The Daredevil Snared

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Miss Fortescue.” Dubois didn’t smile, yet she detected amusement in his tone. Much like a cat viewing a potential mouse. His gaze fell to the basket. “I take it your foraging was successful?”

  “Indeed.” She placed the basket on the desk. “Here are your nuts. I quite enjoyed my time beyond the palisade, but I confess I hadn’t expected the atmosphere beneath the trees to be quite so oppressive.” She frowned as if somewhat chagrined. “I suspect I had better not indulge again tomorrow—not so soon.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Perhaps one of the other women might take my place and fetch nuts for you tomorrow?”

  Dubois’s lips eased. He reached out and pulled the basket toward him. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I believe I will be quite content with nuts delivered every second day.” He looked steadily at her. “By you.” He paused for a beat, then stated, “Thank you, Miss Fortescue. That will be all.”

  Katherine suppressed a derisive snort. She contented herself with a tiny, haughty inclination of her head, then she turned and left the room.

  The man made her skin crawl. His habit of trying to bait her—and the others who were well born, too—by subtly lording it over them added another layer of grating irritation.

  But they had all long ago resolved not to react—not to play the mouse to Dubois’s cat. As he enjoyed the hunt so much, he tended to let them go—the better to taunt them the next time.

  Descending once more to the dust of the compound, she drew in a deep breath—and finally allowed everything she’d learned in the jungle that morning to surge to the forefront of her brain.

  Rescue was on the way. They hadn’t been forgotten.

  She felt hope, real hope, bubbling up inside—a startling, entirely unexpected upwelling of an emotion she’d thought excised from her soul.

  She remained where she was, staring unseeing out of the gates while she considered who she should speak with first, what was most important to be communicated, and how best to achieve that.

  Over and above all other considerations, she resolved that, whatever steps she and subsequently the other captives took, they would need to ensure they did absolutely nothing to jeopardize the safety of Captain Caleb Frobisher and his men—for all their sakes.

  CHAPTER 5

  Katherine spoke with Hillsythe that evening during dinner. By the looks Dixon cast them from where he sat across the fire pit, he was itching to join them, but Harriet had claimed the place by his side, and as Hillsythe had informed Katherine, he and Dixon had agreed that it was better for the three of them not to be too openly sharing news; the other captives would notice and expect to be told.

  She certainly wasn’t about to chide the pair for their caution. They needed to handle the information she’d brought back with care.

  That said, once Hillsythe had heard all she had to report, he appeared to be having as much difficulty as she in cloaking his excitement.

  “I’d been hoping for something like this. Now you’ve confirmed that it is, indeed, Frobisher who’s found us...well!” Hillsythe looked at his plate to hide his enthusiasm.

  Katherine searched for the words with which to ask what her curiosity wanted to know. “I have to admit that I don’t quite understand why you, and the others, too, place such confidence in a name.” When Hillsythe looked up, she widened her eyes at him. “Does ‘Frobisher’ really convey so much?”

  Hillsythe grinned, a fleeting expression that took years from his apparent age; of them all, the group’s captivity—the responsibility of assisting them all to weather it—had weighed most heavily on him. “The Frobishers are well known in certain circles. Frobisher Shipping is a private company, but the family has a long—generations-long, as I understand it—association with the Crown and its more covert agencies. That’s why Fanshawe and Hopkins, being navy, recognized the name and the man, but Dixon, being army, didn’t—I explained the connection to him later.”

  “You recognized the name, too.”

  Hillsythe dipped his head. “Although I haven’t crossed their paths before, I’ve heard of the exploits of others of his family.”

  Katherine primmed her lips. Hillsythe had never let fall—not to anyone—just what arm of government he worked for, although all the captives were sure his superiors would be found somewhere in Whitehall.

