The decision made, Jack felt some of his anger evaporate. He allowed himself to celebrate the turn of events privately. At least for the duration of the expedition, Dulci was his, even if he couldn’t have her for ever.
‘How long are you going to stay mad, Jack?’ Dulci asked, the boat launch coming into sight.
Jack allowed for the luxury of a smile. ‘There’s no use crying over spilt milk, is there?’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I was angry because you put your safety at risk, not because you were here.’ He hoped that made sense to her. It did. Dulci smiled and the last of the tension between them evaporated.
The loading of supplies was nearly complete on the keel boat-styled watercraft that would take them down the river. Departure was imminent. Jack drew a deep breath. More than one type of journey was being embarked on from the shores of the river. For him, the bigger journey might be the mental one he was embarking on with Dulci. She wanted to be his partner. So he would try.
With careful words he hoped she’d appreciate, Jack said, ‘We’ll send the horses back with the horse handler. From this point, the insects, the swamps and the rivers make horses literal beasts of burden. We’ll travel by boat.’ Jack paused and tossed Dulci a questioning look. It was her last chance to turn back. ‘If you want to go back, Dulci, you can. The handler is reliable and you can trust him to get you home to the Carmichael-Smythes.’
Dulci shook her head. ‘My place is with you, you’ll see.’ She gave him a saucy grin that warmed him. ‘You’re not the only one who can master both ballrooms and nature.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Jack sprang up on to the deck of one of the keel boats and bent down to offer her a hand. ‘But you do under stand that I had to ask.’
‘After today, Jack, there’s no going back.’ Dulci swung up beside him. Ahead of them, Robert’s boat pushed off into the river and the men at the poles gave shouts of celebration as they got underway.
In spite of the excitement of setting off down the river, she captured all his attention, his body stirring at the brave sight of her, seductive and lovely in her tight-fitting trousers and long boots, her wide hat with mosquito netting hanging down her back.
Jack closed his eyes briefly, wanting to capture this moment for the entirety of his life, wanting to see the two of them, he and Dulci, the way they might look to someone standing on the shore; two proud people standing defiantly at the front of the boat, setting off into the unknown, the breeze off the river ruffling their hair back from their faces, their love of a challenge, their love for each other etched into their expressions—a man with the woman he loved and the woman who loved him.
He gave himself over to the fantasy.
These were the best days of his life. Jack could not imagine being happier. The three boats made their way down the treacherous river ways without mishap, the current but sketchy maps proving accurate as they poled the river branches towards the Essequibo.
In the cool of the morning, he would take Dulci on shore with him and Robert for scouting. Robert would collect botanical samples, and he would set up his borrowed surveying equipment for assaying the contours of the land. He would climb hills and look ahead down the river for miles, seeing the turns and twists it would take through the valley below. Dulci did as she pleased, some times assisting Robert and drawing the colourful birds that lived high in the trees. Sometimes she would come with him, helping with the equipment, learning how to use the compass and many occasions contributing her own insights and knowledge about the terrain.
They kept a look out for any signs of the Arawak or other tribes, but so far, to Dulci’s disappointment, had seen none. Jack thought privately they were better off for it. The Arawak had unique and brutal tribal customs.
When it became too hot, too humid for exploring on land, they rejoined the boats that had slowly made their way down river. Usually it was easy to find a nice place to pull out, where there were safe pools of water for swimming beneath waterfalls without fear of the ever-present river piranhas and water snakes. The team would spend the afternoons swimming beneath the gorgeous cataracts, mending equipment, and writing copious notes regarding their findings. All in all, Jack found these days idyllic in spite of the constant danger that surrounded them from insects, snakes and any number of creatures.
Dulci was adapting well, easily lending herself to the tasks of the boat camp and picking up on the rituals of the more seasoned explorers. She checked her boots for scorpions and other insects before pulling them on. She brushed her luxurious hair out every night and then braided it tightly to keep it clean. She found ways to be modest yet not fussy about conditions that offered the barest of privacies. The men adored Jack’s woman. Much like she had aboard Andrew’s ship, Dulci fitted seamlessly into a man’s world while still maintaining her wonderful brand of femininity.
