So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.

Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.

He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.

Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.

Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.

She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”

He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”

She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort-no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

If he truly loved her.

For her, nothing else would do.

Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?

To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her-he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay-and now she’d given herself to him-all but seduced him-that, to his mind, settled that.

Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

Why perhaps?

His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”-she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state-“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes-that’s how it should feel.”

And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on her hair. “Go to sleep.”

He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed-a quiet vow in the fading moonlight-that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

Not ever.

Twelve

19th November, 1822

Early morning

Still in my bed, but now alone

Dear Diary,

WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man-the right man-is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter-the reality was better than my dreams.

Of course, there was-as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man-a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.

Yes, we will-that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”-but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.

I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.

He will need to do better than that-especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.

So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger-my ultimate goal-I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.

As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.

Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.

E.

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

Dear Diary,

We left Tunis today on a fair wind, which I have been informed by Captain Dacosta is likely to remain with us all the way to Marseilles. Dacosta is much like Laboule, and thus like Gareth, too, which brings me to my point.

Men of action, like Gareth, our xebec captains, Berber chieftains, and the like, appear to share certain similarities of character, especially in a personal sense. I have been mulling over the wisdom the older Berber women-who have spent a lifetime observing such men-deigned to share. In taking guidance on the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I could do far worse.

My conclusions are that while he clearly feels something for me, and indeed, all the signs point to that something being love, it is important-in fact, critical-for our future happiness that he acknowledges that fact, and accepts that love-mutual and enduring-is the true basis of our marriage from the start.

So how do I bring that about?

As ever resolute.

E.

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.”