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.
I therefore resolved to act, however much brazenness that might entail. Faint heart never won all she wanted, and I am determined to have all-everything I dreamed might be once I found my “one.” I have waited too long to make do with half measures-a marriage based on love yet with that love unacknowledged.
Sadly, having reached this point of calm decision, I fell asleep.
So tonight will be the night, dear Diary-wish me luck!
Whatever it takes, I will not be gainsaid.
E.
By dinnertime that evening, Gareth was desperate. In more ways than one, but he sternly forced himself to focus on his mission-on the undeniable imperative that he organize safe passage onward.
He knew what he needed-two fast carriages, with two drivers who understood, appreciated, and accepted the likelihood of attack. He refused to put men’s lives at risk without their knowledge and consent. He’d prefer them enthusiastic.
He, Watson, and Bister had trudged the town, calling at the major coaching inns, but most didn’t like to hire carriages in that way-for the whole journey from south to north coast-and they’d yet to find any who seemed keen enough for the business to trust with their story.
But they needed to find carriages and head north soon, or risk being caught by the cultists, who were indeed methodically searching. Luckily, they’d started in the upper end of the town. It would be a few days yet before the searchers reached their neighborhood.
He’d been silent through their meal. He’d felt Emily’s gaze on his face a number of times, but hadn’t met it. Finally, he set down his knife and fork, pushed his plate away, leaned back in his chair-and raised his eyes to hers.
She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s wrong?”
“No carriages.” He explained the problem, and the increasing urgency.
Her gaze grew distant, then she said, “You asked at the major coaching inns. What about some of the smaller ones?”