Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  As Caleb walked out of the mine and the shadow of the overhanging rock fell behind—for the last time—he glanced around, then joined Phillipe in strolling slowly across the compound to the kitchen to fetch their meals.

  He and Phillipe had already given their men their orders. When the distraction took hold and deflected the mercenaries’ attention, they would rush to take position between the mercenaries and the women and children’s hut; until Royd, Declan, and their men could reach them and bring proper weapons, they would be armed with chisels, hammers, and experience alone.

  The women and children were already gathered about the fire pit; as he and Phillipe passed, Caleb heard Annie admonish one of the boys not to bolt his food.

  Everyone was keyed up, waiting for the action to start.

  Over breakfast, supported by the other leaders with whom he’d spent half the night hammering out who had to be where, doing what, and when, Caleb had spoken to the gathering around the fire pit, outlining what was expected to happen, going over the timing, and then informing every subgroup of their positions and their roles, before stressing how important it was that every single person adhered to the agreed script.

  He hoped everyone did, but experience suggested that at least one if not more would think to improve on the plan.

  But as far as he could manage it, every one of the captives was ready, and everything was in place.

  He and Phillipe joined the line of men snaking in under the awning over the open-air kitchen. As he and Phillipe shuffled forward, they surreptitiously scanned the barracks’ porch.

  “We have Satterly, Muldoon, Ross-Courtney, and Neill,” Caleb murmured. “All sitting at their ease and sipping from glasses of what looks like brandy or whisky.”

  Phillipe softly snorted. “I hope they’re enjoying those drinks. If I have my way, it’ll be their last luxury.”

  Caleb was in complete agreement. “Dubois, Arsene, Cripps, and Winton must be inside.”

  “Those four seem intent on giving our two superior gentlemen and their chief toadies as wide a berth as possible.”

  “Even curs have instinctive standards.”

  The comment surprised a smothered laugh from Phillipe.

  Caleb faced forward. “The guards who normally watch the gate from the porch have retreated to the gate.” He glanced consideringly at the pair. “I doubt it will make any difference—they’ll come running once your distraction takes hold.”

  “Them and the other pair circulating. If all goes as planned, it’ll be difficult for them to deny their instincts. They’ll leave their posts to face the obvious and imminent danger.”

  Caleb nodded. He and Phillipe reached the surly cook, who handed them tin plates with a lump of stale bread, a square of hard cheese, and several strips of jerky. Accepting the meager fare, they returned to the logs about the fire pit and sat with the other leaders.

  Caleb shared a smile with Kate as he settled on the log beside her. Talk was minimal as they ate.

  As it always did in those climes, night fell with swift finality. Darkness enveloped them. One of the men built up the fire.

  Caleb set his empty plate at his feet. In the uncertain light cast by the leaping flames, he swiftly scanned the faces. Everyone was tense, keen for the action to commence. Every captive knew their part; every adult was committed to their role. He met the eyes of Annie, Gemma, Ellen, and Mary, who were seated with the children; he knew he could rely on the four women, along with Harriet—seated beside Dixon—and, of course, Kate, to ensure the children, all those who slept with the women in their hut, followed the script and were in the right place at the right time to be whisked out of the compound to safety.

  He, Dixon, and Jed Mathers—Annie’s fiancé—had been relieved to hear that their women would be tucked safely away from the action.

  Caleb shifted his gaze around the circle until it came to rest on the four older boys, who had their heads together and were talking animatedly, albeit in whispers. Caleb wasn’t so sure those four could be relied on to follow orders, but he and Hillsythe had done their best to impress on the four that the best way they could assist was to stay inside the men’s hut until everything quieted and someone came to fetch them. As the four slept in that hut, they couldn’t be sent to join the women and other children without risking alerting Dubois or his lieutenants.

  But if Caleb felt uncertain over the boys’ ability to stay out of trouble when it was erupting feet away, there was no one else whose commitment to their plan he doubted.

  Phillipe, on Caleb’s right, grumbled, “Knowing that, after all these weeks, action is only a few hours away...it’s damned hard not to pace. I need to move.”

