After several minutes, she leaned her shoulder briefly against his arm. “I’m going down to get some sleep.”
He nodded. “I’ll join you once I have us on the course I want. We might reach the path inland before dawn, but we won’t go ashore until it’s light.”
With a nod, she walked to the ladder and went down.
Once he had The Corsair gliding silently on the correct heading, he handed the wheel to Liam and followed.
CHAPTER 7
Not that many hours later, Royd was dragged from sleep by a scratching at the cabin door. He gently disengaged from Isobel’s embrace and silently rolled from the bed. He yanked on his breeches and confirmed with a searching glance that Isobel hadn’t stirred; he debated waking her for only an instant—he suspected he knew what the question was, and she would need her sleep for the trek to come. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair as, his boots in his other hand, he walked to the door. He opened it to find Williams leaning against the corridor wall.
Royd stepped out of the cabin and closed the door.
Williams murmured, “We’ve spotted a ship anchored close in to shore a bit ahead. We think it’s Lascelle’s Raven, but we’re not sure.”
Royd nodded and bent to pull on his boots. “I’ll come and take a look.”
A minute later, he swung up to the stern deck and accepted the spyglass Williams offered. He walked to the corner of the deck, put the glass to his eye, and studied the vessel in question, still at some distance off the starboard bow and tucked into the lee of a small promontory.
Clouds had obscured the moon; in what light remained, it was difficult to discern the color of the hull—was it black or some other dark color? The ship had no lights on deck; neither did The Corsair, but that was standard practice for any covert venture. Royd angled the glass upward and inspected the ship’s masts and yards. The Raven ran with a distinctive angle on her upper yards...
He lowered the spyglass and handed it to Williams. “It’s The Raven, which means we’ve reached our destination.” He paused, then beckoned Williams to follow and walked to stand beside Kelly, who had replaced Liam Stewart at the wheel. “They can’t see us any better than we can see them, and The Corsair is even less distinctive than The Raven.” To Kelly, he said, “Take us in on their larboard side, but slowly.” Turning to Williams, he ordered, “Light the running lights and run our flags—we need to let them know who we are before we get too close, and once we are close enough, confirm by hail.” He eyed the distant bulk of the other ship. “We can’t assume whoever’s on watch will recognize us, or know how nervous they might be—no need to start this junket off with an unnecessary alarm.”
Kelly and Williams grunted in agreement.
Royd headed back to the cabin. There were several hours yet to daybreak.
He paused in the corridor to remove his boots. On impulse, he opened the door to Duncan’s room and looked in. Duncan lay sprawled in the bed, sound asleep. Smiling, Royd closed the door, then opened the door to the main cabin and, his boots in his hand, padded inside.
He stripped and crawled back into the bed, raising the covers to slide his length alongside Isobel’s soft, slender limbs. The touch of her delicate skin against his tougher, rougher hide soothed something inside him. She was facing away from him. He settled his head on the pillow behind hers and spooned his body around hers.
Only then did she stir.
He lifted his head and skated a hand over her bare shoulder. “All’s well,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
He saw the upper corner of her lips lift, then she took him at his word, and all tension flowed from her, and she slid back into slumber.
He studied her face, in sleep stripped of the dramatic animation that so often distracted an observing eye. Regardless of what she might think when awake, her trust in him ran bone-deep; trusting him was an all-but-unconscious act.
The realization sank in and settled in his gut. Or perhaps slightly higher.
His lips curved. He dropped his head to the pillow, settled one arm across her waist, closed his eyes, and joined her in dreams.
* * *
Over an early breakfast, Isobel listened as Royd led the necessary negotiations with Duncan over him remaining aboard. It was a novel experience to be able to sit back and consign the difficult and touchy task to one who—she had to admit—was better qualified than she to accomplish it.
There remained not the slightest doubt in her mind—or, she suspected, in Duncan’s—that Royd understood him better than anyone else possibly could. That was borne out by the tack Royd took, explaining that he and she needed to concentrate on saving the poor people held captive at the mine, and they wouldn’t be able to do that—or keep themselves safe, let alone everyone else—if they were anxious and worried about him.
It would never have occurred to her to appeal to Duncan’s nascent leadership abilities. She gathered that Royd had previously described the situation to Duncan, telling him about the children and what Caleb had reported about their lives in the compound.
Given that, she wasn’t all that surprised when, his expression sober, Duncan solemnly swore he would remain on board under the care of Kelly and Jolley. As Duncan had already struck up a friendship—more like an apprenticeship—with the bosun, Jolley, and was on friendly terms with Kelly, who had a son of his own of similar age, Isobel had no reason to imagine their son wouldn’t be actively entertained as well as adequately supervised over the days she and Royd were away.
She was less certain about his safety. Leaving him aboard ship while said ship was in Southampton harbor was one thing; leaving her precious son aboard his father’s ship on an isolated African shore was something else entirely. Or so her maternal instincts insisted.
Unfortunately, said instincts didn’t offer a solution.
So she said her goodbyes to Duncan; careful to conceal any hint of her concern, she hugged him fiercely, mollified by the strength in his answering hug.
