The Elusive Bride (8 page)

And desire was suddenly there, unfurling within him—and her.

Familiar, yet not. More specific, more aware.

He couldn’t mistake it, not in him, or in her.

Unexpected, yet beguiling, appealing, enticing. For long moments he did nothing more than savor the taste, the heady drug of having a willing woman in his arms.

What with one thing and another, this mission, the Black Cobra, it had been some time since he’d last sipped from desire’s cup, but not even that pleasure, and the promise of more, could dim his mind to the reality of
which
woman he was holding.

Yet the warmth remained, the promise remained—undimmed.

He wasn’t sure what this was—where they were heading. There could be no easy roll in some hammock—not for him, not with her.

This, whatever it was, was different. That much he knew, but what next…that was shrouded in mystery.

He drew back—he had to, for he didn’t know what came next. Not here and now, not with her.

He didn’t even know if she knew what he did—if she recognized the tug of burgeoning desire and understood where it would lead. If they went on, if they blindly followed the road their feet were now treading.

So he eased back from the kiss, reluctantly—so reluctantly—drew his lips from hers.

Looked down into her face as her lashes fluttered, then rose. Looked into her eyes, and saw…

Nothing beyond soft delight.

Her lips, sheening from the kiss, lightly curved.

Her hand fell from his. He released her face and she stepped back.

Still smiling that soft, elusive smile.

“Good night, Gareth.”

He heard, but said nothing.

Could do nothing but watch—trusted himself to do nothing more than watch—as she turned and unhurriedly walked to the companionway, then went down.

He heard her footsteps travel the lower corridor, heard her door open, then close.

Only then did he fill his lungs, breathing deeply and long. Then he turned and leaned on the railings again, and stared out at the moonlit water rippling in their wake.

T
hey quit the docks as the sun rose above the eastern quarter of Suez, painting pale walls a glowing amber-pink. Gareth squinted at the buildings silhouetted against the morning sky, minarets and the domes of mosques underscoring that they walked in a foreign land.

Luckily, since the defeat of Bonaparte, this foreign land was increasingly falling under British sway.

Garbed in his Arab robes, he strode confidently forward, as if he belonged, as if he knew where he was going—which he did. He’d stopped in Suez on his way out to India. Walking into the square beyond the docks, he glanced back at the small procession trailing him—Mooktu by his shoul
der, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia in their burkas a respectful pace behind, then Bister and Jimmy with the luggage, with Watson and Mullins bringing up the rear.

Facing forward, he led the way across the crowded square to the opening of a street that led, not to the diplomatic quarter, but into a quiet residential area. Halting beneath the awning of a shop that had yet to open, he waited until the three women, Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins drew near and halted, close enough to hear.

He hadn’t told them where he was taking them. He didn’t want any questions or protests along the way, nothing that might mar the image they were projecting.
Don’t look around openly as if you’re searching,
he’d told them before they’d walked down the gangplank. The cultists would definitely be in Suez; they needed to avoid waving any flags.

Quietly, he said, “We can’t risk going to the consulate.” He glanced at Emily. “Ferrar has connections in diplomatic circles—he might have asked staff there to alert him or his creatures if any of us pass this way.”

“So where are we going?” Emily peered at him through the lace panel of her burka.

He met her eyes. “To call on an old friend.”

With that, he led them on, into the quieter residential streets.

He knew Cathcart would render whatever aid he could. What Gareth didn’t know was if his old friend’s abilities ran to organizing the sort of transport they needed. But Cathcart had always been a resourceful chap.

The streets they trudged along were narrow, paved in parts, dusty all over. Lined by high stuccoed walls behind which houses large and small lay discreetly concealed, at this hour the streets were easy to navigate, the crowd that would eventually throng them emerging in twos and threes from stout wooden doors set into the walls.

Ten minutes’ stroll from the docks brought them to the green-painted door he remembered. Raising a fist, he thumped.

A minute passed, then the panel shielding a narrow rectangle of ironwork slid aside, and dark eyes looked out.

Gareth met them. “Does Roger Cathcart still live here?”

The middle-aged Arab on the other side of the door nodded. “This is Mr. Cathcart’s residence.”

“Excellent. Please inform Mr. Cathcart that Gar is here, and wishes to consult him on a matter of grave importance.”

The man blinked. After a moment, the panel slid shut.

Less than two minutes later, Gareth heard swift bootsteps approaching the gate from the other side.

He was smiling when the gate was hauled open and Roger Cathcart stood staring at him, pleased surprise and rampant curiosity warring in his face.

“Hamilton? What the devil are you doing here, man?”

Before he could explain, there were the introductions and billeting to be dealt with. Cathcart’s house was large enough to accommodate them all, and his small staff were highly discreet—something Cathcart, understanding the need for secrecy after one glance at their clothes, was careful to give orders to ensure.

After serving as first secretary to the British Consul for more than eight years, Cathcart knew all the ins and outs of Suez, the political and social vicissitudes, and, Gareth was hoping, various ways and means of traveling on to the Mediterranean and beyond.

Cathcart was delighted and intrigued to meet Emily, especially after learning of her connection to the Governor of Bombay, but he reined in his curiosity until Emily, Gareth, and he were seated on soft cushions around a low table, addressing the food displayed on beaten copper and brass platters.

