When Mooktu reached the end of his questions, Gareth turned to the crowd. “Did this man attack anyone here?”
As he’d expected, the answer was no.
He looked at Perrot. “Uncle attacked me, and he ordered the kidnapping of Miss Ensworth and threatened her life, and, as you’ve heard, he’s ordered much worse while pursuing us. However, with luck, my party will cross the Channel tomorrow.” He looked inquiringly at Captain Lavalle, who had offered days before to take them.
Lavalle nodded. “The wind has turned. Tomorrow we can sail.”
Gareth looked back at Perrot. “So we can’t hand this man to the gendarmes, for there will be no one here to press charges against him.”
A dark murmur passed around the room. Before dissatisfaction could bloom, Gareth stated, “However, once we sail for England”-he looked at Uncle-“his mission will have failed. And his master, and the cult, have a long-standing practice of punishing failure with death.”
Gareth didn’t need to ask Uncle for confirmation-awakening terror etched his face, there for all to see. “I suggest,” Gareth said, “that the best way of dealing with this fiend is to hold him here, in the basement of the inn, until tomorrow. Then when my party is safely away, on our way to England, release him, and drive him out of town.” Gareth glanced around the crowd. “There are cultists still roaming the countryside. They’ll find him-and mete out the same punishment he would have dealt to any other of his kind who failed.”
Looking again at Uncle, he continued, “There’s no need for us-any of us-to sully our hands dealing with this sort of man.”
Murmurs rose up, some calling for blood, yet there were enough wise heads among the crowd to ensure agreement. Realizing what they planned, what would happen…Uncle seemed to crumple before their eyes.
When Perrot, having consulted with his neighbors, turned back, slapped the table, and declared, “We will do it-just as you say,” Uncle cowered.
Gareth noted it. With a nod to Perrot, he straightened, was about to rise when, quick as a striking snake, Uncle shot out his hand and clutched Gareth’s wrist.
Gareth’s skin crawled. He froze.
“Please…” Uncle whined.
Seated beside Gareth, Emily seized a wooden platter and thumped it down on Uncle’s wrist.
He snatched back his hand, cradling it to his chest, shot her a look more frightened and shocked than scarifying, but then he turned to Gareth as Gareth pushed to his feet, pulling Emily up with him.
“No! Please…” Uncle held out his other hand beseechingly. “You do not understand. Give me up to the Cobra, I deserve nothing less-but please…tell me-where is my son? Where is his body?”
Gareth frowned. “Your son?”
“He led the party who came against you with the Berbers in the desert.”
Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and the others. “Any ideas?”
Mullins looked at Uncle. “He was the leader of that lot-the cultists with the other group of Berbers?”
Uncle nodded. “Please tell me-where lies his body?”
Mullins snorted. “God only knows.” He looked at Gareth. “I think he was taken with the rest of them.”
“Taken?” Uncle looked from one to the other. “He lives?”
Gareth looked at the hope in the man’s eyes. “Did you send him to lead that raid?”
“It was his chance to gain glory-it is the way of the cult.”
“In that case, you and your cult have delivered your son into slavery. He’d promised the Berbers they could have us to sell-the Berbers took him and his men instead.”
Uncle’s face blanked. After a moment, he whispered, “My son…is a slave?” To him, it was unthinkable.
“No.” Slowly Uncle shook his head. “No, no, no-ooh!” Wrapping his arms around himself, he started to rock, softly keening.
The others stood, Perrot with them. “We will take him down and lock him up.”
Lavalle came forward. “The tide will be favorable tomorrow morning at ten.”
Gareth sighed, glanced at Emily beside him. “This isn’t over yet.” He looked at Uncle, being led off to the basement by the Perrots’ strapping sons. “There are cultists still out there. He knows there are.” Turning, he arched a brow at Bister, who grimly nodded. “And we know there are. There were some we didn’t pick up keeping watch along the road.” Gareth met the captain’s eyes. “We’ll need to make arrangements to ensure we get safely aboard.”
The captain grinned and clapped him on the back. “You have given us much excitement in a time of boredom. Come, sit, and we will drink to your health-all of your healths. And then we will make our plans.”
Hours later, mellowed by good cognac and the sweet taste of triumph, however temporary, Gareth followed Emily up the stairs to their chamber.
Their plans for tomorrow organized, the others had retired some time ago. The common room had largely emptied, the stories all told.
Tomorrow they would leave. The unknown, most unpredictable, unquestionably most dangerous part of their journey was behind them, weathered and survived. Tomorrow they would start a new leg, hopefully with less threatening challenges.
Tonight, however, was a time for…
Thankfulness. Gratefulness. Rejoicing.
Emily heard him shut the door, shut out the world. She paused by the bed, waited for him to draw near, then turned directly into his arms.
He smiled. His hands fastening about her waist, he bent his head to kiss her-
She placed her fingers over his lips. “No, wait. There’s something I have to say.”
He studied her eyes, arched his brows.
Her palms on his chest, she held his gaze. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
His lips curved.
“However,” she went on, increasingly stern, “while I most sincerely appreciate being saved, next time, do you think you could manage not to get hurt yourself?”
Curling her fingers in his lapels, she went up on her toes the better to say, “I don’t like you being hurt. When you get hurt, it hurts more than if I’m hurt-just in a different way. I panic when you’re hurt-and I don’t panic. I’m an indomitable Englishwoman and I’ve traveled the world, but you being hurt is something I can’t bear.” From close quarters, she stared into his eyes, one, then the other, then categorically stated, “I love you-do you understand that? I love you-so you mustn’t get hurt. Not anymore.”
She held his gaze for an instant more, then pushed her hands up over his shoulders, wound her arms about his neck, stretched the last inch and pressed her lips to his. “But thank you.” She kissed him.
“Thank you.” Another kiss.
“Thank you.” She whispered the last thank you over his lips, then met them in a kiss that this time didn’t end, but lengthened, strengthened, deepened as he took over, took charge, took her mouth, and she gave.
Surrendered.
Murmured, when his lips left hers to skate down the arching column of her throat, “Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not.” His breath feathered over the sensitive skin where shoulder met neck. “I’m…cowed.”
She laughed, a short burst of disbelief that ended in a hiss as his hands closed about her breasts. After that, conversation was on neither of their agendas. Only one thing was.
One need, one want.
One passion, one desire.
One overwhelming craving.
Gareth had expected that-the age-old need to crown death’s defeat with a celebration of life, of the pinnacle of living.
Loving.
Loving her-and having her love him. The knowledge invested his every touch, made every caress she gifted him with one of precious delight.
Clothes drifted to the floor. Incoherent murmurs rose and fell as they uncovered, discovered, and feasted. As they fell on the bed and skin met skin, and passion rose and desire sparked, arced and drew them in.