A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  Robert nodded. “They’re outcasts even among the outcasts. So as we’d thought, this is a staging post and nothing more.”

  “Assuming a messenger does come,” Benson said, “and fetches the slavers away, do you want us to follow them? Or should we keep our watch going here?”

  His gaze on the door to the slavers’ lair, Robert considered, then replied, “If all of the slavers leave, then yes, follow. If they leave the settlement, three of you stay on their trail, and one of you come and fetch me. However, if not all of them leave, then three of you remain on watch here, and one of you come and report.” He paused, running through the scenarios in his mind. “If what we’ve been told is correct—and there’s no reason to believe it isn’t—then if they do leave to seize someone, they’ll return here with their captive before they head off for their jungle camp. We need to remain focused on picking up the trail between here”—with his head, he indicated the slavers’ lair—“and that camp.”

  Murmurs of “Aye, sir” came from his men.

  His envisioning of what might occur, however, highlighted another, potentially difficult point. One that they needed to face, that he needed to specifically address.

  He glanced at Aileen, seated before him with her gaze trained on the doorway to the slavers’ lair. She might not appreciate what he had to say, but it had to be said.

  “One thing.” His men looked his way, and he continued, “If the slavers seize someone—or even several people—and bring them back here, we can do nothing other than watch and follow.” He met his men’s gazes one by one. He heard the shush of Aileen’s skirts as she turned and stared up at him; he felt her gaze, but didn’t meet it. He continued to look at his men. “We cannot risk our mission—and we absolutely must not risk the safety of those already taken.” He paused, then put it as bluntly as he could. “We cannot rescue whoever the slavers kidnap next. We have to let them go. Allowing them to be taken is a sacrifice we must make for the greater good—so that in taking them to their jungle camp, the slavers can lead us to that location.”

  He thought further, then added, “Even when we find the camp, we will not be able to rescue those held captive there. If we’re spotted, we run—we must do nothing to paint ourselves as any sort of true threat to the slavers, much less to the enterprise they’re supplying.” He shook his head decisively. “We have no other option. That’s what we must do.”

  His men pulled faces and shifted, uneasy with the order, but they understood.

  Finally, he looked down and met Aileen’s bright gaze. For a moment, it remained distant, as if her thoughts were a long way away, then she refocused.

  She looked into his eyes.

  Then she nodded.

  And turned back to looking out at the slavers’ lair.

  He and she left the observation post not long afterward. There was nothing happening. Nothing to see beyond the single man lounging in the doorway.

  They made their way through the alleys and lanes without speaking. Robert noted that she was every bit as tense and on edge as he. Good. He was enjoying this leg of their daylong excursion as much as he’d expected—which was to say, not at all. His only hope was that she would feel sufficiently uncomfortable to be disinclined to venture to the hide again.

  Despite the danger lurking around every corner, they reached the edge of the slum without incident. Dave was waiting with his carriage where they’d left him; Robert assisted Aileen inside, then followed and shut the door.

  As the carriage lurched into motion, Aileen studied her escort’s face. The late-afternoon light illuminated the brooding expression that seemed to reach far deeper than his features.

  While they rocked along the rutted track, then at last turned west toward Tower Hill and smoother-surfaced streets, she reviewed what she’d seen, what she’d heard, what she’d learned.

  Finally, she fixed her gaze on his face. “Thank you for taking me there. I know you didn’t want to, but...” She drew a breath that was a touch tighter than she’d expected. “For me, seeing the slavers’ lair, knowing that Will almost certainly passed through there...” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “It made all that’s happened much more real. Together with our endeavors this morning, the information you’ve shared with me today has allowed me to grasp, and to understand, just how much larger than just Will this scheme is—and therefore how much broader your mission is. I know you’ve told me, but that sort of knowing is more hypothetical, while seeing makes things real.”

  She paused to marshal her thoughts. His gaze remained trained on her face. He didn’t move, just continued to watch her—and to listen.

  With a dip of her head, she went on, “I now comprehend the full extent of this mission, and that it can’t possibly end with me or you, or even us working together. I now understand that what we might achieve here can only be a stage—a step closer to the end, but nothing more than that. That to keep those taken safe, what we do cannot and must not be more than that.”

  He didn’t immediately respond, but his gaze never left her face.

  Eventually, he shifted, resettling his long legs. Finally, he said, “If this afternoon, and the rest of the day, accomplished that, then”—he inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgment—“I can only be glad.”

  And immeasurably relieved. Robert felt some of the coiled tension that had had him in its grip since he’d followed her out of her lodgings ease. At some level buried beneath everything else, his mind had already been grappling with the difficulties of getting her to accept precisely that—and, subsequently, to leave the settlement with him. If escorting her into and out of the slum had removed that hurdle, it had been well worth the pain.

  They reached Mrs. Hoyt’s establishment. He descended from the carriage, handed her down, then followed her up the path to the front door. She led the way in, and he followed. He was determined to go no farther than the front hall, but this time, she diverted through the door to the parlor.

