Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  In the end, their caution was wasted. There was no one there.

  They filed into the clearing, turning this way and that, searching for what, she didn’t know. Royd turned in a circle, surveying the clearing’s floor. “No sign of any fight that I can see.” He raised his head, but kept his voice low. “Anyone see anything useful?”

  Negative murmurs came from all the men.

  Hornby had paled; he suddenly looked haggard. “They must’ve got caught.”

  Royd clapped the old sailor on his shoulder. “Believe it or not, that might not be a bad thing.”

  Isobel glanced at him and wondered what he meant. He’d been sunk in thought through much of the trek there; she knew he’d been juggling this, trying out that, piecing together scenarios in his mind about what they would find, as well as how they would act and ultimately rescue the captives.

  His relative calmness suggested that Caleb not being there—that Caleb and his men having been captured and taken to the mine—had featured in at least one of those scenarios.

  Royd shrugged off his seabag and let it fall to the ground. “Make camp. Liam—set our pickets.” He glanced around. “We need more information—we’re going to find that rock shelf and see what we can see.” He included Isobel with his gaze.

  She promptly tossed her satchel beside his seabag. Among other weapons, she’d borrowed one of the mid-length knives from his armory chest; it rode in a scabbard belted at her hip and tied along her right thigh. She loosened the blade and stood ready.

  “Hornby and Reynaud—you know the way.” Hands on his hips, Royd scanned his men, then pointed to two. “Giles, Macklin—you two come as well. We’ll be setting up a constant daytime watch from that shelf regardless.”

  That made six. They left the others sorting out the camp under Liam Stewart’s eye and followed Hornby and Reynaud into the jungle via a different path that, again, was little more than a goat track.

  She’d memorized Caleb’s sketch of the mining compound and its surrounds. It took her a little while to orient herself, but then they glimpsed a small lake to their left, and she knew where they were. As they climbed the narrow, rocky path up the flank of a hill, she caught tantalizing glimpses of the compound’s roofs through the brush and trees to her right.

  Reynaud led them unerringly on. He and Hornby looked grim; for both of them, their captains were missing, along with friends.

  Eventually, they reached the rock shelf. They clambered onto it, then sat with their backs against the rock wall and avidly focused on the scene below.

  The mining compound lay spread before them, a hundred feet or more below. The open gates lay almost directly opposite their position, with the mine entrance concealed beneath an overhang that was part of the rising flank of the hill on their right. The central hut that was the mercenaries’ barracks lay a little to their left, a long rectangular building running right to left across the middle of the cleared and palisaded space.

  A crude guard tower rose above the far end of the barracks. Beyond the tower lay several buildings they couldn’t see well due to the barracks lying between.

  It was midafternoon. While there was a pair of armed mercenaries ambling about, another pair propped against the posts of the open gate, and three in the hut at the top of the tower, there weren’t any captives visible.

  Isobel leaned forward, then pointed. “The girls who do the sorting are under that awning. If you watch, you can see them when they reach out to the piles of rocks.”

  Sometime later, a gaggle of rag-tag children came out of the mine, lugging woven baskets. They tottered to the piles of ore close by the awning and upended the baskets, adding more rocks to the piles.

  Isobel’s gut clenched; many of the children were younger—certainly smaller and thinner—than Duncan.

  She vowed then and there that she would get all the children out—and then she would turn her attention to whoever had enslaved them.

  The afternoon dragged on, then Reynaud sat up. He stared down at three men, dusty and begrimed, who had come out of the mine to help themselves to water from a barrel nearby. “That’s Ducasse—our quartermaster. And Fullard, but I don’t know the other man.”

  “Good.” Royd leaned back against the rock wall. “So some of them, at least, are there.”

  Over the next hour, with growing relief, they identified more men from Caleb’s as well as Lascelle’s crew, but of the two captains, there was no sign.

