She frowned. After a moment, she said, “They’re all sailors, aren’t they?” When, free of his shirt, he nodded, she drew in a breath, hauled her gaze up to his face, stared for a moment, then blinked, and said, “They won’t be used to drilling. Or shooting muskets. Or…any of the things your troop sergeants would normally school your men in.”
Hands at his waistband, he raised his brows, considering.
“You have Mooktu and Bister, and Mullins, too-they could help you…” Her words faded as he tossed his breeches on a chair, then reached for the covers.
Emily shifted, swallowed, whispered as she reached for him, “But that’s tomorrow.”
Tonight, he was hers.
He came to her, sliding into her arms, and something within her rejoiced.
His lips found hers and she kissed him, and let all the concerns of the day flow away. Just let them go.
Let the here and now have her, gave herself over to the reassurance and comfort, the warmth and strength of him as he surrounded her, as he stroked, caressed, and she returned the pleasure.
Hands traced, fingers wandered, palms shaped.
Excitement sparked. Need bloomed, burgeoned, and grew.
The fire that ignited, the flames that leapt, then roared, were familiar and welcome.
She opened her arms and embraced them, and him, took him into her body, let him fill her, and her heart, let the beat escalate and passion pour through him and her, and sweep them on.
Until desire gripped, and she clung, and he held her and thrust over and over until they both shuddered and she cried his name.
Ecstasy rushed in like a wave, and washed them to that distant shore where bliss spread, golden and molten, through them, over them, enfolded them.
No matter the challenges, no matter what was to come, this they had-this was already theirs.
Satiation dragged her down and she sank into slumber, at peace in the here and now.
No matter the danger, no matter the risk, he would yet be hers, and she forever would be his.
Fifteen
