Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  Vera’s eyes widened. “Now you’re just spoiling me.”

  No, Owen thought, he was just trying to make the next few hours enjoyable before broke her heart.

  The bath was heaven. Vera stood from the bath, stepping out and reaching for a towel. She studied herself in the mirror, no longer finding the girl who had ventured to Africa by herself. She’d become a woman she didn’t recognize, one in love with a man that overshadowed her. She would fight for her chance in the light with him. Surely, they could have a happy ending if only he would let her close.

  The door opened and she pulled the towel around her, turning to face Owen as he entered. He flashed her a brief smile, then strode to the window by the bed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He waved her off, searching the room for something, before surprising her with a box that contained a new dress.

  “I thought...” she trailed off, blushing. “That is if you’re willing...we could…”

  Owen looked to the ceiling, tossing his head back, and raking his hand through his hair. “My God, woman.”

  “Or least you can enjoy a bath? Come, you must be ready to fall asleep standing up.” She walked closer, her arms outstretched. The teasing dropped from her voice, then her smile as he looked down and met her stare. “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed, withdrawing a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, handing the paper to her instead.

  The room grew cold, sweeping in like a late winter’s storm. She stumbled, dropping the paper, then her towel. She bent down, naked to him and the world as she straightened. “This is a ticket to England, Owen. Leaving tomorrow.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But we’ve discussed this. I’m not returning to England just yet. I’m going with you. We’re following the map of my brother’s. We’re going to get answers.”

  “I’m going to get answers,” he corrected. “I’m going to get answers and I’ll write you with what I find. It’s time for you to leave Africa. It’s time for you to return home.”

  She scrambled to get the towel around her again, desperate for some sort of armor, anything to defend herself from the cold, lifeless eyes of Owen staring back at her now. “I don’t understand. We are on our way now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we?”

  He cast his eyes to the floor. “We were never on the way whatever lays in the center of that map. I’ve been guiding us to town from the start.”

  Vera rushed up, striking her hand against his chest, overwhelmed by the smell of spirits on his breath. “You bastard. The whole time? The whole time!”

  He grabbed both of her wrists, his grasp gentle. “Yes, love. From the start. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  She felt as if she could kick and scream, claw his eyes out even. Anger swelled inside her and all she ended up doing was crying like some windward maiden, adrift after being tossed aside. But isn’t that what happened? She had given him everything. And again, he was leaving her.

  “I never want to see you again, Owen MacKenna. Do you understand?”

  “I never promised you anything I couldn’t give, lass. Let’s be fair.”

  She rushed up to him again, pounding her fists against his hard chest. “I hate you. Oh, how I hate you.”

  He held her tight, refusing to let go as she broke into sobs. “I know. I deserve it.”

  “All this time I was foolish enough to believe there was a chance.”

  “A chance of what?”

  “That I mean something to you. Tell me you love me at least. Tell me something I can hold on to, Owen.”

  He gently pushed her aside, avoiding her eyes as he said, “You can’t a love man like me, lass, without being left. It’s what must happen.”

  And she thought there was so much more that could happen. Like the two of them getting married, maybe while they were traveling. Like having a few children who were just as wild and sarcastic as Owen. She thought, however foolishly, she had found happiness in life.

  The door shut behind him, and Owen was gone.

  And Vera was left with nothing but a broken heart.

  Vera sat at the table of boarders at Mrs. Millers, staring hopelessly into her soup. She knew better, she knew and yet she was foolish enough to let Owen MacKenna back into her heart. And now she sat searching her soup as if it held the answers to her life’s problems.

  After enduring an hour of dinner with travelers from the world over, she discovered one thing—nothing held the answers except for the glass of wine that kept getting refilled with general ease. Which probably accounted for why the heat of the dining room was making her faint. And how the room’s edges were becoming blurred.

  A man approached, filling the doorway in the same casual way a handsome scoundrel she knew had a habit of doing. But alas, he didn’t look anything like her Owen. Ha, her Owen! He had never been hers. He had been a schoolgirl crush and then nothing better than a handsome cad.

  Her stomach growled as she took a sip of water, nodding along to a conversation about her shipwreck. Seemed she had gained some notability after surviving such a disaster. They all certainly treated her as if she were a queen, lavishing her with food and drink. She was never the glutton, but she wasn’t above drowning her sorrows, even if it were a bit morose. How did one even recover from heartbreak? There must be some time allowed before one was expected to partake in life wholly once again.

  The first time she had lost herself in her studies. This time? Well, the pain was too fresh to tell, but with the added loss of Tom, Vera was certain it would take quite a lot to recover.

  Why had she ever thought she was worthy enough of his attention? Owen MacKenna—the famous engineer and daring adventurer! What future could they ever share when she was a dedicated scholar and suffragette? Her future belonged in rented room at the women’s college, there along with her cat and plenty of books. Books never broke her heart. They provided comfort. A man broke her heart.

  “What’s that, Miss Attwater?”

  Vera turned, facing a man who looked vaguely familiar. “Hmm?”

  “Was something funny? You were chuckling.”

