A Buccaneer at Heart

  Desperate, she let her reticule fall to swing by its cord and reached for the shroud—for the gag.

  Other hands snatched hers. In seconds, her wrists were bound.

  Before she could even think of kicking, cords wound over and around her walking boots, and her ankles were lashed tightly together.

  The man holding her was huge. He grunted and hefted her up and around. He settled her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then started walking.

  Panic reared. She tried to twist, to wriggle—to force the man to lose his grip—but his arm tightened about her legs, and her efforts did nothing, just made her gasp for breath.

  She quieted and tried desperately to hear over her thudding heart. She found the lack of sight utterly disorientating. She struggled to re-establish her sense of direction. She thought the man was walking along the line of trees, using them for concealment. At least one other man was keeping pace alongside.

  A chill ran through her as she realized that she was about to become one of the missing.

  She dragged in a deeper breath and held it. She closed her eyes—she could see nothing through the hood anyway—and forced herself to assess using her other senses. She could still hear; she could still feel. If she concentrated, she might be able to work out where they were taking her.

  Focusing on where they were going muted her panic; the more she forced herself to try to make sense of things and determine their direction as they carried her farther helped stave off her fear. Of course, the fear remained, blind and unthinking, but increasingly, the emotion dominating her mind was one driven by the most basic instinct—survival. Spurred by incipient desperation, her mind turned from witless gibbering to learning enough about what was happening around her so that she could find some way to free herself. Or to raise the alarm.

  Unfortunately, her captors didn’t carry her through any streets. Instead, they carted her to the end of the row of trees, then turned to their right and picked up their pace. The shushing of the trees’ leaves fell behind, and she felt the sun strike unimpeded on her thinly clad back—but after what must have been ten or so yards, the men stopped in shadow again.

  Eyes still closed, she tried to envision where they were. The rear of the church? Had to be; no other building was close enough. She heard the sound of a key being put into a lock and turned, then hinges creaked softly, and the man carrying her lugged her into deeper—cooler—shadow.

  They didn’t go far. As the thug carrying her lowered her to what felt like a straight-backed wooden chair, she opened her eyes behind the black material—in time to see light fade and vanish as the door through which they’d come was closed.

  “Stay put,” the man who had carried her growled in a rough, gruff, uncultured voice.

  Trussed as she was, she could see no point in attempting anything else. Ten seconds of surreptitiously testing the bonds about her hands was enough to convince her that trying to wriggle them free would be wasted effort.

  At least the rim of her bonnet kept the black material away from the upper half of her face, so she didn’t feel entirely smothered.

  She forced herself to relax in the chair, to conserve her strength. She continued to listen, to track the men as they moved about her. There were only two of them. Eventually, they settled on chairs or perhaps on the floor to either side of her. Then silence fell.

  As far as she could make out, they’d come through the door she had days earlier seen Undoto use to enter the church.

  She and her two captors remained where they were—as they were—for what felt like hours.

  It was hot and close. The men didn’t speak, either to her or between themselves, leaving her plenty of time to consider her predicament.

  She had no doubt whatsoever that she’d been seized by the same slavers who’d been working with Undoto all along.

  The same slave traders who had, almost certainly, also kidnapped Will.

  For several minutes, she dwelled on the thought that if the slavers delivered her to the same place to which they’d taken Will, if London’s assumptions were correct, she might well see her brother again. But she knew beyond question that Will would not welcome her with open arms. He’d be furious with her for coming after him and getting taken, too.

  Not for the coming after but for getting taken, too. And she wouldn’t blame him. If she had any say in matters, being made a captive herself would be her least-favored method for finding and rescuing Will.

  That brought her back to plotting her escape.

  She assumed—hoped—that her captors would take her back to their lair before they carted her into the jungle. She evaluated every option, but she couldn’t imagine any way in which she might get free—not without help.

  Not without someone rescuing her.

  That led to thoughts of Frobisher and his men.

  She felt sure his men, at least, would be watching the slavers’ lair. They expected the slave traders to take any captive they seized back to that dwelling deep in the slum not all that far away.

  If her captors did, indeed, carry her there...would Frobisher be watching? Would he realize the captive was she?

  Frowning beneath the black hood, she thought of what he might recognize. He wouldn’t be able to see her face or hair, not unless her captors removed the hood, and she didn’t think that at all likely.

  He hadn’t seen her lemon-yellow outfit before. She seriously doubted he would recognize her half boots.

  What else? There had to be something.

  Uncomfortable, she shifted on the wooden chair and felt the weight of her reticule resting against her thigh. She was faintly amazed the thugs hadn’t taken it from her. Then again, they no doubt assumed it contained nothing more than the usual bits and bobs ladies carried. Not that her pistol was currently much use to her; with her wrists bound, she didn’t have enough play in her fingers to open the tight neck of the reticule sufficiently wide, and she wasn’t so foolish as to draw a pistol when she couldn’t see where she was aiming.