  Hillsythe continued, “The crucial point about it being a Frobisher who has arrived is that the family being involved means that news of our plight has reached the highest echelons of government. He’s confirmed he’s been sent to scout out the camp and send the intelligence back to London so that an effective rescue mission can be launched—and given the level of power the Frobishers serve, that means an effective rescue will be launched.” Hillsythe sighed. “We can finally have faith that rescue is on the way.”

  Katherine heard the confidence in his tone. She wanted to embrace the news as he had, yet as the hours since she’d been in Caleb Frobisher’s company had passed and the reassurance conveyed by the warmth in his blue eyes and the comforting strength of his presence had faded, she’d started to question whether believing so wholeheartedly in the abilities of him and those who had sent him to successfully rescue them all wasn’t just a touch naive.

  As if sensing her doubts, Hillsythe went on, “That Caleb is the third of his brothers to collaborate in locating us is, of itself, heartening. That means those arranging this rescue mission understand the dangers—that there are, as we suspected and Caleb has now confirmed, villains in the settlement in positions of authority such that they would learn of any ‘official’ rescue and shut down the mine and dispose of us before any relief could reach us. Our would-be rescuers have acted with all due care, and as the Frobisher name attests, those would-be rescuers are people with the capabilities and resources to carry off such a mission successfully.”

  Hillsythe fixed his gaze on the flames of the small fire cheerily burning in the fire pit. “Trust me—we now have every reason to believe we will be rescued. Consequently, what we need to concentrate on now is, first, giving Frobisher and his masters every assistance we can and, second, surviving until the rescue force arrives and frees us.” Hillsythe raised his gaze to look at Dixon on the other side of the circle. “I’ll tell Dixon, Fanshawe, and Hopkins. We should tell Harriet, too—can you do that?”

  “Yes, of course.” Katherine hesitated, then asked, “What about the others?”

  Hillsythe weighed the question, then murmured, “Let’s keep it to just the six of us—and Diccon—for now. At least until we know that the necessary intelligence is on its way to London and cannot be stopped, and we get as firm an idea as possible of how long it’ll be before rescue arrives—will it truly be six weeks, or might it take longer? Frobisher is the only one who can give us a sound estimate, and we’ll need to work on strategies to ensure that we keep the mine producing steadily for at least that long.”

  “I jockeyed Dubois into decreeing that I should go out only every second day—I thought if I went out every day, as he originally trapped me into doing, then after a week passes and he sees no trouble brewing between me and the other women, he might change his mind and stop me going out altogether. Then we would have to rely on Diccon to make contact with Frobisher, and that might not be wise if we have critical information to pass back and forth.”

  Hillsythe nodded approvingly. “Good thinking. And if we need to make contact on your off days, we still have Diccon as a fallback courier.” He thought, then added, “Those reports Frobisher asked for—Dixon and I will have them ready so you can deliver them on your next outing. In the meantime, we can all put our minds to thinking of what we need you to ask Frobisher. Once we get him those reports, we need him to take them back to London as soon as humanly possible.” Hillsythe’s gaze swept all those—adults as well as children—sitting on the logs about the fire pit. “We simply can’t know what might happen
with the mine, so the sooner rescue arrives the better.”

  Katherine merely nodded; there was nothing she could think of to add to that. Rescue—even once on its way—still had to reach them before the diamonds ran low.

  “I wonder...” Hillsythe’s gaze grew distant, almost dreamy. “Caleb said two of his older brothers, Declan and Robert, had captained the earlier legs of this mission. In light of that, I wonder if the oldest Frobisher brother—Royd—will be tapped on the shoulder to lead the rescue party.”

  Katherine studied Hillsythe’s expression. “Will that be a good thing?”

  Hillsythe’s rare smile lifted his lips. “Very likely an excellent thing. I’ve never met Royd Frobisher, but in my circles, tales of his exploits abound. Him taking on the likes of Dubois...that would be something to see.”

