Royal Captive

by Dana Marton

  The prince gave a brief nod. “Me neither.”

  So for two hours they searched every corner, tried to find a weak spot where they could break out—there wasn’t one—and made plans on what they’d do once the riverboat reached port and the container would be opened.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  No sooner did the boat stop moving than they felt the container lift as a crane hoisted it in the air. She slid against the prince who in turn slid against the back wall, then shifted quickly to the side, saving them from being crushed to death by some unstable crates.

  He wedged himself into the corner and held off what had to be a couple of hundred pounds with his bare hands. Then the container settled with a loud clunk and everything stopped moving.

  “I take it this would be the ocean liner,” she said, a little rattled, which annoyed her. She didn’t like thinking that the prince might have just saved her. She prided herself on being a self-sufficient woman. She didn’t want to owe anything to any stuck-up, prejudiced Valtrian royalty.

  She handed his gun back to him, a kind of payback, she supposed.

  “I’m not too keen on going on an ocean voyage at the moment.” Prince Istvan strode to the front and pointed at the lock from the inside. “Are you sure you can’t open this?”

  “Not with my bare hands.” That was as close to admitting her shady past as she was comfortable with.

  “I have a tool for you.” He pointed the mean-looking handgun in the general direction. “Show me where to shoot.”

  “It’ll be too loud.”

  “Not if I shoot just as they rattle the next container into place.”

  She felt around in the near darkness, then grabbed the barrel of the gun and pressed it against the right spot. “Here.”

  He aimed. They waited. Then when they could hear chains creak and the corner of the next container bump against another, he squeezed off a shot. Inside the container, the sound seemed deafening. But she had a feeling that with all the machinery and the noise of the harbor outside, it had been barely noticeable. Still, they waited a few minutes. When no one raised the alarm and no one came to investigate, the prince drew back, then slammed his shoulder into the door before she could stop him.

  That had to hurt. She winced.

  “Patience.” She stepped over to examine the damage to the lock. “You’ll need at least one more shot.”

  Except that the crane seemed to move on to the other side of the ship. He waited on the spot anyway, in case the crane came back. It didn’t. An hour or so later they felt the ship shudder, the engines start and the ground move under their feet. Istvan used that distraction to fire off his second shot, which did the trick at last.

  This time when he shoved his shoulder into the door, it opened.

  Four inches.

  Just enough for them to see that they were blocked in by another container in front of them.

  “Trapped.” She closed her eyes for a moment against the disappointment and frustration. She could have banged her head against the metal. They should have done something much sooner, on the riverboat. But the prince had thoroughly distracted her, and now it was too late. The very reason she always worked alone. A partner was nothing but trouble.

  “Going in an unknown direction on a strange ship,” he thought out loud. His voice sounded off.

  “A ship that’s controlled by criminals.” Not that she blamed all this on him. Maybe a little. If he’d let her do her work in the treasury earlier, she would have been done and gone by the time the thieves got there. He would have still suspected her, but she could have been dealing with that unfair cloud of suspicion at the five-star hotel where the Getty was putting her up, instead of here.

  “Or your friends. Although, the two might not be mutually exclusive, I suspect.” Apparently, he still harbored some mistrust of her.

  “People we don’t want to meet up with,” she offered as compromise. “At this point, if they found us, they’d kill both of us. They sure didn’t hesitate shooting the guards at the treasury.” The memory turned her mood even more somber. “And they will find us. If not sooner, then when they come to get the loot.”

  The more she thought of that, the bigger that lead ball grew in her stomach.

  And bigger yet when he said, “Just so we’re clear, I still think that you’re involved in this in some way. And when we get out of here and I return the crown jewels to the treasury, I will figure out what your role has been. And then I’ll personally see to it that you’re prosecuted to the full extent of Valtrian law, Miss Steler.”

  Chapter Three

  His stomach rolled with each wave that the ship encountered and there was an endless supply of those. When he went on longer trips, he usually took a pill to counter his motion sickness. There’d be no relief here.

  Istvan leaned back against a crate as he sat on the ground, his arms resting on his pulled-up knees. He was passing the time by mentally listing his theories about Lauryn. Either she was in the container because she stole the treasure and wanted to stay as close to it as possible. Or because she’d stolen the treasure and then had a falling-out with her partners who locked her in. Or she’d witnessed the treasure being stolen while she was looking for pieces for the Getty, the heist got her blood heated and she followed the treasure, thinking she could take it from the thieves and keep it for herself. He didn’t give much credit to her claims of being completely innocent.

  “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” she asked him, sitting opposite.

  He resented her concern, given that it was more than likely that she had something to do with their current circumstances. “Quite certain.”

  That only kept her quiet for a minute.

  “We have no food or water,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “A good thing, because we don’t have a toilet either,” he said just to torture her.

  She pursed her lips as she stood. “That’s it, then. I’m getting out of here.”

  She did have an indomitable spirit, he had to give her that. “How?”

