The Elusive Bride

Six

20th October, 1822

Before dinner

My room in Cathcart’s house

Late the following morning, Emily was sitting in the salon repairing the hem of her green gown, when a stir in the courtyard had her looking out to see Gareth greeting a smiling Cathcart.

Cathcart had gone to speak with a Berber sheik about their joining the man’s caravan. From Cathcart’s expression, he was the bearer of good tidings.

Both men turned and came striding toward the house. Emily put aside her mending, and looked up expectantly as Cathcart led Gareth into the room.

Cathcart swept her a bow. “Your carriage has been arranged, mademoiselle. You will be leaving at dawn tomorrow.” Straightening, Catchcart grimaced. “Sadly, there is no carriage as such, and, equally sadly, I fear that when Ali-Jehan says dawn, he truly does mean the instant when the sun pops over the horizon. Which”-Cathcart flung himself onto the other divan and smiled commisseratingly at Emily-“means we’ll have to leave here even earlier.”

“This Ali-Jehan understands that we might be pursued, and even attacked?” In the Arab robes he now seemed so comfortable in, Gareth stood looking down at his friend.

Cathcart grinned. “To Ali-Jehan, that point was a powerful inducement.”

Gareth humphed. He didn’t, to Emily’s eyes, look entirely pleased.

“Well,” she put in brightly, “that’s excellent news!” When both men looked at her, she continued, “We have to forge on, and journeying with a caravan will certainly be an adventure.” She caught Gareth’s eye. “One quite the equal of seeing the pyramids.”

He humphed, and prowled forward to sit on the other end of the divan she’d favored.

Turning back to Catchart, she smiled. “We must thank you, sir, for your help and hospitality. You’ve provided a much-needed respite.” She raised her brows in query. “Is there any message we can carry for you back to England? To family, perhaps?”

Cathcart thanked Emily for her kind thought but declined. Gareth watched as his friend continued to bask in the glow of Emily’s readily bestowed approbation. He tried not to growl or grind his teeth. She had no real interest in Cathcart-it had been he she’d permitted to kiss her-but Gareth wasn’t entirely sure Cathcart, happily accepting her feminine accolades, had no interest in her.

She glanced at him at that moment, a conspiratorial, inclusive expression in her eyes, then she turned back to Cathcart and continued to charm him…

Gareth realized he was scowling, and banished the expression. At least outwardly. Inwardly, he scowled even more. She knew. That’s what that brief glance was all about. She knew her charming of Cathcart was provoking him.

Of all the developments in the last hour, that pleased him least of all.

21st October, 1822

Before dinner

My room in Cathcart’s house

Roger Cathcart led them to meet the Berbers, a small tribe commanded by Sheik Ali-Jehan, in the coolness of the hour before dawn. The tribe’s camp was located in a dip in the sand dunes northeast of the town.

Camouflaged in her burka, Emily stood in a close group with the others of their party, likewise disguised and gathered about their baggage piled on a cart, while Gareth and Ali-Jehan-who proved to be a handsome devil of similar age to Gareth and Cathcart-conducted a low-voiced discussion, with Cathcart looking on. Peering through her burka’s little window, Emily used the minutes to see what she could of this unknown world.

There were numerous encampments dotted about the area. All appeared peopled by nomadic tribes, but not all were the rather haughty and handsome-and thus readily distinguishable-Berbers. From where she stood, Emily could see three other Berber camps, presumably three other tribes. From the other sites, men were observing their group, watching the discussion among the three men.

Turning back to see what was transpiring, Emily caught both Gareth and Ali-Jehan looking her way-specifically looking at her. Then Ali-Jehan asked Gareth a question. He nodded, and they went back to their negotiations.

Eventually Ali-Jehan flashed a white smile. When Gareth offered his hand, Ali-Jehan clasped it in his. With a nod, he released Gareth, then beckoned their group forward as he turned and shouted orders to the various men and women engaged in breaking up their camp.

Cathcart and Gareth turned to meet them as they trudged up.

“Everyone in this tribe speaks English, French, or both,” Cathcart told them. “You’ll be able to make yourselves understood, and with them, you should be safe.” Smiling, he glanced at Gareth. “As safe as it’s possible to be.”

