The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3)

  His turn to smile. “Thank you.”

  Then he fell back on the bed and, still holding her hand, pulled and toppled her down. She landed in a sprawl atop him.

  Before she could react, he grasped her waist, lifted and shifted her, and settled her over him.

  Planting her elbows on his chest and balancing on them, she pushed back the loose hair that had fallen over her face. Then, looking down from a distance of mere inches, she studied his features. Their eyes locked, the moment stretched...then she bent her head until her luscious lips were no more than a whisker from his. “Perhaps,” she murmured, sultry and low, “you might think of some way to show your appreciation.”

  Before he could chuckle, before he could respond, she lowered her head, their lips met and melded, and they both fell into the kiss.

  It felt almost as good as coming home—laden with reassurance and the promise of contentment. Of the assuagement of hunger and the joys of simple pleasures.

  All the joys of a future assured.

  The future they wanted and intended to have. The future they would fight for.

  For long moments, they exchanged physical pleasure on one plane and hopes and dreams on another.

  Touches, caresses, and the communion of their mouths held their senses spellbound.

  Together, they explored.

  Holding him to their kiss, Katherine moved sinuously over him, using her body, her limbs, to caress his; she delighted in the tension that hardened his muscles to iron. With growing confidence, she tested his control and found it rock solid, absolute—something she could have faith in.

  He returned the pleasure, his big hands roving over her—over all he could reach. He paid homage to her breasts, leaving them swollen and aching. In long, sweeping caresses, he traced the curves of her back, her waist, her hips, then he filled his hands with the globes of her bottom and, with a blatant possessiveness that stole her breath, molded her hips to his.

  Then he held her steady and rocked beneath her, the base of his rigid shaft pressing against her mons, and sensation speared through her, sharp, intense, and glorious, and she caught her first glimpse of paradise.

  Eventually, they accepted that, here and now, they could explore no further.

  They drew back from the engagement, fraction by fraction, until, at last, their lips parted. From beneath weighted lids, their eyes met, held. Their rapid breathing, their thudding heartbeats, impinged on her awareness.

  She tensed to lift away, but his arms tightened about her, the wordless message clear.

  Her lips curving, she surrendered and tucked her head beneath his chin, and relaxed, boneless, in his arms.

  He shifted and settled, his embrace comfortable, protective, and secure, and she seized the moments to wallow in the uncomplicated closeness.

  In any other place, at any other time, what she felt for him—what she knew beyond question already existed between them—would have taken months to build to this point, to where they both openly acknowledged the reality.

  But the exigencies of their situation had left them no time for niceties. For the usual, slow, getting-to-know-each-other stage. Not for them the customary questioning, the normal hesitancy.

  From the moment they’d met, they’d been forced to look and truly see each other, to assess each other’s character. And this place had not granted them the time for the polite dance of courtship.

  So there they were, knowing what they knew and trying to find their way forward.

  After several silent moments, she set her tongue free. “Are we mad, do you think, for pursuing this, when we might be dead in a few weeks?”

  “No.” Although the rebuttal came instantly, his tone made it clear his reply was considered; he’d already thought of the point. “If anything, I think pursuing this is a testimony to how sane we both are.”

  She raised her head and looked into his face.

  He met her eyes. “We both know this is worth wanting. Worth claiming. Whatever the price.”

  “You’re right. I just hope...”

  That we survive. That this isn’t doomed.

  Although she didn’t say the words, she felt sure he understood.

  His arms tightened about her. “All we can do is go forward and do what we need to—to meet each challenge as it materializes. Just as long as we never forget what we want, what our end goal truly is, trust me, we will win through.”

  She couldn’t stop her lips from curving; he could make even her believe triumph was inevitable.

  Then she thought further, and her smile faded. “What of the mining?” She studied his face. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  He grimaced. He drew his arms from around her, grasped her waist, and lifted her from him.

  Side by side, they sat on the edge of the bed. He went to scrub both palms over his face, then realized one was bandaged.

  He lowered that hand, with the other reached and took her hand and twined his fingers with hers. “I have to admit, it’s worse than we expected. We sink picks into the rock face, and the diamonds all but fall at our feet. In some spots, the rock face has so many diamonds in it, it’s crumbling.” He paused, then went on, “We’re putting what we can into the stockpile, but there’s a limit to how much we can secrete inside the mine, especially with Dubois showing greater interest in how much is coming out.” He blew out a breath. “We’ve agreed that we can’t afford to wait until Arsene returns with your new tools to try our next tactic. We have to restrain the mining itself—and that’s now a matter of urgency.”

  She frowned. “What about Dixon’s lower level?”

  “At present, that’s the only potential light on our mining horizon. If a lower level gives us access to a deposit like that in the upper level, then if we slow things down for a while, we might be able to stretch the mining out for long enough without doing anything more.”

  “Dixon still can’t say what the lower level is like?”

  Caleb shook his head. “The rock structures at that end of the tunnel are more difficult to break through and then stabilize. He says he won’t know either way until we open an exploratory shaft and he can see the extent of the pipe.”

