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.

Thirteen

25th November, 1822

Evening

A comfortable room in a tiny inn in Marseilles

Dear Diary,

So we are settled in Marseilles for the nonce, and while I wondered what possibilities staying in one place-one that isn’t rocking and affords a suitable degree of privacy-might hold, the cultists have already intruded on our calm.

Bister took Jimmy out for a walk-we are all agreed he needs exercise and fresh air to improve-but Bister, being Bister, went scouting in the consular quarter, and spotted numerous cultists. While he and Jimmy escaped undetected, Bister reported that the cultists were, contrary to earlier in the day, actively and specifically searching. It seems news of our arrival has reached the cult members stationed here.

Gareth is concerned. He fears that, with specific descriptions in hand, the cultists-and indeed there seem quite a number-will organize a methodical search. Our out-of-the-way location will protect us for a day or so, but not forever. And it has already become apparent that finding and hiring the right sort of carriages and drivers, and reprovisioning those items we must have for our journey, will not be accomplished in a single day.

I am, as you will understand, finding all this a trifle frustrating. I am irritatingly aware that I have been unable to consolidate the significant gain I made in Tunis. Knowing Gareth, the longer I give him to think about things, the more likely he will erect another wall between us-leaving me to once again scrabble to pull it down.

I have already stated my dislike of blood and battles, but when it comes to these aggravating cultists, if I were to come upon one while holding a loaded pistol in my hand, I doubt I would hesitate to remove him from my path.

My latest personal mantra is: A pox on all cultists.

E.

The next morning, garbed as any young Frenchwoman with her cloak over her shoulders, Emily walked the short distance to the town market.

Gareth strode by her side, his expression impassive, his eyes constantly scanning. He didn’t trust anyone else with her safety, an irritating development, but one he wasn’t in any mood to resist.

If he wasn’t by her side, he’d be distracted, unable to make sound decisions, so there wasn’t any point fighting the now insistent compulsion.

Dorcas followed behind them, a basket over her arm, Mullins by her side. Recalling what he’d noticed on the xebec’s deck during the battle, Gareth suspected there was a budding romance there. Regardless, he was glad of Mullins’s company, and Bister was ambling around them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind in his usual role of scout.

They had no difficulty finding the market-they followed the noise and the smells. Some were savory, others less so, but once they reached the square and merged into the loud, constantly shifting crowd, all individual aromas melted into the rich potpourri of the market.

Although they didn’t need food in the general sense, they’d agreed that once on the road they wouldn’t stop for lunch, but would eat on the run as it were. After circling the stalls selling fresh fruit, Emily bought a sack of crisp apples, a selection of other fruits and vegetables that would keep, and handfuls of various nuts in their shells.

While Dorcas tucked the packages into her basket, Emily turned to him. “Can you see where the stalls selling cured meats and cheeses are?”

Raising his head, he looked over the crowd, saw those stalls along a distant wall. He also saw two cultists strolling down the aisle toward them. The pair were still some way ahead, but they weren’t shopping.

He’d taken Emily’s arm before he’d thought. Bending close, he spoke quietly as he turned her. “Cultists ahead-we’ll backtrack, then circle around. The stalls you want are along the far wall.”

She met his eyes, nodded, then calmly gathered Dorcas and Mullins as they passed. In good order they retreated out of the cultists’ path.

While escorting Emily to the distant stalls, he kept an eye on the pair, and sent Bister scouting further to see if there were any others in the market.

Emily was negotiating the price of two nice hams when Bister returned.

“Just those two.” He frowned. “You’d think they’d leave off their turbans and those black scarves, but no.” He shrugged. “Just as well for us, I suppose.”

Gareth returned a noncommittal grunt. If the cultists left off their insignia, given the number of foreigners from every land under the sun to be found in Marseilles, he and the others would be in very big trouble. Not for the first time, he gave thanks for the cultists’ arrogance.