  She waved him off, taking another sip of wine, adjusting herself in her seat. It seemed her new dress made sitting in one’s seat rather difficult. Or perhaps it was the chair.

  “How long will you be traveling in the country?” the man asked. He reached across the table, pouring her another glass of water.

  “Oh, I’m quite finished,” she said. She was so neatly delivered at port just short of being dragged onto the steamer itself. “Leaving tomorrow.” Owen only had the courage to tell her about her change of travel plans when she was naked and in shock. He didn’t have the heart to tell her when she could have countered back, as she should have. What a wasted moment, to sit there and let him walk out on her. She wasn’t a wilted flower. She had more backbone then to let the man announce she was going back to England and let that be that.

  Hmph.

  Expect she was doing exactly that.

  The room warped around her, bowing around the edges, distorting the faces of the fellow dinners. Perhaps it was just the shock. Or the heat. It was rather hot in the room. Or maybe it was the wine. She should have stopped two glasses ago. It wasn’t ladylike to be so well into her cups, but alas...

  “Please excuse me,” she announced, pulling her seat back. She attempted to stand, then grasped onto the table. The lace tablecloth flew forward in her grip, whisking away the fine crystal glasses and chine plates of the other guests. “Oh, pardon me.”

  “Would you like help, Miss Attwater?” the man asked at her side.

  “No, thank you,” she said, dragging her foot forward to take a step. Everything felt so heavy. Her eyes felt so...

  Tired. She was so very tired.

  Her head held a savage beat, unrelenting. It was difficult to move, more so to even open her eyes, but she heard voices around her. Strange voices.

&n
bsp; “He said she had it. We heard him talking about it in the tavern. Why is it not here?”

  “Keep looking,” another voice answered back in a clipped tone. “She’ll be coming around soon.”

  Vera tried to answer, but her tongue felt as though it were made of cotton.

  “He’s going to be right livid. She’s escaped too many times and now that we have her, nothing.”

  “I know why. I told you he wasn’t to be trusted. We should have shot them when we had the chance.”

  Her heart picked up its beat in her chest. And suddenly her desire to move turned to a desire to remain still, to pretend she was still asleep.

  “What are we going to do with her?”

  “Nothing. She’s booked passage on the ship leaving in the morning. She’s not the problem anymore. He is.”

  He is. He is? Owen!

  The floor vibrated as boot steps approached. Vera held her breath, willing her body to remain still. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she? Doesn’t take after that brother of hers.”

  “Don’t touch her,” the other snapped. “Let’s go. She’s going to wake up soon. She didn’t finish the whole dose.”

  A hand grabbed her boot. “Shouldn’t we make sure she won’t remember?”

  Vera swallowed, hoping they didn’t notice.

  “She’s making that ship in the morning. If we knock her out, she might not make it. Then we’ll be in a host of trouble.”

  The hand let go, then the footsteps retreated. The door closed and for a few minutes, Vera remained in the dark, motionless if the strangers returned. Carefully, she opened her eyes, then wiggled her fingers and toes. Everything felt as if it were filled with lead. But it wouldn’t do to remain slumped against the wall in her room. They didn’t even have the decency to place her on the bed. She was just tossed in the corner.

  She got up and lit the gas lamp, placing a chair underneath her door so it wouldn’t open. The furniture was knocked about, her bed unmade. Even the few belongings she had were strewn across the room.

  They’d been after the map, but they hadn’t looked under the mattress, the bed was still perfectly made. That hadn’t stopped Owen though, because it was gone from where she hid it.

  Chapter Ten

  The morning sun poured into the window. She had watched her shadow move across the floor before her as she sat perched on the bed, waiting for sense to strike her. There was a huge risk in doing what she was about to do.

  It wasn’t smart. She had always done the logical thing.

  She clenched the paper in her hand, a pencil rub of the map, then stood. She possessed a ticket to a ship that would set sail in an hour. Yet, Vera undressed, rummaging through her bag for the oversized shirt and trousers.

  She refused to turn her back on her brother, not when he fought for her to have the freedom to go to college. He deserved to rest in peace, and she knew the story of his death was just that—a story. It was time to find the truth and see that justice was done. Even if it meant she must go the rest of the way by herself, without the help of Owen.

  There was no hint of what lay at the center of Tom’s map, but she knew it would be a trek. It wasn’t a journey she could take a ship to. She hadn’t any connections in Stanley Falls to help her secure a guide at all, so she would have trek alone, and try to follow any path Owen might have left behind.

  Difficult though it may be, there was seldom anything impossible worth fighting for in life.

  Somewhere in the depths of the Congo, there was a steamer ship with one less female passenger. Two days into her trek, Vera regretted nothing. Nothing that is until the ground caved beneath her and swallowed her up.

  Down she fell, down into the darkness, down into a stone pit. Down until bone hit stone and her body finally stopped.

  She winced as she tried to stand, her hands clawing at the stone walls. Stagnant water pooled around her feet, fetid.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, glancing up what must have been a well long ago. Filtered daylight reached her through the thick jungle canopy above. Besides the caw of birds and the call of monkeys, there was only a suffocating emptiness that filled the air.

