for the schooner to sail—has not abated. I do not know why, but it is clear Gareth—and the others, too—fear the Cobra will locate us, that we are not yet free.
I have to admit that in following Gareth, I did not foresee this degree of danger and the consequent abiding tension. It is very distracting. True, I am being given the chance to observe his character under pressure, which will undoubtedly be more revealing than if we were meeting in conventional and unthreatening surrounds, but that pressure has other effects, and affects me, too.
I have discovered that I do not appreciate living under dire threat of imminent and awful death, but in the circumstances, I am determined to make the most of it.
E.
Once again she joined him as dawn lit the sky.
The deck of the schooner was empty of all others except for the night watchman yawning by the helm. Coming to stand beside him at the railing in the bow, she shook back the tendrils of hair that had come loose and, eyes closed, lifted her face to the morning breeze.
Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.
He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin—nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…
Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…
“There’s a surprising number of ships around—I didn’t think there would be so many.”
He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India—even China—destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”
She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”—he gestured to his new robes—“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”
She nodded. “That’s the problem—the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”
He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”
She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”
“I fear so.”
Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak of the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable—a shared moment.
Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.
Companionship.
That’s all this was.
“You—and the other three—you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”
The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through—we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right—each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before
I have to admit that in following Gareth, I did not foresee this degree of danger and the consequent abiding tension. It is very distracting. True, I am being given the chance to observe his character under pressure, which will undoubtedly be more revealing than if we were meeting in conventional and unthreatening surrounds, but that pressure has other effects, and affects me, too.
I have discovered that I do not appreciate living under dire threat of imminent and awful death, but in the circumstances, I am determined to make the most of it.
E.
Once again she joined him as dawn lit the sky.
The deck of the schooner was empty of all others except for the night watchman yawning by the helm. Coming to stand beside him at the railing in the bow, she shook back the tendrils of hair that had come loose and, eyes closed, lifted her face to the morning breeze.
Gareth seized the moment to study her face. Not intentionally. He simply couldn’t help it. Couldn’t tear his gaze from the gentle curves, the delicate features.
He sensed the morning zephyr flow across her fine skin—nature’s kiss, one he longed to mimic. The thought of his lips cruising the rose-tinted curves, dipping into the shadowed hollows…
Silently clearing his throat, he straightened, refixed his gaze on the waves ahead. Closed one hand about the upper railing and gripped hard. He wished she’d worn her burka…but then he wouldn’t have been able to see her face. Still…
“There’s a surprising number of ships around—I didn’t think there would be so many.”
He glanced at her. “There’s a lot of trade done up and down the Red Sea. Goods brought from lower Africa and India—even China—destined for the markets of Cairo and beyond.”
She wrinkled her nose, eyes on a junk tacking on a parallel course some hundred yards away. “I suppose, in that case, we should wear our burkas, even on deck.” She looked at him inquiringly.
“I was about to suggest it,” he admitted. “However, I imagine it must get quite warm under them. At least these”—he gestured to his new robes—“are cooler than our ordinary clothes.”
She nodded. “That’s the problem—the burkas go on top of everything else.” She paused, then went on, “Perhaps if instead we restrict our walks to either after dark or when we can see there are no other ships close enough to make us out, it will serve as well.”
He nodded. “Most likely. By any reasonable estimation, it will take the cultists a day or two to catch us up.” He met her gaze. “They spotted us as we pulled out of Mocha.”
She grimaced. “They will come after us, won’t they?”
“I fear so.”
Silence of a sort enveloped them, punctuated by the slap of waves, the creak of the sails, and the lonely cry of a gull. It should have felt awkward, but instead was companionable—a shared moment.
Glancing at her face, at her serene expression, he knew she felt that enveloping comfort, too. It was natural, he told himself, that he and she would gravitate together like this. For each, the other was the only member of their social class aboard, natural to turn to for…company.
Companionship.
That’s all this was.
“You—and the other three—you’re doing this in memory of Captain MacFarlane, aren’t you?”
The question caught him off guard. “Yes.” The sudden surge of emotion, the memory of James, shook him. He drew in a breath, shifted…but then tightened his grip on the rail and went on, “It’s our mission, and so of course we’re determined to see it through—we would have done the same if James had lived, and with equal resolve. But…” For the first time he truly looked, and saw. “You’re right—each of us is doing this in part to avenge him.”
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed her approval before
Similar Books
