It was over so fast that Emily, still catching her breath, was left wondering if all battles were so quickly won. She doubted it, but suddenly the body of attackers fractured, splintered and scattered, Berbers in their darker robes breaking off in twos and threes to ride down the dune and head back the way they’d come.
The guards chased them, but only so far. Once the attackers’ flight was assured, the guards reined in, then wheeled and trotted back.
They joined Gareth and Ali-Jehan. Emily quickly verified that all the others were there, that the only bodies lying unmoving in the sand belonged to cultists. She looked back at their defenders, riding back toward them. Every single man had a huge grin on his face.
“Amazing,” she muttered, relieved yet mystified at the transparent delight illuminating every male face.
“They were successful, yes?”
Emily looked down at Anya. All the women, surrounded as they were, couldn’t see the action. “They’re riding back, grinning like small boys.”
Anya smiled widely. “They have won, and they are happy. There will be much rejoicing in our camp tonight.”
As Anya had foretold, the mood in camp that evening was distinctly festive. While the women prepared the evening meal, the men gathered in a large clump outside Ali-Jehan’s tent.
With great cries to his health, they toasted Gareth, then settled to some deep discussion, which he seemed to be leading. As far as Emily could tell from the other side of the camp, he was drawing diagrams in the sand, pointing to this and that, holding his audience in the palm of his hand.
Bister came to check her knives.
She handed them over, then drew him aside and pointed to the male huddle. “What’s that all about?”
Bister settled on the edge of a cart to hone the edges of one knife on a whetstone. “None of that lot have seen a real cavalry charge before.”
“So?”
“There’s differences, see, in how a cavalryman sits, how he holds his sword. They just wade in, shoulders wide, all but asking to be cut down. We go in low, blade extended-makes both offensive and defensive work easier.” Bister nodded toward the knot of men. “That’s what he’s explaining.”
Emily looked across the fire pit. “Is that why the fight ended so quickly?”
“Partly.” Bister looked up, handed her back her knife, and grinned. “He also told us to go for the cultists-that if we accounted for them, the others would flee. He was right, but Ali-Jehan and the others are a trifle miffed they didn’t get more of a fight.”
Emily humphed. After a moment, she said, “But there’ll be more attacks, and more cultists, won’t there?” She met Bister’s eyes as he stood. “There were only five with that lot today-there have to be more chasing us.”
Bister nodded. “So the major thinks.” He tipped his head to the men across the camp. “That’s why he’s laying it all out for them-how best to attack and what to watch for from the cultists. We haven’t seen the last of them, for sure.”
The celebrations continued over the meal and on into the night. Emily considered them a trifle overdone. There was, however, no carousing. Cathcart had mentioned there’d be no spirits, beer, or wine carried with the caravan, which, in light of the men’s revelry, Emily could only view as to the good. If there had been ale, they would have been drunk, and there were still cultists out there.
Sitting with the older women outside their tent, she eyed the male gathering with a jaundiced eye. She battled not to scowl, or worse, pout.
If there was celebrating to do, she wanted to join in.
That wasn’t, however, the nomads’ way.
Then Gareth stood. She saw Ali-Jehan say something, to which Gareth replied. When the Berber sheik started to get to his feet, Gareth dropped a hand on his shoulder, clearly telling him to not disturb himself-he, Gareth, would see to it, whatever it was.
Emily tracked Gareth as he beckoned Mullins and Watson, and two of the guards, then led the way out of the circle of tents.
Pickets? Emily hoped so. The notion of more cultists lurking among the dunes wasn’t going to make sleeping easy. None of the other women, except perhaps Arnia and Dorcas, truly understood the danger.
But if the other men who had departed with Gareth were going out to keep watch…
Turning her head, she waited until she could catch Anya’s eye. “Is it permitted to walk around the tents to stretch my legs? They’re rather cramped after spending all day on top of Doha.”
Anya arched her brows, but then nodded. “It is permitted, but do not dally, or we will have to send others to find you.”
Emily waited for no more, but quickly got to her feet. When Dorcas looked at her inquiringly, she shook her head. “I won’t be long.”
Wrapping her chador over her head and shoulders, as she’d seen other women do around the camp, she walked down the avenue between two tents and stepped into the moonlight beyond.
The night would have been pitch-black if it hadn’t been for the large moon, hanging low on the horizon. Emily duly gave thanks as she skirted the tents, hoping…
“Where are you off to?”
Gareth stepped out from the gap between two tents as Emily whirled to face him.
“Oh! There you are.” She smiled.
He frowned. “You shouldn’t be out here-it’s not safe.”
He’d been in the dark space striding back to the camp’s center when he’d sensed…something. Movement, perhaps. He’d glanced back, and seen her pass by. The moonlight had played on her pale hair, her fair skin.
She’d drawn him like a beacon; turning on his heel, he’d backtracked.
He halted just beyond the rear of the tent as she backtracked, too, drawing near.
Her eyes searched his face. “I thought you were setting pickets.”
“I was.”
“Then it’s safe enough, surely?”
He felt his lips thin. “Possibly.”
She smiled, as if she understood the contradictory impulses clashing within him. Keep her safe. Ravish her.
He reminded himself that the honorable tack was to keep her safe from him, too.
She stepped close-close enough that he could sense her alluring warmth. Close enough to lay a small hand on his chest.
He stepped back, back into the shadows between the tents.
She followed, her hand never losing contact. He felt the touch almost as acutely as if it were skin to skin.
“I watched the fight from atop Doha. It was…” Eyes darkening, she broke off with an evocative shiver. “Frightening.”
“Frightening?” That shiver made him long to sweep her into his arms. He clenched his fists against the impulse.
She nodded. “Swords, scimitars, unarmored bodies. Not a good combination.” She lifted her chin, eyes locking on his. “Not when the bodies are people I care about.”
He stilled. He told himself not to ask, not to expose his vulnerability. “You care about me?”
She held his gaze steadily. “Yes.”
His heart leapt, swelled.
He reached for her as she pressed closer, lifting her face to his.
Effortlessly tempting him to bend his head and cover her lips with his.
In the instant before he did, she brought him back to earth. “Of course.”
Of course? Because he was the one standing between her and frightening cultists? Because…?
He decided he didn’t need to know. He could think about it later. She was here, with him, and she wanted him to kiss her-wanted to kiss him.
Before he could act, she closed the distance, pressed her soft lips to his. The pressure, light, beguiling, called to him, and he kissed her back.
Angled his head and took charge of the kiss.
Took what he wanted-what, suddenly, he realized he needed.
She gifted him with her mouth, tempted him with her tongue, sank into him as he drew her close.
He slid his arms around her and locked her to him.