Yes, we will-that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”-but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.
I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.
He will need to do better than that-especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.
So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger-my ultimate goal-I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.
As you know, dear Diary, I am bound and determined to achieve my ultimate goal. I go forward in hope.
Indeed, with a spring in my step, for I am sure I am halfway there.
E.
By noon that day, they were on Captain Dacosta’s xebec and crossing from the Lake of Tunis into the Mediterranean on their way-at last-to Marseilles.
Gareth strode the deck, feeling more confident than he had for some weeks. He was pleased he’d made the effort, and wasted the days, looking for Dacosta, the captain Laboule had recommended. Like Laboule, Dacosta had been happy to meet his requirements; neither the captain nor his small crew would draw back from a fight.
With luck, there wouldn’t be one, given they’d sighted no cultists since Alexandria. Although at the time he’d been sure the attack on him and Mooktu on their first day in Tunis had been the work of the cult, he was no longer so sure. All had been uncommonly quiet subsequently, which was very unlike the cult.
Pausing by the prow railing, he scanned the horizon. There were ships out there-this was the Mediterranean-but none seemed to be taking any inordinate interest in them. More, the horizon itself was clear. The weather was fine and looked set to remain so for the immediate future.
His lips curved as he realized the same could be said of atmospheric conditions on his personal front. Emily was in a sunny mood, and while only he knew the reason for the quite notable smile that now inhabited her face, he suspected some of the others, at least, had guessed. Her maid for one; Dorcas had leveled a very strait look at him when he’d assisted her onto the gangplank.
He wasn’t entirely certain whether he was glad or not that this was a typical xebec, on this voyage fully loaded with amphoras of fine cooking oil, and consequently space was at a premium. There were no private nooks anywhere, nowhere he and Emily could repair to for a private interlude.
On balance, he suspected that was just as well. He would use the time to Marseilles to work out his approach-his plan to get her agreement to their wedding, to being his wife, without any further discussion of his motives or feelings. The latter would prove difficult regardless; he had no firm idea what his feelings for her truly were, but he knew the outcome-that he needed her as his wife-and that was enough.
Probing further…
After a moment, he suppressed a grimace, shifted his shoulders, then left the railing and resumed his progress around the deck.
No soldier, no swordsman, no commander, ever exposed a vulnerability willingly. He was all three, and he had no intention of violating that unwritten law. He wanted to marry Emily. In the circumstances, neither she, nor he, needed to know more.
The lone cutlist sent to watch in Tunis carefully packed his bag. He had carried out his orders, and while he hadn’t been able to capture the major, he had performed the most vital and imperative task laid upon him.
Once he’d sighted the major’s party, he’d ensured word had gone out on the very next tide.
He hoped his master would be pleased.
Closing his bag, he looked around the small room, then, bag in hand, turned and walked out of the door.
19th November, 1822
Evening
Once more in a shared cabin on a xebec
Dear Diary,
We left Tunis today on a fair wind, which I have been informed by Captain Dacosta is likely to remain with us all the way to Marseilles. Dacosta is much like Laboule, and thus like Gareth, too, which brings me to my point.
Men of action, like Gareth, our xebec captains, Berber chieftains, and the like, appear to share certain similarities of character, especially in a personal sense. I have been mulling over the wisdom the older Berber women-who have spent a lifetime observing such men-deigned to share. In taking guidance on the matter of Gareth Hamilton, I could do far worse.
My conclusions are that while he clearly feels something for me, and indeed, all the signs point to that something being love, it is important-in fact, critical-for our future happiness that he acknowledges that fact, and accepts that love-mutual and enduring-is the true basis of our marriage from the start.
So how do I bring that about?
As ever resolute.
E.
The attack came with the dawn.
Emily woke with a start. Her hammock swung wildly as she sat up. Shouts reached her from the deck above, followed by the unmistakable clang of swords.
Feet thundered past-the men belowdecks racing for the companionway ladders.
A heavy thump fell on their door, then it swung open to reveal Gareth in breeches and shirt, a pistol in one hand, sword at his hip.
He looked at her. “Stay here.”
His gaze flicked to Dorcas and Arnia, extending the command to them, then he whirled and was gone, racing to join the fight.
Emily looked at Arnia, then Dorcas, then tumbled out of the hammock. There was only just light enough to see, a pearly wash spreading from the far horizon sliding tentative fingers through the small porthole.
Moments later, fully dressed, the three of them gathered at the foot of the stern ladder. They had no intention of staying out of the fight, of not helping their menfolk, but neither were they foolish.
In matters such as this, Arnia took the lead. Head up, she listened to the thumps and thuds of feet on the deck above. She leaned toward Dorcas and Emily, whispered, “It will be better to let them all become engaged, then fall on them-our attackers-from the rear.” She gestured with the wicked looking blade in her hand. “If the cultists have time to notice us, they will come for us first, thinking to weaken our men by holding us.”
Emily nodded. Dorcas had Arnia’s second knife. Emily had glanced around the ship’s galley, but hadn’t seen anything she wanted to use. Despite Bister’s training, she didn’t think she would be able to wield a knife-just the thought of sticking a blade into someone made her squeamish-but she’d noticed the pole the sailors used for tweaking the sails and ropes, similar to the pole she’d used in their previous shipboard fight. As before, the pole was stowed along the side of the stern housing; she would grab it the instant she gained the deck.
She was an Englishwoman; fighting with staffs was much more her style.
Arnia had been listening intently. Abruptly, she nodded. “Now.”
She started up the ladder. Dorcas followed, with Emily close behind.
They reached the deck to discover not just chaos, but pandemonium. Schooners were sometimes fighting ships, and so better accommodated hand-to-hand combat. Most xebecs were solely merchant vessels. Their low railings and narrow walkways made their decks highly unsuitable for fighting.