Murmurs rose up, some calling for blood, yet there were enough wise heads among the crowd to ensure agreement. Realizing what they planned, what would happen…Uncle seemed to crumple before their eyes.
When Perrot, having consulted with his neighbors, turned back, slapped the table, and declared, “We will do it- just as you say,” Uncle cowered.
Gareth noted it. With a nod to Perrot, he straightened, was about to rise when, quick as a striking snake, Uncle shot out his hand and clutched Gareth’s wrist.
Gareth’s skin crawled. He froze.
“Please…” Uncle whined.
Seated beside Gareth, Emily seized a wooden platter and thumped it down on Uncle’s wrist.
He snatched back his hand, cradling it to his chest, shot her a look more frightened and shocked than scarifying, but then he turned to Gareth as Gareth pushed to his feet, pulling Emily up with him.
“No! Please…” Uncle held out his other hand beseechingly. “You do not understand. Give me up to the Cobra, I deserve nothing less-but
Gareth frowned. “Your son?”
“He led the party who came against you with the Berbers in the desert.”
Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and the others. “Any ideas?”
Mullins looked at Uncle. “He was the leader of that lot-the cultists with the other group of Berbers?”
Uncle nodded. “Please tell me-where lies his body?”
Mullins snorted. “God only knows.” He looked at Gareth. “I think he was taken with the rest of them.”
“Taken?” Uncle looked from one to the other. “He lives?”
Gareth looked at the hope in the man’s eyes. “Did you send him to lead that raid?”
“It was his chance to gain glory-it is the way of the cult.”
“In that case, you and your cult have delivered your son into slavery. He’d promised the Berbers they could have us to sell-the Berbers took him and his men instead.”
Uncle’s face blanked. After a moment, he whispered, “My son…is a slave?” To him, it was unthinkable.
“No.” Slowly Uncle shook his head. “No, no,
The others stood, Perrot with them. “We will take him down and lock him up.”
Lavalle came forward. “The tide will be favorable tomorrow morning at ten.”
Gareth sighed, glanced at Emily beside him. “This isn’t over yet.” He looked at Uncle, being led off to the basement by the Perrots’ strapping sons. “There are cultists still out there. He knows there are.” Turning, he arched a brow at Bister, who grimly nodded. “And we know there are. There were some we didn’t pick up keeping watch along the road.” Gareth met the captain’s eyes. “We’ll need to make arrangements to ensure we get safely aboard.”
The captain grinned and clapped him on the back. “You have given us much excitement in a time of boredom. Come, sit, and we will drink to your health-all of your healths. And then we will make our plans.”
Hours later, mellowed by good cognac and the sweet taste of triumph, however temporary, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs to their chamber.
Their plans for tomorrow organized, the others had retired some time ago. The common room had largely emptied, the stories all told.
Tomorrow they would leave. The unknown, most unpredictable, unquestionably most dangerous part of their journey was behind them, weathered and survived. Tomorrow they would start a new leg, hopefully with less threatening challenges.
Tonight, however, was a time for…
Thankfulness. Gratefulness. Rejoicing.
Emily heard him shut the door, shut out the world. She paused by the bed, waited for him to draw near, then turned directly into his arms.
He smiled. His hands fastening about her waist, he bent his head to kiss her-
She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, wait. There’s something I have to say.”
He studied her eyes, arched his brows.
Her palms on his chest, she held his gaze. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
His lips curved.
“However,” she went on, increasingly stern, “while I most sincerely appreciate being saved, next time, do you think you could manage not to get hurt
Curling her fingers in his lapels, she went up on her toes the better to say, “I don’t like you being hurt. When you get hurt, it hurts more than if
She held his gaze for an instant more, then pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck, stretched the last inch and pressed her lips to his. “But thank you.” She kissed him.
“Thank you.” Another kiss.
“Thank you.” She whispered the last thank you over his lips, then met them in a kiss that this time didn’t end, but lengthened, strengthened, deepened as he took over, took charge, took her mouth, and she gave.
Surrendered.
Murmured, when his lips left hers to skate down the arching column of her throat, “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not.” His breath feathered over the sensitive skin where shoulder met neck. “I’m…cowed.”
She laughed, a short burst of disbelief that ended in a hiss as his hands closed about her breasts. After that, conversation was on neither of their agendas. Only one thing was.
One need, one want.
One passion, one desire.
One overwhelming craving.
Gareth had expected that-the age-old need to crown death’s defeat with a celebration of life, of the pinnacle of living.
Loving.
Loving her-and having her love him. The knowledge invested his every touch, made every caress she gifted him with one of precious delight.
Clothes drifted to the floor. Incoherent murmurs rose and fell as they uncovered, discovered, and feasted. As they fell on the bed and skin met skin, and passion rose and desire sparked, arced and drew them in.
Into the familiar whirlpool of sensation, into the hungry, greedy joy.
Into the delight, the pleasure, the giving.
That night they loved.
Loved in a way they hadn’t before, at a deeper, more concerted, more attuned level, one where the sharing was richer, more vibrant, more vivid, and every moment resonated with a more powerful meaning.
Alive, wondrously so, naked they wrestled, taking, giving, wanting, yearning, gasping, and surrendering.
She took him in and rode him, wild and abandoned, her pearly skin kissed by the silvery moonlight, her breasts full and peaked as she rose and slid down, concentration etching her features as she pleasured him, pleasured him.
Loved him, loved him…
On a groan, he rose up and tipped her, rolled with her, sinking again into her welcoming warmth as her arms closed about him and he returned the pleasure.
The loving.
The love.
Until their bodies were filled, full and cresting, until passion was spent and desire razed and their blood pounded and their senses imploded and ecstacy rushed in, seized them, took them, shattered them.
Wracked them.
Bound them together with silken strands and slowly lowered them back to earth, back to the rumpled sheets,