  Caleb knew what Phillipe meant; he was no more immune to the ratcheting tension than anyone else.

  Beyond Phillipe, Hillsythe stared at the dirt before his feet. “These last hours always seem especially critical, as if, if anything’s going to go wrong, now is when it’ll happen.”

  Bite your tongue. Caleb stirred. “We have to remain calm. We’ve managed so far—we just need to follow the plan step by step.”

  Phillipe snorted. Sotto voce, he said, “And just how is that supposed to work with you and me involved?”

  Caleb ignored that. He turned to Kate and smiled encouragingly. “Is it time for the children to retire yet?”

  She met his eyes, then squeezed his forearm. “Not just yet. Patience. It’s going to be difficult enough to get them to tramp across as they usually do without looking back or around.” She nodded to where Dixon sat with Harriet beside him. “John will tell Harriet when it’s time.”

  Caleb pretended not to hear Phillipe’s low chuckle. They’d agreed the children should retire half an hour earlier than usual to ensure that, when the time came, they were all in their hut and ready to be evacuated. Caleb prayed Royd’s notion of creating a gate behind the hut went ahead without a hitch; the last thing he wanted was for the women and children to have to come out of the hut again or, potentially even worse, for them to be trapped inside.

  Reining in his impatience, he turned to Phillipe. “All ready on your front?”

  Phillipe and Hillsythe had devised the distraction, with technical support from Dixon. But it had fallen to Phillipe and his men to make the necessary preparations; they were the most experienced in covertly blowing things up.

  Phillipe nodded. “Dixon, Fanshawe, Hopkins, and I checked the run this morning. All seemed in place and secure.”

  “Who have you delegated to set it off?”

  Phillipe arched a brow at him. “Me. And if, for some reason, I’m prevented from doing so, Ducasse will, and if not him, Quilley. One or other of us will get the thing going. You can rest easy on that score.”

  “Good.” Caleb was immeasurably glad they’d realized the need for such a distraction weeks ago and had devised their strategy and immediately started to put it into place. It had taken weeks of painstaking work—not because it had been physically difficult but because they hadn’t dared be caught doing it, and they’d had to cross an open stretch of the compound to achieve the effect they wanted. “So everything’s in place. Royd’s here, and Robert and Declan will have joined him by now. Everything’s on track to pull off this rescue.”

  He looked at Kate; when she glanced up, he met her eyes and managed a tight smile.

  Everything will be all right.

  He was still on edge. Increasingly so.

  As if reading that in his eyes, she patted his arm, then slid her hand to his, twined their fingers, and briefly squeezed. “Harriet just signaled. It’s time for us to go.”

  Caleb glanced around and saw the other women getting to their feet and waving the children to theirs.

  When he looked back at Kate, she was waiting to catch his eyes. She tightened her hold on his hand. “Good luck. I’ll see yo
u later.”

  The latter sentence sounded like an order; the look in her eyes confirmed it was.

  He discovered he couldn’t smile. Ruthlessly quashing the urge to haul her into his arms—and not let go—he nodded.

  She slid her fingers from his and rose. She gave a general wave to the men; Annie and Gemma called, “Good night.”

  Then the women herded the children toward their hut.

  Before Caleb could, Hillsythe pinned the four older boys with a hard stare. They felt it and, reluctantly, rose, too. Dragging their heels, they slouched off toward the men’s hut.

  The tension gripping Caleb escalated, a vise cinching about his chest. He was sure all the other men felt the same way. The women and children withdrawing was the first step in their plan.

  He forced himself to sit, apparently relaxed, and watch Kate gather the last of the children. Tilly, the oldest girl, stopped to help Kate. Between them, Kate and Tilly sent the four urchins skipping toward the hut, then fell in behind.

  Watching them go, Caleb breathed, “Our rescue is officially under way.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Keeping to her usual pace, Kate walked beside Tilly in the wake of the four over-excited children. The foursome saw the other children filing into the hut under Harriet’s and Gemma’s watchful eyes and pelted ahead to join their fellows.

