12th November, 1822

Late

Back on the xebec

Dear Diary,

I am speechless. Still. Gareth believes my interest in him is driven by danger-and-survival-induced desire-in his eyes, I am blind and deluded.

Whenever I think of what he said-what he thinks-I am reduced to quivering rage. How dare he? What the devil does he mean by telling me what I feel and why? Bad enough-but how dare he be so wrong!!

I am literally beside myself-I never knew what that phrase meant before today. His temerity clearly knows no bounds!

Mind you, there were a few sentences he uttered that I suspect I should pay more attention to.

Doubtless I will-once I’ve calmed down.

E.

Their xebec put into Tunis harbor three days later, in the afternoon. They had sighted not one cultist since Alexandria, which was just as well given the sea approach to Tunis lay via a narrow entrance into a so-called lake. The xebec had had to furl its sails and beat in under oars. Outrunning any pursuit would have been impossible.

After farewelling Captain Laboule and his crew, thanking them for their hospitality and commiserating hypocritically over the lack of fighting, Gareth led his party off the deck, onto the docks. All once again in Arab guise, confidently following Laboule’s directions, they hired a small donkey-drawn cart from the many waiting to ferry passengers, luggage, and goods over the short distance from lakeshore to city gate. With the three women perched on their luggage in the cart, Gareth trudged along the sandy road, with the other men flanking the cart.

He kept his gaze from Emily. Since their “discussion” in Valletta, she had made no further advances, offered no further invitations to kiss her.

Just as well. If she had, he wasn’t at all sure he’d have had the strength or willpower to resist.

But he’d done the right thing. Not what he wanted-he wanted her-but honor had dictated that he couldn’t take advantage of her, that he’d had to give her the chance to back away.

And she had.

She’d drawn back, thought of what he’d said, and had seen the truth in his words, his assertion. She’d accepted the opening he’d given her to step back from any further interaction-which, given what had already occurred between them, would have only ended in one place, one activity.

He’d been right, and she’d finally seen that.

Over the days since Valletta, he’d been conscious of her watching him, broodingly, as if she were studying him.

Perhaps wondering at the passionate madness that had infected her, glad he’d explained and she’d seen it for what it was.

He trudged on, and tried not to think of her.

Tried to focus on his mission, on evaluating the possible threat from cultists in this out-of-the-way city. Concentrating on Laboule’s helpful directions, he led the way through the city gate and on toward the medina.

A souk by another name, they could hear a rising cacophony of voices, smell the pungent pervasive scents of spices, long before they saw the narrowing streets and covered alleys ahead.

Just before they reached the medina itself, Gareth turned left, and found the guesthouse Laboule had recommended a hundred yards further on. A quick survey from the street was encouraging. Leaving the others in the street with the luggage, he knocked on the gate in the wall, and was admitted.

The guesthouse was well-suited to their needs, clean, large enough, but not too sprawling, with sufficient rooms and, most important, a single guarded gate to the street. He settled to haggle with the owners. Dropping Laboule’s name helped. In short order he’d hired the guesthouse, once again managing to secure it exclusively for his party.

He went with the owner and his wife to let them in.

Emily was inexpressibly glad to be able to set her burka aside, wash her face and brush out her hair-all while standing on a floor that didn’t rock. In a room that had space enough to stretch both arms out without her fingers touching anything.

The physical relief was wonderful.

“I would be quite happy never to set foot on a xebec again,” she informed Dorcas, busy shaking out her traveling gowns and hanging them up in the armoire.

Dorcas snorted. “From what I overheard, seems likely we’ll be on another of the things for our next leg to Marseilles.”

Emily grimaced. “I heard the same thing.” Laboule had given Gareth the name of another xebec captain who he’d thought would be agreeable to taking them to Marseilles. “But it does seem as if we’ll have at least a few days here, on dry land.”

“We’ll need to go to the souk for supplies.” Dorcas’s voice was muffled as she spoke from inside the armoire.

“Tomorrow, I imagine.” Emily laid aside her brush. “At least it’s close.”

She prayed that, as they all hoped, there were no cultists in Tunis.

If so, if all remained quiet, then their time there might afford her the opportunity to…redirect Gareth. To reeducate him as to the reality of her wishes.

And the real and very definite force driving her desire.

Turning, she caught Dorcas’s gaze. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs and see if we can organize a pot of tea.”

She was an Englishwoman far from home-there were some things she really hated going without.


The lone, low-ranking cultist sent to Tunis to watch and report should any of the four soldier-sahibs pass through that town had known that his mission was a sop, that the chances of any of the officers the Black Cobra was chasing coming through the town was so remote as to be negligible.

But of course he hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned.

He’d dutifully come to Tunis, and every day had walked out to the docks on the lakeshore, and watched.

Today, this afternoon, he had barely been able to believe his eyes.

Indeed, at first, his senses had deceived him. The group had passed under his nose and it hadn’t even twitched. But then he’d caught a comment passed between the two men walking at the rear of the little procession.

The word cultists had fixed his attention.

He’d slipped from his perch on a stack of fishing pots and followed.

