Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  “Why are you in my tent?” he asked, his hand scraping against his chin.

  “I was told I could find the doctor here.” She shook her head, pain pulsing through her exhausted limbs.

  “I’m the closet thing there is to a doctor. Ours died of black water fever three weeks ago.”

  Curious for an engineer to be the camp’s doctor. “Well, I’m bleeding. I’d like—”

  “And you’re in pain.”

  She nodded, feeling herself lean closer, falling into that predictable draw of his. Perhaps memory struck him now. It certainly hit her. The way his hand had cupped her face as they kissed in the dark, up against the wall as a party went on just beyond the ballroom doors.

  “I make it my business to know everyone, including the woman standing bare chested in my tent, pilfering my gin. But why exactly are you in my tent, Miss Attwater?”

  “Do you make it your business to always have such a cheerful bedside manner?”

  Owen leaned forward, his left eyebrow arched. “My bedside manner is just fine. Never had any complaints.”

  Hadn’t she been pleased during that stolen moment they shared two years prior? It was a kiss of a lifetime, one women dreamt of when left alone to contemplate what it was like to be well and truly kissed by a man. “I wouldn’t expect any if you’re paying. Not good service.”

  He laughed again, his profile lit up by the lamp. Vera had never seen a man look so god-like before, his head bent, his lips curled into a ruthless smile. “It’s been a long time, and of all the people to walk through my tent, I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you, lass.”

  A long moment passed as she searched his eyes, for what, she wasn’t certain. “I need your help, Owen.”

  Owen couldn’t stop staring at that damn mouth of hers, remembering the kiss they last shared. Secretly, of course. If Tom ever had found out, Owen would have met with her brother’s fist no doubt. Worse maybe if he had been in his cups. Attwater never could hold his liquor.

  “Sit on my desk,” he said stiffly, turning to grab another lantern and his kit. Why the hell he wasn’t passed out drunk in the corner of his tent was beyond him. That had been the plan before news arrived of the wreck. The mess with Verlinden was the start of a day full of shite. Now he was saddled with the care of shipwrecked passengers in the railway’s camp and a half-naked woman with a viper’s mouth in his tent.

  His best mate’s little sister, in fact. Well, Vera was more than someone’s little sister to, but he wouldn’t allow her to ever learn the truth.

  The girl—no, woman—lifted herself back onto his desk, inhaling as her pale skin stretched over her ribs. The skin was far too red for him dismiss the possibility of bruising, or worse, internal bleeding.

  Owen poured some fresh water in the small basin and gathered a clean rag before approaching her, studying her as he would a map. Her face was bruised and she had several lacerations, including two that appeared deep near her temple and on her thigh. Her thick blond hair was tied back with a frayed ribbon, the curls running the length of her back. But her eyes, those were what set the whole picture off, because for her height and lean body, her eyes could drown a man like a siren’s song. They were large for the other delicate features on her face, and dark—almost black.

  They were beyond compare.

  Owen had made it a practice to ask after Vera after that summer. There had been a fiancé, but he had died last year. He hadn’t stopped thinking of her any less, but he couldn’t afford another complication. Men like him didn’t deserve a woman like Vera.

  Owen came to stand before her and set down his kit and the bowl of water. Hadn’t his men had the decency to offer her water for a bath? Dirt smeared across her cheek, a dried leaf tangled into her hair. She was a wayward mermaid, bruised and by the looks, about to fall asleep sitting up.

  She issued that small sigh of hers then, tumbling him backward into that night of the ball when they were foolishly dressed for pomp and circumstance, celebrating Tom’s recognition from the Queen. He’d be lying if he blamed it on the excitement or the champagne. What was between himself and Vera had started early, much earlier in fact than that night. She had been fresh out of the school room, her aunt eager to make a match of her niece before she got any dangerous ideas into that brilliant mind of hers. And Owen had returned from the Philippines, shot and recovering from another mission at Tom’s cottage outside of Sheffield. And bright and sunny Vera had swept into his life like a storm and turned the heart in his chest inside out—eighteen to his twenty-nine years.

