The Elusive Bride

Twelve

19th November, 1822

Early morning

Still in my bed, but now alone

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 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.

19th November, 1822

Evening

Once more in a shared cabin on a xebec

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.

She edged back to give him room, her mind darting, racing, thinking.

Cultist dispatched, Gareth turned to her and roared, “For the love of God, what the devil are you doing here? Get below!”

Below…eyes flying wide, she seized his lapel and hauled him close-close enough that he could hear her above the godawful din. “The oil!” She met his eyes. “I saw in the galley-the cook has just decanted an amphora into lots of little bottles. He uses lots of rags. Put the rags in the bottles, light them, and…” She looked up at the sails of their ship, taut in the breeze-the fair wind was still blowing-then looked at the other ship. The cultists’ ship. It, too, was under sail. “If their sails burn-”

She didn’t need to finish. Gareth grabbed her arm and pushed her toward the stern ladder. “Come on!”

He had to help her slide between desperately fighting men. Suddenly, he reached over and past a set of shoulders, tagging someone in a scrum beyond.

An instant later, Bister popped through. “What?”

“Come with us.” Gareth pushed past Emily to clear the area around the stern hatch. As soon as she could, Emily darted behind him and went down. At a nod from him, Bister ducked down behind her.

Gareth dallied to deal with the two cultists who had seen them go below. A slash on his upper arm and two scrapes later, he whirled and went down the ladder.

He found Emily and Bister working frantically, readying their little incendiaries. Emily had found a basket. She thrust the last of the pottery bottles wicked with rags into it, looked at him. “Tinder?”

He reached into his pocket and drew out his tinderbox.

Bister did the same. “But…” His young batman eyed the bottles.” We’ll need to be on deck before we light them.”

“Indeed.” Gareth reached for the basket-a sudden ruckus in the corridor had him seizing his sword instead and swinging to face the door.

But it was Watson who appeared. He was bleeding from a gash on his face. “What’s to do?”

Gareth lowered his sword, lifted the basket. “How’s your aim?”

He explained as, with Bister in the lead, they hurried back to the stern ladder. Setting the basket at the ladder’s foot, Gareth handed two bottles to Watson, another two to Bister, then took two himself, tucking them into his breeches’ pockets. “I’ll go up first and clear an area-you follow, get those lit, and aim for their sails. Mooktu and Mullins are up there somewhere. We’ll give you cover and I’ll get my two away when I can. But we’ll almost certainly need more than those”-he nodded at the bottles they held-“to get their sails fully alight. So once you throw the first two, come and get more.”

He turned to Emily. “You stay here, down here, and hand up the rest of the bottles as we come for them.” He reinforced the order with a commanding stare-it had always worked on soldiers.

It suddenly struck him that he wanted to kiss her-desperately wanted to taste her lips for just a fleeting instant. He knew how badly the odds above were stacked against them.

Gripping his sword, he turned, and pushed past Bister. “Come on!” Without a backward glance, he led the way up and out.

Back into the cacophony of a battle that was definitely not going their way. This attack was infinitely better planned than any of the previous incidents; whoever had organized this knew his business.

His reemergence in the restricted space around the stern hatch temporarily swung the odds in that corner their way.

He found Mooktu, and with a word and a glance had him shoulder to shoulder, then Mullins saw, and although not knowing why, came to join them in clearing the area around the hatch and holding all comers back.

Gareth noticed Arnia at Mooktu’s elbow, and Dorcas behind Mullins. Both women looked dishelved, but neither had wounds, and both had knives. He knew Arnia could use hers, and Dorcas’s was bloodied.

Then another wave of cultists charged their little wall, and he had other things to think about.

The first incendiary lobbed out from behind him. Bister’s direction was good, but his range less so. The burning bottle smashed on the other ship’s deck. Surprised crew quickly stamped out the ensuing fire.

But the next bottle struck the lower part of the middle lanteen sail.

The oil soaked in, then flared, and the sail caught.

As he’d expected, the sailors rushed to douse the flames, but Watson lobbed his bottles in quick succession, and fires bloomed on the rear lanteen.

With shouts and curses, the sailors on the other ship rushed to fill buckets. But before the flames were fully doused, Bister hit the middle sail again, and the very top of the rear lanteen.

The other ship started to lose speed and fall back-bringing their front lanteen into Bister’s firing range. Watson concentrated on keeping the fires going on the middle and rear sails.

One of the advantages that until then the cultists had had was that they could remain intent and focused, uncaring of what else was happening on the xebec. But with their own ship in difficulties, that changed. Distracted, they glanced across the waves, only to see their ship drifting further back and away.

The tide of the battle, until then with the cultists, swung the other way. Dacosta and his crew sensed it. They were quick to capitalize, pushing hard to lower the number of cultists they had on board.

Some cultists decided the waves were safer.

And then, quite abruptly, the fighting on the xebec’s deck reached the mopping-up stage. Bister popped up at Gareth’s elbow as he stepped back from the waning fray.

