“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
Dear Diary,
I am scribbling this by the light of an oil lamp, which I will have to turn down very soon so the ladies and I can sleep. It’s strange to lie rolled in sheet and blanket on a rug placed on sand, with the tent sides moving just a little in the wind, but there’s been so much of the unusal today that it seems all of a piece.
I have to ride a camel-who stinks!-and while I would rather be on one of their wonderful Arabian horses, I can’t complain, as most of the other women and some of the men have no mounts at all and must trudge through the sand. And, as I have discovered to my dismay, sand in the desert gets into everything. And everywhere. Everywhere including places sand was never meant to be. And again that is something I can do very little about-just another something I must endure.
But undoubtedly the most exercising aspect of traveling with our nomads is the absolute separation of men and women. How can I pursue Gareth-how can he pursue me-how can we further explore our mutual attraction-if the only times we can so much as exchange words is in full view of everyone else?
Clearly nomadic courtship follows different rules.
I suspect I will have to learn those rules, if only to work out how to bend them.
E.
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.