Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  He stepped out of his tent and searched the sky—not a storm cloud in sight. If they left soon, they could make it to Stanley Falls in five days’ time. From there, he’d pay a guide to see her the rest of the way home and he continued his work for the Crown. It wasn’t as if he were going to get...

  Oh, bloody hell...

  Vera marched forward, the white linen shirt she borrowed of his unbuttoned a button too low. It revealed the perfect curve of her breasts as the shirt stirred.

  “Then we’re leaving without,” he said, observing her empty hands. He turned his back and walked fifty paces before he felt a tug at the back of his shirt. “This,” he growled, slowly turning around, “is not how the rest of today is going to go.”

  With pursed lips, she slammed a folded piece of paper into his chest. He didn’t move back a step, which apparently didn’t meet her approval because her thick brows drew together in frustration.

  “Since you won’t listen to me, look at that.” She stepped back, folding her arms. She stood tall, even if her body was dwarfed by her clothes. Well, his clothes more precisely. Vera stood before him in pants rolled up and tied at her waist with a rope, and the damn crime of it was that she still looked as if she were Athena, preparing for battle.

  Owen set down the duffel, then opened the folded piece of paper, his heart picking up its pace once he noticed Tom’s writing.

  “I found a notebook of his after the funeral. It was full of these cryptic messages. But this was sewn into a jumper of his, hidden at the back of bureau…”

  Owen nodded, not needing her to finish. It was a map of the Upper Congo, the lethal area groups of men had tried to explore, but few ever survived. And if the scribbling were correct, it held the answer the Crown had paid Owen to discover—the Inoubliable.

  “I need to know why my brother died, Mr. MacKenna, because I’m the Queen of England if it were because of riding accident. This is the answer. Whatever waits at the center of that map is why he’s buried and I’m here. And I will not return until I have my answer.”

  Even in death, Tom couldn’t get out of Owen’s way. What had he been up to?

  “And now that you’ve seen...” Vera snatched back the map and slipped it underneath her shirt, tucking it neatly into her corset, never once taking her eyes off Owen.

  “That was supposed to change my mind?” Of course it had, not that he would admit that to her. There must be a way to see to the map and get Vera off to England. There was always a way.

  “I need answers. You have them, I know you do, Mr. MacKenna. I’m not daft.”

  At least in that they agreed. Owen took in the sight of her, drowning in his clothes, the sun wrapping around her with a dangerous brilliance. He scratched at the back of his neck, his mouth dry from wanting to kiss that smart mouth of hers.

  “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  She folded her arms again, then lofted her nose in the air. “But this is where you tell me to be a good little girl and return to England, isn’t it?”

  “Haven’t I been telling you that all morning?”

  Vera shrugged, her eyes growing red.

  “I am sorry about, Tom. Truly. He was a great man.”

  “He was. And a great brother. And he deserves the respect of finding out the real reason why he can’t grow old or have a family or fall...”

  Owen cocked his head.

  “He’s never going to fall in love, Mr. MacKenna. He’s going to be forever twenty-nine. And he’s going to be missing from my life, like this big hole that will never be filled.”

  And didn’t Owen know that? He was robbed of a great friend and partner, and now he was stuck roaming through the African jungles with no direction, blindly following leads, aggressively turning assets to help with the search.

  “He’d want you to be safe.” Owen bit back her name, or the endearment that lingered on his tongue whenever he addressed her. “I know that. And I recognize that even if you think it’s a good idea for you to be here, I can tell you that this whole country is a stick of dynamite, waiting for the charge to explode. And it won’t be years, it’s a matter of days. It’s not safe here, Miss Attwater, and getting yourself killed isn’t going to bring back your brother.”

  Silence wrapped around them as her eyes filled with disappointment.

  “Vera,” he said, his voice a plea.

  She glanced up, her lips pulled into a tight line.

  “There’s time to fight in this life, and then there’s time to stop and listen to your head. Use your head now. Get yourself home safe and live the life Tom was denied.”

  For a moment, her hands worked at the rope around her waist, nervously tying a knot. Then, without a word, she turned and fetched the little that was salvaged from the shipwreck, then returned, her head hanging low. “Then get me on a ship home, if you must.”

  Owen reached out, then dropped his hand and turned toward the jungle. Five days of trekking would be difficult, but there wasn’t another ship scheduled for three weeks’ time. She followed as they exited camp, silent as she walked behind. Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a bastard. Maybe he had been too harsh. But then again, what could he say to ever make up for losing Tom?

  This was the right thing to do. This is what Tom would have wanted. And above all, this is what Owen wanted. He wasn’t prepared to have Vera back in his life, especially not the fierce woman she had become. That only drew him closer, made him soften toward her. Above all, he was proud of her.

  An hour in, silence still lingered between them. A parrot flew overhead as he bent the palms out of the way and forged a path forward. If only he could make her understand he wasn’t the villain.

  “You could have sent a telegram,” he said grimly, swinging his cutlass in a large sweep in front of him.

  A sound made him freeze. A gunshot ripped through the air, one not too far away.

