He followed rather more slowly, his gaze locked on her back, wondering. He should have felt pleased she’d backed down; he told himself he did, but he also felt…

It wasn’t until he was lying in bed that night that the right word to describe how he felt over that exchange fell into his head.

Humored.

He snorted, rolled over and pulled the sheet up over his shoulder. He wasn’t worried-she would learn.

4th October, 1822

Still in Aden, at the guesthouse

Dear Diary,

In just a few hours, we will depart on the first leg of our shared journey home-and once we’re away, he-Gareth, Major Hamilton-won’t be able to send me back. I was on the brink of explaining that I wasn’t one of his men, and he should not therefore assume that I will simply fall in with any decision he makes, but just in time I recalled that in Aden we are within reach of the company ships. Should he take it into his head that my accompanying him is too difficult-or as he would put it, too dangerous-then it might well be within his scope to commandeer a sloop and pack me and my party off, either back to Bombay or on to the Cape, thereafter to travel on a ship of the line home.

I abruptly changed my tune. Given my need to learn more of him, the opportunity to share the journey home, in daily contact and close proximity, is simply too good to let slip through my fingers.

True, his habit of command is sadly entrenched, but I can make my opinion on that issue clear later.

On reflection, I really couldn’t have planned things better. How ironic that I owe this chance to confirm, and hopefully, in the fullness of time, secure my “one”-the one and only gentleman for me-to that horrible fiend of a Black Cobra.

E.

They returned to the docks with the sun a glowing fireball hanging over the sea. The low angle of light glancing off the waves made recognizing people difficult. Gareth hoped the cultists clung to their black silk head scarves, their only readily identifiable feature.

He glanced at Emily, walking briskly alongside him. At his suggestion, she’d worn a dun-colored gown, and her parasol was safely stowed in the luggage. At this hour, everyone on the docks was striding purposefully, all the vessels keen to make the evening tide, so their rapid and determined progress was in no way remarkable.

What might have alerted a shrewd observer was the way he, and the other men in their small group, constantly scanned the crowds, but that couldn’t be helped. The cultists were sure to be hanging about the docks.

He’d managed not to think too much about Emily, not in a personal sense. He kept trying to make his mind conform and label her Miss Ensworth, preferably with the words the Governor’s niece tacked on for good measure, but his mind had other ideas. Striding along the dock where just days before he’d saved her from an assassin’s blade, he couldn’t ignore his awareness of her-of her body, slender, warm and femininely curved, moving gracefully beside him.

He wanted her much closer-at least his mind and body did. Both could recall-could re-create-the sensations of the moments when he’d held her tucked protectively against him.

That instant when something buried deep inside him had surged to the surface and growled, Mine.

He shook his head in a vain effort to dispel the distraction.

She noticed and glanced up. “What?”

He couldn’t fault her focus. Her eyes were wide, alert. He looked at the ships. “I was just wondering where the cultists are. I haven’t sighted any.” He pointed to the barge two vessels along. “That’s ours.”

She nodded crisply, and made a beeline for the appropriate gangplank.

Grasping her arm, he halted her at its foot. “Wait.” He signaled to Bister, who with a nod went racing up the gangplank, Jimmy, Watson’s seventeen-year-old nephew, at his heels.

Two minutes later, Bister reappeared. “All clear.”

Getting the women, their luggage, and then their men aboard took ten minutes. The captain nodded benignly; the crew all smiled.

Shouts ran the length of the barge, ropes were cast off, and at last they were away.

The barge moved slowly, ponderously turning on the increasingly fast-rushing tide. One of many so engaged, the throng of vessels gave them extra cover. To Gareth’s relief, all three females-Emily, her maid Dorcas, and Arnia-had retreated without prompting into the cabins built along the length of the barge. Watson had gone inside, too, taking Jimmy with him, leaving Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to keep watch.

They found what cover they could, but the barge was carrying little freight beyond its passengers.

Gareth had hoped that by timing their departure to the very last usable minute of the tide, then even if the cultists spotted them-as he felt sure they would-their pursuers wouldn’t be able to sail after them for at least another twelve hours, if not more.

At this point, a day’s head start was all he could hope for.