  It had been a mistake then. It was still very much the case now.

  “I thought you’d be happier to see me,” Vera said, drawing him back into the present.

  Owen grunted in response, grabbing the wet rag and roughly wiping off her forehead lest he not ask how she was—truly.

  “Maybe a hello,” she continued, a trace of teasing in her words. “Or how do you do?” She winced as he splayed his hand on top of her head and turned her face away from his.

  Men like Owen were monsters. They stole and lied and killed for a living. He had too much blood on his hands to ever dare to care for someone. “You shouldn’t be here,” Owen said, easing his touch. “Tell me about today, what you remember.”

  He hadn’t liked hearing that Melany had been aboard. The Irishman was infamous for looking after his own pockets. Owen wouldn’t put it past him to agree to sabotage the shipment of supplies to Owen’s camp as a way to cause rebellion. As it were, Owen had had enough of how the Force Publique treated the Congolese in camp. The damn country was being pillaged of its rubber supply on the backs of Congolese slaves, all to the benefit of King Leopold and his growing wealth.

  She swatted away his hand. “If you’re going to wash my face as if I’m a potato, I can do so myself, thank you very much.”

  “I apologize,” he mumbled. To have her so close once again, to hear her voice, it was the sweetest torture. “What happened on the ship?”

  “I was on the deck speaking to a Mr. Amesbury. He’s a fellow countryman, and has been a pleasant companion on the trip so far.”

  “He’s your chaperone?”

  “I didn’t travel with one.”

  “Christ, do you know how dangerous it is—”

  Vera tilted her chin down, narrowing her eyes on him. “I smelled smoke, then there was an explosion. I was knocked into the river and I fought,” her voice wavered, “I fought the current as the screams rang out of the others. There was nothing left of the boat. Then the crocodiles came...”

  “The jungle isn’t a place for a lady.”

  The pointed edge of a boot swung into his shin. To his credit, Owen didn’t wince.

  “I lost my brother, Mr. MacKenna. I’m here for the sole reason of finding out why. I’m here to secure your help. If that means I have to spend my days traveling through the jungle then I will do just that. You’d be surprised at the constitution of women if given half a chance.”

  That’s where she was wrong. There was no doubt in Owen’s mind that Vera very well could weather the trials of such a harsh environment, but in regards to her brother, she would be disappointed. His death was what drove to Owen to remain in the hellish country, working to discover more about that legendary diamond before the Belgian government could get its hand on it. But he wasn’t going to allow Vera to get involved.

  “Raise your arms,” he said stiffly.

  She clutched the draped fabric of her shirt to her chest, casting a glare of daggers in his direction.

  “I’ve to stitch that hole on your side, then to wrap your bruised ribs.”

  “How do you—”

  “It’s my job to know, Miss Attwater.”

  Vera grudgingly let the fabric fall between them, baring her breasts. Her dark eyes met his, full of fire and a slice of venerability. By God she was beautiful. Owen rang out the rag and gently placed it over the angry red flesh at her side.

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

&n
bsp; “Have you ever...that is,” she paused, sucking in a breath as his fingers lightly brushed the wound. “Do you ever fear for your life?”

  There was a time when he had. Now, Owen had grown accustomed to the gnawing feeling he was about to die each day. And strangely, it had become a sick addiction of his—to crave that feeling.

  “There are many dangers to the line of work I do,” he said, noncommittally.

  Owen didn’t like how warm the wound was. An infection was likely to set in and they were too far for proper medical care. He cleaned the wound the best he could with the gin, then reached into his kit for his needle and thread. “It might be best,” he reached around her, “if you pilfer some more of my gin.”

  “I’m stronger than you may think,” she said, her voice firm even as the rest of her shook under his touch.