  “Damn, damn, double damn,” she cursed, trying to stand on both feet. She couldn’t support any weight on her left ankle. It throbbed with blinding pain. She winced as she forced herself to balance on both feet as she attempted to scale the wall.

  Her fingers slipped first, unable to get grip on the stones. Then she slid down the wall in an awkward heap of womanhood and disaster. To think she had started this year with such high hopes for herself. Now she was quite literally down the river and buried in a well in Africa of all places, desperate for some closure for Tom.

  Tom. Her heart ebbed around his name. She had been too busy to appreciate their short visit earlier that winter, too absorbed with classes and submitting papers. Too busy sulking in being denied and then being too headstrong to admit defeat. And now she was here, without a brother and way of escaping.

  Her mouth fumbled and searched for a word, then settled on a favorite of Owen’s—“Fuck.”

  She spun in a slow circle, her eyes surveying the walls around her, searching out some ledge, a foothold, anything to help get her closer to the sky. But there was nothing. The stone was rough, but not rough enough to provide her with any support to scale the wall. She had no rope, no pistol. Even her water reserves were small.

  “This is what you get, Vera Ruth Attwater, for deciding against the ship,” she scolded herself.

  And worst of all, he had been right. The man she would rather not name because when she thought of him and that blasted name of his, his likeness appeared in her memory and her heart gave a funny squeeze. It was damned inconvenient to be in love.

  If this is what it was like, she had had her fill. She could carry on with her life, once she got out of this godforsaken well, and have a life full of books and cats and words. She could carry on with her work for the women’s movement and see real change come to England. And she would be just fine if love had no other role in her life.

  She bumped her forehead against the wall, drawing in a deep breath. The water was beginning to seep into her boots, the smell of it turning her stomach. She just had to think, just had to solve her way out of this challenge. But what could she do?

  Vera looked up, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled.

  Panic had a nasty way of eroding seconds into hours with a quicksilver efficiency. And when one was lost to the darkness to a well in the jungle, time transformed into an infinite hell. Of that, Vera was sure.

  “Help!” She screamed again, her voice rough from yelling for some time. “J’ai besoin d’aide.” Her words trailed off, the back of her throat burning. She had finished the last of her water, there was nothing left to drink. She doubted the water she stood in was safe to consume.

  She turned and smacked her hand against the stone walls, striking it again until new pain coursed through her body and her palm became numb. “I hate you Owen MacKenna,” she said, leaning back against the wall. “Oh how I hate you.” She closed her eyes to the memory of his body moving against hers, that mouth of his trailing its way across her shoulder blade, the feel of his fingers cupping her cheek. “I hate you.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  A bird flew overhead, loudly shrieking as it propelled forward in the darkening sky. And then there was something else, something moving through the brush.

  “Help,” she forced out of her throat. “Please, I’m down here.”

  Voices grew louder, muddled, but they neared.

  “Vous pouvez m’aider?”

  Vera held her breath, listening carefully as footfalls neared. “Help. Please help!”

  A shadow towered over the well. She fell back against the wall, grateful. “Oh, thank goodness. Please, please help me. I can’t—”

  “Imagine my luck.” With a quick strike, a bright burst of light blinded her before the familiar face came into focus.

  “Oh,
Mr. Amesbury! You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you.”

  “Or you I, Miss Attwater. You’ve helped tidy up a messy situation. I thought I would have to track you down in England.”

  Confused, she drew back, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the flare. “Whatever for?”

  “Come now, you’re a bluestocking. Can’t you figure it out?”

  She waited a beat, puzzling together why he hadn’t let down a rope to help her out of the well.

  “No? Let me answer for you. You have something I want. Or did. Seems MacKenna possesses it now. And with you out of the way...”

  “But I’m not—whatever you want—that is, I can help. If you want the map, I can help you. Please, help me out of here.”

  “No, no I don’t think I will, Miss Attwater. The first man who tried killing you was apprehended by the police at Girton. Bad luck, that. The second man barely escaped before you began sorting through your brother’s cottage. The explosion on the steamer originated in your room, but you just had to be on the deck taking in the morning air.” He pointed down at her, anger filling his voice. “I’ve tried killing you but you’re much too stubborn, unlike your brother.”

  She stood fully, not caring as her left ankle buckled in pain. “You bastard. You killed Tom?”

  “That’s the danger spies like him face.”

  Spy? She reached out toward the wall, bracing herself. Tom wasn’t a spy, he was a cartographer. She’d visited his office once in London. That wasn’t right at all.

  “I have a diamond to get now. And you’ve run out of luck.” He tossed the flare. It spiraled down into the dark and splashed at her feet. “Goodbye, Miss Attwater.”

  She clawed at the wall, desperate to get up and hit the man. Raw hatred pulsed through her, propelling her to scale the wall a few feet before her grip on the wall slipped. She fell, striking her head against the opposite side of the wall as the well around her went dark.

  “Help me,” she screamed. But the voices were gone now.