Given they’d be staying at inns such as this from now on…

He grimaced as his excuse evaporated.

To go, or not to go?

He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t…

Perhaps if he waited, she’d grow impatient and come to him?

Half an hour ticked by, and she didn’t appear.

And he discovered her patience was greater than his.

With a muttered curse, he stalked to the door.

Her room was further away from the stairs and around a corner. He opened the door without knocking and went in, shut the door carefully, then walked to the bed.

She was lying there, wide awake, propped up on the pillows so she could more easily watch him approach. She’d tucked the covers up over her breasts, but her shoulders were promisingly bare.

As he halted by the bed, she met his eyes, her own wide, but nowhere near innocent. Even as he watched, her lips curved lightly in a smug, cat-who’d-managed-to-tip-over-the-cream smile.

He narrowed his eyes, pointed a finger at her nose. “I know what you’re up to, and I’m not playing your game.”

Emily felt distinctly wanton as she looked into his dark eyes. Brazen, she arched her brows. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“My being here doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“Oh?” She widened her eyes; beyond her control, her smile deepened. “What does it mean then?”

He studied her for an instant, then shrugged out of his coat. Growled, “We can talk about it later.”

Dropping the coat on a chair, he reached for his cravat.

Smiling even more smugly, feeling anticipation well and spread in a rich warm glow throughout her body, she sank deeper into the pillows and waited.

For her lover-her would-be husband-to join her.


He didn’t disappoint.

Some considerable time later, slumped, utterly wrung out and deeply sated in the depths of the bed, Emily finally managed to reassemble her wits, and discovered she was still smiling.

Her plan had worked.

More, she’d gained an unexpected additional benefit. He’d seen through her ploy and, either to repay her or to distract her from gloating over her success, he’d devoted himself to dazzling her with sheer, unmitigated pleasure.

She now knew that what had passed between them the previous night could, indeed, go much further. That she could be reduced to incoherent, mindless desperation, that she could gasp, cry out, convulse, and be utterly wracked by ecstasy called forth entirely by his wicked hands and even wickeder lips and tongue.

And what had come after that had curled her toes. She still couldn’t fully straighten them. Little tremors of delight still coursed through her, fading echoes of her second shattering climax.

She was lying on her stomach. Cracking open her lids, she studied him, slumped, as exhausted as she, beside her. He’d said they would talk later, but she suspected her sisters were right. Afterward, gentlemen didn’t talk-they fell asleep.

Not that she was complaining, not in this instance. Closing her eyes, she let satiation and an even deeper satisfaction wrap about her. Her plan had worked, he’d come to her bed-he hadn’t been able to stay away. Actions always spoke louder than words, especially with gentlemen.

His actions had spoken loudly enough for now.

Through the fringe of his lashes, Gareth watched her slide into slumber, and gave thanks. He’d been a fool to suggest they talk later-later meant now, and now…words of any sort about this and them were entirely too dangerous.

Entirely too unwise.

The possessiveness inside him lay quiet, serene, sated into oblivion; she’d given herself to him without reserve and that side of him had gorged. Lids closing, he felt satiation of a depth and weight he’d never before known drag him down. With an almost sinful sense of sinking, he surrendered. Later he would gather her into his arms, later he would settle her beside him.

Later, when she wouldn’t wake up and through the darkness look at him with eyes that saw too much.

In that last gasp of consciousness, his mind circled, free. She already knew more than he would wish, but he couldn’t turn back the clock. But as long as he didn’t admit to more, didn’t state what he felt for her aloud in words and make it real, he could cope.

He could cope with this. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps his sharing her bed every night would satisfy what he was starting to sense was her need. A need to know what he felt, to touch him and have him touch her, and so know…

It went something like that, he knew. So perhaps she was right, and his sharing her bed would satisfy her.

God knew, it satisfied him.


28th November, 1822

Early morning

Still abed, scribbling madly

Dear Diary,

My fingers are crossed, metapohorically at least. Matters appear to be progressing as I wish-my campaign to encourage Gareth to recognize and declare his feelings for me is under way, and with luck I have laid the groundwork for a continuing engagement. After last night, I am hopeful that he will be sufficiently motivated to join me in my bed at our various halts through France, and with luck, beyond.

