The Elusive Bride (18 page)

Found and traced the outer planes of her thigh, gripped her bottom again, but this time skin to skin. Felt her tighten her arms about his neck, rise in his hold, then settle more firmly in his hand. Tipping her hips toward him, wordlessly offering.

He inwardly swore, but it was far too late to rein in his raging need.

His questing fingers slid over the locked muscle of her thigh, and slid inward. Exploring, seeking. Searching.

Finding.

Her slick swollen flesh slid like silk against his fingertips. He stroked, caressed, circled her tight entrance. Pressed lightly in.

She kissed him ferociously, then arched in his arms, helplessly begging.

He slid one finger in, slowly, reached deep, then stroked, equally slowly, equally deeply.

And she burned.

She turned all but incandescent in his arms, her body surrendered, his to pleasure as he would—

Metal clanked.

He jerked back from the kiss. Turned his head and looked.

Sensed her do the same.

The noise had come from deeper in the house. The kitchen courtyard perhaps. Stationed as he was, Mullins wouldn’t have heard it.

Gareth all but swayed as he looked back at Emily. His breathing sounded ragged and rough in his ears. She was openly panting. His heart pounded under the influence of multiple imperatives. As he met her eyes, he saw that other tension that had relinquished its hold on them both over the last minutes return.

Infusing them both.

She blinked, then mouthed, “Who?”

He shook his head. Carefully, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, from beneath her skirts. Grasping her knee, he eased her leg down, held her until she nodded that she could stand on her own.

He leaned closer. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Drawing back, he reinforced the order with a glare.

She glared back, her expression grim. But her lips remained set in a thin line, and she stayed where she was as he slowly turned, then, soft footed, crept into the corridor leading further into the house.

Of course, she was behind him when he paused by the closed kitchen door.

Rustlings, bumps, the scrape of wood on tile, and the occasional clank came from beyond the ill-fitting door.

Then he heard the snuffling.

Tension draining, he reached out and pushed the door inward.

It swung wide, revealing the intruder.

The goat looked up, and baaed.

It took them half an hour to get the goat retethered and put the kichen to rights. And by then their heated moment had definitely cooled.

Emily was only too ready to light the flame again, but after trailing her back into the front salon, rather than follow her up the stairs—and possibly to her bed—Gareth paused by the front door.

Realizing he was no longer behind her, she turned. Looked at him across the dark expanse of the unlit room.

And suddenly wasn’t sure.

Suddenly realized that although she wanted him, despite all they’d shared, she had no real reason to think he wanted her.

He desired her. If she kissed him and offered, he would take—as her sisters had described it, he was like any man in that.

But did he really
want
her in the same way she wanted him?

What if he didn’t?

The thought left her feeling suddenly exposed. Suddenly vulnerable in a way she’d never been before.

And as the silence lengthened, as he made no move to walk forward and join her, but just looked at her through the dark…she had to wonder if she’d got it all horribly wrong.

At last he shifted. Nodded. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her heart was lodged somewhere in her throat. “Aren’t you coming up?”
With me?

Gareth forced himself to shake his head. “I’ll relieve Mullins. We still need to keep watch.”

She hesitated for an instant longer, then inclined her head, turned, and slowly climbed the stairs.

He watched until she passed out of sight. Then he relaxed his hands from the fists they’d curled into and stared at the door, but made no move to open it.

After a long moment, he shook his head. He still felt as if someone had hit it. Hard.

Someone had.
She
had.

She’d scrambled his thoughts and connected with his lustful inner self—that self that wanted nothing more desperately than to have her beneath him, naked or not. She’d lured that more passionate primitive self out and set it—him—free.

But…

He’d been saved by that damned goat.

Even now he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bless the animal or wring its neck.

In the deepening dark, the questions that now haunted him stood stark and clear in his undistracted mind. Did she truly want him, or had she been swept away by passion? By a need he still believed owed more to reaction than any true, unmanipulated emotion.

He wanted her—desperately, almost beyond thought—but he wanted her to want him for the same reason.

Simply because.

Because he was the man she truly wanted. Wanted at some fundamental, visceral level that wouldn’t be denied.

He wanted her to want him.

Him
. For himself.

Not
him
because he was the one there and she needed to lie with a man, needed to come alive in a man’s arms to balance her brushes with death.

Not
him
in place of a fallen comrade.

And definitely not
him
just to fill the void, to be a husband to whom she could play wife.

None of those alternatives would do. Not for him.

Not for her.

They both deserved better.

His problem was, if it wasn’t with her, he couldn’t imagine his better would ever come to be.

Staring at the dark door was getting him nowhere. Heaving a sigh, he straightened his shoulders, opened the door, and went out to relieve Mullins, and to seek what solace he could in the quiet stillness of the night.

T
hat afternoon, the entire party sat about the low table in the main salon, slouched among the cushions, confident that the guards stationed outside would alert them to any incursion, and celebrated Gareth’s and Bister’s success in hunting down the captain Laboule had recommended, and securing passage on his xebec to Marseilles.

They would leave the next day on the mid-morning tide.