Emily couldn’t interpret the look Gareth and Cathcart exchanged, but then Gareth looked at her. “Dorcas and Arnia will travel with the older women. Mooktu, Bister, and I will ride with the men guarding the caravan. Mullins, Watson, and Jimmy will assist with the carts carrying our luggage.”

Beneath her burka, she frowned. “And me?”

Gareth looked up, over her head. “You have a steed of your own.”

She turned-and saw Ali-Jehan returning with another man, who was leading a huge camel by a rope rein.

There were other camels linked in a long train, kicking and braying and shuffling about, each loaded with baggage of all sorts, but this camel was different. Instead of baggage, it carried a cushioned contraption lashed behind its hump.

As the camel approached, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth in a bray Emily took to be a camel protest.

“Oh, no.” She tried to step back.

Gareth’s hand pressed against her back. “Sadly, yes. In the circumstances, on this beast’s back is the safest place for you-the safest way for you to travel across the desert.”

“According to whom?” Emily’s eyes widened as, with a great show of teeth-both from the attendant and the camel-the beast was brought around and made to kneel, his side to her.

Ali-Jehan rounded the beast, drew down a rope stirrup-cum-ladder, then bowed, black eyes alight. “Your steed, dear lady.”

He spoke perfect English, but there was nothing civilized about the way his eyes tried to penetrate her burka.

Ignoring that, knowing full well that he couldn’t see through it-and regardless, she was fully clothed beneath-Emily eyed the camel’s shaggy head. Tentatively she stepped forward. The huge head swung her way, lips curling back.

Gareth pulled her to the side, to the saddle. “Be careful-they spit.”

Emily turned to stare at him. “Spit?”

Gareth urged her into the saddle. Rather stunned, she instinctively reached for the high pommel, planted her boot in the stirrup and raised up-and saw, beyond the camel, a string of superb horses.

Rather than swing her hips around and sit in the saddle, she froze, then tried to back down. “They have horses. I can ride perfectly well-I raced down that road from Poona, remember?”

Gareth’s hands grasped her hips and pushed her up. “No-you can’t ride one of their horses.”

“Why not?” She tried to twist enough to glare at him.

He kept hold of her hips and held her where she was. “For a start, in English terms they’re only half broken.”

“I could manage-”

“Perhaps.” Clipped accents were infusing his speech. “But the other reason you’re riding this animal is that it’s Ali-Jehan’s personal pet.”

Growing tired of her ungainly position, and distracted by having his hands gripping her hips, she gave up, swung around, and plopped down into the surprisingly comfortable saddle. She frowned at Gareth, but he was looking down, adjusting the twin rope stirrups. Glancing around, she saw the Berber chieftain striding through his people, yelling orders and gesticulating. “What does that have to do with anything?”

When she looked back, Gareth met her eyes. “It won’t leave him.”

She frowned harder. “So?”

“So”-with a last tug, he stepped back-“if raiders attack the caravan and try to steal you away, they’ll have the devil of a time shifting him. Nothing is more stubborn than a camel.”

He looked at her for an instant, then nodded to the attendant, still standing holding the camel’s head.

The attendant said one word.

Emily bit back a scream as the beast-in a series of ungainly lurches-got back to its feet.

Once it had, she stared down at Gareth. “This is-”

“What will keep you safe.” Hands on hips, he looked up at her. Then he glanced at the attendant. “This is Haneef. He’ll teach you how to guide Doha.”

“Doha?”

Haneef smiled toothily up at her. “He is really a very good beast.”

Uncle eased down to the cushions set before a low table holding an assortment of dishes he neither recognized nor particularly cared for. But in the service of his chosen master he would endure any privation necessary for success.

Before he could reach for the first dish, a stir arose in the courtyard beyond the archway. With a wave, Uncle dispatched his son to see who had arrived. An instant later, Muhlal returned with one of the lowlier cult members in tow.

The man bowed low. “Great one-we have just had word that the major and his party were seen in the grounds beyond the town.”

“And?”

Without lifting his head, the man continued, “They left with a Berber caravan. Those we paid said the caravan goes west.”

Uncle nodded. “Excellent. You may go.”

Surprised, the man looked up. He met Uncle’s eyes and quickly lowered his. “Yes, great one.” The man backed from the room, still bowing.

Once he was gone, Uncle looked up at his son. “You heard?”

Muhlal nodded.