  Isobel rarely looked away from the hut Caleb had labeled the cleaning shed. On two occasions, a woman came out, walked down the compound and around the mercenaries’ barracks, and disappeared, only to return sometime later, but neither woman was Katherine.

  Finally, as the afternoon was fading, the cleaning shed door swung open, and two women emerged. Isobel sat straighter. Her gaze locked on the slender woman with soft brown hair; she felt painfully certain, but didn’t want to be wrong—then the woman turned to smile at her companion, and relief flooded Isobel. She nudged Royd. “That’s Katherine.”

  He was studying the women as well. “The brown-haired one?”

  “Yes.” Isobel watched as her cousin crossed the beaten dirt of the compound to where the group of girls worked under the awning. “This must be the checking Caleb mentioned.”

  After twenty minutes or so of working with the children, Katherine and her companion turned and, carrying baskets of ore, headed back to the cleaning shed. They dumped the ore on a pile outside the door, then set the baskets down, climbed the steps, and went inside.

  Isobel sat back. Katherine was alive and well and, apparently, in good spirits. Isobel breathed in, then out. Then she glanced at Royd. Now if only they could sight Caleb and his friend Lascelle, all would be well.

  Instead of looking back at the compound, she continued to study Royd’s face. His gaze was fixed on the activity far below. His features were rarely revealing, and they certainly weren’t informative at that moment, yet still...she sensed he was curiously patient and not at all concerned over Caleb.

  Given Royd’s protective streak—a trait with which she was well acquainted—that seemed distinctly odd.

  They were sitting at one end of the rock shelf, with a corner beyond her; the other men were far enough away to risk a quiet conversation. Leaning back against the rock wall, close enough that her shoulder brushed Royd’s, she murmured, “Why are you so certain Caleb’s still alive and that he’s down there somewhere?”

  Royd glanced sideways at her. After a moment, he murmured, “I suppose, logically speaking, I don’t know, yet... I do.” He looked back at the scene below, then went on, “Of the four of us, Declan’s the most...rigid. The most conservative. Robert thinks he is, but he’s always had another side—he’s just quieter than Caleb or me. Caleb and I are cut from the same cloth. We might not be twins or anything like that, but if he was dead, I’m sure I’d...feel it. I’d just know.”

  She arched her brows. “I always thought you, of the three of you, rode Caleb the hardest—and I always thought that was very much the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He grinned. “You’re right. But that’s why I did it. The only difference between Caleb and me is that I learned early on to curb my wildness and direct it toward those instances when I could get away with letting it loose. So I understand the lure, the attraction he feels to that sort of behavior, but I also appreciated much better than he did—or at least, than he used to—the dangers of becoming wedded to the risks and thrills.”

  “Than he used to?”

  He nodded toward the compound. “I’ve been waiting, especially over recent years, for him to bring that wild side of himself into line, under his control. To learn how to exercise that control and when to do so. His strength, like mine, lies in leading men, but to claim his true position—the position he could fill—he needed to learn how to harness his
wild streak.” He paused, staring down at the compound. After a moment, he went on, his voice still low so only she could hear, “Finally, with this mission, I’ve seen him take that bit between his teeth. Step by step, he’s made the right decisions, and for the right reasons. Despite all temptation—and I’m sure there would have been plenty in a situation like this—he’s held to what he needed to do and not given way to his wilder impulses.”

  He shifted, stretching his legs, then drawing them up again. “I’ve hauled him out of dangerous scrapes too often to enumerate, but this time, it’s different. This time, I’m coming in to join with him to effectively deal with a truly difficult situation.”

  Her gaze still locked on his face, she tilted her head. “More like a partnership instead of older brother leading the way?”

  His smile was swift. “Exactly. This time, he gets to run a part of the mission all by himself. But as to why I feel so certain he’s down there...” He paused for long enough to make her look down at the compound to see if there’d been any new appearances, but there hadn’t been. As she glanced back at him, he said, “The one insurmountable difficulty in safely rescuing all the captives was that there weren’t anywhere near enough men who were effective fighters inside the compound.”

