Stephanie Laurens - The Elusive Bride

There, she struck gold.

A door on one side wall was placed close to the junction with the outer wall. Opening the door, she went through-and found herself in a narrow corridor connecting with the next room along. The door at the other end of the corridor was shut. Smiling to herself, she went forward, then halted and stood looking out of the lead-paned windows to the harbor far below.

Gareth hesitated in the doorway.

Without looking his way, she pointed out and down. “There’s our ship.”

After an instant’s pause in which she could almost hear his resigned sigh, he stepped over the threshold, closed the door, then came to join her.

“See?” she said, as he paused beside her. Once she was sure he was following her gaze to the line of ships below, she went on, “That’s the tiny vessel we’ll be returning to in less than an hour, to spend the next several days cooped up with a score of others, unable to exchange so much as a private word.”

Turning to him, she studied his profile, all she could see of his face. “Given what we’ve already exchanged, what has already passed between us, any other gentleman would be gladly seizing the opportunity”-just so he didn’t miss the point, she flung out her arms-“this opportunity, to at the very least kiss me again.”

He glanced sideways at her, then half turned so she could see more of his face.

She narrowed her eyes on his. “So why aren’t you? Why are you suddenly avoiding me?”

Saying the words made them real. She’d known that’s what he was doing, but hadn’t-until that moment-allowed those words to form in her mind. They were too damning-and no young lady with any claim to modesty would ever voice such words aloud…she wasn’t a great believer in self-sacrificing modesty.

So she glared, folded her arms-refused to acknowledge the prick of the words, the sharp yet hollowing hurt-and waited.

Waited.

“I’m giving you time to come to your senses.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You need to realize what this-our attraction-is about. What it springs from. What drives it.”

She frowned. “I know what-”

“No. You don’t.”

She studied him through narrowing eyes, registering his rigid conviction. Slowly she raised her brows. “Indeed? So why don’t you enlighten me?”

He’d walked into that one. Gareth gritted his teeth, kept his gaze locked with hers…as the seconds ticked by and she didn’t soften, didn’t waver, didn’t back down, he accepted he had no choice. Drawing in a short breath, he plunged in. “What’s occurred between us is the result of surviving danger-the outcome, a natural and unsurprising outcome, of the dangerous episodes we’ve weathered together. It’s something everyone feels afterward, after such clashes. I’m used to it, so I recognize it, but you wouldn’t have experienced it before, and…” He felt his face harden. “Regardless of what you imagine what’s happened between us means, that, in reality, is all it means. It’s an outcome of having survived a brush with death.”

Her frown had evaporated into an expression of stunned blankness. Her gaze distant, her voice, too, seemed to come from far away. “That’s not-”

“What you think, but that is what it is.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, her face devoid of expression, her jaw a trifle slack, then she said, “You have no idea what I think. No idea why I feel what I do.”

“What you think you feel has nothing to do with it. I know what this is-know why you want me to kiss you again-and therefore I know, unquestionably, that honor dictates that as a gentleman, as the one more experienced, I should refuse and keep a proper distance.”

Enough of explanations. He swung into the attack. “You should be thanking me for not accepting your invitation to further dalliance.” He made his tone resolute, even dictatorial. “Most men in my position would take advantage, but you deserve better.”

Her eyes narrowed again, her gaze focusing more intently on him. “So…you’re saying I’m suffering from…what? Some form of danger-induced delusional desire from which you need to save me?”

He hestitated, then nodded. “Yes. That’s all this is.”

“You need to save me from myself.” Emily dragged in a shaky breath. “And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m a great deal more experienced than you.”

“I se-ee.” Her temper erupted and made her voice quaver. Her eyes as narrow as they could get, she pinned him. Rage of a kind she’d never before felt pouring hotly through her veins, she opened her mouth-and discovered she couldn’t get a word out.

She drew breath, held it, tried again to speak, but fury clogged her throat.

You have not the faintest idea what you’re talking about!

“Arrgh!” Flinging up her hands, she swung around, stalked to the door at the end of the corridor, hauled it open, and swept out.

So much for finding a suitable place. So much for arranging a suitable time.

So much for developing a relationship with him-he didn’t even believe she genuinely wanted one!

Aggravated phrases, irritated declarations-all the things she’d love to say, to heap on his head if only she could speak, if only she could trust herself to berate him without furious tears strangling her voice-rang in her head as without pause she stalked straight out of the palace and on down the street.

Her expression must have been all suppressed fury; after one glance, everyone moved out of her way. She didn’t look back to see if Gareth was following, but she heard footfalls behind her, and knew it was him.

She reached the gate in the railing enclosing the park. Pausing, she glanced back, at his face, scorched him with a look full of fulminating fury, then she swung around, summoned a relaxed expression and plastered it on her face, settled her burka-shawl about her shoulders and, head rising, walked forward to find Dorcas and Watson and return to the xebec.

12th November, 1822

Late

Back on the xebec

Their xebec put into Tunis harbor three days later, in the afternoon. They had sighted not one cultist since Alexandria, which was just as well given the sea approach to Tunis lay via a narrow entrance into a so-called lake. The xebec had had to furl its sails and beat in under oars. Outrunning any pursuit would have been impossible.

After farewelling Captain Laboule and his crew, thanking them for their hospitality and commiserating hypocritically over the lack of fighting, Gareth led his party off the deck, onto the docks. All once again in Arab guise, confidently following Laboule’s directions, they hired a small donkey-drawn cart from the many waiting to ferry passengers, luggage, and goods over the short distance from lakeshore to city gate. With the three women perched on their luggage in the cart, Gareth trudged along the sandy road, with the other men flanking the cart.

He kept his gaze from Emily. Since their “discussion” in Valletta, she had made no further advances, offered no further invitations to kiss her.

Just as well. If she had, he wasn’t at all sure he’d have had the strength or willpower to resist.

But he’d done the right thing. Not what he wanted-he wanted her-but honor had dictated that he couldn’t take advantage of her, that he’d had to give her the chance to back away.

And she had.

She’d drawn back, thought of what he’d said, and had seen the truth in his words, his assertion. She’d accepted the opening he’d given her to step back from any further interaction-which, given what had already occurred between them, would have only ended in one place, one activity.

He’d been right, and she’d finally seen that.

Over the days since Valletta, he’d been conscious of her watching him, broodingly, as if she were studying him.

Perhaps wondering at the passionate madness that had infected her, glad he’d explained and she’d seen it for what it was.

He trudged on, and tried not to think of her.

Tried to focus on his mission, on evaluating the possible threat from cultists in this out-of-the-way city. Concentrating on Laboule’s helpful directions, he led the way through the city gate and on toward the medina.

A souk by another name, they could hear a rising cacophony of voices, smell the pungent pervasive scents of spices, long before they saw the narrowing streets and covered alleys ahead.

Just before they reached the medina itself, Gareth turned left, and found the guesthouse Laboule had recommended a hundred yards further on. A quick survey from the street was encouraging. Leaving the others in the street with the luggage, he knocked on the gate in the wall, and was admitted.

The guesthouse was well-suited to their needs, clean, large enough, but not too sprawling, with sufficient rooms and, most important, a single guarded gate to the street. He settled to haggle with the owners. Dropping Laboule’s name helped. In short order he’d hired the guesthouse, once again managing to secure it exclusively for his party.