  “I had no idea where. I had to ask after you in London, at the office you keep there. Which reminds me, your secretary was very rude.”

  “Miss Attwater,” he said in warning, the hair on his back prickling.

  She continued, unaware. “Anyway, you are a hard man to track down, but I find that if you offer to pay for information, people are much more agreeable to helping.”

  He held up his hand as he turned around, facing the direction of the sound. The jungle’s growth was too thick to see what the commotion was. There weren’t other camps nearby. And the mines were a day’s distance away.

  Another shot, this time striking the giant palm leaf beside his head.

  “Get down,” he hissed, pulling Vera close, and shielding her with his arms.

  Another shot, too close for it to be a coincidence.

  “I’m starting to think someone wants you dead, Vera.” Before she could answer, he grabbed her hand. “Now run.” He pushed her forward into the thick overgrowth and followed, ducking as the bullets sliced through the air.

  The jungle raced past as they ran, the deep green blurring by as he turned and shot back. He couldn’t find the culprit, couldn’t see a damn thing. But when you’re on the wrong end of the bullet, there wasn’t time for answers.

  “I don’t know where I’m going,” Vera shouted over her shoulder.

  “Keep moving. Don’t stop.”

  Rain started, not a light rain, but the kind that soaked the ground during the wet season. It was unrelenting as it poured for above, deafening the sound of gunfire. Owen couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from now. He turned, pushing Vera forward until she stumbled, taking him down as well. The two tumbled, falling and falling, sliding as the rich mud washed down the side of a hill, carrying them away.

  “Owen!”

  Vera slide forward, screaming, her arms outstretched as the mud carried her farther and farther away. He tried to keep up but his body crashed against the trees, snagged on the roots and vines. Above them, somewhere in the distance was a shout—a voice carried off by the roar of the rain and the rush of water f
lowing down the mountain.

  “Vera!”

  At the bottom, she stood on her knees, her arms braced in front of her as the water and mud continued to flow underneath. He struggled to stand, to gain his footing, and she did the same as he neared her.

  “Who’s shooting at us?”

  He didn’t have the answer, though he was curious himself. I can’t tell where they are now, we have to keep moving.”

  She stood, drenched in mud, holding out his duffle in her hands.

  He nodded for her to continue, and she did, until there was another loud rush.

  This time, the ground beneath them gave way as a shot fired into the air, and they tumbled down, down until they struck the surface of the river.

  Chapter Four

  Vera shot through the surface of the river, gasping as she tried to right the swirling world around her. The map! It wouldn’t survive another trip in the river. A spiral of green consumed her as she tried to find a fixed point on the horizon.

  “Owen!”

  The water lay claim to her again, the white waves hungry as they pulled at her limbs, twisting the oversized clothes around her, tugging her this way and that as she tried to remain above the surface.

  She kicked and reached upward, slamming into a rock. Her body rang out in pain, her fresh wounds still tender. All the while, one thought drove her to push upward, poking out through the surface until she was pushed back under again: Owen.

  What if he had been shot? What if he was able to get out of the river and she would drown here, in Africa, never getting the answers she came here to find? What if. What if he was dead and she was alone?

  The current was unrelenting, sweeping her forward, tearing her away from what little she knew. Panic set in, filling up her lungs in between watery breaths. She sputtered, choking on another mouthful of water as she struggled to kick to the surface for air. The edges of her vision began to fade to black, her eyes stinging from the water. Then a powerful hand gripped the fabric between her shoulder blades and plucked her out of the water, setting her hard on the on the earth.

  She struggled to bring Owen into focus as she dragged in a breath, then another, trying to calm her racing heartbeat. With a hard slap, his hand struck her back, sending a column of water to rise from her chest and fill her mouth. She coughed it up, sagging against his warm chest as the rain poured down around them.

  “You’ll be fine, you’re fine, lass.”

  Vera nodded, not moving further. What she would give for his arms to embrace her fully right there, on the side of the river, ferns bursting along the tree bases like fireworks.

  “What just happened?” she asked, not sure if she was dreaming. Maybe they have given her something for the pain and she was still at camp? Maybe she was riddled with a fever, still stuck on that slow boat down the river?

  Owen’s hand cupped the bottom of her chin, turning her face gently to the left, then the right. “Look at me, now.”

  She did, losing herself for a minute in the hard determination that wove in with those golden irises. Then her mind caught up to the words spinning on the edge of her tongue.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Can you breathe?”

  She nodded again, the air slowly filling her lungs once again. “Are you—”

  “Never mind about me,” he snapped. “You nearly drowned.”

  Vera sat up, reaching into her corset to find the map still snuggly fit against her breast. “But this survived,” she said, waving it in front of him. “And now I suppose you’ll admit there’s something to it.”

  “You’re asking a lot of me, Miss Attwater.”

  “I find you get nothing out of life worthwhile unless you ask for it.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “So?” She moved to sit on her knees in front of him, her hands on her lap. They itched to rub the scratch against his cheek and to ease away the tension settled in his shoulders. It was impossible to look at him now, the man he’d become, and not miss the one she had kissed so fearlessly in those carefree days of summer.

