A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  He glanced at the main hut. “The larger hut is where the slavers stay.”

  “Both the inner huts,” Aileen whispered, “the ones closer to the main hut, have barred gates as doors, but the huts closer to us, farther from the main one, don’t.”

  He nodded. “Some of the slavers will use those.” Swiftly, he surveyed the layout of the camp. “If I was designing a camp of this sort, I’d do something similar. It’s easy enough for just a handful of slavers to watch over quite a few captives. Unless the captives could lay hands on some weapons, escaping wouldn’t be easy.”

  While Robert and Aileen had been studying the camp, the children had been led to the log benches before the main hut and told to sit facing the fire pit. The pied piper had left his two helpers to watch over their increasingly uneasy victims and had gone into the main hut.

  Now the door of the main hut opened, and a man they hadn’t seen before walked out onto the narrow porch. He wasn’t large—neither tall nor broad. Compared to the other slavers, he was of medium height and build, more wiry than heavily muscled. But what he lacked in inches and weight, he made up for in menace; that quality emanated from him in a palpable aura.

  Robert shifted. “Kale.” It had to be. Not even the large slaver in the settlement had been anywhere near as commanding.

  As evil.

  The man was fair skinned, of European extraction, mostly English if his features were any guide. His hair was a dirty blond, unkempt and rather fine. He looked to be somewhere in his late thirties. A long slash marred his face, running from his right temple, nearly touching his eye and scoring deep into his cheek, just missing his prominent nose and ending at his lip. The puckering of the scar dragged his right eye down and left his upper lip distorted in a permanent sneer.

  Kale halted on the porch and surveyed the scene before him. He wore baggy trousers tucked into knee-high boots and a loose, wide-sleeved shirt—the costume most slavers favored—with a grubby blood-red sash tied about his waist, along with a leather belt from which a cutlass hung.

  He braced his boots, planted his hands on his hips, and as the pied piper came to stand at his shoulder, Kale focused on the children sitting on the logs with their backs to him.

  Even from thirty yards away, the utter dispassion—the complete absence of feeling—in Kale’s expression was evident.

  Robert heard Aileen draw in a slow breath.

  “This the best you could get?” Kale glanced at the pied piper. “A girl?”

  So deep in the jungle, the silence, the stillness, allowed his words to carry clearly.

  The pied piper shrugged. “Next best was a weakling, and she was stronger.”

  The children had twisted around at Kale’s comment, but the men watching them called their attention forward again. Reluctantly, the children turned back to face the fire pit, but their instincts were clearly leaping—not one of them was comfortable having Kale behind them.

  Slowly, his eyes on the girl, Kale nodded. “You’re right. Dubois won’t care as long as they’re strong enough. She’ll do.”

  Kale glanced back into the main hut. “So let’s make them comfortable.”

  Several other slavers had already come out, slipped past Kale, and gone to the hut where the men were being held. Sudden shouts from the men inside were drowned out by the slavers shouting back.

  The children started. Wide-eyed, they stared toward the ruckus.

  “Oh no,” Aileen whispered.

  Robert followed her gaze to the main hut. More slavers were coming out. These carried shackles in their hands.

  Before the children realized what was happening, they were surrounded by slavers.

  “No! Wait!”

  “What are you doing?”

  The boys tried to struggle, to resist, but were ruthlessly—and all too easily—held in place.

  In shock, in desperation, the children looked at the pied piper. He’d followed the other men and stood over the group as the other slavers swiftly and efficiently snapped the shackles about the children’s ankles.

  Still smiling benevolently, the pied piper gestured for them to calm down—just as he had before. “This is just a precaution so none of you wander off.” He waved at the jungle all around. “It’s dangerous out there. Lots of wild animals lurking.”

  His smile remained in place—but the children, finally, saw through his mask.

  Their faces fell.

  Aileen, watching the girl, saw the light in her eyes—her hope—fade, then snuff out. In that instant, the girl stopped believing and became nothing more than an empty husk, a shell.

  Someone who expected to exist, but not live. And even that only for a limited time.

  Aileen realized that in reaction, she’d pressed her fingers over her own lips. She lowered her hand and compressed her lips, firmed her chin.

  Then she looked at Robert.

  He was waiting to meet her eyes. Swiftly, he studied them, studied her expression. “No.” Although the word was a mere whisper, it still held the overtones of command. “We cannot rescue them.”

  She looked back at the camp, at the children now standing and being herded toward the other holding hut; they shuffled awkwardly, having to learn how to manage in the shackles. Her voice shook as she said, “No child should ever have to learn how to walk like that.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  After a moment, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve never wanted anyone dead before, but those men—all of the slavers, but especially Kale and his pied piper...” She drew in another tight breath and flatly stated, “I want them dead.”

  Robert’s hand squeezed hers. “You’re not alone in that.” Seconds later, he added, “So come and help me get the information we need to ensure you get your wish.”

  She stared until the children vanished into the hut, then she turned her head and met his gaze. It was steadfast and unwavering; he was as committed as she. She drew in another long breath and nodded. “Yes. All right.” She glanced around. “So this is where the camp is—what more do we need to know?”