  She nodded. “So what’s our next tactic? The lamp oil?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her face. “And we’re going to act tomorrow morning—we can’t afford to wait.”

  She met his eyes, then gripped his hand more tightly. “I’ll warn the other women and the children before we come out for breakfast.”

  “Do.” He considered, then said, “It won’t be that early, but best everyone knows, so they stay out of the way and carry on as if nothing’s happening. Dixon, Hillsythe, and I are working on a charade—a way to present the problem to Dubois so he accepts that the oil running low is just one of those things, and not anything planned by us.”

  Caleb didn’t add that the only other viable method of restricting the mining remaining to them was to collapse at least a part of the tunnel. Strictly between themselves, the male leaders felt forced to keep that on their list of potential tactics, but there were so many things that could go wrong with such an action—not least that it might permanently close the tunnels, thus precipitating the very situation they were striving so hard to delay—that they viewed it as a last and distinctly desperate resort.

  He glanced at Katherine, but all the men involved had agreed that the fact that they’d even contemplated such an act was best kept to themselves.

  He faced forward, heaved a sigh, then pushed up from the bed. He used their linked hands to draw her to her feet. He met her eyes and summoned a gentle smile. “Thank you for your care. Thank you for your attentions.” He bent his head and brushed a kiss across her lips.

  Then he straightened and said, “Come. I’ll walk you to your hut, then I need to get back.”

&nb
sp; Into the mine. Back to their planning.

  * * *

  The men waited until midmorning before putting their plan into action—before commencing the charade that, they hoped, would convince Dubois that the compound running low on lamp oil was an innocent and understandable accident.

  Whatever they did, they could not risk Dubois developing any definite suspicions of them. None of them wished to even contemplate what his reaction might be.

  An empty lantern in his hand, Caleb stood inside the mine entrance. Still well within the concealing shadows, he looked out. And waited.

  They’d dug the pit to hide the oil a week ago, and every day since, they’d drained oil from the lanterns in the mine. In addition, they’d taken advantage of Dubois’s insistence that the men work extra hours to burn all the lanterns on maximum flame for all those hours, further running down the supply.

  They’d lined up the excuses, the reasons Dixon would advance for the oil running low. It was helpful that their access to the oil supply was restricted; only Dixon could fill their lanterns, whether for the mine or their huts, including the cleaning shed and medical hut. The other lamps in the compound—all those the mercenaries used as well as those in the kitchen—were filled by whichever mercenary thought of it.

  Lots of others had access to the oil supply. Lots of others should have noticed it running low and reported it to Dubois, but no one had.

  Which meant Dixon would have to, because the lanterns in the mine had now all but run out.

  And although it was tempting to simply sit in the mine in the dark, Dubois would all too soon notice the lack of ore coming out, and then they would have to explain why they hadn’t said anything...that wasn’t a tack they wanted to take.

  Courtesy of a calendar they’d found in the supply hut, they knew today was the fourth of August. That left at least a month before rescue could reach them. A month during which they had to ensure the mining continued.

  The scuff of a boot had Caleb glancing around. He watched as Dixon, brushing his palms on his breeches, came to join him.

  Caleb briefly studied the engineer. Unlike Caleb, Phillipe, or Hillsythe, Dixon wasn’t a man to whom fabrication came easily; playing a part was something he had to work hard to pull off. Caleb gave Dixon a moment, then murmured, “Ready?”

  His gaze fixed on the mercenaries’ barracks, Dixon nodded. From his breeches pocket, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’ll head for the supply hut. Let me get level with the barracks’ steps, then call and stop me.”

  Cripps and two of his men were lounging on stools on the barracks’ porch.

  Caleb nodded. “Good luck.”

  Dixon hauled in a breath, held it, then walked briskly out of the mine.

  He continued across the compound, striding purposefully past the fire pit and on toward the supply hut, his head bent, his attention on the lists in his hand.

  Caleb strode out. The lantern swinging from his hand, he broke into a lope. “Dixon!”

  Dixon halted—level with the porch steps and directly under Cripps’s and the other two mercenaries’ noses—and swung around. He saw the lantern in Caleb’s hand and frowned. “Another one?”

  Slowing to halt before him, Caleb held out the lantern and shrugged. “All those extra hours, I suppose.”

  Resigned, Dixon took the lantern. “I’ll fill it. Wait here.”

  Caleb cast a glance at the men on the porch. “I’ll wait by the mine.”

  Dixon nodded and, returning his attention to his lists, continued toward the supply hut.

  Caleb didn’t risk watching him go but swung around and retreated to the mine entrance. He slouched against the beams framing the tunnel mouth and fixed his gaze on the toes of his boots.

  He heard movement in the shadows behind him; head bent, he cast a swift glance behind and saw Hillsythe and Phillipe settling to watch. Apparently, they all felt the need to be there to support Dixon, just in case, but exactly what they might do was one part of the charade they hadn’t rehearsed.

  As per their plan, after several minutes, Dixon came out of the supply hut, the lantern—its glass reservoir now half full—in one hand. He stuffed his lists into his pocket and, his frown now definite, marched to the barracks.