Uncle smiled. “No doubt but that the major will make for the embassy in Cairo.” Uncle waved Muhlal to sit beside him. When he did, Uncle set one hand on his shoulder, leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This is your chance, my son, to shine in the service of the Black Cobra. Our leader is magnanimous to those who serve well. It has been decreed that the major must be stopped, and if the meddling Miss Ensworth is captured, too, and appropriately rewarded for her temerity, that would be a happy bonus. I suggest you make use of the nomads now in our pay and go after the major and the woman. Capturing them and delivering them to me in Cairo will surely win great glory in the eyes of the Black Cobra.”

Muhlal glowed. “I am in charge?”

Smiling, Uncle nodded. He clapped Muhlal’s shoulder. “Let us eat, and then I will see you on your way. A caravan is slow. They will not escape you.” When Muhlal eagerly reached for a plate, Uncle’s gaze softened. “And I will be waiting in Cairo to celebrate with you.”

As the sun sank, coloring the wide expanse of the desert sky with oranges, reds, and purples, Emily eased her way out of the high saddle and carefully climbed to the ground.

Doha flicked her a scowl, then ignored her.

Emily inwardly humphed, then shook out her skirts and the enveloping burka, and, leaving Doha to Haneef’s care, turned to find the others. It had taken a while to grow accustomed to the camel’s strange gait. Once she had, and was no longer in danger of tipping off, Haneef had shown her how to use the reins to exert some control-minimal control in Emily’s estimation-over the ungainly beast.

Contrary to her expectations, her first day’s travel had passed without disaster. When the caravan had halted for a light meal and refreshments a little before midday, she had asked Haneef the obvious question-if Ali-Jehan went careening off on his horse through the desert dunes, chasing attackers, for instance, wouldn’t Doha follow him?

Haneef had shaken his dark head. “Oh, no, miss. Doha is a clever beast-he knows this”-with a wave Haneef had encompassed the caravan-“is his master’s place. He will stay here and wait for Ali-Jehan to return. There is no need for him to chase after him if he knows he will come back.”

That the camel was lazy to boot hadn’t been any great surprise to Emily. “Are you sure it’s not you whom Doha is attached to?”

Haneef had smiled. “Well, I am always here-I have a bad leg and cannot ride well enough to chase raiders.”

Sighting the others across the campsite, Emily picked up her skirts and trudged their way, eyes on her feet so she didn’t trip in the sand. She couldn’t say she was enamored of her camel-he stank remarkably, much worse than horses-but riding him had been a luxury. For the most part, the others had walked.

There were carts with barrel wheels, but some were handcarts pulled by the men who, like Haneef, weren’t the mounted guard. Other carts were drawn by donkeys, and the older women and older men took turns riding in those, but in the main most of the tribe, and most of their party, had trudged steadily through the sand throughout the day.

Finding Dorcas and Arnia amid the bustle of the tribe setting up camp, she gripped her maid’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Dorcas smiled wearily. “Perfectly well.”

Understanding her question, Arnia nodded. “It wasn’t as hard as it looked. They keep a steady and reasonable pace.”

Dorcas nodded in agreement. “It’s like a long, easy stroll. Not so difficult once you get the hang of it.”

Somewhat reassured, Emily turned her attention to the camp taking shape around them. Tents were being erected around a central area, in which others were constructing a large fire pit. Bister, Jimmy, Watson, and Mullins were helping men erect one of the large Berber tents. “We didn’t bring tents.”

A snort came from behind Emily. Clawlike fingers gripped her elbow. “You will not need tents-you will share ours, lady.”

Turning her head, Emily met a pair of bright dark eyes in a deeply tanned, heavily wrinkled face. The old woman smiled, showing surprisingly white teeth with a gap in the center. She tapped Emily’s burka in the vicinity of her nose. “In camp, you will not need the covering. We are family here, and for the journey you are one with us. You may take it off.” The old woman nodded at Dorcas and Arnia. “You, too.”

Emily had grown so used to the burka she’d almost forgotten she was wearing it. But once reminded, she immediately felt its restrictions, and its weight. She readily grasped the folds and drew them off over her head.