Cathcart waved at the fare. “Consider it a late breakfast, or an early lunch.” He glanced at Emily, busy looking over the offerings, then he blushed lightly. “I say—I must apolo
gize. All these are local dishes—I didn’t think to order more English fare—”

“No, no.” Emily smiled as she helped herself to small grain cakes. “After six months in India, I’ve grown accustomed to spicy food.”

“Oh. Good. Six months? That’s a good long visit.”

“A comfortable visit catching up with my aunt and uncle.” Emily concluded her selections and set down her plate. “Have you been here long?”

While he piled his plate with the freshly cooked delicacies, Gareth listened as Roger answered with a glibly charming, condensed version of his years abroad.

Emily seemed quite cheery and encouraging.

She and Roger kept up a light conversation until, with his plate filled and the pair of them eating, Roger caught Gareth’s eye. “So what ‘matter of grave importance’ brings you to my doorstep?”

When Gareth glanced at the door, Roger added, “They’ve all returned to the kitchens. There’s no one about to hear.”

Gareth nodded, and between mouthfuls of unusually spiced but delicious sustenance, he told Roger the whole tale, from Hastings’s directive to their need for the robes they had arrived on his doorstep in.

Roger was one of the few men in the world in whom he had sufficient confidence to entrust with the unvarnished truth. He’d known Roger since they were both pupils at Winchester Grammar School; neither had ever let the other down. While Gareth had gone into the army, Roger had opted for the diplomatic service, but they’d kept in touch, which was why Gareth had stopped at Suez on his way out to India.

As Gareth had expected, Roger grasped the implications of just who the Black Cobra was immediately.

Frowning, Roger pushed away his empty plate. “You can lie low here, of course—my staff are sound—but you’d be wise to keep your appearances in the streets to a minimum, and as far as possible avoid the area around the consulate.”
He met Gareth’s eyes, then glanced at Emily. “I’ve seen a few turbans with unusual black silk bindings recently.”

“Cult members.” Emily’s eyes widened.

Gareth nodded. “I feared they’d be here, ahead of us, keeping watch.”

“That’s what they’re doing, all right. The only place I’ve seen them is in the streets around the consulate.”

“We’ve no reason to go into that area, but”—Gareth trapped Roger’s eyes—“you’ll need to be careful, too. Someone at the consulate might remember our connection from when I was here six years ago.”

Roger pulled a face. “Possible, but unlikely, but I will take care to ensure I’m not followed, not back here, and not to where I suspect I’ll have to go to arrange your transport onward.”

“Speaking of which.” Gareth picked up the last of the flat bread and dipped it into the sauce on his plate. “I don’t think we should go via Cairo.”

“I wasn’t about to suggest it. I imagine if we have some of these cultists here, then Cairo will be swarming with them. Far better if you leave that wasps’ nest alone, and head straight to Alexandria.”

“Is it possible to do that?” When he’d come the other way, he’d traveled from Alexandria up the Nile to Cairo, then part by river, part overland, to Suez.

Roger nodded. “It’s straightforward enough, and”—he glanced at Emily—“given your entourage, it has the added benefit of being the last option anyone would expect you to take.”

Gareth wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

“Why not?” Emily asked.

Roger opened his mouth, then paused, as if, faced with Emily’s wide eyes, he, too, was having second thoughts about the preferred option. But when Emily merely waited, expectant and determined, he threw Gareth an apologetic look, and explained, “I think you’ll be safest if you travel
with one of the Berber caravans across the desert direct to Alexandria.”

Gareth frowned. “Aren’t they—the Berbers—unreliable?” Warlike. Devious. Not to be trusted.

Roger heard what he left unsaid, and smiled reassuringly. “Some are, but I know a few of the sheiks, and…for want of a better description, they’re honorable. You’ll be safe with one of their tribes, but I’ll need to learn if any of them—those I’d trust—are here at the moment, and when they’ll be leaving for Alexandria.”

“How frequently do they make the trip?” Gareth asked.

“They’re on the move most of the time. The only halts between here and Alexandria are desert oases. But the tribes spend a week or two in camps outside town every time they reach here.” Roger glanced at Emily; it was to her he spoke. “If you think you can manage the privations, it would almost certainly be the safest way.”

Gareth expected her to question what the “privations” were likely to entail, but instead, her neatly rounded chin firmed. She shot him a quick glance, then looked back at Roger. “Is the caravan option the one most likely to result in us reaching Alexandria without encountering the cult?”

Roger hesitated, then nodded. Decisively. He looked at Gareth. “Any other way, and you’re almost certain to find yourself walking into their arms—and given the numbers I’ve seen around here, they’re likely to be a significant force.”

“In that case, we’ll take the caravan option, if you can arrange it.” Emily looked at Gareth, raised her brows.

He hid a blink, and nodded. He was in charge, but if she was prepared to accept whatever difficulties traveling with a caravan entailed, he wasn’t about to quibble over who said what.

“Very well.” Roger looked at a clock on a nearby table. “I have a few documents to get through, and the early afternoon is the best time to catch them anyway.” He looked at Gareth. “I’ll go around there this afternoon, and see who’s in camp, and find out who’s leaving in the next day or two.”