  She blinked, then looked back at the compound. “You think Caleb somehow got himself and his men taken in as captives?”

  “I think that something happened, and he saw the opportunity and seized it.” He lifted one shoulder. “It’s what I would have done, and in action, he thinks and reacts very much as I do.” He refocused on the area below. “We’ve seen the men who were with him—most of them are there. I’m just waiting to see if Caleb and Phillipe are, too—if Caleb managed to pull the wool over this Dubois’s eyes enough for the man to allow Caleb inside his palisade. If Caleb has managed that...then he’ll have removed the biggest stumbling block lying between us and a successful rescue.” He shifted his shoulders against the rock. “And I cannot tell you how grateful I’m going to be if he has.”

  She arched her brows, but said no more. She sat back and let all he’d said sink into her mind and reshape her views—of him, of Caleb, of his relationship with his youngest brother. Royd’s view that they were very alike rang true. She’d always thought he was especially harsh on Caleb, but of the four brothers, she’d known Caleb the least well. Yet as Royd had been acknowledged as the greatest seafaring hellion of his time, his criticisms of Caleb had seemed two-faced.

  The sun had dropped below the hills to the west, and shadows were starting to swallow the compound.

  Abruptly, Royd sat up.

  Isobel looked into the compound, saw what he had, and sat up, too.

  Men were streaming out of the mine—men who’d ventured out before, but also lots of men they hadn’t previously seen.

  Someone sent up a shout of “Food!” and the captives streamed toward one of the buildings screened by the barracks.

  “Caleb’s sketch put the kitchen over there,” she murmured.

  Royd nodded, his gaze locked on the men who were exiting the mine in small groups.

  The exodus reduced to a trickle, and Isobel realized she was holding her breath.

  Then Hornby nearly leapt to his feet. “There he is!” He managed to keep his voice down.

  Reynaud heaved a huge sigh of relief. “And Phillipe, also.”

  The pair, as begrimed as any of the men, their dark hair liberally grayed with dust, were among a group of six who were last to exit the mine. Unaware of the intense scrutiny aimed at them from above, they ambled, loose-limbed and clearly free of any restricting injury, across to join the line of captives waiting to be handed their plates. The women and children had already been served and had returned to logs arranged around a fire pit to sit and consume the simple meal.

  Once Caleb and Lascelle reached the front of the barracks and passed out of sight, Royd sat back, then he rocked to his feet and smoothly rose. He reached a hand down to her and smiled as he hauled her to her feet. “He’s there, as is Lascelle. So now it’s time to go back to the camp and rework our plan.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It took time to pick their way down the hill in the waning light. By the time they reached the camp, black night had fallen; only Reynaud’s memory and the faint glow from the campsite saved them from wandering for hours.

  The men had succeeded in catching a wild goat, which they’d cooked at a distance, then carried the resulting stew to the camp. Dinner was positively festive now they knew Caleb, Lascelle, and all their men were inside the compound. Captives, yes, but apparently hale and whole. That was better than most had hoped for when they’d found the camp deserted.

  Isobel sat on a log. Royd sprawled beside her, and they ate with unrestrained appetite.

  Royd waited until the meal was over. While his men tidied, he stared into the small lantern they’d set in the middle of the clearing, then glanced at Isobel and saw she was similarly pensive. He tapped her knee; when she looked at him, he rose and motioned her to join him by their bags at the clearing’s edge. He retreated to the spot, rolled a log into place, swept it free of leaves, then waved her to it. She sat, and he sat alongside her.

  “So?” she asked.

  He opened his mouth—and closed it as a soft birdcall floated through the palms. He looked at Liam.

  Liam’s nod confirmed the sound was from one of their pickets.

  A second later, they heard the tramp of marching feet, muted by the thick carpet of leaves and the soft jungle earth.

  Royd rose. Isobel came to her feet beside him.