  “Lean back,” he whispered, shuttering his eyes to the beautiful sight of her. He studied the gentle curve of her shoulders as she fell backward onto his desk, her arms wobbling no doubt from exhaustion. Her skin was dusted with freckles there, matching those across her cheeks. “Good, and lean a bit to the right.” He ran his hand down the side of her ribs and she sighed, not in pain. He could have sworn it wasn’t in pain, and then he made the mistake of glancing up to her face. With her bottom lip gently nipped between her teeth, he could have sworn she found some pleasure from his touch, regardless of the grim circumstances.

  But that was his mind playing with him, surely. She might remember him but Owen refused to let her know how he clung to the memories of their time together. No good could come of that.

  With a steady hand, he pierced her skin and drew the needle through, closing up the wound. “You must keep this clean, understand?”

  She didn’t reply. With another stitch, he tried to hurry the process along, weary of having her laid out before him such as she was. How often had he dreamed of having his way with her, straddled across him as they lay tangled in sheets, breathless from lovemaking?

  Far too often.

  “Vera,” he whispered.

  Her arms buckled beneath her. Owen bent forward and caught her, his arms embracing her. Tears flooded her eyes, quiet tears of pain.

  “Don’t cry,” he said stupidly.

  “Are you not happy to see me?” she whispered back. Her eyes searched his, wide and desperate.

  She tilted her chin forward, drawing her lips closer to his. “Please, say yes.”

  Owen did what he was best at. It had served him well during his years of service to the Crown. “No,” he lied.

  Chapter Three

  “Get up, Vera.”

  Vera opened her eyes, sure she was about to launch into the river as she had the previous day, but it was far worse—Mr. MacKenna glared down on her, his eyes full of impatience.

  “Get up, we’re leaving camp. We’re already late.”

  She moved to sit up, then fell back down onto the small cot, her body rejecting the idea of any movement. Everything ached, everything stung—she was in pain from head to toe.

  “Up,” he repeated, turning to leave.

  “Where are we going?” Vera sat up, holding her side and sucking in a gasp of air. Except that was a mistake as well. Seemed her ribs were disagreeable to such a movement. Her body was disagreeable to a fair deal already and she hadn’t been awake enough to get her bearings.

  “You’re going back to England.” Owen stepped out of her tent, letting the flap close with a sharp punch.

  She wasn’t going anywhere. Vera had traveled for one reason, the very reason who had her rushing to her feet to give chase.

  “Now, wait here, Mr. MacKenna,” she yelled, emerging from her tent. Before her, a chaotic scene unfolded of men coming to and fro as the sounds of hammers and yelling filled the air with a heavy beat of steady work. She smoothed back her hair and stood straighter, determined not to let a single man see her bend in pain.

  The smell of campfire still filled the air. In the distance, yells filtered through the dense forest surrounding the tents. The burned remains of tree stumps rose from the ground, the after stark afterthought of brush clearing.

  Mr. MacKenna didn’t stop. In fact, he marched straight into his tent across the way. She wouldn’t be put off by his broody demeanor. He’d always acted as if the world was crashing down around his shoulders because he couldn’t bear the weight any longer. Even that summer when they met, while he was recovering from an injury.

  Vera squared her shoulders and pulled back the tent flap, only to collide with Owen. She neatly bounced off of him, nearly falling over. And she would have too, if only he didn’t reach out and have her cradled now in his arms.

  “You’re going back to England,” he said softly. “You’re no good to me dead.” His eyes bore into hers—rich amber spun with gold.

  And her heart tripped in her chest, well, there must be another name for such a feeling but she was quite at a loss of words for once. Mr. MacKenna hadn’t shaved in several days and the growth along his jaw only seemed to make his face harsher for it. It loaned him the look of a hungry wolf, desperate for food, ready to fight if cornered. In that moment she wasn’t sure she possessed the strength to fight him off if he stole a kiss. But that was a matter of semantics. He’d have to be someone she didn’t wish to kiss again for it truly to be stolen. And that, as she hung back in his arms, couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Shaking free of his stare, she wiggled against his hold. Vera was placed neatly back on her feet once more, her hand still resting upon his chest. She pointed her index finger at him, at least pretending to be half of mind to argue.