“We’re out of incendiaries”-Bister nodded at the other ship-“but looks like we had enough. Watson even managed to hit their sail locker, so they won’t be coming after us anytime soon.”

“Not unless they run out their oars.” Dacosta pushed through the others to join them in the stern. He looked at the ship sliding away in their wake, then up at his own sails, and shook his head. “No, not even then.” He glanced at Gareth. “These cultists-how likely are they to be competent oarsmen?”

“Not likely at all.” Gareth glanced at Emily as she joined them. She appeared unharmed. She grasped his arm as if for support and comfort, and something inside him calmed.

Dacosta had brought his spyglass. He trained it on the other ship. “His crew will need to get those burning sails down and ditched before they can think about the oars, and if the cultists aren’t able, there’s not enough crew to make much of a show.” He glanced back, signaled to his first mate. “We’ll keep all sail on-in these conditions, it can’t hurt.”

Gareth caught Emily’s eye. “That was an inspired idea to use the oil.”

Dacosta glanced at her, brows rising. “That was your notion, mam’zelle?”

Emily smiled weakly. “We had to do so something, so…” She suppressed the impulse to lean heavily against Gareth. Fighting was horribly draining…truth be told, it was simply horrible all around. She tried not to look as the crew checked bodies, then heaved the dead overboard. Those cultists who were able had already jumped.

But the xebec was safe again, and so were they.

Dacosta acknowledged that with a low bow. “It seems we all owe you a debt, mam’zelle. For me and my crew-and my brother who owns this ship-I thank you.”

Emily inclined her head, and kept hold of Gareth’s arm. She’d noticed his cuts. None were still bleeding, but she was conscious of a definite desire to take his hand, lead him belowdecks, and wash and tend them. She wondered if perhaps she might manage it later.

Dacosta had his spyglass to his eye again. “If you can explain to me one thing, Major. Why is it the captain there”-his fixed gaze made it clear he was speaking of the other ship’s captain-“did not run out his guns? He wanted to after we set his sails alight-I saw him try to give the order, but the cultists-those on his ship-prevented it. If not for that…” Lowering the glass, Dacosta regarded them impassively. “Given our cargo, he would have blown us to bits.”

Emily stared. “He had guns? You mean cannon?” The last word came out as a half squeak.

Dacosta nodded. “All xebec carry guns, but only small ones, and not many. But at such close quarters, he couldn’t have missed, and because of the oil, we would go”-he made a gesture-“poof.”

A rueful smile touching his lips, Gareth met her gaze briefly, then faced Dacosta. “It’s that thing I’m carrying that they want. For once, it protected us. If they’d blown up the ship, even if they’d just sunk it, they would lose what they’ve been sent to fetch-and their master wouldn’t like that.”

Dacosta nodded. “I see. This master of theirs, this Black Cobra. I take it he doesn’t forgive well?”

Gareth shook his head. “Not well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t forgive at all.”

The Black Cobra’s lack of forgiveness, more specifically the vindictiveness visited upon any of the cult who failed, ranked high among the thoughts crowding Uncle’s mind.

From the safety of the deck of a small but swift fishing sloop bobbing on the waves at some distance from the action, through a spyglass Uncle watched the engagement unfold, and cursed.

This time, he’d taken no chances. This time, he’d planned, and sent a force all had agreed would be more than enough to overrun the major’s xebec.

But no. Once again, his enemy had triumphed. Once again his quarry had escaped.

He ground his teeth, and quickly counted the black-scarf-encircled heads on the deck of the now becalmed vessel.

Of the large force he’d committed, less than a third were returning.

Since leaving India, he’d lost a lot of men. The leader wouldn’t be pleased.

A chill touched his nape, slid slowly down his spine.

He shivered, then shook off the sensation, the sense of helplessness.

He would turn the situation around. He would redeem himself by capturing both the major and his woman, and treating them to the epitome of Black Cobra vengeance.

He would avenge his son, and triumph in his master’s name.

Lowering the spyglass, he squinted over the water, quietly intoned, “Glory to the Black Cobra.”

He invested the words with the reverence of a prayer. He believed, in his heart, that it was.

As if in answer, the morning sun rose, sending a wash of pink and gold spreading across the sea.

Uncle turned and walked to where his lieutenant silently waited. “Tell the captain to make all speed for Marseilles.” He glanced across the waves at the stern of the fleeing xebec. “Our pursuit is not over yet.”

20th November, 1822

Early evening

My hammock in our tiny cabin

Five mornings later, Emily stood in the prow of the xebec, Gareth beside her, and watched the port of Marseilles materialize out of the low-lying sea mist.

It was going to be a clear day. By the time the xebec had negotiated the harbor entrance and angled into a mooring on the incredibly busy wharves of what was, after all, the busiest port on the Mediterranean, the sun had risen and burned off the mist, and they could see everything with crystal-clear clarity-which meant anyone watching would be able to see them.

Luckily, the level of the sea was significantly lower than the wooden wharves, so once amid the congestion of ships, unless a watcher was looking down from the wharf directly above, those on the xebec weren’t visible.