They’d just drunk a toast in orange juice to the next leg of their journey, when a rap sounded on the courtyard gate.

A distinctly official-sounding rap.

Gareth rose, Mooktu beside him, as the gate opened to reveal the familiar figure of the captain of the guard. They’d learned he was the captain for this district, one that rarely saw dignitaries or palace-worthy residents. He was, he had assured them, grateful for the imposition of their presence—and its ramifications.

He smiled as he spotted Gareth in the open doorway of the salon.

Stepping into the courtyard, Gareth returned the smile, but his instincts were pricking.

“Major Hamilton.” The captain bowed. “I bring another invitation to you and your lady to dine at the palace this evening.”

“Thank you.” Gareth glanced around and saw that Emily had followed him to the doorway.

The captain had spoken loud enough for her to hear. Stepping out into the sunshine, she came to join them. As she neared, he read the question in her eyes, saw the slight shrug as she realized he could give only one answer.

Returning his attention to the captain, Gareth inclined his head. “We are honored.”

The captain beamed. “I will come for you as before, at the same time.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Emily smiled graciously. “We’ll be waiting.”

The captain bowed low and retreated. Once the gate had closed behind him, Gareth took Emily’s arm and turned her back to the house. “Any ideas?”

She grimaced. “All I can imagine is that the bey wants to take advantage of our presence to rehearse his courtiers and the begum in their European roles some more.”

Passing into the salon, she looked at Dorcas. “We’re to dine at the palace again—we’ll need to delve into my trunks for another gown.”

The captain led them to a different entrance again. Smaller, less grand, the doorway was tucked away down one side of the palace, and was reached through a heavily screened courtyard. The man waiting to receive them was larger, oddly flabby, his robes much less gaudy and gilded than the bey’s butler.

The man didn’t speak, merely bowed low and, after taking Emily’s cloak and handing it to an underling, gestured for them to follow him. As they were led down a series of corridors, Gareth noted that the décor was less ornate, less grand. Perhaps they were to dine with the bey
en famille
?

That notion strengthened when their guide halted and waved them into a relatively small but richly appointed salon giving onto a private courtyard. Following Emily in, Gareth saw the begum reclining amid the cushions set about a traditional low table, one just big enough for four.

Seeing them, the begum smiled. She inclined her head in response to Emily’s curtsy, but her eyes skated over his companion to fix on him. “Major and Majoress Hamilton, I am very glad you honor me with your presence.”

The purring tone, combined with the way the begum’s gaze rested so heavily, almost hungrily, on him, raised the hairs on Gareth’s nape.

Emily boldly walked forward, cutting off the begum’s view of Gareth. “I take it the bey will be joining us?”

She’d already noted that the table was set for three.

The begum fiddled with her rings. “My husband was called away unexpectedly—some problem to the south. I thought to surprise him by learning more of your ways.” She craned her neck to look around Emily, smiled and gestured to the places to either side of her. “Major, Majoress—please sit.”

The previous night’s dinner had been served at a European-style table with proper chairs. Emily regarded the piled cushions. She suspected the begum wasn’t interested in learning more about table manners. When Gareth’s hand touched her
back, a subtle prompt, she stepped forward and sank down to the begum’s left.

Perching on the cushions in any manner that combined modesty and grace wasn’t easy. It took a few moments to rearrange her legs and skirts. She glanced at the begum to see if there was any trick to it, and very nearly gawped.

The bey’s wife had wriggled straighter, lithely sitting cross-legged amid the silk cushions, and had let the old gold silk shawl that had been draped over her shoulders fall, leaving her clad primarily in shimmering, translucent amber-bronze gauze.

Shocked, Emily looked—and detected a few inches of impenetrable bronze silk in strategic places. But really! The woman was all but bare!

The begum hadn’t noticed her reaction. She was smiling widely at Gareth, her gaze, her whole attention locked on him.

Emily half expected her to lick her lips.

She looked at Gareth. Once again in his uniform, he’d taken the third place at the table, on the begum’s right, settling cross-legged on the cushions. He was wearing one of his blandest expressions, but after all they’d been through, she’d grown adept at reading him. Tension sang in the line of his shoulders; every muscle was taut, ready to react. He was watching the begum much as he might a potentially dangerous animal he had to sit beside.

He was watching the begum’s eyes, apparently neither attracted nor interested in all else that was on show.

Emily felt a
soupçon
of relief. The begum was very beautiful, albeit in a sultry, rather predatory way.

Sensing her gaze, Gareth glanced fleetingly at Emily. Through the brief contact she sensed his unease. He was uncomfortable and wanted to be anywhere but there.

Recalling the purpose for which they’d ostensibly been invited, she cleared her throat, smiled somewhat condescendingly when the begum glanced her way, then leaned closer and confided, “I feel I should warn you, my dear begum, that
the attire in which you are honoring us tonight would not do at any European court.”

The begum frowned, and glanced down at her translucent blouse. “These garments are considered entirely appropriate for a lady to wear to dine with guests in her husband’s house.”

