Free The Elusive Bride by Stephanie Laurens

his teeth flashed as he turned to Emily. “I must thank you, mam’zelle, for an entertaining evening.”
    Emily regarded him rather frostily. “I’m glad you enjoyed the excitement, Captain.”
    Ayabad, an Arab but his mother had been French, which was in part why Gareth had chosen his vessel—flashed his smile again, half bowed, and departed.
    By then Bister, Mooktu, and the other men of their party had retreated belowdecks, as had most of the sailors, some to tend wounds, but most to trade tales of their derring-do.
    Other than the helmsman, and the watchmen now posted at the prow and stern, Gareth and Emily were, quite suddenly, the only ones remaining on deck.
    He turned to her just as she looked up at him.
    Through the soft darkness, she studied his face, searched his eyes. Then, without the slightest warning, she reached up, framed his face with her small hands, stretched up onher toes, and, tugging him down a few inches, pressed her lips to his.
    His instincts surged, purred, reached—
    Ruthlessly he slapped them down.
    It was a thank-you kiss. He knew it, yet…
    Every particle of his awareness locked on the gentle touch, on the warmth of her body mere inches from his own, on the feel of the petal-soft, resilient, yet giving curves pressing so innocently against his lips.
    His hungry, starving lips.
    He fought to deny the greedy passion that swelled, to hold back the compulsion to sweep her into his arms, crush her against him, and kiss her back.
    To taste, then claim, then devour.
    Fought to hold steady, to not move, not an inch, to let her kiss him for how ever long she would…
    Her lips lingered.
    Then, on a sigh, she drew back.
    As her heels touched the deck, he straightened—reluctantly. Disappointedly.
    Those lovely lips curved. His gaze still locked on them, he saw her words form.
    “Thank you, Major.”
    He forced his gaze up to her eyes.
    They were smiling, too, then she inclined her head. “Good night.”
    He couldn’t reply, said not a word as she turned and headed for the companionway. It was all he could do to keep his feet planted and not follow her. To keep the tip of his tongue from skating over his lips and tasting her.
    He didn’t need the torment. Her kiss had been a thank-you, fueled by gratitude, not desire.
    It had been nothing personal, meant nothing of great moment.
    Not to her.
    He swore beneath his breath, then forced his feet in theopposite direction. There was nothing between them—he’d be a fool to think there was.
    This—whatever it was—was all in his mind.
    10th October, 1822
Very early morning
In my cabin in the schooner, bobbing on the Red Sea
    Dear Diary,
    I am in two minds about having my last wish granted. The attack was truly frightening, and brought home to me—as if that were necessary—the true violence of the cultists’ natures. They are fanatics and think nothing of fighting to the death. If it hadn’t been for my gallant major…but that, of course, was what I gained from the experience, terrifying though it was. Gareth was nothing less than superb in whisking me from the imminent clutches of the fiends, and then protecting me against the rabble. He accounted for numerous of their number. The others, too, and the crew, did their part, I’m sure, but understandably I had eyes only for my rescuer, a fact that enabled me to account for one cultist of my own, protecting the major from a dishonorable attack from the rear, and thus evening the score between us a trifle.
    Naturally, later, I had to kiss him. Yes, it was exceedingly bold, but the moment—and the excuse—were there, and I would have been foolish indeed to let the opportunity slip.
    And therefore, dear Diary, I am now in a position to report that Major Gareth Hamilton is no frog. Even though the kiss was all on my part—he very properly did not respond—I could sense, and feel…suffice it to say that the aftermath of the experience disturbed my slumber for the remainder of the