She’d got a good look at them earlier. Clad in traditional native garb, their insignia was a black silk scarf wound about their heads, long ends flying as, swords flashing, they’d charged wildly in their wake.

Their pursuers were Black Cobra cultists. She’d heard the grisly tales, and had no wish to feature in the next horrific installment.

She and her escort, led by young Captain MacFarlane, had fled at a flat gallop, yet somehow the cultists had closed the distance. She’d initially felt confident she and the troop could outrun them; she was no longer so sure.

Captain MacFarlane rode alongside her. Her eyes locked on the sharply descending road, she sensed him glance back, then, a moment later, he glanced at her. She was about to snap that she was an accomplished rider, as he should by now have noticed, when he looked ahead and pointed.

“There!” MacFarlane waved at his lieutenant. “Those two rocks on the next stretch. With two others I can hold them back long enough for Miss Ensworth and the rest of you to reach safety.”

“I’ll stay with you!” the lieutenant shouted across Emily’s head. “Binta and the others can carry on with the memsahib.”

The memsahib-Emily-stared at the rocks in question. Two tall, massive boulders, they framed the road, with the sheer cliff face on one side, and an equally sheer drop on the other. She was no general, but while three men might delay their pursuers, they’d never hold them back.

“No!” She glanced at MacFarlane while they continued to thunder on. “We all of us stay, or we all of us go on.”

Blue eyes narrowed on her face. His jaw set. “Miss Ensworth, I’ve no time to argue. You will go on with the bulk of the troop.”

Of course she argued, but he wouldn’t listen.

So complete was his ignoring of her words that she suddenly realized he knew he wouldn’t survive. That he’d die-here on this road-and it wouldn’t be a pretty death.