  It had grown late. The children had been sent off to the barracks they shared with the women, while the women gathered any plates and mugs left about the logs. Katherine stood and shook out her skirts. She felt...different. More alive, more determined to remain so—buoyed on a slowly building wave of hope.

  Hillsythe rose, too. He paused to murmur, “Remember—no word to anyone but Harriet.” He glanced at the others now drifting away, and his hard-edged expression softened. “This is news for rejoicing, and I’d like to tell everyone immediately, but we shouldn’t risk it. I suppose making such judgment calls is what leadership is all about.” He met Katherine’s eyes. “Once we’ve got confirmation that the necessary information has departed these shores, that will be the time to spread the good news.”

  She let her lips curve reassuringly and nodded. With a murmured good night, she went to find Harriet.

  * * *

  At that same moment, Caleb was sitting with Phillipe and all their men on logs arranged about the center of their camp. A small lantern, turned very low, sat on a flat rock where a fire would have been had they been able to risk lighting one. With the compound so near, even shrouded in black night, chancing a fire was too great a risk; even a faint breeze could carry the smell of smoke to the guards, and then they would come looking.

  “So.” Phillipe tossed the husk of a nut to join the small pile building up around the lamp. “We will spend tomorrow observing the mine, and I will write up a report on the best way for a rescue force to approach the area, while you write one on the compound itself, those inside, and possible considerations for mounting an attack-cum-rescue. Then on the day after tomorrow, the lovely Miss Fortescue will deliver the reports from inside the camp. And then”—Phillipe glanced sidelong at Caleb—“we’ll retreat to our ships, and you and The Prince will ferry all that information back to London.”

  Caleb kept his gaze fixed on the lamp, but felt his face harden as he strove to mask his distaste for that path. Yet that was the mission he’d seized and taken on.

  Responsible captains abided by the rules—by the unwritten demands of their mission’s imperatives.

  Responsible captains didn’t rewrite missions to suit themselves.

  Yet...

  Unable not to, he lifted his gaze and scanned the faces of his and Phillipe’s men. The light was dim, yet he could still plainly see their disaffection—their uncomfortableness over simply doing what they’d been sent to do and no more.

  The more that they could do.

  Caleb didn’t need to glance at Phillipe to know what his friend thought. In such circumstances, he could guarantee that Phillipe would think as he did. Feel as he did.

  Act as he did.

  In this case, Phillipe and his men as well as Caleb’s crew would all abide by whatever Caleb decided.

  It was his call. His responsibility.

  He closed his eyes, searching for inner guidance—and remembered some of the tales he’d heard of Royd’s exploits.

  Faced with this situation, if Royd were in his shoes, what would Royd do?

  Phrased like that, the answer came in the next heartbeat.

  Caleb felt his features ease. He opened his eyes, swept the group, then looked at Phillipe. “Our mission is to get the information back to London. But it won’t take all of us to accomplish that task.”

  Phillipe merely arched his brows, inviting Caleb to continue down that path.

  Looking at his men, Caleb said, “Once we’ve collected all the information London will need, if we’re where we think we are, even going directly north to the estuary, it’ll take at least two days to get the information back to The Prince. After that, it’ll be three weeks to get to London. Then realistically, it will take another three weeks minimum for any rescue force to reach here—and that’s assuming they’re ready to set sail within days of our news reaching Whitehall.” He scanned the faces. “That’s more than six weeks, very likely more than seven, that those held captive in the compound must survive.”

  Various scenarios, various arguments, flowed through his mind. “As I see it, there’s nothing—no orders or mission considerations—that require all of us to leave and escort the information to London.” He glanced at Phillipe. “The Prince is fastest, so she should take the packet, but there’s no reason The Raven has to follow.”

  “No, indeed.” Phillipe’s dark eyes glinted with amused approval—and encouragement.

  “Against that,” Caleb continued, “we cannot know what might happen at the mine over those crucial seven weeks. Miss Fortescue told us that Dubois is already under pressure to mine faster, to get as many diamonds out as quickly as possible, presumably so the mine can be closed and the captives eliminated, thus concealing all evidence of the scheme as well as the identities of the villains behind it.