But he didn’t cling; he released her, stepped back, and grinned up at her. “Papa said that while the ship is anchored here, Jolley and the others can teach me to climb the rigging—but only as far as the first yard.”
Quashing her immediate thought of broken bones, reminding herself that he climbed trees much higher when at home, she shouldered a satchel containing extra clothes, a brush, and sundry other necessities and managed a creditable smile. Discarding a range of admonitions that poured through her brain, she settled for, “Be good.” That, she felt, covered all possibilities.
Unable to help herself, she caught his face between her hands, drew him to her, and planted a kiss on his forehead.
Then she released him, stepped back—looked at him for one more instant—then resolutely turned and walked to where a rope dangled over the ship’s side.
He ran to steady the rope for her.
She grinned, stepped onto the rope, waved with her fingers, then slid down into the tender to be rowed ashore with a batch of Royd’s men.
They massed on the beach just short of where a path led into the dense jungle. While waiting for the tender to ply back and forth, ferrying more of Royd’s crew to shore, she studied the two ships now moored side by side. The Raven was black-hulled, a touch smaller than The Corsair, but she rode a fraction deeper in the water and, to Isobel’s educated eye, looked to be carrying a significant number of guns.
She raised her gaze to The Corsair’s deck and saw Royd preparing to leave ship. The returning tender drew alongside, and more sailors eagerly slid down the ropes, almost filling the rowboat.
After giving final orders to Kelly and Jolley, who would remain with five other men as a skeleton crew, she watched Royd turn to Duncan. He ruffled Duncan’s hair, then said something, and Duncan grinned and snapped off a crisp salute—which Royd returned.
Then, his pack slung over his shoulder, Royd stepped out onto the rope and slid down, dropping lightly into the waiting tender.
Immediately he sat, the tender pushed out from the ship and headed for the shore.
It beached not far from where The Raven’s tender also crunched on the sands. Five men waded to shore from that tender. Royd sent his men ahead and crossed to speak with the men from The Raven. A hand shading her eyes, Isobel watched the exchange. There’d been a short conference conducted over the ships’ sides that morning, with Royd sharing their plans to march to the compound with the Frenchmen—Lascelle’s crew—so that they could decide what to do.
Apparently, some had elected to join the party.
She watched as the largest of the five men greeted Royd with a broad smile and offered his hand; the pair shook heartily, friendly acquaintances at the very least. After nodding respectfully to Royd, the other four French sailors slogged through the sand to where Royd’s men waited. Isobel heard the murmurs as they introduced themselves, and Royd’s men reciprocated.
Bringing up the rear, Royd and the large man headed for her.
Royd halted beside her and waved to the other man. “Jacques Reynaud, Phillipe Lascelle’s bosun—Isobel Carmichael.”
Reynaud grinned and bobbed a bow. “Enchanté, ma’moiselle.”
Isobel returned a smile as Royd continued, “Reynaud was in command of the group who escorted Hornby back to The Prince and saw Caleb’s ship on its way back to London.”
“Aye,” Reynaud said. “I am glad The Prince got through, and even more glad to see The Corsair.”
“Reynaud and the men who walked out with him are going to return to Caleb’s camp with us—they know the way.”
“You have Hornby, c’est vrai”—Reynaud raised a hand in salute to Caleb’s steward; he was standing with Royd’s men and saluted Reynaud back—“but more men who know the terrain will be of help.”
“Indeed.” Royd cast his eye over his men. To Reynaud, he said, “Why don’t you, Hornby, and Williams take the lead? Mr. Stewart and Bellamy will take center, and Miss Carmichael and I will bring up the rear.”
“Very good.” With a nod to Royd and another to Isobel, Reynaud crossed to where the others waited.
Seconds later, the men formed up in a line and started marching into the jungle.
Isobel fell in with Royd at the rear, but when they reached the point where sand gave way to beaten path, she paused and looked back at The Corsair.
Duncan stood in the bow, with Jolley nearby. Duncan waved.
Isobel waved back, but she didn’t smile.
She felt Royd’s gaze touch her face. Lowering his own hand, he murmured, “He’ll be safer there than he would be with us. There are fourteen men aboard those two ships, and enough firepower to discourage any marauder. On top of that, The Corsair is The Corsair again—any pirate captain worth his salt will recognize both ships and steer clear.”
Isobel sighed.
“And”—Royd closed his hand about hers and drew her around and on—“Sea Dragon will be mooring alongside, most likely within twenty-four hours. Trust me—no one’s going to take a tilt at those ships. Any pirate will take one look and pile on sail.”
She sighed again, this time resignedly. “I know you’re right, but a part of me still doesn’t like it.”
He grinned, but said no more. She lengthened her stride and picked up her pace, and they marched into the warm dimness.
Although uneventful, the trek through the jungle proved more demanding than Royd or, he felt sure, Isobel had expected. The path led them more or less directly south, but went up and down, wound about the flanks of small hills, and dipped into gullies. Given several groups had been up and down over the past months, the path was unobstructed, but the surface rippled with tree roots, and vines snaked across, a risk for the unwary. Looking down and concentrating on where to place one’s feet became a habit; they glanced up only occasionally to check their direction and keep their bearings. Not that there was much to see—the boles of trees and palms hemmed them in; rarely could they see as much as ten yards beyond the path’s side.