  Deeming that safe enough—anyone could walk in on them at any time—he followed her in and shut the door.

  She halted in the middle of the room and faced him. “So what’s next?”

  He stopped with a decent yard between them. He studied her face and realized that his hope that the day’s events had satisfied her desire to help had been misplaced. He thought quickly. “As far as I can see, there’s little more we can do—not until the slavers kidnap another victim.” And she wouldn’t be involved in what followed after that.

  She frowned. “What about the children? Surely there’s something more we can do there.”

  “Not that I can think of.” He could feel the tenseness that had earlier ebbed returning.

  Openly dissatisfied and restless, she swanned closer. Eventually, she fetched up directly before him and looked up into his face. Her expression was determined. Her eyes held a militant gleam. “There must be something.”

  The words drew his gaze to her lips.

  And focused his senses on her.

  Opened his mind to the gamut of emotions that simply having her so close sent surging through him.

  It was increasingly difficult for him not to acknowledge, to himself at least, that what he felt for her—termagant, thorn in his side, and utter distraction that she was—was no longer simple protectiveness of the sort he would have felt for any lady in similar circumstances, especially the sister of men he knew. If it ever had been only that.

  What he felt for her...

  Yes, he wanted to protect her, but the feeling—the passion—driving that impulse was so much stronger, more potent, and ran so much deeper than anything he’d felt before. Not for any woman. Not for any thing.

  Only for her.

  Given the intensity of all she evoked and provoked in him...no matter what his preference might be, he really wasn’t blind enough not to see what
that had to mean.

  He’d embarked on this mission determined to complete it and return to England to find himself a wife.

  It seemed he’d got the order of events wrong.

  She’d been searching his face. Her eyes—those brilliant eyes the color of well-aged brandy—narrowed. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  It was an order—a demand.

  Her gaze lowered to his lips. She was transparently waiting for him to reply.

  He knew he should take a step back, that danger of a sort he’d never before faced lay ahead. But he thought of Babington—of how he, Robert, would feel if he didn’t seize the moment, if he didn’t take the risk.

  And he’d never backed away from a challenge in his life.

  He caught her face between his hands, tipped it up, bent his head, and kissed her—hard, passionately, demandingly.

  He kissed her just long enough to feel her respond—to feel the fire between them flare, to sense her body sway toward his and feel the light caress of her palm over the back of his hand.

  Then he raised his head, hauled in a breath, and looked into her passion-hazed eyes. “If you want to contribute further to this mission, stay here. Stay safe.”

  He held her gaze for a second more, then he released her, turned, and walked to the door. He opened it and left without looking back.

  If he’d left her reeling, that seemed only fair; a part of him was reeling, too.

  Aileen blinked, straightened, and stared after him.

  What the devil...?

  She heard the front door open, then quietly shut. She dragged in a breath, then hurried to the window and peered through the lace curtains.

  She watched him stride down the path. He halted by the carriage and spoke to Dave, then he strode off, and Dave turned the carriage and rattled away down the hill.

  Aileen blinked again. She stood by the window, staring out, seeing nothing, while she attempted to sort through the tangle of emotions in which he’d left her mired.

  Damn him. What had he meant by that?

  Stay here. Stay safe.

  She snorted. His high-handedness knew no bounds.

  But that kiss...intrigued her.

  Put it together with the one before, and the one before that...

  There was a pattern, wasn’t there?

  Earlier, she’d challenged him to state by what right he sought to corral her...had that kiss been his answer?

  And the kiss moments ago confirmation?

  Especially when pressed, men were inclined to resort to actions rather than words.

  Was this one of those instances when words might not have been uttered, but he’d intended his actions to stand in lieu?

  “How am I supposed to know?” She felt like throwing her hands in the air, but refrained.

  She was, when it came to it, just as puzzled by herself—by her reactions to his actions—as she was by him. She felt she should be at least a tad outraged by such cavalier methods of persuasion. Instead, fascination and intrigued interest tugged at her mind, potent distractions.

  It was unsettling all around, not least because she had no idea where he, she, or they together were headed.

  She heard others moving about in the house. She didn’t feel up to maintaining a rational conversation with anyone; she opened the parlor door, slipped out, and climbed the stairs.

  Once safe in her room, she plonked down on the stool and stared unseeing out of the window. This—whatever it was between them—was so very different to any interaction she’d had before, she felt as if she was barely treading water, literally out of her depth.

  The only thing that made the situation in any way acceptable was that she’d received the strong impression that he felt similarly afflicted.

  If that was the case, then given his undoubted experience and her lack of it, she shouldn’t be surprised at her uncertain state.

  Eventually, her circling thoughts returned to her earlier—and still unanswered—question. “What can I do to help?”

  If she applied the question to what was occurring between them, then she had no clue, but that wasn’t what she’d been referring to. “Will—and Frobisher’s mission.” Her brother, and her commitment to rescuing him.