  Dixon went up the steps. He ignored Cripps and his men and went straight to the open doorway; from the first, Dubois had made it plain that he expected Dixon to report directly to him. Dixon knocked on the door frame.

  Watching from the mine entrance, Caleb and the others couldn’t see inside the barracks, but Dixon remained on the porch. They knew Dubois was inside, most likely at his desk. In what was plainly a response to a question—almost certainly from Dubois—Dixon held up the lantern. “I just filled this.” Dixon’s words were muted by the distance and barely audible. “Because we’re working longer hours, we’re running through lamp oil more rapidly, but that’s not my point. Has anyone reported that the supply of lamp oil is running low?”

  Even from the mine, they heard Dubois’s thunderous “What?”

  A second later, Dixon stepped back and Dubois appeared in the doorway. By the time he stepped onto the porch, Cripps and the other two mercenaries had leapt to their feet. They stood rooted in a stance that, for them, passed for attention.

  Dubois’s choler had already risen. He cast a single dark glance at the lantern in Dixon’s hand, then rounded on Cripps. “What the devil do you mean by letting the lamp oil run low?” Dubois flung his hands in the air. “Am I surrounded by incompetents? No—not just incompetents—I’m also plagued by impatient backers.” Dubois advanced on Cripps and spoke into the man’s face, yet his fury was so rabid his grating tones carried clearly. “I told you of the letter Arsene brought back. More diamonds, they want! Send out more on the ships, they demand! This from those who are paying us—and let me remind you, paying us all handsomely. So now at last, after holding them off and sending excuse after explanation, we are finally in a position to send them all the diamonds they could wish for...and we run out of oil!”

  Dubois’s fists clenched and unclenched, then clenched hard again—as hard as his jaw.

  Dixon cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s not really any person’s fault—more a failure in logistical planning.” He looked at the lantern in his hand—no doubt so he wouldn’t have to look at Dubois’s furious face as the mercenary captain rounded on him. Dixon’s engineer’s tones were calm and even—an expert explaining to those who didn’t understand. “It’s a combination of things—more men working in the mine, so more lanterns burning. Plus the extension of hours, which means all the lanterns are burning for half a day longer every day.” He shrugged. “Hardly surprising the lamp oil’s run low. Once the decision was made to extend the hours, the last order should have been doubled.”

  Caleb pushed away from the frame at the mine’s entrance and walked unhurriedly toward the porch.

  Dixon hadn’t actually said it, but given that Dubois issued all the orders, the implication was that the need for more lamp oil was something he—Dubois—should have foreseen and taken care of. That if fault there was, it was his.

  Cripps, for one, understood very well; the relief in his face as he—along with his men—looked at Dubois was transparent.

  Caleb reached the porch. His gaze on Dixon, he nodded at the lantern. “Can I have that?” With a backward tip of his head, he directed attention to the mine’s entrance, where Phillipe and Hillsythe had come into the open. “We need it to go on.”

  “Here.” Dixon moved to the edge of the porch and handed over the lantern.

  Caleb took it. The diversion had given Dubois a chance to breathe in—and swallow his ire.

  And also to see that the captives’ interest was focused on working the mine and nothing else.

  He hadn’t underestimated Dubois. The man’s gaze had shifted from Di
xon to Caleb, and then to the pair by the mine. Dubois considered them for a full second, then he turned to Dixon. “How much oil is left?”

  Dixon grimaced. “Not much.”

  “What can be done with what we have left while Cripps goes to fetch more?”

  Dixon considered, then replied, “Because of the longer hours, the lanterns in the mine are running low on a daily basis. The women can’t work under lanternlight, so there’s two lanterns in the cleaning shed we can take for the mine. I’ll check the other huts and see what oil we can draw from there, but I doubt it will be much.” He glanced at Dubois. “We can’t risk mining under insufficient light—that will lead to lots of unnecessarily fractured diamonds, which your backers won’t like. Even opening up the lower level—we need to see what we’re doing, or we’ll risk bringing the mountain down on top of us and the entire mine.”

  He paused as if calculating, then offered, “We can keep going, but only at a very much reduced rate. It’ll be nothing like full production, at least not out of the mine, but luckily the output from the cleaning shed will ramp up as soon as Arsene returns, so the amount of raw diamonds going out to the ship should be unaffected. Regardless, I’ll ensure we stretch the oil out in the best way possible—to yield the most while we wait for more.”

  That Dubois accepted the assurance with nothing more than a terse nod was a testimony to how well Dixon had managed to play his role over the past months. Dubois in no way liked the situation, but he’d accepted it.

  Dubois swung to face Cripps. A muscle in Dubois’s jaw flexed; through gritted teeth, he said, “Go to the settlement and fetch more lamp oil. A lot more.”

  “More lanterns would—” Caleb pressed his lips shut and assumed a look of chagrin.

  Dubois had glanced at him. Now he smiled like a shark and turned back to Cripps. “And as the good captain suggests, bring back more lanterns as well.” He paused, then added, “And more food.”

  Dubois turned back to survey Caleb. The mercenary captain waited until Caleb looked up and met his gaze before inclining his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Captain Frobisher.”