  “I’m going to think of something.”

  “Happy thoughts will give you wings?” he mocked her.

  “You can’t underestimate the power of positive thinking.”

  Or the power of self-delusion, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t get going and give him a motivational seminar.

  She was staring straight up, as if expecting inspiration to drop from heaven. “How many more bullets do you have left?” she asked after a few minutes.

  Great, here came the brilliant idea. He checked his gun, not keen on handing it back to her. “Ten.”

  “Do you have any matches?”

  “How about a lighter?” He didn’t smoke, but he always carried one, along with a pocketknife. Now and then they came in handy at a dig.

  “Can I have it with five of the bullets?”

  “What for?”

  “There’s light coming in. Which means rust spots in the top of the container. Weakness. A small explosion could peel back enough for us to squeeze through.” She eyed the crates.

  He didn’t think she was kidding. “You can build a bomb?”

  She didn’t respond, only held out her hand, as good as an admission—of her bomb-making skills and her past.

  After thinking it over and realizing they had few other options, he counted out five bullets for her. “You might see why I was reluctant to put you in charge of a traveling exhibit of Valtrian treasures.”

  She closed her fingers around the bullets and the lighter. “The skills I have might yet save your treasures.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, so he said nothing. He simply watched as she scaled the crates, a sleek shadow moving swiftly, higher and higher until she disappeared on top. He pulled his dropped chin back into place.

  “Do you need help?” he asked belatedly. He wanted out of here and she seemed to want the same thing. Whatever hidden agenda she had, for now it looked as if they were working towa
rd the same goal. They might as well work together. “I can help.”

  Now and then the setting of charges was necessary at an excavation, although, due to the high risk of damage, he employed that tool as rarely as possible and always had an expert handle it. But he wasn’t uncomfortable around explosives.

  “Stay covered in case there’s flying shrapnel,” she called down from her perch.

  Shards of steel flying from the top of the container, he realized, were a definite possibility. He looked at the crates. The wood boards were thick enough to protect the contents, his first concern. “And you?” he asked as an afterthought. “I’ll deal.”

  He started forward. “Look, I—”

  A small explosion cut him off, which did send some shrapnel flying and shook the tower of crates Lauryn had climbed.

  “Are you okay?” he called up as the dust settled.

  “Of course I am.”

  “They had to have heard that.” He put his disguise back on, hoping he got the mustache straight. His swim over to the riverboat had washed off some of the glue. He’d have to be careful not to lose the damn thing completely.

  “There’re plenty of other noise with all engines going full-steam. And even if they heard us, it’ll take them a while to figure out where the noise came from. They might think it was just two containers sliding against each other.” She peeked down at him. “The way is clear. Whenever you’re ready.”

  He wasn’t one of those super-macho types, but the fact that she would be rescuing him rubbed him the wrong way. His masculine pride prickled as he climbed the crates. They swayed the whole time, which didn’t help his motion sickness.

  She was already halfway through the hole when he got there, her shapely behind dangling practically in front of his face. “Watch the edges. They’re pretty sharp.” She grunted. “I could use a hand here.”

  For a moment he hesitated, not sure where or how to touch her. He ended up bracing her thighs, which seemed to do the trick. Her muscles flexed against his palms. He ignored the way that made him feel.

  She hoisted herself up at last. “Come on.”

  He tried. There wasn’t enough room for his shoulders. But he was good at navigating tight spots. He’d spent a lot of time in underground funeral chambers, squeezing through impossible passageways. He twisted, angling one shoulder up, and turning the right way to be able to clear the hole without losing too much skin.

  The cool night air felt like heaven on his face.

  He sat next to the hole and drew a couple of deep breaths, hoping to steady his stomach. She was already moving along, going for even higher ground, easily climbing the side of another container. He went after her, only succeeding with effort even though he had the advantage of upper-body strength.

  She was looking all around when he caught up with her. “Any idea where we are? I can’t see the lights of the land.”

  Neither could he, which meant that swimming to shore now was out of the question. He looked up at the sky to get his bearings. “Heading southeast for now.” Of course, that was pretty much a given. They had to get out of the Adriatic. “Once we reach the Mediterranean Sea, we’ll see if the ship is heading toward Asia, Africa or for the Atlantic.”

  “How soon will we know?”

  “In a couple of hours.” They were traveling at a good clip.

  “Any idea what we could do in the meanwhile?”

  He looked out over the vast rows of containers and could make out the bridge up front. He drew a deep breath. “We could try taking over the ship.”

  HER IDEAS HAD BEEN more along the line of jumping ship and swimming for shore, but she could see the white froth of the waves in the moonlight. The water was too rough, the mainland too far away.

  “Look.” She pointed toward the starboard side.

  A half-dozen men were walking the ship with flashlights.

  “Maybe they heard the explosion,” Istvan observed.

  “Or it’s a routine check. To make sure the containers are all steady and well-secured. They’d want to know that before the ship goes out to the ocean.”

