Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.
He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin-nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…
Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…
“There’s a surprising number of ships around-I didn’t think there would be so many.”
He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India-even China-destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”
She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”-he gestured to his new robes-“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”
She nodded. “That’s the problem-the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”
He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”
She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”
“I fear so.”
Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak of the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable-a shared moment.
Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.
Companionship.
That’s all this was.
“You-and the other three-you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”
The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through-we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right-each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before she looked away. “I’m glad. Given Captain MacFarlane died while escorting me, I feel I have an interest in avenging him, too.”
That came as no surprise. Gareth could still so easily bring James’s youthful engaging smile to mind. His sunny vitality had often made Gareth-and the others, too-feel like world-weary old men. James had always been popular with young ladies. Gareth slanted a glance at Emily. It wasn’t hard to imagine what romantical notions having such a dashing young man die in your defense would evoke.
Her comment, however, again raised the niggling question of whether-strange though it seemed-she’d changed her plans to follow him. But why him, and not Del, or one of the other two?
The question made him uncomfortable, and how on earth could he phrase it without sounding entirely too full of himself?
“So.” She turned to face him, leaning back against the rail. “What do you plan to do once this is all over and you’re back in England?”
He stared down at her. “I haven’t really thought.” He hadn’t, not at all. His mental slate should have been blank, but to his considerable surprise his mind was thinking now, supplying all manner of desirable images…all of which involved her. He blinked, turned aside. “I should check the decks. I’m supposed to be on picket duty.”
A frown showed more in her eyes than her expression. “But you would hear any other vessel draw close.”
“They might swim. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Very well-I’ll walk with you.”
“No!” That was the last thing he needed. It wasn’t just his mind that was reacting to her nearness. He scrambled to find a cause for his vehemence. “The light’s strengthening, and you’re not in disguise. And”-he pointed to the group of slower ships they were steadily coming up on-“we’ll soon be close to those ships. No telling how far ahead of us the cultists have reached.”
She stared-all but glared-at the ships ahead. Then her lips firmed, one step away from a petulant pout.
His errant mind suggested he kiss the expression from her lips…
“Oh, very well.”
Thank God.
She turned to the companionway, but bent a sharp glance his way. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
He inclined his head noncommittally. The instant her feet hit the companionway stairs, he set off to stride down the deck, grateful for the camouflage his new robes afforded him. One issue he didn’t need to worry quite so much about.
But he could see further problems looming.
They were on a journey that would be strewn with dangerous situations, most likely becoming increasingly fraught the closer they got to England, yet he’d had no choice but to bring her along, and now had no option but to keep her with him. Quite aside from his evolving fascination with her, her safety wasn’t something he could countenance putting at risk. Unfortunately, said evolving fascination looked set to play havoc with his interactions with her-interactions where he, in any case, would have been feeling his way.
He’d commanded men for over a decade. Women, unfortunately, were something else again.
Four
8th October, 1822
Afternoon
The deck of our schooner on the Red Sea
Dear Diary,
I am starting to question how much one can learn of another while constantly on edge. On guard. With one’s head forever twisted to look over one’s shoulder. I swear I now have a permanent crick. Unfortunately we know the cultists are out there. Bister and, later, Mullins sighted their telltale black scarves.
Beyond the constant fear of an attack, we go on relatively comfortably. Dorcas thought of draping some of the ubiquitous mosquito netting over a section of the stern, giving me, her, and Arnia some cover beneath which we can sit free of the weight of our burkas. I am seated in our tent of sorts now, watching the passing ships. We are making good time, or so I have been told. The scenery hasn’t notably improved, but the weather is not quite so enervating, at least on the water…once again I find my eyes trepidatiously scanning the vessel our sleek schooner is passing.
The men of our party take turns on watch, which is distracting and makes engaging Gareth in revelatory conversation somewhat difficult, for he, of them all, is most constantly on duty, ready to respond to any alert.
I would almost rather an attack was made so that we might relieve this unending pressure.
E.
Late that evening, a light shawl in her hands, Emily stepped out of the companionway onto the stern deck. Straightening, she paused to flick the silk out and over her shoulders. After a glance around the immediate area-empty of all life-she set off to indulge in a late stroll.