The farther they slogged from the coolness near the shore, the more oppressive the atmosphere grew. They were all sweating freely by the time Royd called a halt for a late lunch.
After taking stock, he decreed they should rest until the sun westered and the temperatures started to ease before moving on again. No one argued—not even Isobel.
As he settled beside her on the ground sheet she’d spread over a patch of fallen leaves, he suspected that, of their company, he was the most impatient to get on. A familiar urgency was rising inside him—the impulse to go to Caleb’s relief. He’d felt it often enough in the past to recognize the prodding for what it was, but this time, there was a shift in the emotion behind the prod. Previously, he’d been driven to protect his youngest brother. This time...he felt no real fear for Caleb’s well-being; as far as he could tell, his little brother had matured and had run his leg of the mission with exemplary good sense. He had little doubt that Caleb was well, most likely busy plotting and planning. No, this time, his impatience had more to do with wanting to be there and take a hand in the action—similar to Declan’s worry over being left out.
As he closed his eyes, Royd admitted he was looking forward to what was to come.
* * *
Hours later, when they finally made camp for the night in a hollow large enough to hold them all, while still impatient to reach Caleb’s camp, Royd was feeling rather less sanguine about the time spent getting there.
At least the temperature had started to fall, and a light breeze ruffled the treetops, enough to stir the air below and make them feel they could breathe again.
Somewhat to his surprise, Isobel—who as far as he knew hadn’t even tramped the moors—had managed the trek fairly well. She’d survived rather better than some of his heavier men; she was carrying much less weight.
Without anyone asking—no one would have dared—she took charge of preparing the meal. Taking charge meaning giving explicit orders, but none of his crew minded. In the state they were in, they were entirely willing to have anyone point them at something and tell them what to do. Isobel was very good at that.
Leaving her to it, he consulted with Hornby and Reynaud. They pored over Lascelle’s map; it appeared they’d traveled more than half the distance to Caleb’s camp. “So,” Royd said, “if we wake early and walk on while it’s cooler, before the temperatures rise, we should, with luck, make the camp by early afternoon.”
Hornby nodded. “Aye, and we’ll be climbing through this stretch.” He indicated a section of the path on the map—the first stretch they would tackle the next day. “That’ll be easier going in the early morning, and it’ll be a touch cooler once we get onto the level of the mine.”
“Good.” Royd folded the map. “That’s what we’ll do.”
They woke before dawn and were on their way before sunbeams started to slant through the canopy. The pervasive gloom of the jungle enveloped them, along with the smell of decaying leaves and rich soil, spiced here and there with heady drifts of perfume emanating from deep-throated flowers depending from various vines. As on the day before, there was little talk and no conversation; everyone saved their energy and attention for the steady upward climb.
Birdcalls cut through the silence, raucous and strident, quite unlike the genteel twitterings of home. The higher they climbed, the more often they heard rustlings in the dense growth around them. Several men tugged small crossbows from their packs, but although Hornby and Reynaud confirmed there were wild goats and probably boar in the area, no one sighted any prey.
Finally, the upward toil ended, and they stepped out along a flatter, more even stretch.
“Not far now,” Hornby told Royd. “Less than a mile to the camp.”
Eagerness caught them all. They picked up the pace, swinging along. Royd moved forward to take the lead, and Isobel went with him.
As he passed his men, Royd warned them to keep their voices down and their eyes peeled for Caleb’s scouts.
Twenty minutes later, Reynaud, walking just behind Royd, pointed past him to their left and whispered, “That’s the opening to the track that leads to the camp.”
Royd halted at the entrance to the track—little more than an animal trail.
Strung out behind him, the column of men came to a shambling halt.
Standing beside Royd, Isobel saw his eyes narrow as he stared down the track as far as he could, then he looked down.
After a moment, he crouched and examined the leaves that littered the ground.
Slowly, he straightened. To Hornby and Reynaud, he murmured, “Pass the word—everyone keep their eyes peeled, but I strongly suspect Caleb and his crew are no longer in this camp.”
While the order was passed down the column, Royd turned to her, a question in his eyes.
She shook her head, then jerked her chin forward—silently informing him that she wasn’t about to retire to the rear of the column.
She waited to see what he would do.
He held her gaze for a second while he waged some inner debate, but then he nodded. Leaning nearer, he whispered, “Stay close.”
He started down the track.
She followed. She could be as quiet as he creeping through the jungle, and if her eyesight wasn’t on a par with his, her hearing and her instincts were every bit as good.
They crept down the track so very silently, she doubted anyone could have heard them. When the track cut to the left a little way ahead, Reynaud reached past her to tap Royd on the shoulder.
When Royd looked back, Reynaud signaled, indicating that, after the left turn, the path dropped through a series of steps, and then the clearing in which the camp had been would open up before them.
Royd nodded and led the way on.
Lord of the Privateers Page 20