The old woman studied Emily’s gown, thus revealed. Reaching out, she fingered the fabric. “So fine.” She shook her head. “It will never last.” She looked at Dorcas and Arnia’s clothes, and clucked her tongue. “Come.” Beckoning, she started for the carts that had been lined up behind the ring of tents. “I am Ali-Jehan’s mother. You call me Anya. You will join me and the other older women in my tent and we will find more suitable clothes for you.”

“Thank you.” Emily inclined her head respectfully.

Anya shot her a shrewdly assessing glance. “And afterward, you will repay us by telling us what is going on, yes?”

Hiding a smile, Emily nodded. “Yes, if you like.” Older ladies were the same the world over, it seemed.

“Good.” Anya waved to the carts. “First, we need to take our things inside.”

They all helped ferry rolled rugs, wool blankets, silk hangings and cotton sheets, cushions and pillows and sets of beaten plates and mugs, all the paraphenalia of nomadic comfort, into the dark tent. They were joined by four other older women, whom Anya introduced as Marila, Katun, Bersheba, and Girla. As they organized the tent, curiosity abounded on all sides.

When they finally settled cross-legged on fine rugs around the small brazier set in the center of the tent, and shared small glasses of rose-hip tea, Anya told them, “The younger women will cook on the big fire.” She pointed out of the open tent flap to the fire pit in the center of the camp. “You may assist if you wish-they are always glad of hands.”

Both Dorcas and Arnia nodded.

“The rules of our camp,” Anya went on, “are that all unmarried women must sleep in the tents of their families. As you have no families here, you must sleep in this tent, and for the most part, stay close by. It is not permitted for unmarried women to wander among the men unchaperoned.”

Emily glanced at Arnia. “Arnia is married.”

Anya inclined her head. “I have observed this. But your husband does not have a tent of his own but is sharing the tent of my son and his guards. Therefore, you”-she looked at Arnia-“will do best to remain with us here, but you may walk and talk with your husband freely.”

Arnia bent her head in graceful acceptance.

Emily shifted, and set down her empty tea glass. “I will need to speak with Major Hamilton often while in camp.”

Anya narrowed her eyes, looking rather severe. “That is only permissable if he approaches you, and only in the central space in full view.”

“But-”

“This is not negotiable.” Anya’s dark eyes held Emily’s. “You are guests among us, and will, of course, respect and follow our ways.”

Put like that, Emily could do nothing but incline her head. “As you say.”

She had no doubt Watson, Mullins, Jimmy-even Bister and Mooktu-would come to find her if they had any issue to discuss. But Gareth? She was fairly certain he would use the Berbers’ ways as an excuse to avoid discussing anything with her.

“Good.” Anya patted her hand, and set down her empty glass. “Now, let us see what we can find for you to wear.”

Emily, along with Dorcas and Arnia, spent the next hour trying on a selection of clothes the older women found for them. The women who shared Anya’s tent had all been married once, and their daughters and daughters-in-law were among the married women in the camp. As the three newcomers’ requirements were defined, the older women-the dowagers of the tribe, as Emily mentally dubbed them-summoned their younger female relatives, explained their needs and sent them scurrying back to their tents to see what they could find.

Anya’s tent was soon full of shy but giggling girls offering various robes, skirts, vests, and chemises, and waiting their turn to examine the fabrics and styles of Emily’s, Dorcas’s, and Arnia’s own clothes.

The Berber style of dress was much better suited to crossing the desert. A lighter, loose robe worn over a simple sheath of a chemise was ideal for wearing beneath the burka. Once the burka was doffed in favor of a chador, a head scarf with veil, the skirts and vests were donned over the robes, giving warmth, weight, and color.

The three of them were finally deemed suitably garbed to pass as Berber. Anya approved with a brisk nod. “Good. Now let us join the others outside.”

Across the camp, Gareth was lounging on cushions before the brazier in Ali-Jehan’s tent while learning the ins and outs of Berber life from his host. The sheik concluded with a philosophical shrug. “I rule the tribe and the caravan, but my mother rules the camp. This is the way of things. So you will not be able to meet with your women privately while with us.”

Gareth nodded and drained his glass of refreshing tea. “I foresee no difficulties adhering to your ways.” He omitted to mention that none of the three women of his party were “his.” If Ali-Jehan and his unmarried men-many of whom had found cause to pause alongside Emily’s camel throughout the day, ostensibly inquring after her comfort-had leapt to the conclusion that Emily was, in their terms, “his,” he saw no reason to correct their mistake. Safer for her-safer for him, too. She was, after all, in his care.