  “Listen here, Mr. MacKenna,” she said, licking her lips before she leveled her gaze up at him. “I nearly died yesterday and I’ve traveled for weeks. You can’t bundle me up and shove me onto a ship home. I refuse.” She dug in her heels for effect, then jammed her finger into his chest once more.

  Mr. MacKenna lowered his head, bending down between them both. “I’m bigger.”

  “You’re pig headed, is what you are.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “I’ve been called much worse. Don’t be afraid to hurt my feelings now.”

  Vera straightened, her hands settling on her hips. “You’re impossible.”

  “Is that the best you have?”

  “My brother is dead.” The words flew from her mouth so quickly they even surprised her. He straightened at that. “He’s dead and I’m here to find out why. And if you could stop being such an impossible bastard, I’m asking for your help.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s not safe here for you. You’re going back to England. I don’t care if I have to drag you there and tie you to the mast of the ship, you’re going back, damn it.”

  “How typical, a man who wishes to order a woman about. I can look after myself.”

  “No one’s saying you can’t, lass. But the jungle here doesn’t care a fig about your women’s rights.”

  Vera gasped, stepping forward to stomp on his foot. Just moments ago she had thought of kissing him and enjoying it! How foolish. Men like Mr. MacKenna were best if avoided. Too bad she had fallen for him years ago.

  He turned, retreating into his tent without a word. Oh, how she wished to pummel him with her fists. Too bad his chest was like hitting stone. The foolish man wouldn’t feel a thing.

  So she was going to be difficult, Owen wouldn’t claim to be surprised. She always did have a mind of her own. That was partly why Tom’s aunt tried to get her married that summer. Tom said his father thought Vera was too smart to make a good wife and wanted to see her married before she had too much time to think outside of the school room.

  And Owen had gone and thoroughly fell for her while recovering, kissing her just as thoroughly, the two of them dangerously close to forcing her aunt’s hands if they were ever caught. He had compromised her, but then she had so loved it. And he would never forgive himself for doing it, not when he was ripped away from ever seeing her as his wife, as he had
intended. But the Crown was a demanding mistress in his experience, selfish enough to force him into a bachelor’s life. To work as a spy endangered those that he loved.

  That summer seemed ages ago now, and he’d found one’s life changed with the tide. Hearts were just as consistent, ebbing with feeling. Too much lay between them now. Besides, it was too dangerous for Vera to be around him.

  “Will you stop walking away?” she asked in a huff from the entryway of the tent. A slip of blond hair fell to frame her face, drawing his attention to those heavenly dark eyes of hers, rich as sin. “I’m not a child, Mr. MacKenna. I won’t be told what to do. I’ll pay you for your help.”

  It was possible Vera Attwater was never a child. She was born with a sharp tongue and a wit to match. Hell, she even kissed as though she had been a courtesan in another life. Trying to keep up with that brilliant mind of hers was a challenge he rarely ever met fully. She thought circles around him. He saw the world in numbers and angles, and she wanted to know why one’s heart felt multitudes.

  Owen grabbed the duffel from his desk and slung it over his shoulder. “Where are your things? Get them.”

  “My God,” she exclaimed, “it’s as if I’m speaking another language. And I know—” She stopped and he waited, his heart hammering in his chest waiting her to finish that sentence. He spoke several languages, that’s why he was such an attractive candidate to the Home Office. Among his other, more deadly talents.

  “Miss Attwater, regardless of what you have to say, we’re leaving. Get your things or we’ll leave without.”

  She turned abruptly and stormed out. Owen’s body relaxed on a deep breath as he surveyed his tent. Nothing important was left behind, which was good because he didn’t trust anyone, especially after Tom’s death. And now that Vera as here, somehow miraculously surviving a shipwreck, he doubted he was done with danger. It all seemed easier once. Now, well now he was stuck with Vera Attwater. No good could come of that. She was safer if he continued to push her away and get her back to the safety of England.