The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Caleb snorted.

  Arm in arm, they strolled on, then she glanced frowningly at his face. “You said that the second tunnel having more diamonds was somehow a problem. How so?”

  He grimaced lightly. “Dixon’s uneasy over the size of the deposit. He can’t yet see far enough to even guess how many diamonds the second pipe contains, and how spread out they are, which is the critical factor in determining how long it will take us to mine out the deposit. And in terms of us surviving until the rescue force arrives, that is the critical question. Dixon equates the likelihood of discovering a third pipe as akin to lightning striking twice, so effectively, the second pipe is all we have to see us through. An added complication is that once Arsene returns with the extra picks and shovels and more timber, the work will ramp up—those working on the first deposit will soon mine it out, although we’re hoping that by then, we’ll have the second tunnel fully open.”

  Caleb paused to draw breath. “And that’s the point at which we’ll know whether lasting until September is going to be a simple exercise or whether we’ll have to manufacture delays. Not having enough of a deposit to stretch the distance output-wise is one potential scenario. Another is that the diamonds are there in sufficient quantity, but are too concentrated and too easy to mine, so the output will escalate, and again, the deposit won’t last long enough. Both those scenarios will require us to act, either to slow the mining itself in some believable way or, in the second case, perhaps to allow the mining to proceed, but to hide the diamonds so we can feed them out at a slower rate.”

  “Yet it could be that the second deposit is both large enough and spread out enough that mining it will take more than enough time.”

  “True. But that’s the best-case scenario.”

  Katherine glanced at him. “And you’re not inclined to place your faith in the best-case scenario?”

  He pulled a face. “Let’s just say that I’m more comfortable making contingency plans.”

  She smiled, but all levity faded as she envisaged how anything other than the best-case scenario might play out. “As long as the backers are satisfied with the flow of raw diamonds, Dubois is unlikely to concern himself. Which in turn means that as long as we can keep the number and quality of the diamonds sent out to the coast sufficiently high, he’s not going to be overly exercised by any temporary holdups.”

  Caleb nodded. Several paces on, he mused, “I’m sure Dubois knows, or at least guesses, that we’re plotting and planning, but as long as we don’t test him—as long as we make no overt bid to escape and keep working, and the diamonds going out satisfy his masters—he really doesn’t care. His men maintain absolute control over the perimeter, and while that’s in place, he knows there’s no point worrying about what we might be up to. We can’t get out, and he has immediate access to effective hostages should we ever attempt a challenge. As far as he can see, we’re no threat and never will be. All of which is true. For us, there is no way out of here unless some force attacks from outside—and even then, with so many hostages, Dubois believes he’ll always have the upper hand.”

  “Still,” she murmured, “if we’re forced to act to influence production, we can’t afford to have him guess that we’re doing so.”

  “That we’re manipulating him?” Caleb’s grin took on an edge. “No. We need to ensure he never has any firm evidence of that. He might suspect, but he won’t act on suspicion—he still needs us to keep working the mine. As long as there’s nothing overt—as long as we do nothing that forces him to confront the reality that we’re managing him—he’ll leave us be.”

  “But if he does find out...” She shivered.

  Caleb unwound their arms, looped his arm about her, and drew her against his side.

  The medical hut was near; he steered their steps in that direction. He glanced at her and caught her eye. “There’s no sense worrying—we all know the score, that we have to keep our activities hidden.”

  He guided her into the dense shadow at the side of the hut, then halted, leaned his shoulders against the plank wall, and drew her to stand before him.

  Resting her hands lightly on his chest—an innocent, all but absentminded touch he felt to his marrow—she studied his face. Then in a transparent bid to lighten their mood—to turn to a happier subject—she demanded, “Tell me about your home. Does your family live in Aberdeen?”

  He grinned. “No.” Settling his hands comfortably about her waist, he held her gaze. “Our business—the shipping company—operates out of Aberdeen, but home is a manor house at Banchory-Devenick. That’s about two miles west...” He paused. Her eyes had widened, her brows rising. “What?”

  “I know the place—not the house but the village.” She held his gaze. “I was born not far away.”

  “Oh? Where?”

  Katherine studied his eyes, drank in the uncomplicated interest that was evident even through the shadows. She tended to keep her background private, but it was no real secret, and she wasn’t ashamed of any of it. “Fortescue Hall. It’s just outside Stonehaven—on the coast about fifteen miles south of Aberdeen.”

  His eyes flared. “You’re a local!”

  She couldn’t help but smile at his open delight. Yet she felt forced to continue, “Although I was born at the Hall, my father was a younger son, so we lived in a house in the town, in Arbuthnott Place. And later, after he died, my mother and I moved to a small cottage on Mary Street.”

  There was nothing deficient about Caleb Frobisher’s understanding; his features sobered and the expression in his eyes grew more intent. “Your father left debts?”

  His tone held no pity, just a simple wish to know.

  She nodded. “My mother had broken with her family in order to marry him, and although my grandmother—my father’s mother—always stood ready to help, my mother refused to live on charity. She was a gifted needlewoman, so she became a sempstress specializing in fine embroidery, mostly, of course, for the local gentry.” Which had ensured that she, as the daughter of their sempstress, was forever excluded from the social circles into which she’d been born.