  Not exactly normal behavior at bedtime, but Dubois, Arsene, and Cripps weren’t on the porch, and the four who were—Satterly, Muldoon, and the two newcomers—wouldn’t know enough to grow suspicious.

  “Girl. You there!”

  Tilly’s steps faltered.

  Oh no. Kate recognized Ross-Courtney’s voice. She halted beside Tilly and, with the girl, turned to face the porch steps.

  Ross-Courtney stepped down to the dirt of the compound. His gaze locked on Tilly, his expression benign, yet with a far-from-avuncular gleam in his eye, he smiled as he walked toward them.

  Kate might as well have been invisible.

  The closer Ross-Courtney drew, the more she could read of his intent in his face; the image of a slavering satyr rose in her mind. Oh no, no, no.

  Tilly started to tremble.

  Ross-Courtney halted in front of Tilly. His pale eyes sharp, his gaze bored into her.

  Kate glanced at Tilly; the girl had lost every vestige of color and looked ready to faint.

  Ross-Courtney’s smile deepened. “My dear girl, I believe I require your company for a few hours.”

  Tilly was shaking so hard, she couldn’t even speak.

  Kate’s mind raced. They were less than an hour from rescue! They had to keep everything and everyone calm—no fuss, nothing to alert Dubois—but too much could happen to Tilly in even half an hour.

  “I do believe”—Ross-Courtney’s eyes gleamed more definitely, as if Tilly’s fear excited him—“that you’ll do very well for the nonce.”

  Before Kate could speak, Ross-Courtney’s hand snaked out and closed about Tilly’s elbow. “Come along—”

  “No!” Tilly recoiled, struggling vainly to twist free.

  Shocked, Kate looked at the men on the porch; they were closest—they could see and hear—but while all three found the scene distasteful, none were about to lift a finger to help.

  “Let me go!” Tilly shrieked.

  Kate looked back in time to see Ross-Courtney’s mask fall. His features distorted; he shook Tilly and snarled, “So you like it rough, do you?” He started to drag Tilly away. “That suits me—”

  Kate flew at him. “Let her go, you beast!”

  Ross-Courtney yanked Tilly to one side and struck Kate a backhand blow. “You forget yourself, woman!”

  Kate staggered and fell.

  And a whirlwind swept past her.

  Her hand to her cheek, she blinked—and saw Ross-Courtney sprawled full length on the ground, and Caleb, fists clenched, standing over him.

  “Arrêté! Remain as you are!”

  The bellow came from the porch. Kate glanced dazedly that way and saw Dubois, followed by Arsene and Cripps, all armed, come leaping down the steps.

  Kate pushed up into a sitting position. Tilly stood nearby, gulping in great lungfuls of air between harsh, tearing sobs.

  Then other hands grasped Kate, and Lascelle and Hillsythe helped her to her feet.

  “Restrain him.” Dubois waved at Caleb.

  Arsene and Cripps stepped around Ross-Courtney. They gripped Caleb’s arms and pulled him back—and Caleb let them.

  He glanced across his shoulder at Kate, then his gaze lifted to Lascelle’s face. “Get out of here. Go!”

  The words were quiet, but they held invincible authority.

  Kate glanced at Lascelle; his expression grim, he nodded once. “Come,” he whispered to Kate. He led her to Tilly. Kate gathered the shaking, sobbing girl into her arms, and under Lascelle’s direction, the three of them crossed to the women’s hut.

  Harriet and Gemma, as white-faced and as shocked as Kate, were waiting on the porch. Gemma drew Tilly into her arms and steered the girl inside. Harriet reached for Kate, but she turned toward the barracks.

  Lascelle stepped into her path. “No.” His dark eyes were hard. “You heard what he said. If you want to save him, you have to stay here and let me go and do what I have to do. If you want to save him, you won’t detain me.”

  Go! Caleb had told Lascelle to start the distraction.

  Kate nodded. “Yes. Go quickly.”

  “I intend to.” Lascelle glanced at the group before the porch, then swiftly scanned all around.

  Everyone’s attention—including that of all the guards—was focused on the unfolding drama.

  Lascelle melted into the shadows around the side of the women’s hut.