The days ended when the sun set, no one willing to waste more lantern oil than needed. In the dark, one of the assistants would pull out his fiddle and play while the others chatted on their floating homes, settling for the night, stars filling the sky until it seemed there were more pricks of diamond light than there was dark canopy to hold them.
In the privacy of the dark, Dulci would snuggle close to him, remarking that the stars never shone so brilliantly in London. And when he was certain there was no one to see, he would make exquisite love to her and she to him.
Afterwards, he would lie beside Dulci on the deck of the boat, surrounded by protective netting, the stars bright overhead and think that this was what it meant to be alive. This was what it meant to love…and to be loved.
That was perhaps the most profound discovery Jack had made yet on the exploration. He’d known for some time that he loved Dulci, loved her so much in fact that he was willing to bow to the social convention of marriage. He’d thought he knew what love meant; that he must marry her, protect her, shelter her from the hard truths and experiences that ruled his life.
To do so meant leaving her behind so that she couldn’t see his life or be sullied by it. It meant she’d be living with half a man, that he could not be himself with her. He had not considered the other portion of the equation: being loved, especially being loved by Dulci, a woman who wanted the whole of him and would not settle for less.
With each day that passed, Jack grappled with an additional reality. Dulci not only wanted to be his partner, but she was also capable of it. Such competence presented Jack with an awkward dilemma—even with her capabilities, did he dare risk her? It was one thing out here in the jungle with few people around and his twenty-four-hour presence. Other missions would be different. On the other hand, if he did not risk her, it meant losing her entirely.
He did not know which risk was more unpalatable. He had underestimated what being loved meant and the realisation rocked him to the core as he held her beside him in the dark. Because she loved him, she wanted to be his partner in all things. She didn’t want to be left behind. She didn’t care about the dirt and imperfect realities that sustained his viscountcy. She cared only that she was with him. She wanted to protect him as much as he wanted to protect her.
She shouldn’t have had to prove herself to him, but she had time and time again. First on board ship, although he’d been too blind to see it. She’d proven her ability to adapt to colonial life in Georgetown. Not once had she complained that life was not to London standards. She’d proven herself again on this trek. Not only could Dulci endure, she could thrive. She was actually enjoying this, hardships and all.
If ever there was a woman to match him, it was she. In the dark of the night, Jack could see with acute accuracy the right ness of Dulci in his life. As long as he’d believed a wife had to be tucked away in the safety of London, she’d been right to refuse his offer of marriage. Such a marriage would have been an unhappy farce. Each day that passed proved that was no longer the case, if he would just take the chance. If he could accede to that reality, untold hap pi ness awaited him and in that hap pi ne
ss, London seemed very far away. Calisto Ortiz seemed very far away.
Calisto Ortiz slammed the articulated levels of his telescope into the base. They were headed towards the Essequibo, perhaps a day ahead of him. Their progress was not built on speed, whereas his was. He had no interest in stopping to appreciate the flora and fauna, or the wildlife. He had no interest in swimming beneath the waterfalls and their thundering roar. His was not a botanical expedition. His goal was single fold: stop Wainsbridge from bringing back a map of the Essequibo River Valley and any news of what the Essequibo River might hold. There was gold in the river basin, gold discovered by him and his uncle. Well, not technically by the two of them, but by men who’d been hired by them.
Ortiz had no intention of turning that wealth over to any government. He meant for it to be private wealth for the vast Ortiz family coffers. But he couldn’t begin to petition the Venezuelan government for a tract of land the government didn’t possess.
The importer, Vasquez, had died for this, the map-maker who’d made the dummy map was rotting in his cabin for this. They were martyrs to a cause, really, people who might know too much and accidentally expose his secrets. They would not have died in vain. Ortiz would silence Wainsbridge and all would be well.