  She drew in a breath and lifted her chin. “When Mama died, I had the option of living as a poor relation with any of several connected families, but I decided I was too much my mother’s daughter.” She smiled somewhat wryly at her memories and met his gaze. “I saw an advertisement in The Times for the position of a governess with a family located in Freetown, so I went to London and applied, and ultimately, that’s how I came to be here. Dubois decided he needed someone to oversee the children, so he asked Kale to get him a governess.”

  For one instant, his expression was—unusually for him—difficult to read, then he grimaced. “On the one hand, I wish Kale had chosen someone else. On the other”—his blue eyes held hers—“if he had, I wouldn’t have met you.”

  And I would never have met you. She could feel the connection between them—new, growing, still fragile, yet quite tangibly there... “Truth be told, I’m not sorry Kale seized me—there’ve been times I’ve been glad, even grateful, that I’ve been here for the children.”

  “Like Diccon.”

  She nodded. “Although I had no siblings, I grew up with tribes of cousins, which is why I chose to be a governess—because I liked children and knew how to deal with them.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands, to where they rested splayed on his chest. Through the thin linen of his shirt, she could feel the warmth of his body impinging on her fingers and palms, seducing her senses. If they’d been in some more normal place, she would have felt compelled to break the illicit contact—and step free of his grasp, away from the hard hands that rested gently yet firmly about her waist.

  But they were here, and this was now, so she looked up and met his eyes. “Tell me about your brothers—about you and them.”

  Caleb smiled easily and proceeded
to entertain her—and distract himself—with long-forgotten tales of the Frobisher brothers’ exploits. “Royd was always the leader, of course—and often there were far more in the group than just us four.”

  There were so many tales to choose from, he rattled on, seeking to draw her smiles, and even more her laughter, yet his nerves were alive in a way they’d never been before, and something—a web woven of primitive instinctive interest and some more fundamental need—had wrapped about them and now held them.

  As if they were trapped in that moment in time, in a place far removed from either of their homes, and so very far from the comfort of family—and there was some degree of visceral understanding they each had of the other that made each unique to the other...

  Here. Now. Together in this place.

  When he came to the end of his latest tale, he felt as if the weight of the moment had reached a peak that demanded he act.

  His eyes remained on hers, her gaze locked with his. They’d been speaking not just with words but with their eyes for long minutes.

  So it seemed natural, expected—certainly anticipated—when he slowly lowered his head...

  At the last, she pressed her hands more firmly to his chest and stretched up—and their lips met.

  It was a gentle kiss, innocent and almost heartbreakingly tentative...at first.

  Then he angled his head slightly and settled his lips over hers, and she kissed him back—and for an instant, his head spun.

  But her direction was clear, and he was only too happy to oblige—to sup at her lips, to explore their contours. And when he found her lips pliant and plush, just begging to be parted, desire ignited like a leaping flame, and he pressed in.

  And savored.

  And only just remembered in time that he shouldn’t go too far too fast—that he couldn’t simply plunge in, ravage, conquer, and seize.

  Even if her untutored enticements made him feel like a chest-beating barbarian.

  Yet her encouragement was plainly there, openly tendered, and that, in itself, made him feel unexpectedly humble—as if she and Fate had conspired to gift him with something indescribably precious.

  Here, in the depths of the West African jungle, while held captive by violent men, and with their survival nowhere near assured...

  Perhaps Fate hadn’t changed her spots all that much.

  Katherine felt giddy. She wasn’t sure she was even breathing, but couldn’t spare any mind to care, not with her senses whirling and darting this way, then that, wanting to absorb, to experience and remember every tiny detail of this—their first kiss.

  Not her first kiss, and certainly not his, but in that instant of feeling drawn into the exchange, all but drowning in the compulsion to go forward, she’d made her decision and knowingly taken that step—just as he had. In that moment, she’d sensed a tide, a pressure quite unlike anything she’d previously felt—as if this kiss was meant to be. As if she needed it. As if, for her—and for him, too—this kiss was a vital part of their way forward.

  Ridiculous, some long-buried kernel of conservative caution informed her. How could she be so sure when she’d only met him mere days ago?

  Yet she was.

  Experience—not just since her mother had died and she’d been alone, but even before that—had taught her to trust her judgment. That the one thing in life she could rely on was herself and that inner knowing.

  So she leaned into him, gave herself up to his hold, and slid her hands up the solid planes of his chest. She curved her palms over the heavy muscles of his shoulders, then reached farther to feather her fingers over his nape, then into the thick, tumbled locks of his dark hair.

  The fall of the silky locks over the backs of her hands was a sensuous caress that made her shudder.

  Want bloomed—a new flame within her.

  She noted it—that burgeoning need—and sensed that he did, too.

  To her surprise, she felt a small shudder rack him.

  Then his lips firmed.

  And without thought or hesitation, she met their demand, and the siren she’d never known lived inside her rejoiced.

  But almost immediately, she sensed him pause—then, very clearly, he took control and eased them both back...

  Until their lips parted.