  But the reticule itself was something Frobisher might recognize—ugly, dull black lump that it was. She’d chosen it for practicality, not beauty.

  And if it provided the means for Frobisher or his men to recognize her, it would have served her well.

  But recognition was all she could hope for. Rescue was out of the question, at least not from that quarter.

  She could still hear Frobisher declaring—in his authoritative captain’s voice—that under no circumstances could they rescue the next person or persons the slavers seized. That, instead, they had to let the slavers have their captive so they could follow the trail to the slavers’ camp.

  And she’d agreed with him; if she viewed his mission dispassionately, she still did.

  She just hadn’t expected to be the next person seized.

  Regardless, she had been, and she did not—could not—expect him to put her welfare above his duty, her safety above that of all those already missing, no matter how assiduously protective he’d been.

  No matter those kisses.

  Although she had no idea why she’d been taken—what had caused the slavers to target her?—it didn’t truly matter. She’d made her bed, and now...

  Thinking of Frobisher in conjunction with a bed wasn’t a wise idea.

  Under the hood, beneath the gag, she grumbled a Damn! She had a feeling that in moments of weakness, she’d be thinking of Frobisher in relation to a bed—any bed—for a very long time.

  How unfair that the only man to have ever sent her mind down that path was the one sworn by his duty to let her slide into the hands of slave traders.

  If she’d been able to speak, she would have made several pithy remarks.

  Instead...

  Although restricted by the hood and the gag, she drew in a deeper breath and tried
to focus on what she could sense, what she could deduce.

  Tried again to think of any possible way to remove herself from the slavers’ clutches.

  Because, realistically, there wasn’t anyone likely to step in and save her.

  She reached that depressing conclusion just as the men stirred. They exchanged comments; as far as she could understand, they were debating whether it was time to move her.

  Apparently, it was. They both approached her. One hauled her to her feet, then a covering made of some strong but not rough material—canvas?—was wrapped around her.

  She was helpless to prevent them trussing her up like a parcel; they wound cords about the wrapping to keep it in place. One large flap came over the top of the hood, blocking out even the faintest suggestion of light and plunging her into Stygian darkness. Then the huge man, the larger of the two, hoisted her up over his shoulder again and started off. She heard hinges creak, and then they were out in the simmering heat once more.

  The men trudged along. She jounced slightly on the thug’s shoulder, but soon she sensed they were climbing—presumably ascending the hill above the church. But from the sound of their footsteps, they weren’t walking along the street itself but through laneways and alleys. She could no longer detect light or dark at all, but she sensed a difference in temperature. The sun had set; she felt sure of that.

  Surreptitiously, she eased her bound hands this way and that. Bit by bit, she guided her wrists and her reticule between the folds of her cocoon. Finally, her wrists slid clear of the covering. A few yards farther, and her reticule fell and swung from the cord about her left wrist; she prayed and did her best to keep it from hitting the thug carrying her. Luckily, he seemed oblivious to any swaying tap; he didn’t so much as pause in his pacing.

  Then she sensed the closer atmosphere of the slum close around them.

  They were nearly to the lair. She’d done everything she could, yet any chance of escape—of winning free—remained as far away as ever.

  * * *

  The day had waned, evening was nigh, and black night hovered not far distant. Robert stared over the ramshackle roofs of the slum, his gaze locked—as it had been for the past hour—on the doorway of the slavers’ lair.

  He’d spent most of the day with his men in their tower-room hide, taking turns keeping watch.

  He’d walked into the slum shortly after breakfast. He and Aileen had made no plans for further investigative forays that day, and he hoped his parting words had sunk into her brain and taken hold.

  He could hope.

  But short of her managing to intercept the lad from the shore if the boy came to tell him that the slavers had returned to take more children—and even if she did, Robert felt reasonably confident she would send the boy on to him—he couldn’t see what else she might do.

  How else she might insert herself into his mission.

  But now that they had the slavers literally in their sights, he needed to concentrate on the job he’d been sent to do. He didn’t have time for the distraction of brandy-colored eyes, looks that challenged him on multiple levels, and a tongue honed by a too-accurate understanding of what levers to tug to manage him.

  He wasn’t up for being managed, by her or anyone else.

  After this was over, and he’d stopped by on his way out of the settlement and swept her up, they could address the powerful attraction between them. They would have plenty of time to explore that on the journey back to England.

  For now, his mission had to come first. He had to put duty first.

  Especially now that something was afoot.

  A messenger had come running to the slavers’ lair half an hour before midday. He’d delivered what had turned out to be a summons to the man lounging in the doorway. Both messenger and doorkeeper had gone inside.

  Robert had sent Coleman and Fuller out to circle the lair and watch the rear exits; they’d already determined that there were two. As it transpired, after several minutes, two of the slavers plus the messenger had left via one of the rear doors and slipped away through the lanes, heading toward the settlement.