  “Not we, but whoever comes after.” Robert shifted and carefully rose from their hiding place. He tipped his head, indicating that they should continue circling the camp. As Aileen rose, too, and they moved quietly back from the clearing’s perimeter, he explained, “As we have the time and the opportunity, we should reconnoiter and learn as much as we can, so that whoever comes next—and I expect they’ll be sent to deal with Kale—will have as much useful knowledge as we can give them with which to plan.”

  Slowly, they tacked through the jungle, taking their time and exercising all due caution as they circled clockwise around the camp. They counted the slavers—three had walked the children in, plus Kale and five others made nine in total.

  They crouched again and watched as, with the children secured in one of the barred huts, the slavers brought out the men who had been locked in the opposite hut. There were only two, both young, perhaps twenty years old; their clothes suggested they might be navvies. The pair looked angry, but also somewhat stunned to find themselves shackled in a jungle camp; from the comments that drifted to Robert’s and Aileen’s ears, it seemed the pair had drunk themselves into a stupor one evening and then woken as shackled captives.

  “They weren’t taken to the lair,” Aileen whispered.

  “It doesn’t seem so,” Robert whispered back. “Unlike most of those who we know have been taken, it sounds as if these two weren’t specifically chosen but opportunistically snatched from a slum tavern.”

  She frowned. “Could there be a reason for that?” She glanced at him. “For the slavers changing their ways?”

  “Perhaps. With Lady Holbrook gone and possibly no one else being able to fill that role... From what Kale said, it sounds like this Dubois might be growing less
choosy about who owns the hands he gets to put to work.” He tugged her up. “Come on.”

  They continued their careful reconnoitering. Eventually, they reached the first of the paths leading out of the camp and farther into the jungle. They’d moved well back from the camp’s boundary; several bends in the path hid them from anyone in the clearing. Robert crouched and examined the surface of the track, shifting leaf mold so he could study the earth beneath.

  Aileen stood silently beside him, her gaze locked on the path leading from the camp. But nothing stirred, and no one came.

  Robert rose and brushed his fingers on his breeches. “Lots of use over the last months.” He looked through the trees toward the second path. “Let’s take a look at the other one.”

  The light was fading by the time they reached it; Robert had insisted on drawing back even deeper into the jungle as they’d circled behind the main hut. But the instant they stepped onto the other path, the one leading directly east, it was obvious it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Jungle vines looped across it, many at head and body height, and the leaf litter lay thick and undisturbed. The occasional sapling poking up in the middle of the track put the matter beyond question.

  Robert met Aileen’s eyes. “Dubois’s operation lies to the north—or wherever that other path leads.”

  She nodded and glanced around. With the light dimming, the area felt more...unwelcoming. Eerie and unsettling.

  “We’ve learned all we can.” Robert retook her hand. “Let’s make our way back to the track to the inlet.”

  She hid her relief and fell in behind him. Although it was only late afternoon, under the jungle canopy, the dipping of the sun toward the horizon created something akin to an extended twilight.

  They could see the path to the inlet through the palms when Robert halted. They’d reached a spot where a dip at the base of a massive tree would allow them to sit and watch the path, out of sight of the camp should anyone look their way, but also close enough to hear anyone coming from that direction.

  When Aileen glanced questioningly at him, he met her eyes. “I don’t think we should venture down that path just yet. They may have other men bringing in supplies—either food and water or those mining supplies from Winter. The last thing we want to risk at this point is walking into the arms of any slavers.”

  She nodded. “Now we have the information you were sent for, and indeed, more, we just need to get safely back to your ship.”

  “Exactly.” He drew her to sit on a moss-covered log. “It took us more than two hours of steady walking to get from the edge of the settlement to the inlet. Although we walked more slowly still, we managed the distance from the inlet to here in just over an hour and a half. That means that if we leave here as soon as it grows dark, then even if the slavers in the settlement set out to bring more captives to the camp tonight, we should have reached the inlet, retrieved our canoe, have returned it to the village on the shore, and set out from there before the slavers and their captives reach the inlet.” He met her gaze. “If we walk back to the settlement along the same path we took to the inlet, we’ll risk running into any slavers heading for their camp. Instead, I think we should stick to the shoreline and walk downriver along the inlet’s bank and onto the shore of the estuary. Once there, we should be able to signal The Trident, and they’ll send a boat to fetch us.”

  She nodded and leaned her shoulder against his, shifting her hand to twine her fingers with his. Looking out into the twilight, feeling his fingers grip hers, she smiled. “Anyone would think you were used to such planning.”

  He snorted, but said nothing more. They sat quietly waiting as the dusk deepened and the jungle night coalesced around them.

  The sounds of the camp—of cooking and eating, of the slavers feeding their captives and then herding them back to the huts—were filtered by the intervening trees and thick foliage. Aileen listened, but heard no sounds of protest from the children. She had to own to a certain relief that the girl had been shackled along with the boys, fourth in the line, and not singled out. If there was any good aspect to the man Dubois’s apparent need of strong children to put to work, it was that it held out some hope that the girl was worth more to the slavers unmolested.