They got away, swinging out of the harbor and onto the ocean swell, then turning along the coast for the straits without challenge. But as they rounded the last headland, Jimmy caught the reflection off a spyglass directed their way.

Bister drew the younger lad with him to report to Gareth. “I saw it, too, once he pointed it out. Sure as eggs, someone was watching us.”

Gareth grimaced. “No prizes for guessing who. But at least we’ve got away, and with the straits ahead, I doubt they’ll catch us up, not before Mocha.”

Later that evening

Elsewhere in Aden

“Uncle-we have news!”

The tall bearded man known throughout the Black Cobra cult simply as Uncle slowly lifted his gaze from the pomegranate he was peeling. “Yes, my son?”

The younger man he’d sent to supervise the watch on the harbor drew himself up, head high. “We saw the Major Hamilton leave on a barge, but the barge was on the ocean, heading for the straits, before we could get a clear sighting.”

“I see.” Uncle paused to eat a piece of pomegranate, then asked, “Did he have a woman-the Englishwoman he saved from our blades on the docks-with him?”

The young man turned to his colleagues, who had followed him into the courtyard. A whispered conference ensued, then the young man turned back. “She was seen briefly on the docks, but we didn’t sight her on the barge-howsoever there were cabins.”

“Ah.” Unhurriedly Uncle finished the pomegranate, then carefully wiped his hands. Then he nodded and looked to his second-in-command. His only true son. “In that case, I believe my work here is done.”

His son nodded. “We will catch them in Mocha-there are men already there.”

“Indeed.” Uncle slowly stood, stretching to his full, impressive height. “Our illustrious leader has truly foreseen the gentlemen’s paths. There are men watching, ready to act, along all the routes they might take. But my mission-” He broke off and inclined his head to his son. “Our mission is not just to stop these men reaching England. The Black Cobra demands a greater retribution from those who oppose its might and power.”

Turning to the younger man and his comrades, Uncle raised a hand in benediction. “You have done well enough. You will remain here in case any of the other gentlemen come this way. But I and mine”-he glanced at his son and smiled-“we ride to Mocha.”

His gaze passed on to the older, more hardened men-assassins all-lined up behind his son. His anticipatory smile deepened. “Find horses. The overland route is shorter.”

October 5, 1822

The mouth of the Red Sea

Dawn broke in a pearly golden wash spreading like gilt across the waves. Stepping out of the narrow corridor running the length of the cabins, Gareth drew the salty air deep, slowly exhaled. The barge was angling northwest, following others into the narrowing mouth of the Red Sea, still some way ahead.

Seeing Watson leaning on the railing, eyes on the distant shore, Gareth ambled over. Watson glanced at him, then straightened.

Gareth smiled. “Go in and get some sleep-I’ll take over until Mooktu appears.”

Stifling a yawn, Watson nodded. “Thank you, sir. It’s been quiet all night.” He looked over the water. “Lovely morning, but I’m going to find my bed. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a half salute, Gareth settled, still smiling, against the rails. He heard Watson stump off into the cabins. The slap of waves against the hull was soothing, the faint mumble of voices from the stern-the crew chatting-punctuated by the call of a wheeling gull.

Over the last days, while avoiding their mistress, he’d made an effort to get to know her people. If they were to travel on together, he needed to know what manner of troops he had under his command.

Both Watson and Mullins were unreservedly grateful for his rescue of their charge. Mullins had been an infantryman until after Waterloo. He’d returned to his home village in Northamptonshire, looking for employment, and had run into Watson, who, with Bonaparte defeated and the Continent safe again, had been setting up as a travel guide to take young gentlemen on the modern equivalent of the old Grand Tour. Watson was the courier-guide, Mullins the guard. Jimmy, Watson’s sister’s son, had been brought on this trip to learn the ropes.

Over the years, Watson and Mullins had worked frequently for the Ensworth family, who they consequently knew well. The family was large; they’d conducted three male Ensworths around the Continent, as well as escorting the elder Ensworths on various trips. The family were valued and well-liked clients; just the thought of losing Emily-one of the younger of the brood-was enough to make both Watson and Mullins, experienced though they were, literally blanch.