  Lachlan led the way into the clearing, ducking under a low-hanging vine. He grinned. “Good evening, gents.” He located Royd and saw Isobel standing alongside. “And lady.” Lachlan crossed to them, his grin converting to a full-blown smile. “Isobel.” He opened his eyes wide. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  The Carmichael Shipyards had refitted Sea Dragon not so long ago.

  “Lachlan.” Isobel bestowed a cool nod.

  Royd stifled a frown. Lachlan was an acknowledged flirt. That said, he was just a flirt; measured against Royd, Lachlan was relatively harmless.

  Lachlan’s men filed into the clearing and exchanged greetings with Royd’s crew. Hornby introduced Reynaud and the other Frenchmen to the newcomers.

  Then Royd caught sight of a blond head at the back of the group. He stared, then growled at Lachlan, “What the devil is Kit doing here?”

  “I suggest you ask her.” Lachlan’s tone suggested he refused to take responsibility for his cousin’s presence.

  Predictably, Isobel’s expression brightened. “Where?” She went up on her toes to peer over the heads.

  “Over there.” Royd raised a hand, caught Kit’s attention, and beckoned her over.

  She wove her way between the knots of men. The setting of her features as she neared stated that, while she recognized Royd’s authority, she was in no mood to have her decision to join in the action disputed.

  With Isobel by his side, Royd was aware he had very little by way of leg to stand on.

  Kit halted beside Isobel. “Royd.” She gave him a curt, hard-faced nod, then looked at Isobel; her expression softened as she smiled. “Isobel—lovely to see you here.”

  Royd didn’t doubt Kit’s delight; while she and Isobel weren’t precisely close, they knew each other well enough to instantly band together and shared a habit of ignoring boundaries they didn’t wish to recognize. Still... He narrowed his eyes on Kit’s face. “I specifically placed you and Consort on mop-up duty because”—truth being the best argument—“you outperform any of us in that role.”

  Kit turned her smile on him. “Why, thank you, cousin. But Consort’s performance isn’t due to me alone—my crew is perfectly capable of functioning in that role without me. Ronsard can deal with any blo
ckade-runners. It’ll do him good to have command for a week or so.”

  There wasn’t anything he could argue with in that; truth was, indeed, the best argument.

  More, despite her gender—or perhaps because of it—Kit was an effective if unconventional fighter. She was eagle-eyed, knew how to gauge a fight, and was an experienced commander; any man in the Frobisher crews would follow her without question. All in all, she was an asset he would be unwise to attempt to turn aside—an extra commander he could rely on appearing just as he was realizing he would need more such commanders than he had. He contented himself with a disaffected humph. “As you are here...”

  Kit’s smile brightened by several degrees.

  Royd looked at Lachlan. “We need to get working on our plan for the actual rescue—it can’t be an attempt. We’ll have only one chance.”

  “Where’s Caleb?” Lachlan had been scanning the crowd. “I thought he was here.”

  “He’s joined the captives inside the compound.”

  Both Kit and Lachlan blinked, then chorused, “What?”

  Royd waved them to fetch logs. He and Isobel resat. Once Kit and Lachlan had claimed logs of their own, Royd explained where Caleb, Lascelle, and their men were. He picked up a stick, drew a rough sketch of the compound in the dirt, more or less replicating Caleb’s drawing, and described what they’d seen of the place thus far, then restated their goal and outlined the problems they faced in achieving it.

  “Caleb, Lascelle, and their men being inside the compound gets us past the first problem—having enough fighters inside the palisade to protect the hostages during the initial phase—but we still have several hurdles to overcome. I agree with Lascelle and Caleb’s assessment of the mercenaries. They may look bored beyond belief, but they’re experienced and won’t hesitate to seize women and children at the first sign of trouble.”

  “You spoke of a distraction,” Isobel said. “One that looks like an innocent accident and is sufficient to capture Dubois’s and his men’s attention. A look-over-here type of distraction.”