  He took the map from her hand and unfolded it, sighing. It was a small miracle Tom had treated the paper with wax, protecting it from the elements. “Fine, Miss Attwater, consider yourself successful.”

  “I often am,” Vera said smugly, tugging the map back. She folded it up and tucked it back beneath her corset. “Will you help me, Mr. MacKenna?”

  Owen stood, offering his large hand for hers. “If there are answers, we’ll find them.”

  “Together?”

  He reached forward and swept a piece of her hair behind her ear, studying her with warm eyes. “Yes,” he said, looking past her into the jungle, “together.”

  Chapter Five

  Owen would rather have a leg removed with a dull knife than lead Vera to way lay at the center of the map she kept safely tucked against her breasts. He’d prefer instead of hold those breasts of hers in his hands, to taste them with his mouth, to hear the soft sigh she would make at his touch.

  Too bad that wouldn’t happen either. No, no matter what she thought, Owen was trekking through the jungle with Vera for one specific purpose—to get her into town and on a goddamn ship back to England. She could be mad at him, he didn’t care.

  Of course he cared a little, but not as much when he considered someone had tried to shoot them the day before. He would honor Tom and see Vera safe. Hell, let her be furious. Even if Owen had to drag her onto that ship, she’d be back in England in four weeks’ time, back to the safety she didn’t possess here. And one way or another, he’d get his hands on that map for his own, make a big show of possessing whatever information it held, and move to the target to his own back. That was at least familiar territory.

  Vera mumbled behind him. He peeked over his shoulder, catching her swatting her hands in the air, her mouth pulled into a frown. He’d never considered her a woman with such high standards. She was never one of the fainting roses England so loved to keep stashed away in morning parlors.

  “Problem, Miss Attwater?” Maybe he should remove the sneer in his voice, but after a morning of slashing away growth with his cutlass, he lost his ability to care about a lot.

  Her response was breathless and throaty, a string of words he couldn’t make out. He stilled his blade and turned, catching her yank her boot from the jungle floor with difficulty.

  A hundred responses swam through his mind, mostly sarcastic, ready to spur her on. Instead, she surprised him and marched forward, yanking the cutlass from his hand. He froze, arching a brow as she removed one boot, then the other, sinking into the soft earth. Her hair fell from its pins, cascading around her shoulders in loose golden curls.

  Then she had the nerve to look up at him for a moment, one heart stopping moment, with those dark brown eyes of hers.

  He most definitely, absolutely, would never confess just how much she had—no—meant to him. In that instant, he understood fully just how devastating such a confession would be. If he allowed himself to reveal that truth to Vera, it would erode any control he had remaining over his life. And with Tom now gone, there was quite little. The Crown was likely to send him wherever it saw fit, sending him into danger again and again, because that was it was to be a spy. He was a patriot to the core, a man who followed his Queen’s orders for the sake of his countrymen. He was a cog in a wheel, and his desires in life mattered little.

  But Vera meant everything. And to confess that would put her in even more danger.

  And maybe himself as well.

  He looked away, only glancing back when curiosity got the better of him. With a thwack, Vera stood with the cutlass high above her head and her boot on a fallen tree. Another strike, and the heel of her boot neatly popped off.

  “I can’t keep up if you insist on running through the jungle, Mr. MacKenna,” she said, switching boots. Thwack. “And I’m just as eager to get to our destination as you are.”

  He doubted
that. If all went well, she’d be on a steamer ship as he ventured deeper into the Upper Congo.

  After a mostly sleepless night on the jungle floor, Vera had had it with the way Owen rushed through the jungle. Perhaps it was just that her patience was thin after a small meal of stale provisions he had packed, and a night spent out in a violent thunderstorm with little shelter. Not to mention the bugs. She had decided quickly not to count the snakes slithering past on the jungle floor or up the trees between the creeper vines.

  She shuddered. Around her, the jungle was alive with a chorus of shrills and chirps from birds, the buzz of insects, the low pitter-patter of cascading water. It was a welcome distraction to count how many different sounds she could hear because he wasn’t much of a conversationalist either. He spent the morning hacking through the jungle growth without saying a word. Vera tagged along behind, stopping and going with the rhythmic swish of his cutlass.

  But wasn’t that a sight to see—Owen MacKenna swinging a blade that could decapitate a man cleanly. It shouldn’t be something that spurred on Vera’s feelings toward the infuriating man, but it strangely did. His body possessed such sheer power, and he carried it with ease. If comparing him to a God was cliché, she would gladly do it, because he was in fact a man who was unlike any other she had ever met.

  She handed back the cutlass, her eyes meeting his with the same measured coolness. Like that strong back of his, his manner toward her was cast in stone. But to admit to him anymore wouldn’t do. It was bad enough that he didn’t seemed remotely interested in her return. For her to be honest, to say that she had long dreamed of seeing him again, of kissing him, of dare she admit it—marrying him—would gut her. Her life was built on fighting the failures that kept arriving at her doorstep. One day, she would be published. One day she would see women secure the rights equal to that of a man. One day, she dared to be happy.