He straightened, easing the fingers cramped about the hilt of his saber. His and Mooktu’s new robes were liberally bloodied. A quick check confirmed none of it was theirs.

Only then, with the grip of battle fading, did he look at Emily.

She was still standing on the roof alongside him, watching the activity on the deck below. Her arms were tightly folded, hands gripping her elbows as if she were cold. Shock, yes, but not hysterics, for which small mercy he was grateful.

For the much greater mercy that she was still alive, he metaphorically went down on his knees and gave thanks.

He’d known she was up on deck. He’d heard her footsteps. He’d started circling, on the opposite side as she, avoiding her as he had whenever possible over the last days.

Her scream had put paid to that.

It had ripped through the night, and ripped through him. His heart had stopped, then started pounding so hard he’d been sure the cultists would hear and see him as he climbed up and over the roof.

But she was still alive; she didn’t appear to have taken any wound.

And she’d very effectively covered his back, which was the last thing he’d expected.

He was sincerely grateful for that, too.

The deck below was clearing. Mooktu grunted, then dropped down off the roof and strode away to reassure Arnia, who had appeared at the stern.

With his free hand, Gareth touched Emily’s slender back. “Come. I’ll lift you down.”

He dropped down to the less bloodied side of the deck, then, setting aside his saber, turned to her, reached up, set his hands about her waist and gripped.

And swung her down.

Felt his heart pound just a little harder as he set her on her feet before him. As he looked into the face that haunted his dreams. Chest swelling, he had to force his hands to ease their grip and let go.

Bister unwittingly helped, coming up to take his saber to clean it.

He’d just handed it over when Captain Ayabad turned from giving orders to have the decks sluiced and swabbed.

Gareth spoke before the captain could. “I’ll have four of my men help scour the decks tomorrow.”

Ayabad inclined his head. “And while they are doing that, I think, Major, that you and I will have a talk. There are things I don’t know that it appears I need to know.”

Gareth nodded curtly. “In the morning, we’ll talk.”

“Bon.” Ayabad, tall, dark, of similar age to Gareth, again inclined his head, then his teeth flashed as he turned to Emily. “I must thank you, mam’zelle, for an entertaining evening.”

Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”

Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel-flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.

By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.

Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.

He turned to her just as she looked up at him.

Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up on her toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.

His instincts surged, purred, reached-

Ruthlessly he slapped them down.

It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…

Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.

His hungry, starving lips.

He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.

To taste, then claim, then devour.

Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…

Her lips lingered.

Then, on a sigh, she drew back.

As her heels touched the deck, he straightened-reluctantly. Disappointedly.

Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.

“Thank you, Major.”

He forced his gaze up to her eyes.

They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”

He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.

He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.

It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.

Not to her.

He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in the opposite direction. There was nothing between them-he’d be a fool to think there was.

This-whatever it was-was all in his mind.

10th October, 1822

Very early morning

In my cabin in the schooner, bobbing on the Red Sea

Dear Diary,

I am in two minds about having my last wish granted. The attack was truly frightening, and brought home to me-as if that were necessary-the true violence of the cultists’ natures. They are fanatics and think nothing of fighting to the death. If it hadn’t been for my gallant major…but that, of course, was what I gained from the experience, terrifying though it was. Gareth was nothing less than superb in whisking me from the imminent clutches of the fiends, and then protecting me against the rabble. He accounted for numerous of their number. The others, too, and the crew, did their part, I’m sure, but understandably I had eyes only for my rescuer, a fact that enabled me to account for one cultist of my own, protecting the major from a dishonorable attack from the rear, and thus evening the score between us a trifle.

Naturally, later, I had to kiss him. Yes, it was exceedingly bold, but the moment-and the excuse-were there, and I would have been foolish indeed to let the opportunity slip.

And therefore, dear Diary, I am now in a position to report that Major Gareth Hamilton is no frog. Even though the kiss was all on my part-he very properly did not respond-I could sense, and feel…suffice it to say that the aftermath of the experience disturbed my slumber for the remainder of the night.

Naturally, given its success, that kiss can only be my first step. It has opened the door, so to speak, and now I must learn what lies beyond.

I have to admit I am insatiably curious.

E.

The next morning, as he’d promised, Gareth went to speak with the captain.

In order to give himself every advantage in the negotiations that were sure to ensue, he took Emily with him.

He tapped on the captain’s cabin door, and when Ayabad bade them enter, opened the door and ushered Emily, fetchingly dressed in a flimsy spring green gown, over the threshold.

Ayabad came to his feet in a rush, then hurried to hold a chair for Emily, who returned his greeting coolly and sat.

Drawing up a second chair, Gareth sat alongside her.

She’d been as pleased as punch when he’d asked her to accompany him; he was growing adept at reading her expressions. Of course, she didn’t comprehend exactly why he’d requested her presence, but he saw no harm in allowing her to imagine he needed her counsel, and distracting Ayabad was, he judged, a strategically wise move.

“Now, Major.” Ayabad resumed his seat behind the small desk. “Perhaps you will be so good as to explain the interests of those who attacked this ship last night, and whether it is likely we will encounter more of their ilk on this voyage.”

Having already decided what to reveal, Gareth smoothly explained the basis of the Black Cobra cult, and the cultists’ interest in Emily as the one who had bravely brought critical evidence to the authorities.

Ayabad was suitably impressed and intrigued. He exclaimed at the tale of Emily’s ride from Poona and asked various questions, which Emily answered with just the right degree of feminine self-effacement.

By the simple expedient of not mentioning the copy of the letter he was carrying, Gareth’s tale, supported by Emily, left Ayabad with the impression that Gareth was acting as Emily’s escort on her journey home to England, because the Black Cobra was expected to seek revenge through attacks such as the one the previous night.

After that, it took little to convince Ayabad that he should support them by continuing to ferry them north to Suez, beating off any cult attacks along the way. Gareth was a shrewd judge of men like the captain; Ayabad and his sailors were only too ready to enliven their lives by joining in a good fight. There was, of course, a fee to be paid. He and Ayabad haggled over the additional sum.

A glance at Emily showed she was horrified-whether by the amount or simply the fact of the extra sum, he couldn’t tell-but to his relief she remained silent, although he, certainly, felt her disapproval.

Emily was indeed incensed, but as Gareth seemed to think nothing of either the captain’s demand, or of the-to her quite horrendous-sums being bandied about, she felt she had to hold her tongue.

Which left her time to note that, given said sums, Gareth Hamilton was no pauper. She hadn’t thought of the expenses he’d been meeting, but the briefest of considerations confirmed he must command resources well beyond that of the average army major. Then again, she’d heard plenty of tales of the wealth accummulated by those in the employ of the East India Company, and Gareth had told her that he and his fellow officers had been, in his words, “Hastings’s own.”