  “So”—he drew a deep breath—“given the ultimate intent of our mission is to rescue the captives, in the circumstances in which we now find ourselves, I believe our correct way forward is to send the information back to London with an escort capable of ensuring it gets through, while the rest of us remain here—in readiness should something go wrong at the mine such that the captives need us to intervene. And if nothing adverse occurs, we’ll be here, in position to join the rescue force when it arrives.”

  Approving murmurs broke out all around.

  Caleb cocked a brow at Phillipe.

  Phillipe grinned and nodded. “An excellent summation of the current state of affairs. And as we all know, those who survive are those who adapt to changing circumstances—to what they find on the ground.”

  Ducasse, Phillipe’s quartermaster, who had been talking animatedly with Carter, Caleb’s bosun, turned to Caleb. “The boy said there were only twenty-four canaille in the compound. There are twenty-five of us. Why can’t we take the compound and free the captives ourselves?”

  Carter leaned forward to ask, “Do we really need to wait for the rescue force?”

  Caleb sobered in a blink. “Yes. We have to wait. If it was just us against the canaille”—he used Ducasse’s highly appropriate description—“and the captives were safely screened from any clash, that would be one thing. But from everything we’ve heard about this Dubois, at the first hint of an attack, he’ll lead his men to seize the women and children. He’ll hold them as hostages and force us to surrender.” Caleb shook his head. “We can’t go that route.”

  “I agree.” Phillipe met Ducasse’s eyes, then looked around the circle. “By all accounts, this Dubois is not a commander we should even poke.”

  Caleb nodded. “For instance, even though it’s tempting, we will not attack this group of six who took the diamonds to the coast and have yet to return. Removing them will alert Dubois that someone is out here—that, most likely, someone knows about the mine. He will then tell his masters, and they might decide to preemptively shut down the mine—which is the opposite of what we want.”

  Ducasse frowned. “But won’t it be the same later, even when the rescue force arrives?”

  “Once we hav
e more men and resources, we’ll have more options, but you’re correct in that to take the compound, we’re going to need an effective diversion—one that distracts Dubois and his men long enough for us to get between them and the captives.” Caleb pulled a face. “I’ve no idea what such a diversion might be, but that’s something we should use our time here to plan.”

  “What we need to do at this point,” Phillipe stated, “is to keep things as they are, as far as possible exactly as they are, until the rescue force gets here. All we do should work toward that goal.”

  “So we wait and we watch”—Caleb gave his words the weight of an order—“and we only intervene if something occurs that threatens the captives.” He looked around the circle and saw understanding and agreement in all the men’s faces. “We’ll set our initial mission on course for completion, but as many of us as possible will remain here, both to continue to scout and prepare for the eventual storming of the compound and also to act as the captives’ last line of defense—as extra protection until the rescue force arrives.”

  * * *

  The following morning, as they had the morning before, Caleb and Phillipe and two of their men scrambled into position on the rock shelf before the compound woke for the day.

  Caleb observed the same pattern of activities; he jotted down the more relevant—such as the movements of the guards and male captives—then turned his attention to putting the finishing touches to his diagram of the compound.

  More than an hour later, Phillipe jogged his elbow.

  When Caleb glanced his way, Phillipe nodded toward the compound’s gate. “The boy’s leaving, but no one’s with him.”

  They watched for ten more minutes, but no one—mercenary or captive—made any move to follow Diccon.

  Phillipe caught Caleb’s eye. “Shall we?”

  Caleb nodded, tucked away his notebook, and got to his feet. “He might have news for us.”

  They found Diccon in the area between their camp and the lake. He was circling a large berry vine-cum-bush, swiftly picking berries. His face lit when he saw them. “I hoped you’d come. I didn’t want to go to your camp in case you had guards.”