They spent another half hour in the crowded market, every minute on high alert. By the time they quit the main square, loaded with the hams, blocks of hard cheese, and the fruits and vegetables, and headed via a series of narrow streets back to their inn, Emily felt exhausted, emotionally wrung out.

She felt like a piano wire that had been strung too tight for too long-she wanted nothing more than to snap and sag.

To find relief…release.

Much like another sort of tension, and the blissful release she’d discovered it could lead to.

She slanted a glance at Gareth, striding close beside her. Although he was looking ahead, alert and focused, she was sure that if she took one step in the wrong direction, away from him, his entire attention would snap back to her. If she walked into a room he was in, he glanced at her immediately. Every time she left him, she felt his gaze on her back until she’d passed out of his sight.

If she was in his presence, even if he wasn’t looking at her, he knew exactly where she was.

The knowledge buoyed her, and comforted, too. If she had to walk through ever-present danger, having a possessive predator at her side was no bad thing.

But there was a counterside to that. Said ever-present danger was a very big hurdle in her path. While he remained focused on the enemy, and even more on protecting her, the chances of him initiating any intimate interlude were, she estimated, effectively nil.

Being intimate was a time when his guard was down. He wouldn’t suggest it.

He’d warned that the danger-and therefore the tension-was only going to escalate, at least until they reached England, and probably beyond that. If they were to share any more interludes between now and the end of his mission, she would have to instigate them.

But should she?

She glanced at him as they turned into the street in which their inn stood. She detected no lessening in the battle-ready tension that held him, no easing of his all-but-constant surveillance of their surroundings.

Should she distract him-not now, but tonight?

Or should she acquiesce to what she knew would be his choice, and wait until they reached England and his mission was complete before again addressing their putative relationship?

If she waited, social mores would come to his aid. Once at home, it would be difficult for her to refuse his suit, even to delay, if he pressed. She was fairly certain he would. As matters stood, their marriage was no longer in question-it was the nature of said marriage they had yet to resolve.

She glanced at him again-and caught him watching her, rather speculatively, but he immediately looked away.

Was he thinking, imagining, considering, as she was?

She couldn’t imagine the prospect of another interlude hadn’t occurred to him, yet regardless of the prompting of his instincts, she would wager her life he wouldn’t come to her bed. Not unless…

Unless she issued an invitation he couldn’t-wasn’t strong enough to-resist.

The notion tantalized her adventurous side.

So…should she use, indeed capitalize on, the tension, the danger, the stress of the journey to help press her cause? To make it harder for him to pretend that his interest in her was honor driven and nothing else? Or should she-as she was sure he would-play safe?

Reaching the inn, he opened the front door and held it for her. Passing in front of him, she looked into his face.

He was looking down the street.

Stifling a humph, she went inside.


26th November, 1822

Early evening

My room in the inn at Marseilles

Dear Diary,

Yesterday afternoon I announced my intention of taking the air, so of course Gareth came with me. I had intended to use the opportunity to address, in speech, our future, but the instant we set foot outside, the potential danger was thick in the air and his tension so palpable that it affected me. And so, far from resolving anything, I cut short our excursion, considering it dishonorable to put him so on edge, and myself as well, all for nothing.

Clearly, the direct approach is not going to work, not while he feels compelled to look everywhere at once, rather than at me.

Last night, in fairness to him, I lay in my bed and forced myself to fully evaluate the pros and cons of reestablishing an intimate connection at this time, one that will continue throughout the rest of this fraught and dangerous journey, and subsequently on into our married life. I rather rapidly reached the undeniable conclusion that if I don’t, I am unlikely ever to learn what degree of feeling he truly possesses for me. Once in England, he will retreat behind that wall of polite civility that is the hallmark of an English gentleman, and I will never be able to winkle the truth out of him-he is made of such stern stuff, I swear he is near as stubborn as I, so that route simply will not do.

If I am ever to learn what he truly feels for me, I must act, and indeed, this journey is my best chance to learn all. My best weapon is propinquity, for while we race north through France, we will necessarily be in each other’s pockets, and he will not, not for a minute, be able to overlook me.