Although he wouldn’t have agreed at the time, Ortiz was now thinking things had worked out quite well. It would be far easier to kill Wainsbridge in the wilds of Guiana than it would have been in London. In England, there would have been too many questions, too many coincidences. He was certain Wainsbridge’s friend, Lady Dulcinea’s brother, the Earl of Stockport, would have mounted a brutal inquiry until the truth had been ferreted out. It would have been messy and Vargas would have seen him ruined over it. The stuffy old man couldn’t stand the breath of scandal even if it was for the good of the country.
Out here, there were so many ways to die and no one would know the difference between murder or the dire consequences of travel ling in a difficult land. Likely, no one would even think of murder. The expedition would simply not come back. Whole expeditions had failed to come back before. The trick would be in ensuring there were no survivors. That’s what he had the Arawak priest for.
Calisto Ortiz made his way down the hillside to the motley band he’d assembled for his work. There were his trusted Venezuelan henchmen, one of whom spoke the Arawak language and under stood many of their customs. There were the Arawak them selves, among them one of the tribal priests.
Ortiz called the translator and the priest to his side. ‘Tell him that we are only a day behind the land stealers.’
He waited for the translation. The Arawak priest made a long response. The translator nodded and turned to Ortiz.
‘He says that is good. We will catch the people who would steal the land and they will pay the penalty. All of them.’
Ortiz sup pressed a delighted shudder. Among the Arawak, the penalty for violating boundaries, for taking land, was far fiercer than even the penalty for murder. Wainsbridge and his party would suffer greatly for crossing Calisto Ortiz. ‘But not the woman,’ Ortiz replied. ‘Tell him the woman is mine, she is not to be punished. She is not there of her own volition. The land stealer, the blond-haired one, took her out of her own home, stole her away.’ Dulcinea Wycroft would find ways to be very thankful he’d spared her. Very thankful indeed.
The priest scowled and the translator said, ‘He says of course the woman will be spared. These are issues between men, this is a man’s punishment.’
Ortiz nodded. ‘Very good. We’ll travel fast today, close in on them tomorrow and spring the trap the next day when they are only a day out from the main river.’ Ortiz looked to the sky, what he could see of it through the thick forest canopy. Viscount Wainsbridge did not know it, but he had only two days left to live. His uncle would be pleased at last, perhaps pleased enough to allow him to marry an Englishwoman.
Dulci wiped the sweat from her brow, taking a rest from her labours through the forested bank of the shoreline. She was certain this was an entirely different sun than the one they had in England. This sun was hot and penetrating, not like the weak bit of light that made few appearances in her part of the world.
Jack called out yards ahead that he’d found a spot to put down his tripod. She smiled and waved, trudging forwards. Jack was indefatigable. She’d seen so many faces of Jack, but she’d not yet seen this side of him, the side that could tramp through the waist-high foliage of the river bank, study the contours of the land with such precision he could return to his camp table and turn his findings into maps of detailed precision.
Dulci watched the play of his shoulders beneath his shirt as he adjusted the tripod to a preferable height. It was just the two of them today. The boats were some way ahead, just specks on the water. Robert and the boats would wait for them up around the next bend in preparation for turning into the Essequibo tomorrow. Today was Jack’s last day of surveying before they began the final leg of the journey, perhaps the most important part of the trip, the part where they’d establish the British border of Guiana.
Then they would head back to Georgetown, civilization and decisions. Adventuring was hard work. Jack had been right, it required a certain fortitude. The simplest of pleasures seemed like the most sinful of luxuries. She’d give a fortune for a hot bath and a clean cotton dress, for being able to slip on her shoes without worrying sudden death waited inside. All that aside, she wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
Every fibre of her body sang with vitality the moment she awoke each day. There was no such thing here as boring. Every day was exciting and she saw it all with Jack beside her. She had not told Jack yet, but she was not convinced she wanted to go back to England. She wanted to stay in Georgetown. She’d prefer Jack to stay, too, but she could not dictate his future. She could only love him for what he was. Surely the king needed an emissary with Jack’s skills here, someone who wasn’t attached to the government already, but someone who could act in a respectable but unofficial capacity. Perhaps Jack could be convinced.