“Now, come.” Ali-Jehan clapped his shoulder and rose. “We should join the others-it’s nearly time for the evening meal.”

Gareth followed him from the tent. The central area was abuzz, people clustering here and there, chatting and watching the food cooking over the fire pit. Women bustled back and forth, no longer concealed beneath their robes, but most with chadors wound about their heads and draped over their faces.

It was a colorful sight, familiar in some ways, yet the presence of the women lent the camp a different air.

“We sit here.” Ali-Jehan gestured to an area about one end of the rectangular fire pit. “All the men sit at this end.”

Gareth joined him on the colorful rug flung over the sand, drawing his legs up to sit as the others were, cross-legged. He saw Bister and Mooktu, and Watson and Jimmy, and finally located Mullins scattered among the grouped men. Each was talking animatedly to one or more of their hosts.

“This black snake leader.” Ali-Jehan broke off as a woman approached, bearing a tray of flat bread and spiced meat. After helping himself, Ali-Jehan waited for Gareth to do the same, then went on, “You have told me a little of this person.” He caught Gareth’s gaze. “Tell me more.”

As they ate, Gareth obliged. Others of the caravan’s guards, the warriors of the tribe, edged closer to listen. Gareth saw no reason not to give them the full tale, from when he and his colleagues had received their orders from the Governor-General, to their last clash with the cultists on the Red Sea.

From the comments and exclamations his story provoked, the Berbers’ reaction to the atrocities of the Black Cobra was similar to his, their favored solution-beheading-eerily echoing that of his colleague Rafe Carstairs.

By the time he reached the present, the fire had died down and the wind had risen, sending heavy shadows flickering over the tents. The women had retired earlier, leaving the men to their talk.

When a comfortable silence finally fell, Ali-Jehan slowly nodded. “It is an honorable thing you do-your journey to stop this fiend’s reign of terror.” He eyed Gareth measuringly, continuing to nod. “We will assist you in this-it is the right thing to do.”

The other tribesmen murmured agreement. Gareth inclined his head. Across the group, he met Mooktu’s eyes, and saw his own confidence reflected there.

Cathcart had been right in choosing Ali-Jehan and his tribe for them to journey on with. The accents were different, the clothing, too, but they were brothers beneath the skin.

Ali-Jehan grinned, and got to his feet. “Now to sleep, and to pray to Allah that this fiend shows his face, so we can exact the vengeance of the righteous upon him.”

The guards rose along with Gareth and his men, entirely at one with that idea.

22nd October, 1822

Very late

In Anya’s tent, somewhere in the desert on our way to Alexandria

Gareth settled to sleep on a rug in Ali-Jehan’s tent. As shuffles and snuffles faded, and snores swelled, a gentle symphony played against the whine of the wind, instead of drifting straight to sleep, his mind insisted on wandering…over the day, and how matters had played out, and how things looked set to go tomorrow, and in the days to follow.

His mind snagged on a mental image of his last glimpse of Emily, as she’d followed Ali-Jehan’s mother into the women’s tent, pausing at the flap to cast one last, frustrated glance his way before she’d followed the other women inside and the tent flap had fallen closed behind her.

The separation, enforced as it would be through this leg of the journey, would, he lectured himself, be helpful. Useful. It would give him time to think. To work through things and understand.

As that kiss in Cathcart’s salon had proved, he’d somehow fallen under Emily’s spell. What he didn’t know was why. Why he wanted her. Was it just lust-a more virulent form-that made him feel so drawn to her, so compelled to make her his? Yet given who she was, if he gave in and surrendered, there could only be one outcome. Marriage.

Was that what he wanted-Emily as his wife?

Was she the lady he needed by his side when he returned to England and set about creating the rest of his life?

He hadn’t-not until the last days-thought of his future beyond beheading the Black Cobra. It hadn’t seemed important, but as making love to Emily would inevitably lead to marriage, then he needed to think of it now.

Think of it, and imagine how she would fit. He lay in the tent, his gaze fixed on the darkened roof, and let the prospect take shape and substance in his mind.

Only to discover that, beyond her, he could see very little of it, his putative future.