A short time later, crouched in the shadow of the donkey cart behind the one the sahib had approached, wrapped in a long robe and without his black silk head scarf, he’d listened rather than looked. What he’d heard-the accents, the commanding manner-had convinced him.

One of the sahibs had come to Tunis.

Why he was traveling with women-three of them-was beyond the watcher’s ability to guess, but that didn’t matter.

He’d trailed the small party at a distance, had bided his time and waited at the corner of the street down which they’d turned, and had been rewarded. He now knew where the sahib was staying.

Not that he could attack-not on his own. But he had plenty of coin, and knew his orders by heart.

He hurried off to the tavern in which he was staying, begged paper and pencil, and settled to write a message, a report. He knew to whom in the French embassy he should give it. And once he had, he would devote himself to carrying out his august master’s orders with the utmost diligence.

Ten

15th November, 1822

Late

My room in the guesthouse in Tunis

Dear Diary,

Since reboarding the xebec in Valletta, the restrictions of the voyage prevented me from re-engaging with Gareth-which, in retrospect, was a good thing. Not only did the enforced disengagement give me time to calm down and regain the ability to think clearly, it also gave me time to fully reevaluate my position in light of Gareth’s views.

Quite aside from confirming just how completely unattuned to the female imperatives the male brain-even a superior specimen-is, a point on which my sisters have frequently remarked, our largely one-sided discussion in Valletta, once I was able to consider it in a calmer frame of mind, was distinctly revealing.

Far from dissuading me that he is my “one,” Gareth’s arrogant but nobly motivated stance underscored the fact-as if I didn’t know it-that with him I am utterly and completely safe. Even from him.

Of course, this leaves me in the position of having to open my misguided major’s eyes as to my own true motivations and feelings, but I am confident, dear Diary, that that is well within my powers.

I have my fingers crossed that our time here in Tunis will yield the opportunity I need.

E.

The next morning, Emily, Dorcas, and Arnia, closely escorted by Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, all in their Arab disguises, left the guesthouse and walked down the street toward the scents and sounds of the medina.

No directions were necessary.

They hadn’t gone fifty yards when three colorfully uniformed guards approached at a trot.

The one in the lead halted before Gareth. In clear and precise French, he delivered what was clearly a formal summons for Gareth to present himself at the bey’s palace.

Ignoring the tension in the group at his back, Gareth smiled and, in fluent colloquial French, inquired what the problem was.

“It is a requirement, sir, that all foreigners report and make their bow to the bey. It is something all newcomers must do.”

Gareth inclined his head. He’d heard of such practices. “I will come immediately to pay my respects to the bey.”

Turning, he looked at Emily. Quietly asked in English, “You heard?”

Worry in the eyes just visible through her burka’s panel, she nodded. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I will be.” He glanced at Mooktu. “You’re with me. The rest of you”-his gaze swept them-“go on as you’d planned, but stay together.”

There were careful nods all around, then Gareth turned to the waiting guards. “Gentlemen-lead on.”

The leader inclined his head, turned and did so, striding back up the street; his two subordinates fell in behind Gareth and Mooktu as they followed.

Emily watched the little party until they turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

Lips set, she glanced at the others, saw them staring in the same direction. She inwardly shook herself. Actively doing something-organizing, shopping-was better than standing around wringing her hands. “Right, then! We have supplies to gather. We should make an effort to find everything we need today-just in case.”

Just in case something happened, and they had to leave Tunis in a rush.


It was late afternoon before Gareth and Mooktu turned into the street in which their guesthouse stood. Eager to get back and reassure the others, who by now were surely wondering whether something bad had befallen them, Gareth quickened his pace.

Their audience with the bey had been totally unremarkable. A few words in reply to the obvious questions: Were they here for trade? No, they were simply tourists passing through. Were they planning on staying long? A few days, perhaps more. What business was he engaged in? He was a retired soldier seeing the world.

That a few minutes’ conversation had taken so long was merely an outcome of the usual diplomatic lack of urgency. Nothing of any consequence had occurred before or after. One thing Gareth had noted with some relief was the absence of any sign of an English diplomatic presence close to the bey. As far as he could tell, there’d been no other Englishman in the room, no Frenchman, either. An Italian and a Spaniard, but that had been all.

Gareth hoped the others had suffered a similarly unexciting day.

He and Mooktu were a few steps from the guesthouse gate when sudden footsteps rushing up behind had them both turning, instinctively putting their backs to the wall, their hands going to their sword hilts.

Just in time to yank the blades free and meet the onslaught of five men with long knives.

Gareth beat back three of the attackers, clearing an arc before him with a vicious swing of his cavalry sword. A long sword beat long knives every time. But three at once?

He had his work cut out for him. One glance showed Mooktu holding his own against their other two assailants. After reassuring himself of that, Gareth concentrated on disabling or disarming the three who, yes, were trying to kill him. Not wound or capture, but kill.

These were locals, not cultists, yet Gareth doubted they’d simply taken it into their heads to attack him and Mooktu. The two of them weren’t carrying anything valuable, and no one with a grain of sense would miss that he was experienced military, and just the way Mooktu walked declared him even more lethal.