That, to Gareth’s mind, was the only point in their favor. Wolverstone’s orders had directed him to pass through Marseilles. While he understood why, and if he’d had only his own people with him, would have accepted the need without hesitation, now Emily and her people had joined his, the stakes had risen.

Specifically, what he now had at risk, now stood to lose, was significantly greater than he’d assumed would be the case.

Still, needs must when the devil drives.

The xebec bumped against the wharf. He glanced around the deck as the sailors swarmed up to lash the ship to the capstans above. Their party was already assembled, ready to climb the wooden ladder and depart the docks as quickly as they could. The others were standing by their bags. After some discussion, they’d all reverted to their customary clothes, European or Indian; there was no longer any advantage in their Arab disguises. For himself, he’d once again packed away his uniform and donned civilian attire.

Beside him, in her dark cloak worn over a blue carriage gown, Emily looked fetching and feminine. She murmured, “So as far as possible, you and I should do the talking.”

She’d spoken in fluent French. After his years of fighting on the Continent, he, too spoke idiomatic French. Reluctantly, he nodded. “But wherever possible, play the great lady and let Watson speak for you.” Watson was the only other of their party who spoke French well enough to pass. “Mullins has enough to get by with carriage drivers, stable boys, and the like, but unless there’s a real need, we-you, Watson, and I-should shield the others from having to speak. If we can pass for French provincials on our way home, we’re more likely to slip through the cult’s net.”

There would be a net, one spread over the entire city. Marseilles was the port he and any of the other three heading home by routes other than the Cape were most likely to come through. The one point in their favor was that Marseilles was large.

And bustling.

After exchanging last farewells with Dacosta and his crew, their party climbed up to the crowded wharf. They merged with the throng of other passengers disembarking or embarking on the dozens of vessels of all types and nations lining the many wharves.

Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.

It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”

Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”

They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”

Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”

“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”

“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”

Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace-that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business-as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover-a very good bolt-hole-before then.”

“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”

“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets-at least for now, that’s what we need.”

Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops-a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others-all set between residential buildings of various sorts.

The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.

It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything-literally every item her glance lit upon-was neat and clean, spic-and-span.

Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.

Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back-instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants-but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.

He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”

Mullins nodded and sat. The others settled around the table.

“We still need to think of things like that, don’t we?” Watson asked. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Far from it.” Gareth hesitated, then said, “Indeed, if anything we’re in greater danger now, and as a group will be until we reach England. Once there, colleagues will be waiting. I imagine some of you will be able to stay in a safe house while I ferry the scroll holder to its final destination.”

Her gaze on his face, Emily inwardly snorted. He’d better not be thinking of leaving her behind, tucked away in safety, while he faced danger alone.

The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen with trays bearing coffee, a pot of hot chocolate, and sumptuous pastries. They all waited while he served. Her mouth watering, Emily beamed and, with Gareth, thanked him.

Once the innkeeper had retired behind the counter at the back of the room, Gareth glanced around the table at the now familiar faces, then went on, “We have the next few hours to consider our options and make our plans. The closer we get to England, the more desperate our pursuers will grow. We need to decide how we’re going to tackle the journey from here to the Channel-how best to clear the hurdles the cult is sure to place in our path.”

He paused. All the others were listening intently. “We have two options at this point, and we need to choose which one to take.” He glanced around. “I could make the decision-as I generally do-but in this case, we all need to decide together, because whatever comes of that decision will be something we all have to face. We’re all in this together.”

No one argued. He went on, “We could flee the town now-hire the first two carriages we find and head north at a run before the cultists here in France even know we’ve landed. That’s our first option and it has a certain attraction. However, if we do that, we won’t have time to find coachmen willing and able to help us, to fight on our side if need be, nor will we be able to acquire any of the supplies we will need for the journey-we’d need to rely on stoppping in smaller towns and being able to find what we need there.” He paused, then added, “All of us with pistols are low on powder and shot, and now we’re back in Europe, we have to assume any men the cultists hire will use firearms, so from here on, we’re much more likely to need our own.”

Stirring his coffee, Watson nodded. “In addition to that, from here, there’s really only one route-one halfway fast and direct route-we can take to the Channel ports. If we’re in danger, then we can’t afford to dally, yet once on that road, we’ll be easy to track, easy to find.”

Grimly, Gareth nodded. “Precisely. Either way, whether we flee now, or seize the cover of being in a town as crowded with people of all races as Marseilles to first make proper preparations, once we’re on the road north, the cult will quickly pick up our trail.”

They discussed it-how much they could foresee, what preparations they might make before leaving Marseilles that would help them evade subsequent capture and speed their journey north. Mooktu pointed out that, while they would be easier to track once on the road, in the French countryside the cultists themselves would be much more visible.

When the coffee and cakes were gone and the discussion wound down, Gareth called a vote. To his relief, the decision was unanimous. They would remain in Marseilles until they were ready to make a dash for the Channel coast.