Gareth caught Emily’s eye. “That was an inspired idea to use the oil.”

Dacosta glanced at her, brows rising. “That was your notion, mam’zelle?”

Emily smiled weakly. “We had to do so something, so…” She suppressed the impulse to lean heavily against Gareth. Fighting was horribly draining…truth be told, it was simply horrible all around. She tried not to look as the crew checked bodies, then heaved the dead overboard. Those cultists who were able had already jumped.

But the xebec was safe again, and so were they.

Dacosta acknowledged that with a low bow. “It seems we all owe you a debt, mam’zelle. For me and my crew-and my brother who owns this ship-I thank you.”

Emily inclined her head, and kept hold of Gareth’s arm. She’d noticed his cuts. None were still bleeding, but she was conscious of a definite desire to take his hand, lead him belowdecks, and wash and tend them. She wondered if perhaps she might manage it later.

Dacosta had his spyglass to his eye again. “If you can explain to me one thing, Major. Why is it the captain there”-his fixed gaze made it clear he was speaking of the other ship’s captain-“did not run out his guns? He wanted to after we set his sails alight-I saw him try to give the order, but the cultists-those on his ship-prevented it. If not for that…” Lowering the glass, Dacosta regarded them impassively. “Given our cargo, he would have blown us to bits.”

Emily stared. “He had guns? You mean cannon?” The last word came out as a half squeak.

Dacosta nodded. “All xebec carry guns, but only small ones, and not many. But at such close quarters, he couldn’t have missed, and because of the oil, we would go”-he made a gesture-“poof.”

A rueful smile touching his lips, Gareth met her gaze briefly, then faced Dacosta. “It’s that thing I’m carrying that they want. For once, it protected us. If they’d blown up the ship, even if they’d just sunk it, they would lose what they’ve been sent to fetch-and their master wouldn’t like that.”

Dacosta nodded. “I see. This master of theirs, this Black Cobra. I take it he doesn’t forgive well?”

Gareth shook his head. “Not well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t forgive at all.”


The Black Cobra’s lack of forgiveness, more specifically the vindictiveness visited upon any of the cult who failed, ranked high among the thoughts crowding Uncle’s mind.

From the safety of the deck of a small but swift fishing sloop bobbing on the waves at some distance from the action, through a spyglass Uncle watched the engagement unfold, and cursed.

This time, he’d taken no chances. This time, he’d planned, and sent a force all had agreed would be more than enough to overrun the major’s xebec.

But no. Once again, his enemy had triumphed. Once again his quarry had escaped.

He ground his teeth, and quickly counted the black-scarf-encircled heads on the deck of the now becalmed vessel.

Of the large force he’d committed, less than a third were returning.

Since leaving India, he’d lost a lot of men. The leader wouldn’t be pleased.

A chill touched his nape, slid slowly down his spine.

He shivered, then shook off the sensation, the sense of helplessness.

He would turn the situation around. He would redeem himself by capturing both the major and his woman, and treating them to the epitome of Black Cobra vengeance.

He would avenge his son, and triumph in his master’s name.

Lowering the spyglass, he squinted over the water, quietly intoned, “Glory to the Black Cobra.”

He invested the words with the reverence of a prayer. He believed, in his heart, that it was.

As if in answer, the morning sun rose, sending a wash of pink and gold spreading across the sea.

Uncle turned and walked to where his lieutenant silently waited. “Tell the captain to make all speed for Marseilles.” He glanced across the waves at the stern of the fleeing xebec. “Our pursuit is not over yet.”


20th November, 1822

Early evening

My hammock in our tiny cabin

Dear Diary,

We are still feeling the effects of the action yesterday morning. Although we won through with our lives and with the ship intact, as I had feared, there were casualties. Captain Dacosta lost two of his crew, and two others are too injured to work. Gareth and our people are helping as best they can-Dacosta has kept on all sail, even through the night, keeping us flying over the waves to Marseilles. He wants to make the most of the fair conditions while they last. I think exposure to the cultists and their ferocity-and the loss of his two men-has also made him less inclined to close with our enemy.