  Until, from under weighted lids, their gazes met and held.

  Their breaths mingled, their breathing not as steady as it had been.

  As her heart slowed, he murmured, “Enough.” Not here.

  She held his gaze. “For now.” Later.

  * * *

  The cavalcade that marched into the compound late the next day was impressive in its way.

  A long row of native bearers swung through the gates two by two, each pair supporting a bundle of long, roughly dressed timber beams on their shoulders. Others carried pallets on which rested all manner of other mining supplies, while Arsene and his men hefted heavy packs, no doubt weighed down with nails and the rolls of metal strips used to anchor the bracing.

  Caleb stood with the other men in the shaft of afternoon sun flooding the mine’s entrance. They watched as the bearers halted and let the timber tumble from their shoulders to the ground. Under the direction of one of Arsene’s men, the pallets were set down in front of the supply hut.

  “That’s an awful lot of everything,” Dixon said.

  Fanshawe muttered, “Dubois is clearly taking no chances on any of those items running out again.”

  At that moment, Dubois emerged from the barracks. He paused on the porch to survey the scene, then descended to speak with Arsene, who’d halted not far from the steps.

  The guards who’d been idly patrolling the perimeter ambled up to stand by the fire pit—between the captives and the natives—as the latter approached Dubois and Arsene.

  Dubois paid off the bearers, then the band—at least twenty strong—turned and, eyes forward, strode for the gates. Only as they stepped out of the compound did a few of the bearers cast furtive—unhappy, even worried—glances at the captives. But then they were gone, vanishing into the jungle, presumably marching back to some village.

  “Dixon!” Arsene called from across the compound.

  Caleb and the other men looked and saw Dubois retreating into the barracks.

  Arsene beckoned. “Bring the men and store these supplies.”

  As Caleb followed Dixon across the compound, he whispered to Hillsythe, walking alongside him, “No doubt Dubois wants us to see that he’s brought in more than enough to keep us going.”

  Hillsythe nodded. “And therefore there’s no excuse for us not simply getting on with mining the second pipe. With Dubois, there’s always a message.”

  They reached the packs and the pallets. The jumbled timber lay nearby.

  After a word with Arsene, Dixon set one group of men under Fanshawe and Hopkins to stack the timbers in an organized way between the gates and the men’s hut. Then Dixon and the others hefted the packs and the heavier packages off the pallets and carried them into the supply hut.

  While he unpacked bundles of long nails and stacked them on one of a row of crude shelves, Caleb studied his surroundings; he’d been inside the hut only once, to fetch a lantern, and hadn’t had a chance to assess what possibilities the hut and its contents might offer.

  Although Arsene watched them unburden the pallets, he didn’t bother venturing into the stifling atmosphere of the hut. Through the open door, Caleb could see him and his men loosely gathered in the shade cast by the barracks, keeping nothing more than a vague eye on the hut and the men inside.

  On the other side of the hut, Jed Mathers and several others were unwrapping and stacking picks and shovels. Jed paused to study a short-handled shovel. “Be damned if this isn’t brand new.” Raising his head, he looked at Dixon. “Weren’t the others�
��the ones we already have—secondhand? Like from some store that resells things after others are finished with them?”

  Jed glanced at the shovel, then held it out to Dixon. “Here. Take a look.”

  Frowning, Dixon reached out and took the shovel.

  Jed released it, then turned to survey the small mountain of new tools—including pickaxes, shovels, and numerous pry bars of various sorts. “This all looks brand new. Must’ve cost Dubois and the backers a pretty penny an’ all.”

  Dixon, frowning even more deeply, turned the shovel over, then looked along the shaft—and swore.

  “What?” Hillsythe asked.

  Dixon studied the shaft for a moment more, then he raised his gaze and looked at Hillsythe, then at Caleb and Phillipe. “I’d noticed the army stamp on most of the tools before, but they were used, so I assumed they’d come from some mining store’s secondhand stock, and in a place like Freetown, the fort would be the principal source of used tools. But these bear the army stamp”—Dixon held up the shovel, then handed it to Phillipe, who was closest—“and as Jed said, they’re brand new. And there’s no reason I can think of for Fort Thornton to have ordered any huge number of such tools, only to send them out as surplus. That makes no sense. Major Winton would never make such a mistake—not when things have to be brought by ship all the way out here.”

  “Wait—Winton.” Caleb frowned. After a moment, he said, “Major Winton’s the commissar at the fort, isn’t he?”

  Dixon nodded.

  “My soon-to-be sister-in-law,” Caleb said, “heard that the supplies came from someone named Winter, but she was gagged and had a canvas sack over her head at the time.”

  “You think she misheard Winter for Winton?” Hillsythe look struck, then he glanced at Dixon.

  Whose frown was now black. “Not Major Winton.” Dixon’s tone was adamant. “The major is old school, and a more solid man you won’t find.” Dixon paused, then drew breath and went on, “However, the major has a nephew—one William Winton. A spineless wonder, if ever I saw one. He’s greedy, and I can readily see him being two-faced. But more to the point, he’s the major’s assistant.” Dixon looked around at their faces. “William Winton is the assistant commissar at the fort.”