He shifted, growing more uneasy as reality impinged. It didn’t matter what he thought, what he wanted, if she didn’t think and want the same.

Was he the man she wanted as her husband?

Even if he was the husband she wanted now, how genuine and deeply rooted was that want? What drove it? What had given it life?

Had she turned to him in lieu of MacFarlane? His friend had surely been a more romantic figure. Was he in effect standing in a dead man’s shoes?

Or was her wanting him more the outcome of being involved in dangerous and violent action? That wouldn’t be surprising. He was the only one suitable to whom she could cling. But reaction born of fear and the need it evoked was no proper basis for marriage.

He inwardly scoffed. What did he know of marriage?

The answer whispered across his mind as sleep dragged him down.

He knew no more about marriage than he knew about his future, yet he knew beyond question that unless Emily wanted him for the right reason, he wouldn’t have either, couldn’t have either-not with her.

The cultists attacked mid-morning the next day.

The caravan was wending its slow and ponderous way along the top of a dune when horsemen rose up in a dark wave from a sand valley just ahead, and came pounding over the dunes, shrieking and yelling, swords cleaving the air.

The nomads reacted with well-trained precision. While the guards wheeled their mounts, then streamed forward to meet the threat head-on, all those with the carts and the camel train grouped and clumped together, both animals and baggage providing protection for those on foot.

From her elevated perch almost at the center of the huddle, Emily had an excellent view of the clash. Squinting into the sun, she saw cultists amid the attacking horsemen, their black scarves streaming as they flew across the sand.

What surprised her were the others-other Berbers. She looked at their defenders-their guards with Gareth and Ali-Jehan in the lead, Mooktu and Bister close behind, all flashing swords and scimitars as they charged-then glanced down and located Anya, sitting with the older women, calmly waiting.

“There are other Berbers with the cultists!”

Anya looked up at her. Thought, then with unimpaired calm, nodded. “The El-Jiri. They are always ready for a fight.”

Emily glanced back just as the opposing groups of horsemen met-like two waves crashing and smashing together. She winced at the scream of steel sheering off steel, the crash and pounding of blows, audible even at a distance.

Her heart climbing steadily up her throat, she watched, waited, strained her eyes to see…

Gareth broke through, followed closely by Mooktu and Ali-Jehan. All three wheeled, swords swinging, then fell on the attackers’ rear.

It was over so fast that Emily, still catching her breath, was left wondering if all battles were so quickly won. She doubted it, but suddenly the body of attackers fractured, splintered and scattered, Berbers in their darker robes breaking off in twos and threes to ride down the dune and head back the way they’d come.

The guards chased them, but only so far. Once the attackers’ flight was assured, the guards reined in, then wheeled and trotted back.

They joined Gareth and Ali-Jehan. Emily quickly verified that all the others were there, that the only bodies lying unmoving in the sand belonged to cultists. She looked back at their defenders, riding back toward them. Every single man had a huge grin on his face.

“Amazing,” she muttered, relieved yet mystified at the transparent delight illuminating every male face.

“They were successful, yes?”

Emily looked down at Anya. All the women, surrounded as they were, couldn’t see the action. “They’re riding back, grinning like small boys.”

Anya smiled widely. “They have won, and they are happy. There will be much rejoicing in our camp tonight.”

As Anya had foretold, the mood in camp that evening was distinctly festive. While the women prepared the evening meal, the men gathered in a large clump outside Ali-Jehan’s tent.

With great cries to his health, they toasted Gareth, then settled to some deep discussion, which he seemed to be leading. As far as Emily could tell from the other side of the camp, he was drawing diagrams in the sand, pointing to this and that, holding his audience in the palm of his hand.

Bister came to check her knives.

She handed them over, then drew him aside and pointed to the male huddle. “What’s that all about?”

Bister settled on the edge of a cart to hone the edges of one knife on a whetstone. “None of that lot have seen a real cavalry charge before.”

“So?”

“There’s differences, see, in how a cavalryman sits, how he holds his sword. They just wade in, shoulders wide, all but asking to be cut down. We go in low, blade extended-makes both offensive and defensive work easier.” Bister nodded toward the knot of men. “That’s what he’s explaining.”

Emily looked across the fire pit. “Is that why the fight ended so quickly?”

