His second nodded. “Our orders are clear. They always have been.”

Akbar nodded. “We must stop the major and retrieve the scroll holder he carries, whatever the cost.”

The other two nodded. “You are right. So how will we do this?”

They discussed, and discussed, until the truth became clear.

“We cannot do both,” his second stated. “We can stop the major, or get the scroll holder, but with only four of us…we cannot do both.”

Akbar hated to choose, but…he nodded. “If we kill the major and his woman, the Black Cobra will be pleased, and those waiting in England will have a better chance of retrieving the scroll holder.”

Seventeen

13th December, 1822

Morning

Our room in the Perrots’ auberge

Dear Diary,

I am almost there. I can almost taste the ultimate victory-the joy I will feel when Gareth finally, finally, tells me he loves me. In words. Out loud.

He told me the truth last night, not in words, but in actions. Actions that spoke far too loudly for me to mistake his message.

So yes, he is now and forever my “one,” and yes, we will marry. While he is pondering how to give me that “more” that I require before agreeing to the inevitable, I find myself wondering what our union will be like, how it will work. Not in the specific but in general terms. What manner of marriage do I want? What form will be right for us?

Four months ago, I hadn’t even known such questions might be asked.

It’s really quite exciting, this new life unfolding before me.

E.

The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into an event. News had spread, and by nine-thirty that morning, when Gareth’s party needed to leave the auberge and board their ship, the narrow streets were lined with well-wishers, all smiling and clapping and cheering them on.

The sheer numbers of locals ensured no cultist would be likely to get close.

Gareth sent the baggage, then the others in twos and threes ahead. Their route lay straight down the street opposite the auberge, which led to the main quay, then to the left a short way, and out along one of the lesser wharves. Captain Lavalle’s ship was berthed midway along.

The skies were gray, but neither sleet, snow, rain, nor gales threatened. The streets were damp, if not dry, and the breeze was blowing offshore.

At the last, after much touching of cheeks, slapping of backs and shaking of hands, he and Emily took their leave of the Perrots, and emerged from the inn.

Smiling, nodding to those in the crowd they recognized, they walked briskly down the street, onto the quay, and out along the wharf.

They were within a hundred feet of Lavalle’s ship, had paused to farewell a group of sailors, and were just moving on, when Gareth heard a telltale shi-ing.

He grabbed Emily, pushed her back and down, covering her body with his-but not before that first arrow sliced across her forearm. The next arrow thudded into the wharf beside her.

Two more found their mark in his back, but too weakly to do more than pierce his skin.

Pandemonium erupted all along the wharf. More arrows rained down, one slicing across his arm, but the archers had misjudged their range; the force behind the arrows was enough to wound, but only by sheer luck could they kill. Realizing that, some sailors seized craypot lids and other makeshift shields, and formed a protective wall between Gareth and Emily and their ship. Other sailors swarmed aboard the two ships from whose crow’s nests the archers were shooting.

Hauling Emily to her feet, Gareth rushed her to the gangplank and up it. Gaining the deck, he looked around and saw one cultist-archer dive from one crow’s nest into the harbor, while the other had been subdued and was being manhandled down the mast.

Captain Lavalle came striding up. The gangplank was already aboard. “We’re away. You’ll be glad to see the last of these attackers-”

Steel clanged on steel. Lavalle whirled. Looking past him, Gareth saw two cultists in the bow, wet and dripping, swords viciously slashing at sailors armed only with knives.

He thrust Emily at Arnia and Mooktu. “Tend her wound.”

With an oath, Lavalle ran for the action. Drawing his sword, Gareth followed, grimly pleased to have a release for the emotions roiling within him, evoked by having Emily hurt, especially while he’d been standing beside her.

He’d been helpless to protect her more than he had, but he wasn’t helpless now, and one of the cultists paid. Lavalle dispatched the other.

Duty done, violent feelings appeased, Gareth stepped back, and the sailors moved in. Once the ship cleared the harbor, the bodies would be tipped over the side.