Fighting of this nature isn’t sport. Indeed, whenever I recall glimpses of what occurred during the battle, I shiver. Blood and blades and violent death have never rated among my favorite things. However, it was necessary or we would have died, so it seems futile to repine too much upon the moment.

Englishwomen abroad are supposed to be resilient.

And, indeed, I am trying to be. I have just returned from keeping vigil by Jimmy’s hammock, and am writing now because at last I can report he is awake, and in reasonable possession of his senses. While the rest of our party ended the incident on our feet, albeit with injuries many of which required tending, Jimmy was, at first, nowhere to be found.

We searched in mounting horror, fearing he’d been flung overboard, but Bister finally found him under some cultists. Jimmy had a bad knife wound and had lost a lot of blood, but Gareth assured us the wound wasn’t life-threatening, and indeed it turned out Jimmy had been knocked unconscious. But he did not stir until this morning, when Arnia and Dorcas managed to get some broth down his throat. He then lapsed back into unconsciousness, and we again feared, head injuries being so difficult to predict.

But he is fully awake now, and Bister is teasing him, so while he may take some days to regain his strength, he will pull through, I hope without lasting damage. I am hugely relieved, for I would have felt considerable responsibility had he died. Jimmy is in my train-one of my people-and our involvement in Gareth’s mission and the attendant danger stems from my wish to follow him. It was my decision that brought us here. If Jimmy-or any of the others-had died, I would have felt it keenly.

I cannot imagine how much of such weighty responsibility already rests on Gareth’s broad shoulders. He has been a field commander for years, and in active service for more than a decade. I am starting to appreciate how much he, and others like him, do in our country’s cause, and how much they silently bear on their conscience for ever after. It cannot be a light burden, yet they never speak of it.

I cannot help wonder how heavily the weight of MacFarlane’s death rests on Gareth and the other three I met that long-ago day at the officers’ mess. Bad enough the death of a subordinate, but the death of a friend…

I believe it must be honor that helps them bear the load.

Once again, I am feeling the restrictions of this xebec keenly. All yesterday, and even now, I feel the need to go to Gareth, to see him, touch him, reassure myself that he is all right. I know he is, and I recognize the impulse as stemming from our recent brush with death, yet still it persists.

I did manage to commandeer a corner of the deck and tend his wounds-three slashes, none too deep, thank heaven, and a host of scratches that were already half healed. Yet what I wouldn’t give for a private room, preferably with a bed-even a narrow one would do. As it is, there is nowhere I might even kiss him-and I am perfectly certain, honor-bound as he is, he will never kiss me in public.

It seems the rest of this leg of our journey will, of necessity, be devoted to preparing ourselves for the next. Despite having fled from one battle, there is a sense that our present peace is the lull before the storm.

Like any true Englishwoman, I will gird my loins and march on.

E.

Five mornings later, Emily stood in the prow of the xebec, Gareth beside her, and watched the port of Marseilles materialize out of the low-lying sea mist.

It was going to be a clear day. By the time the xebec had negotiated the harbor entrance and angled into a mooring on the incredibly busy wharves of what was, after all, the busiest port on the Mediterranean, the sun had risen and burned off the mist, and they could see everything with crystal-clear clarity-which meant anyone watching would be able to see them.

Luckily, the level of the sea was significantly lower than the wooden wharves, so once amid the congestion of ships, unless a watcher was looking down from the wharf directly above, those on the xebec weren’t visible.

That, to Gareth’s mind, was the only point in their favor. Wolverstone’s orders had directed him to pass through Marseilles. While he understood why, and if he’d had only his own people with him, would have accepted the need without hesitation, now Emily and her people had joined his, the stakes had risen.

Specifically, what he now had at risk, now stood to lose, was significantly greater than he’d assumed would be the case.

Still, needs must when the devil drives.

The xebec bumped against the wharf. He glanced around the deck as the sailors swarmed up to lash the ship to the capstans above. Their party was already assembled, ready to climb the wooden ladder and depart the docks as quickly as they could. The others were standing by their bags. After some discussion, they’d all reverted to their customary clothes, European or Indian; there was no longer any advantage in their Arab disguises. For himself, he’d once again packed away his uniform and donned civilian attire.