  Gradually, twilight gave way to night. They sat in companionable silence, yet it wasn’t the silence of the merely acquainted, or even of good friends. She could feel the warmth of Robert’s shoulder against hers, of his thigh like warm steel alongside hers. She could hardly be surprised that them being intimate had changed things, yet she hadn’t expected that change in intrinsic awareness to be so...effortless. As if being intimate had opened some door in her soul and connected her to him—and presumably him to her—in a wholly unforeseen and amazing way. She would have thought being so intensely aware of him, of the physical reality of him, would scrape her nerves raw. Instead, his nearness soothed, as if in finding him and taking him as her lover, she’d found and integrated into herself an essential piece of her life that had until then been missing.

  Missing from the life she needed to live, the life that was her rightful destiny.

  If any had tried to tell her that such a fundamental change could happen so quickly—in a few days and a few short hours—she would have laughed, yet it had. She had from the first felt that he was someone she’d been waiting her whole life to meet.

  Now, she supposed, she knew why—because he was the critical piece of her heart she’d been missing.

  As she sat in the gathering darkness with him warm and vital beside her, she dwelled on that, on him and her, and found the prospect entirely to her liking.

  Night finally fell, a blackness that was almost impenetrable. She was relieved to find that, having sat through the gradual fading of the light, her eyes had adjusted well enough for her to have sufficient vision to at least be able to avoid trees and walk a path. The camp had quietened, although they could still hear talk and conversation enough to suggest that the slavers were sitting around their fire pit and talking.

  Robert tapped her arm, then slipped his hand free of hers and stood. He stretched, settled his sword belt about his hips, then reached a hand down to her. “Time to go.”

  She nodded. Placing her fingers in his, she got to her feet.

  A clawing beast fell on her head.

  She screamed.

  So did the monkey—an ear-splitting screech.

  Panicked, she batted at the thing as it gripped and clung to her left shoulder while its hands plucked and tugged at her hair.

  At her hair comb.

  Dragging the tortoiseshell comb from her hair, the monkey bared its teeth at Robert as he reached for it, screeched again, then leapt to the branch from where it had come and raced away.

  Aileen staggered. She clutched Robert’s arm. Her heart was racing. She felt giddy and dizzy and could barely breathe.

  Robert caught her, steadied her. Abruptly, he raised his head. Then he swore beneath his breath.

  He clapped a hand over her parted lips, dipped his head so he was looking her in the eyes. He mouthed more than said, “They heard. They’re coming. We can’t outrun them.” He flicked his eyes upward, then met her gaze again. “I’m praying you were tomboy enough to have learned how to climb. I’m going to lift you up. As quietly as you can, climb into the canopy.”

  Eyes wide, she managed a nod. Then his hand fell away, he turned her to face the tree, gripped her about the waist, and hoisted her up.

  She grabbed onto a branch, set her jaw, and swung her legs up and over. Then she pushed to her feet, reached for the next branch, and climbed. Her skirts weren’t ideal, but at least the material stopped twigs and bark from tearing her skin. Her gloves protected her hands. She paused, looked down, and saw Robert leap for a branch on the other side of the trunk. As soon as she saw that he was up, too, she turned her attention to obeying his orders; in
absolute silence and as fast as she dared, she climbed.

  Once she was above the lower canopy and cocooned in dense foliage, she halted and clung to the trunk. Her heart was pounding, her breath coming short and fast. She hugged the tree, then as silent as a wraith, Robert joined her. He stood on a branch opposite the one she was on and slung an arm about the bole above where her arms circled it. He leaned close and breathed, “They didn’t see us.”

  Barely moving her head, she nodded. He didn’t say they were safe, because they weren’t.

  He murmured, “I’m hoping they think it was just monkeys fighting.”

  It seemed strange to pray to be taken for a monkey; nevertheless, she did.

  Robert prayed, too. Opting to climb a tree and strand himself—let alone her as well—with violently inclined slave traders hunting beneath their feet had gone against nearly every instinct he possessed. Every one save the one that had kept him alive for all his seafaring years.

  Being a captain had honed it; he often had to make split-second decisions on which his life and the lives of all his crew hung. The ability to assess a situation in the blink of an eye had saved his skin more times than he could count.

  If they had tried to flee, they would have been caught. There was no possibility that Aileen could run fast enough to escape the slavers. And just as he had put her ahead of his mission in rescuing her the day before, he would have been unable to leave her—he would have been captured or, more accurately, would have allowed himself to be taken, too.

  And his mission would have failed utterly.

  But that blasted monkey and her scream had been both disaster and possible salvation combined.

  Given they’d managed to get into the canopy without being spotted, if they could remain undetected for long enough, the slavers would conclude that all they’d heard had been monkeys and give up their search.

  Or so he hoped.

  His nerves remained stretched taut, waiting for any sign that the slavers had discovered their position. Their precarious position. Various scenarios ran through his head—ways he could react if they were found. None held out any real hope of escape. It was wait, or surrender.