“Partly.” Bister looked up, handed her back her knife, and grinned. “He also told us to go for the cultists-that if we accounted for them, the others would flee. He was right, but Ali-Jehan and the others are a trifle miffed they didn’t get more of a fight.”

Emily humphed. After a moment, she said, “But there’ll be more attacks, and more cultists, won’t there?” She met Bister’s eyes as he stood. “There were only five with that lot today-there have to be more chasing us.”

Bister nodded. “So the major thinks.” He tipped his head to the men across the camp. “That’s why he’s laying it all out for them-how best to attack and what to watch for from the cultists. We haven’t seen the last of them, for sure.”

The celebrations continued over the meal and on into the night. Emily considered them a trifle overdone. There was, however, no carousing. Cathcart had mentioned there’d be no spirits, beer, or wine carried with the caravan, which, in light of the men’s revelry, Emily could only view as to the good. If there had been ale, they would have been drunk, and there were still cultists out there.

Sitting with the older women outside their tent, she eyed the male gathering with a jaundiced eye. She battled not to scowl, or worse, pout.

If there was celebrating to do, she wanted to join in.

That wasn’t, however, the nomads’ way.

Then Gareth stood. She saw Ali-Jehan say something, to which Gareth replied. When the Berber sheik started to get to his feet, Gareth dropped a hand on his shoulder, clearly telling him to not disturb himself-he, Gareth, would see to it, whatever it was.

Emily tracked Gareth as he beckoned Mullins and Watson, and two of the guards, then led the way out of the circle of tents.

Pickets? Emily hoped so. The notion of more cultists lurking among the dunes wasn’t going to make sleeping easy. None of the other women, except perhaps Arnia and Dorcas, truly understood the danger.

But if the other men who had departed with Gareth were going out to keep watch…

Turning her head, she waited until she could catch Anya’s eye. “Is it permitted to walk around the tents to stretch my legs? They’re rather cramped after spending all day on top of Doha.”

Anya arched her brows, but then nodded. “It is permitted, but do not dally, or we will have to send others to find you.”

Emily waited for no more, but quickly got to her feet. When Dorcas looked at her inquiringly, she shook her head. “I won’t be long.”

Wrapping her chador over her head and shoulders, as she’d seen other women do around the camp, she walked down the avenue between two tents and stepped into the moonlight beyond.

The night would have been pitch-black if it hadn’t been for the large moon, hanging low on the horizon. Emily duly gave thanks as she skirted the tents, hoping…

“Where are you off to?”

Gareth stepped out from the gap between two tents as Emily whirled to face him.

“Oh! There you are.” She smiled.

He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here-it’s not safe.”

He’d been in the dark space striding back to the camp’s center when he’d sensed…something. Movement, perhaps. He’d glanced back, and seen her pass by. The moonlight had played on her pale hair, her fair skin.

She’d drawn him like a beacon; turning on his heel, he’d backtracked.

He halted just beyond the rear of the tent as she backtracked, too, drawing near.

Her eyes searched his face. “I thought you were setting pickets.”

“I was.”

“Then it’s safe enough, surely?”

He felt his lips thin. “Possibly.”

She smiled, as if she understood the contradictory impulses clashing within him. Keep her safe. Ravish her.

He reminded himself that the honorable tack was to keep her safe from him, too.

She stepped close-close enough that he could sense her alluring warmth. Close enough to lay a small hand on his chest.

He stepped back, back into the shadows between the tents.

She followed, her hand never losing contact. He felt the touch almost as acutely as if it were skin to skin.

“I watched the fight from atop Doha. It was…” Eyes darkening, she broke off with an evocative shiver. “Frightening.”

“Frightening?” That shiver made him long to sweep her into his arms. He clenched his fists against the impulse.

She nodded. “Swords, scimitars, unarmored bodies. Not a good combination.” She lifted her chin, eyes locking on his. “Not when the bodies are people I care about.”

He stilled. He told himself not to ask, not to expose his vulnerability. “You care about me?”

She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”

His heart leapt, swelled.

He reached for her as she pressed closer, lifting her face to his.

Effortlessly tempting him to bend his head and cover her lips with his.

In the instant before he did, she brought him back to earth. “Of course.”

Of course? Because he was the one standing between her and frightening cultists? Because…?

He decided he didn’t need to know. He could think about it later. She was here, with him, and she wanted him to kiss her-wanted to kiss him.