  * * *

  Held securely between Arsene and Cripps, Caleb saw no reason to struggle. He had to let this play out; there was no other way.

  Satterly and Muldoon—the cowards—had followed in Dubois and his lieutenants’ wake. They crouched on either side of Ross-Courtney; as he started to regain consciousness, they helped him to sit.

  Caleb viewed the blood seeping from Ross-Courtney’s nose with a violent sense of satisfaction.

  Ross-Courtney swiped his sleeve across his face. He looked at the blood, then he looked up at Caleb. Unadulterated hate filled Ross-Courtney’s gaze.

  Caleb returned the favor in full measure. He let his lip curl. “You despicable excuse for a man.”

  Ross-Courtney’s eyes flared. His face flushed an unbecoming puce as he struggled to his feet, then he lunged at Dubois, grabbing for the mercenary’s pistol.

  Dubois fended off Ross-Courtney, thrusting him away. “Get back, you...” Dubois’s mouth worked as he swallowed the word he’d been about to utter.

  Without taking his gaze from Caleb, Ross-Courtney demanded, “Give me your pistol. I’m going to shoot this cur where he stands.”

  Dubois looked at Ross-Courtney. For one instant, Caleb entertained the hope that Dubois would shoot Ross-Courtney. Watching Dubois consider it, Caleb realized the enormity of what, from Dubois’s perspective, Ross-Courtney had done.

  He’d broken Dubois’s edict.

  He’d shattered Dubois’s long-standing method for controlling the captives.

  The captives knew rescue was less than an hour away, but Dubois didn’t; all he would see was his relatively comfortable arrangement—his effective and easy control over his captives—blown to kingdom come.

  Dubois would want revenge. Retribution.

  Be that as it may, as Dubois slowly turned from Ross-Courtney to Caleb, Caleb understood that it wouldn’t be Ross-Courtney who would pay for his transgression.

  Caleb would.

  Dubois looked at Caleb, and it was the monster inside
who stared through Dubois’s eyes. The monster who considered and weighed the prospects—the options—and chose.

  Arsene, helping to hold Caleb, shifted uneasily; Arsene could see what Caleb could and wanted to be elsewhere.

  Slowly, Dubois’s lips curved. “I have a better idea.” The words were quiet, almost serene, and directed at Ross-Courtney. “You can watch.”

  Ross-Courtney frowned, but even he had sufficient primal instinct not to argue with Dubois.

  Focused on Caleb, Dubois mused, “I always thought you were somehow trouble.”

  Again, Caleb felt that wasn’t the Dubois he normally met talking.

  Dubois stepped back and waved toward the end of the porch closest to the mine. “String him up from the last post.”

  Caleb considered making that order harder for Arsene and Cripps to obey, but the distraction should break out at any moment, and once it did, he needed to be able to function, so he did nothing more than pull back against Arsene’s and Cripps’s holds, making them wrestle to haul him along.

  They got him to the post and backed him against it. One of the guards brought a length of rope. Arsene forced Caleb’s arms down, and Cripps bound his wrists together with one end of the rope. Then Cripps tossed the rope’s other end over the porch rafter at the corner, caught the rope, and hauled—stretching Caleb’s arms above his head.

  Cripps tied off the rope, forcing Caleb to stand on his toes with his heels against the post’s base to keep his weight off his arms. He couldn’t move in any direction or kick out. Cripps had even tied the rope so Caleb couldn’t grip it and pull himself up.

  Dubois had disappeared into the barracks. Muldoon and Satterly had remained by the steps. Ross-Courtney stood closer and glowered at Caleb. As for Neill, he’d remained in his chair on the porch throughout. His expression distant, he sipped his drink and silently observed.

  Caleb could see his fellow male captives spreading between the barracks and the gates, forming a line from the fire pit to the corner of the women’s hut.

  Dubois emerged from the barracks. He, too, saw the men. Two mercenaries were closing in, intending to push the men back to their hut. “No!” Dubois called. “Let them come closer.” He waved the men nearer and looked at Caleb. “I want them all to see what happens to those who cause me trouble.” Dubois’s gaze flicked to Arsene. “Tear off his shirt.”