  As she’d informed Frobisher, given all she now understood, she accepted that rescuing Will was not something she would be able to accomplish herself, either on her own or with Frobisher’s help. But by doing what she could to assist with Frobisher’s mission, at least she was contributing in a genuine way toward the efforts to rescue the missing.

  She sat and looked out at the dying day, at the sunset that wreathed the sky with ribbons of bright pink and purple. Doggedly, step by step, she evaluated all they’d learned—and all they’d yet to find out.

  Slowly, her eyes narrowed. “There has to be something I can do to learn more about the slavers.”

  * * *

  “If we want to keep our backers happy, we need to increase production in keeping with the projections we showed them. And in order to do that, we need the second tunnel open and more men to work it. There’s no way around that equation.” The second man of the three who’d met previously in that particular little tavern took a long pull of his ale.

  “That’s all very well,” the first of the trio to arrive at their watering hole rather peevishly countered, “but with Lady Holbrook doing a bunk and depriving us of her expertise, we need to find some other way to select more men safely.”

  After a moment of staring into his beer, the second man raised his head and looked across the table at the first man. “Why?”

  The first man sighed. “Because we still need to ensure that Holbrook and Macauley don’t get exercised over any disappearances. Trust me, we can’t afford that.” The first man sipped, then said, “However, as long as those two remain unconcerned, no insurmountable hurdles are likely to spring up along our path.” The man shifted to face the table squarely. He laced his fingers around his glass and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard back about the five sailors and navvies we sent last week. They reached Dubois hale and whole, and he’s happy to have them, but according to Kale, Dubois said he needs not just a few but more like thirty or so to meet our targets.”

  The third man nearly choked on his ale. “Thirty?”

  “Not all at once,” the second man stated. He met the first man’s gaze. “At least, I take it Dubois means he’ll need that number to get the second tunnel up to full production once that’s possible.”

  The first man nodded. “That’s my understanding. Dubois has enough men for now, but will soon need a lot more.”

  “We can’t risk taking more from the docks,” the third man, the youngest, opined.

  “Definitely not,” the first man agreed. He looked at the second man, who grimaced and downed his ale.

  The second man set down his empty mug. “The squadron’s expected back, most likely within a week or so, and as soon as the crews are released to shore, any rumors of disappearances are likely to reach the officers, and with Decker back in port, that’s the last thing we need.”

  After a moment, the second man continued, “We’ve succeeded thus far because we’ve been careful. I suggest we don’t change our stripes just because Dubois expects us to immediately fulfill his every request.”

  “Agreed,” said the first man.

  The third simply nodded.

  Several seconds passed, then the second man asked, “Can we think of any alternative means of getting Dubois the hands he needs?”

  “What about taking more older boys—the lads who are almost at the point of getting jobs?” the third man suggested. “Some of them are nearly as hefty as their fathers and more than strong enough to wield a pick or shovel.”

  The first man pursed his lips.

 
The second man stared at the third, plainly in thought.

  Then the second man shrugged and looked at the first. “That might work as a stopgap, if nothing else. At least until we can find some acceptable way of selecting those men it’s safe to take.”

  Slowly, the first man nodded. “All right—let’s try that, at least for the moment.” He looked at the other two. “Meanwhile, all of us can put our minds to finding a safe source to supply Dubois with more adult males.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Frobisher’s words on the inadvisability of trusting anyone in the settlement’s officialdom remained in the forefront of Aileen’s mind when, the following morning, she swept into the Office of the Naval Attaché.

  Little had changed since she’d last been there. The three clerks still worked at desks along the wall; the same lanky individual with whom she’d previously spoken rose and, recognizing her, rather warily came to the counter.

  Although Frobisher had advanced no definite evidence that anyone in the navy was involved in whatever heinous scheme was afoot, she had, nevertheless, determined to say nothing that might in any way alert anyone to his mission.

  That was too important to jeopardize.

  “Good morning.” She’d dressed for the occasion—her mission for today—in another of her jacket-and-skirt outfits, this one a delicate pale lemon yellow with a crisp white blouse. She smiled at the clerk as sincerely as she could.

  He didn’t smile back. “How can we help you this time, miss?”

  Clearly, she wasn’t going to get any further with these dolts than she had the last time, but who knew? Pigs might fly. She parted her lips on her rehearsed speech—and saw a shadow move behind the frosted glass in the door in the rear wall of the outer office.

  The door with the words “Naval Attaché” blazoned on it.

  She redirected her attention to the clerk. “I understand that the naval attaché is in the office today. Please inform him that I, Miss Hopkins, wish to speak with him.” The clerk opened his mouth—no doubt to tell her his master was too busy to oblige her. Before he could, she rolled on, her tone increasingly pointed, “And perhaps you might tell him—” That I’ve recently posted a letter to the Admiralty? That was too close to Frobisher’s mission. She substituted, “That I expect to be back in London soon and will be calling at the Admiralty.”