The prospect of such a future filled her with a sudden burst of hap pi ness that couldn’t be contained. She flung her arms wide and turned her face to the sky to bask in her joy. Life was so amazingly good, so much more extraordinary than she’d known. If she didn’t do another thing, she could die happy.
Dulci blamed herself for what happened next. If she had been paying attention, not lost in thoughts of future plans, she might have called out a warning in time.
A whistle of wind shot past her, so close she felt the little puff on her cheek. Just feet in front of her, Jack crumpled without notice. ‘Jack!’
She fell to her knees beside him, horrified that one moment he’d been all flexing muscles as he worked with his equipment, all fluid motion, and now he lay in a boneless heap on the ground. She saw the cause immediately, high on his neck where there was brief bit of exposed skin between his hat and the collar of his white shirt—the tiny hunting dart of the Arawak. She recognised it right away from her own drawings and research.
That meant she wasn’t alone. Adrenalin raced through Dulci. There was so much to do. She stood up, searching for signs of the hunter, looking for a stick she could make a flag with to signal Robert on the boats.
Jack needed help. She had no way of knowing if the dart was poisoned for instant death or if it was only dipped in the stunning potion hunters used to bring down small game. Jack still breathed. If he made it the next ten minutes, she would know.
Dulci reached for a long stick. A hand shot out of the brush, wrapping around her wrist. Dulci screamed, the forest devouring the sound. A stocky man of modest height and black bristly hair emerged from the brush, dragging her forwards, away from Jack. All around her the forest came alive. The man was not alone. Men surrounded Jack, lifting his body.
‘No, leave him,’ Dulci gabbled, trying to move towards him. ‘You’ve hit him by mistake. He’s hurt.’ Her captor would not release her and no one under stood the words she spoke. P
anic threatened to swamp her. Jack was un conscious, Robert was far ahead, unaware. The Arawak would disappear with them into the forest and Robert would be hard pressed to track them. She was alone. There was only her. She forced herself to calm down, to remember the Arawak words, few as they were, that she had learned from the scholar in Georgetown.
‘I am peaceful,’ she said in their words. The man holding her looked at her strangely, then jerked his head to indicate a spot behind him.
Dulci watched in fascinated terror as Calisto Ortiz stepped into view. ‘Please, you must help me.’
‘Of course, mi querida, I will help you.’ He nodded to where the men had tied Jack’s limp form to a long pole as if he were a wild boar. ‘It is him I cannot help. He is a land thief and shall be prosecuted accordingly.’
‘You cannot do this.’ Dulci felt the panic rise again. She had her gun in the pocket of her trousers. It had always been a comfort to her, she’d always felt invincible when she carried it. But now she saw the impotent truth of it. Her little gun wouldn’t save her now. But maybe her wits would.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dulci stumbled through the under growth of the forest beside Calisto Ortiz. The Arawak leader had wanted to bind her hands, but Ortiz had laughed off the need, saying she was already as good as bound as long as they held the land stealer. Then his mouth had curved into a wicked smile and he’d bent close to her ear. ‘Re member the little favours you owe me, mi querida. I am sure we can find a way for you to show your gratitude. Who knows what other degradations I can save you from with the proper motivation?’
Dulci struggled to curb her tongue. She wanted nothing more than to lash out with a cutting comment, but that would gain her nothing. Already, he suspected Jack’s worth to her. He would not believe her if she suddenly played the jilt and ignored Jack. But she was a woman, and Ortiz thought very little of women beyond their physical allure. She could use that. Ortiz was the only choice for an ally at the moment. She had to use him until it was time not to.
A Thoroughly Compromised Lady Page 20