Before he could act, she closed the distance, pressed her soft lips to his. The pressure, light, beguiling, called to him, and he kissed her back.

Angled his head and took charge of the kiss.

Took what he wanted-what, suddenly, he realized he needed.

She gifted him with her mouth, tempted him with her tongue, sank into him as he drew her close.

He slid his arms around her and locked her to him.

Flush against him.

Sensation flashed, streaked through him. Passion erupted, powerful, explicit, focused.

She broke from the kiss. Gasped, “I wanted to celebrate with you, but I was trapped on the other side. With the women. I wanted-”

He kissed her again, more ravenously. More rapaciously.

She answered in kind.

And rocked him back on his mental heels.

Desire flared, hot and arcing, achingly potent, burning and sweet.

In Cathcart’s salon they’d both stepped back, but this…this was fire and life, and everything he wanted.

Everything he needed.

And she wanted it, too.

She couldn’t have made her wishes clearer, and with his own need pounding a tattoo in his blood, he couldn’t deny what he felt. Didn’t want to.

No longer had the power to.

He couldn’t step away.

The kiss deepened, not gently, not slowly, but in spiraling leaps. His hands found her breasts, closed, kneaded. Her fingers slid into his hair and she clung, evocatively gripped.

Held him to her, to the kiss. Anchored him within the whirlpool of passion they’d unleashed.

His hands slid over her, learning, needing to know, wanting to possess.

That she was with him was never in doubt. Her lips were as hungry as his, her mouth as demanding. She pressed herself to him, flagrantly imprinting her flesh on his, the giving tautness of her belly impressing itself against his aching erection.

No invitation had ever been so explicit.

Then she made it more so.

She reached between them, and touched, stroked.

He shuddered-and couldn’t recall ever shuddering in quite that way at any woman’s touch before.

Her touch…he craved it. Craved her in a way that shocked even him.

Filling both hands with the lush promise of her bottom, he lifted her against him, shifted his hips evocatively, provocatively, and sensed her aroused gasp.

Holding her there in one arm, locked helplessly against him, he sank his free hand into her hair, palmed her skull, and kissed her-voraciously.

He tensed to turn, to press her back against something solid…

There wasn’t anything solid around.

“The night air is fresh and cool, don’t you think?”

The words, uttered in Anya’s calm voice, hauled them both from the kiss.

Lifting their heads, they stared, first at each other, then out along the gap between the tents, toward the voice.

But there was no one there.

“Perhaps the miss is still walking around the tents-she might be on the the other side.”

“Katun,” Emily whispered. Licking her lips, swollen she was sure, she looked into Gareth’s face. “I have to go.”

He nodded.

He set her down, but the reluctance with which his hands released her told its own story-one that gladdened her heart.

She shook out her skirt, resettled her makeshift shawl. Looked up at him, then stretched up and brushed her lips across his. “Until next time.”

With that, she stepped out from between the tents, looked, and saw the two older women strolling slowly, their backs to her. Dragging in a breath, feeling her head clear, she set out in their wake.

They’d guessed, of course. Anya and the other older women eyed her with bright-eyed interest as they all settled in their customary sleeping positions around the large tent.

“That major-he is a handsome one.” Bersheba made the comment to the tent at large, but her eyes were on Emily, carefully folding her skirts and blouse before snuggling into her blankets.

Marila snorted. “He is courageous-that is more important. You heard the sheik-the major is a great warrior.”

Emily could feel Dorcas’s and Arnia’s gazes, equally intrigued, join the older women’s, all trained on her face.

“But men are men, great warriors or not,” Katun stated. “They need to have their…egos stroked. Frequently.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Anya said, “if after the battle today, in which he and my Ali-Jehan led our men to victory, the major was in need of a degree of stroking. Men, after all, are very predictable in their ways. They crave having their bravery acknowledged.”

“Especially by those they seek to protect,” Girla put in.

“Especially if those are also ones they seek to impress,” Katun stated. After a heartbeat, she added, “With their prowess.”

Emily wriggled into her blankets. “I daresay you’re right. Good night.”

She laid her head down, tugged the blankets over her shoulder, and prayed the dark had hidden her flaming cheeks. Older women, it seemed, were incorrigible the world over. What was rather more interesting was that male behavior seemed equally universal.