It is no doubt quite wanton to be plotting like this, but needs must. I am committed to hearing his true feelings declared, and with every day that passes, I am more convinced than ever that in order for us to form the true partnership I have always believed marriage should be, then hearing his love acknowledged and declared is a necessity, for both of us.

I feel as if all I have ever dreamed of in marriage is hovering on our horizon, still out of reach, yet if we both are willing to reach and stretch, all-everything-could be ours.

Dorcas has just brought up my washing water, and I must rush as we are to leave Marseilles in just over an hour.

E.

The small yard behind the inn was a frenzy of activity. Gareth ran his eye over the loaded coaches, watched as Mooktu and Bister handed up pistols, powder, and shot to Mullins, who stowed it with the rifles he’d cleaned beneath first one, then the other, driver’s seat.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Around him, the cobbled yard was awash with Juneaux, young and old, come to wave their two men on their way, and to wish the English and Indian party the garrulous clan had taken under their collective wing God speed.

He went to extract Emily from a knot of Juneaux. Many were female, and looked at him with bright, assessing eyes. He had little doubt what thoughts were passing through their heads, especially when one old lady whispered loudly that they made a so-handsome couple.

He pretended not to hear.

Emily was smiling happily. She looked up as he neared, and her smile changed. Quite how he couldn’t have said, but it softened, became more personal, then she made space for him beside her.

He filled it, but only to smile generally at the others and remind her, “We must make a start.”

Or they would be there all day.

Emily heard the unvoiced phrase, and had to agree. But then his hand brushed the back of her waist and she had to work to suppress a delicious little shiver-something the women around her didn’t miss.

They beamed encouragingly.

She had to beam back, had to inwardly acknowledge how very good it felt to be the one Gareth-he of the broad shoulders and so-handsome brown-haired good looks-had come to fetch.

His hand touched again, a subtle prod. Squelching her reaction, she turned to the innwife and commenced her farewells.

Exclamations, good wishes, and effusive thanks were shared all around, then with his hand at the back of her waist, Gareth steered her inexorably to the carriages. Finally reaching the door of the first, she turned and waved one last time to the assembled throng, then she took the hand he offered, felt his fingers close strong and warm about hers, and felt that little thrill of delight-of feminine possessiveness-streak through her again. Drawing in a calming breath, she allowed him to help her into the sleek carriage.

Gareth turned to the crowd, and with a genuine but faintly strained smile, bowed and, in more formal words, thanked them. Then he turned to the carriage and climbed up, pulled up the steps and shut the door.

Bister and the coachman were already on the box waiting. Dorcas sat opposite Emily. Gareth claimed the seat beside her as a whip snapped showily, the horses leaned into the traces, and their carriage lurched, then rumbled through the mews and out onto the side street.

Cheers and farewells echoed, then faded as the houses closed around them. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, confirming that the second carriage, carrying Arnia and Mooktu, Watson and Mullins, with Jimmy currently up with the driver, was following close behind.

“I assume we’ll need to go slowly through the town.”

He glanced at Emily, and saw she was peering out of the other window. “Yes-and it might be better to stay back from the windows.”

“Oh.” She drew back immediately. “The cultists are out there somewhere, aren’t they?”

He nodded. They’d been able to forget that over the last day and a half. The Juneaux youngsters had taken positions at both ends of the street, keeping watch for cultists. Bister and Jimmy had supervised, but for the time they’d been under the Juneaux’ protection, they’d felt a great deal safer than they had in weeks.

In Gareth’s case, since leaving the Turkey Cock in Bombay, scroll holder in hand.

Emily and Dorcas played spot the monument as the two carriages preserved a decorous pace through the busy morning streets. Letting their disconcertingly normal exclamations and chatter wash over him, Gareth allowed himself to do something he hadn’t until that point-he thought of the other three, wondered where they were, how they were faring.