  Coleman and Fuller had seen the three men go, but per Robert’s orders, as all four slavers hadn’t left the lair, Coleman and Fuller had noted the direction in which the three had gone, then had returned to the hide to report.

  That had been nearly six hours ago.

  In the intervening time, Robert had prayed that his decision to allow the slavers to go wherever they’d been summoned and not split his forces had been sound. That the hypothesis that the slavers would always return to their lair before taking their captives into the jungle would prove to be correct.

  He hoped like hell that the slavers he’d let go would come back and not take any captive they’d seized straight out of the settlement.

  It had been a tense six hours.

  But now the shadows were deepening—the sun had set, and the usual blackness would soon envelop all—and judging by the way the two slavers remaining at the lair kept looking down the alley toward the settlement, they were, indeed, expecting their comrades to return, presumably with some victim.

  The atmosphere in the hide grew more sharply expectant with each minute that ticked past. Robert sent Coleman and Fuller back to their posts at the rear of the lair, just in case the slavers returned from that direction.

  Finally, the slaver sitting on the stoop staring down the alley stood up. His gaze remained locked farther down the alley; from the tower room, Robert couldn’t see any part of the alley itself.

  The slaver glanced into the house, saying something to his friend inside. The first man looked back down the alley, then grinned. His friend joined him at the door and beamed at whatever they could both now see.

  His gaze trained on the lair’s doorway, Robert waited for those coming up the alley to appear.

  Then they did.

  The two men who had gone down to the settlement trudged into view. The larger was carrying a trussed, canvas-wrapped bundle draped over his shoulder.

  The bundle was clearly a person, but... Robert squinted. Surely the trussed figure was too slim and too short to be a man.

  A youth?

  “Oh, me God.” The whisper came from Benson, hunkered by a corner of the sill and peering out, too. Benson glanced up; Robert looked down and met his eyes. Horror etched Benson’s features. He pointed at the tableau playing out in the doorway of the slavers’ lair. “Ain’t that...?”

  Robert snapped his gaze back to the doorway. The brute carrying the trussed figure angled his burden to pass through the door frame, giving Robert a glimpse of what Benson, viewing proceedings from a slightly different angle, had already seen.

  Two delicate white wrists lashed together poked free of the confining shroud. Dangling from one wrist by a black cord was a familiar black reticule.

  They’d all seen it before—Robert many times—perennially hanging from Aileen Hopkins’s wrist.

  A flap of canvas covered her head. There was nothing else of her to be seen.

  The black reticule swung at the slaver’s side as he carried his burden into the shadows of the house. Robert thought Aileen’s curled fingers moved, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He stood frozen, staring at the now empty doorway—the gaping maw through which she’d been carried.

  He felt as if he’d cracked his head on a spar.

  His lungs weren’t working properly, either. It took effort to haul in a breath—to fight to find some anchor for the thoughts whirling in his head.

  For the emotions churning in his gut.

  Benson and Harris said nothing, just watched him.

  Robert swore. He raised both hands and raked them back through his hair. He laced his fingers, gripped the locks.

  He still couldn’t manage to drag his gaze from the do
orway.

  He’d laid down the law, declaring unequivocally that they had to accept that whoever the slavers seized next, they would have to let that person go—a sacrifice for the greater good.

  His words taunted him.

  Had the slavers taken anyone else, his way forward would have been unambiguously clear. He would have followed the course of duty come what may.

  Now...the choice that faced him was duty—or her?

  A brisk tap-tap on the door, and it opened. Robert and the others turned to look as Fuller and Coleman slipped into the room. “What?” Robert demanded.

  “Whoever they’ve got, they’ve set them down inside, in the middle room. But that’s not all—six new slavers have arrived. They came up from the other side and slipped in through the rear door just now.”

  “Six more?” That put paid to any thought Robert might have entertained of simply barging into the lair and taking Aileen back.

  He grimaced and looked back at the window. There was no point pretending he didn’t know what he was going to do.

  Duty was one thing.

  Aileen Hopkins was something else entirely.

  He glanced at Benson and Harris, then looked at Coleman and Fuller. “The person they’ve seized is Miss Hopkins. And our plans have changed. We’re going to take her back.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Aileen sat on the wooden floor on which she’d been placed, a plank wall at her back, her legs stretched out in front of her.

  She remained loosely wrapped in whatever covering her captors had trussed her up in. Her reticule had landed on the floor beside her. Her hands remained bound, as were her feet, and the horrible black hood was still in place, along with the suffocating gag.

  Despite the restriction of her senses, she was fairly certain she was inside the slavers’ lair.

  They’d definitely traveled well into the slum, and as they’d approached this place, she’d heard other men call rough greetings, and her two captors had responded. Then those others had gathered around, and the man carrying her had turned and climbed several steps.