Gareth turned-and found Emily there. She looked into his eyes, a frown in hers, then, lips tight, locked her fingers in the sleeve of his uninjured arm and tugged. “Come and let me tend those wounds.”

He frowned. “What about your arm?” She’d obviously ignored the wound; he could see a thin line of blood on the edge of her slashed sleeve.

“That’s just a scratch.” Jaw firming ominously, she tugged harder. “Come on. Don’t argue.”

He consented to let her drag him along. “Mine is just a scratch, too.”

“Mine is a real scratch-it hardly bled at all.”

He halted. “That’s worse than mine. You-”

She turned on him, rising up on her toes to, quietly, shriek in his face, “You have two arrows in your shoulder! Don’t talk to me about scratches-you weren’t supposed to get hurt again, remember?”

He’d forgotten about the arrows. Reaching over his shoulder, he found them, yanked them free of the thick weave of his coat, then brought them around to show her the arrowheads. “See-hardly any blood. They barely broke the skin.”

She studied them, humphed. “Perhaps. Regardless, you will come below now and let me tend your wounds.”

Looking into her face, registering her tone-determined and one level away from shrill-he nodded, and when she turned and led the way, meekly followed her to the stern companionway.


Half an hour later, Gareth checked with Lavalle, then, seeing Emily standing at the stern watching Boulogne sink below the horizon, went to join her.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look his way, just lifted her face to the breeze, then sighed. “They were nice people-the Perrots and all the others-even if they were French.”

He smiled. “True.” After a moment, smile fading, he murmured, “However, I doubt I’ll be rushing to return, not in the foreseeable future.”

“Hmm.”

A long moment passed, then he quietly said, “I’ve had enough of traveling.” He glanced at her. “How about you?”

She turned her head, looked into his eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too.” She looked over the water. “I’ve had enough of adventure, of being in danger. Especially now that I’ve found what I was searching for.”

They both thought of what that was. Of what it would lead to.

The seas grew choppier and he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her from the worst of the snapping breeze as they watched Boulogne disappear and their past fall behind them, sliding away in the wake of the ship, and consciously let their minds look ahead. To the lives they would lead, and the future they would share.


13th December, 1822

Afternoon

Aboard Lavalle’s ship bobbing in the Channel

Dear Diary,

He still hasn’t said he loves me, but I would be foolish indeed to doubt it. Even more than his actions, his motivations, his reasons, his reactions, all of which have remained unwavering for some weeks, speak of his true feelings.

I can no longer doubt him on that score, so my question now is how much more-what else-should I seek from him in order that our marriage is based from the first on the very best foundation possible?

Once again, I feel in dire need of my sisters’ advice.

Regardless, I will persevere.

E.

The light was fading as the white cliffs of Dover rose up out of the sea to greet them. With Emily beside him, Gareth stood in the prow and watched the white line expand and draw nearer. The rest of their party were belowdecks, sharing stories of home and hopes for the future.

For him…the future was not yet.

Emily, thank heaven, understood. Sliding her arm in his, she leaned against his shoulder. “We’ll be dodging cultists again shortly, won’t we?”

He nodded. “This is my first sight of England in seven years and…” When she said nothing, just waited, he dragged in a breath and said, “I can’t help thinking how lucky I am, cultists and all. MacFarlane won’t see home again-and I don’t know where the others are, if they’ll make it home, too.”

Her hand slid into his, and she gripped. “You know what they’re like, those three friends of yours. I saw them, remember? They’re as determined as you. They’ll fight, and win through. They always have, haven’t they?”

His lips quirked. He inclined his head.

Eyes on the still distant land, he forced his mind to the immediate future. “The Black Cobra is going to know we’re here soon after we land. Once he does, he’ll come at us with even greater-even more deadly-force. He’ll do everything he can to stop us-to stop the letter I’m carrying getting into Wolverstone’s hands.” He paused, then went on, “Even after that, we-none of us in our party-will be safe. Not until the Black Cobra himself is brought down.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “We will win. We’ll see this through, and after that…”