“I daresy they are—
here
. But in Europe, appearing anywhere in such attire would cause a scandal, I do assure you. And, you will pardon me if I have this incorrect, but I assumed the bey’s reason for asking us to coach you and the others in European ways was to avoid any unnecessary incidents.”

The begum’s attention was now all Emily’s, but after a moment of frowning thought, the bey’s wife turned and appealed to Gareth. “Is it as your majoress says? That if I go clad like this”—she spread her diaphanously draped arms—“I will create a bad impression?”

Tight lipped, his eyes commendably locked on the begum’s face, Gareth nodded. “It would not be well received by society. People would disapprove, and the
grandes dames
would most likely”—he paused, then amended—“would absolutely
not
invite you to their select soirees.”

“Oh.” Arms lowering, the begum deflated. She looked back at Emily. “So.” Her eyes scanned Emily’s evening gown. “I must cover up like you?”

Emily glanced down at her pale amber silk gown with its scooped neckline and raised waist, both lightly trimmed with lace. The skirt sported a single lace flounce above the hem and a row of amber and silver buttons ran down the center front from neckline to hem. “In style, yes, but your gowns could have richer decoration.” She reached out and touched the fine gold-thread embroidery on the begum’s sleeve. “Like this. In Europe, status is denoted by quality of materials and richness of ornamentation, rather than by different styles.”

“I see.” The begum looked not so much thoughtful as calculating, but then the large butlerlike man appeared in the
doorway. She glanced at him, then turned to smile at Gareth. “Our meal is now ready, so we will eat.” She looked back at the butler and issued a command in Arabic. With a deep bow, he withdrew.

A smile played about the begum’s lips. She turned to Gareth. “And then you may instruct me in what I most wish to know.”

Gareth exchanged a glance with Emily, and fervently prayed that gowns, bonnets, and social manners were all that was on the begum’s mind, and that the impression he was receiving from the woman’s glances and smiles was being scrambled in translation.

Unfortunately, he didn’t think that was the case, but while the begum continued to believe he and Emily—his majoress—were married, he—they—should be safe.

The meal placed before them on intricately carved brass dishes owed nothing to European sensibilities. Luckily, he and Emily had been eating Arab fare for some time. They partook of the various dishes and numerous side dishes without hesitation. Unlike most English misses he’d encountered, Emily did not eat like a bird, and her tastes, he’d noted, were distinctly adventurous.

Soon after the meal began, Emily complimented the begum on her chef’s efforts, and from there neatly turned the conversation to the comments it was considered good taste to make over a hostess’s table.

The topic carried them through the many courses until the begum’s eunuch—Gareth had finally placed the oddness about the butlerlike individual—placed sweetmeats and jellied fruits on the table, poured thimblefuls of thick, rich coffee, then, leaving the ornate coffeepot on the table, bowed low and, at a word from the begum, withdrew.

Immediately the begum turned to Gareth, an anticipatory gleam lighting her eyes. “And now, Major, if you please, you will teach me all about dalliance. I have heard that the pastime is much indulged in at all the European courts.”

She leaned closer. Gareth had to fight not to lean back.

Her eyes locked on his, her voice once more lowering to a decadently sultry purr, the begum declared, “You will instruct me in how it is done.” Her gaze fell to his lips. The tip of her tongue appeared and slid slowly, languorously, over her lower lip. “You will demonstrate
every
little detail.”

She already had a good grasp of the basics. Gareth stopped the thought from converting into speech, but how was he to refuse without offending the begum—without landing him, and even more Emily, in hot Tunisian water?

Exceedingly hot given he couldn’t afford to risk asking any British official for help.

Eyes locked on the begum as she shifted still nearer, he wracked his brains for some way out. He didn’t dare look at Emily, look away from the danger.

The begum started to stretch upward, to tip her face invitingly to his.

He wanted to leap to his feet and walk away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. The offense would be too great. Desperately battling his instincts, he felt as if he’d been turned to stone.

“No!
” The outraged injunction burst from Emily’s lips.

She’d been watching the begum in a sort of stupor, unable to credit that the woman would actually try to kiss Gareth in front of her—his majoress. Once the spell had been broken, she had no difficulty in continuing, “No, no,
no
!”

Reaching out, she caught the begum’s arm and bodily hauled the woman upright—away from Gareth and his lips.

At least his lips had been edging back, away from the begum’s, but what the devil was he thinking, to let her get so close?

Emily glared into the begum’s shocked face. “That is
not
the way it is done—not anywhere in Europe.”

The begum frowned—a frown that rapidly converted to a scowl. “I have heard it is common that married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands. And that the gentlemen may be married or not—that for them marriage says nothing. Is this not true?”

The words were a challenge, one Emily knew well enough
to meet head-on. “Yes, but as in all things, as a foreigner you’ve missed the subtleties, the nuances.” She drew breath, shot a sharp glance at Gareth hoping he’d have the sense to remain silent, then locked her gaze once more with the begum’s. “
Not
all married ladies indulge with gentlemen not their husbands, and
not
all married gentlemen indulge with ladies not their wives. Only a percentage, in some circles a
very small
percentage, of married people seek…er, entertainment with others not their spouses.”