  The muscles in his cheeks seemed to tighten as she said ocean. And she noticed how tightly he was hanging on to the edge of the container as the whole ship swayed.

  Several pieces fell into place. “Are you seasick?”

  “Certainly not,” he said with heat, which told her she’d hit a nerve.

  She sat back on her heels as she examined him. She didn’t picture him having any weaknesses. He’d been nothing less than formidable from the moment they’d met. She couldn’t help a relieved smile.

  “I’m always glad when I can use my misery to entertain others,” he groused.

  “Having weaknesses makes a person more approach able. You can be harsh, you know.” She paused. “You probably do. You probably do it on purpose. I wasn’t looking forward to working with you, to be honest.”

  He pulled up an eyebrow. “The feeling is completely mutual.”

  She smiled again, at his unflinching honesty, the first thing she liked about the prince.

  “Do you always take so much delight in other people’s misfortune?” he asked in a wry tone.

  “Sorry.” She reached back and unhooked her neck lace, pulled the round eye hook off with her teeth, rolled off all the pearls save two. She stashed the free pearls in her pocket, then with four knots she secured the remaining two about three finger widths apart. “Give me your wrist.”

  “I don’t wear jewelry.”

  “Please, you’re royalty.”

  “I wear some symbols of the monarchy on ceremonial occasions,” he corrected.

  She held his gaze.

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  “This will help the problem you don’t have.”

  After a moment of glaring at her, he held out his left hand. She fastened the string so the pearls would be on the inside of his wrist, pressing against the nerves there.

  “What is this?” He examined her concoction dubiously, while she made a matching one for his other wrist.

  “An acupressure bracelet. My father used to be seasick. He was terrible. You’ve never seen that shade of purple. He looked like a walking Monet painting when it hit him bad.”

  The darkening of his face told her that bringing up her father might have been a mistake. “He was a good man, in his own way,” she added, feeling the need to defend the man who’d kept her fed and clothed, alive for the first part of her life.

  He remained stoic. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

  After a moment of silence, he climbed from the top of the container onto the top of the row below them, then down several more levels to the deck. He strode forward between the rows, going pretty fast, pulling into cover each time he reached a gap between two containers.

  He was probably trying to make sure the men who were checking the load didn’t see him, she thought and copied him. Then they reached the last row and there was nothing but empty deck in front of them and the bridge about a hundred feet away.

  He waited and watched.

  “What are we looking for?” she asked from behind him.

  “I want to know how many men are on this ship and if they’re all armed. Some of these ocean liners work with skeleton crews. Everything’s computerized these days.”

  “That the men at the treasury could take out all those guards means they must have been armed to the teeth.”

  “Those men might not be here. They could have a connection in shipping who agreed to smuggle the goods out of the country. There could be only a handful of bad apples on this ship, the rest of the crew and the captain honest men. In which case, we can ask for their help. Maybe taking over the ship isn’t our only option. It could be as easy as capturing and immobilizing a couple of bad guys.”

  He was talking as if he believed her innocence at last, but she noticed that he made a point of not turning his back to her. Still, at least he was willing to work with her. They could sort o
ut the rest once they escaped. At least they were no longer locked in. She was feeling more optimistic by the minute.

  But their hopes seemed unjustified when, a few seconds later, the patrolling seamen came into view, armed. Every last one of them.

  She held her breath and pulled close to Istvan, the two of them sandwiched together in a small gap between two containers, her breasts pressed against his back as she peeked over his shoulder. This was the closest they’d been to each other, and she was suddenly aware of his well-built body, his wide shoulders, the strength of the man as he stood in front of her.

  He had his gun in his hand, his other hand holding her back, his feet slightly apart. His body language couldn’t have been clearer. If anyone wanted to get to her, they had to go through him. A strange feeling seeped through her, part indignation that he would assume she needed protection, part something else.

  She wasn’t used to feeling protected by men.

  She’d certainly never been protected by her father who’d used her even as a small child as his “little helper” in his often dangerous business. Sure, she’d been sheltered and fed, but she’d had to earn that food and the roof over her head.

  The men kept walking, talking too low for her to understand. She had half a mind to elbow her way in front of the prince, or at least right next to him, but the fact was, he had a gun and she didn’t. And while she was a self-sufficient and independent woman, she was also smart enough to correctly assess the situation they were in.

  “This way,” Istvan said and moved to the right between the first row of containers and the second once the men passed.

  They were hidden from view of the bridge, moving away from the men who were checking the deck. Regardless, he stole forward with caution.

  And still neither of them saw the guy who’d been hiding between the containers until it was too late. He was seated, a bottle of booze in one hand, an AK-47 in the other. He immediately lifted the rifle.

  Istvan jumped forward, knocking the rifle to the left while pressing his own weapon against the man’s chest and pulling the trigger. The body had muffled the sound, but it was still unmistakable.