For the next three days, little of significance changed within the camp. The men labored in the mine. Those working in the first tunnel kept the actual mining to a steady pace, the lack of escalation excused by the limited number of picks and shovels. Meanwhile, Caleb, Lascelle, and their crews worked alongside the carpenters widening and shoring up the second tunnel—again restrained by the even more limited number of picks and shovels that could be spared to them.
More, after the first day, the lumber started to run low. By the end of the second day, those working in the second tunnel could no longer move ahead due to a lack of the large beams necessary to frame the tunnel. They busied themselves putting in supporting struts and braces along the first yards, while Dixon champed at the proverbial bit, frustrated because he wanted to push farther so he could size the deposit and reassure them all.
Given the limitations caused by the lack of implements and lumber, the captives saw no need to use any of the delaying tactics they’d explored and assessed. Dixon, assisted by Hillsythe, Fanshawe, and Hopkins, had evaluated the possibilities put forward and decided on a shortlist of those actions most likely to support their cause. At Caleb’s suggestion, they took advantage of the days before Arsene returned to make any preparations necessary to put their delaying tactics into effect.
Arranging for the lamp oil to run low was high on their list. They needed a place to secrete oil—somewhere out of sight of the guards. The dim far reaches of the first tunnel, beyond the area still being mined, was the obvious place. In between using their shovels to scoop shattered rock into the children’s baskets, those wielding the shovels—assisted by the children who kept their eyes peeled for any guards—slipped into the shadows at the rear of the tunnel and dug a pit. Shovel full by shovel full. Once it was deemed deep enough, they refilled the pit with sufficient loose rock to hide its existence. But by initially using large slab-like rocks propped at angles, creating spaces between, then covering all with smaller fist-sized rocks, they left plenty of space for oil, when poured through the upper level, to pool in the depths of the pit.
By the morning of the third day, when the leaders had inspected the pit and congratulated everyone concerned, the company was feeling ready for the challenge to come, buoyed by the simple fact of having taken some definite action toward their own relief.
Also during those three days, Caleb, Lascelle, Jed, and two other men who’d been apprenticed to blacksmiths in their youth stopped by the cleaning shed whenever they were free. As long as no patrolling guards were near, they worked on the women’s chisels and hammers, taking care to weaken only a few and each in a different way. They also didn’t want the tools to fail too soon—another issue they had to juggle. They worked out their best approach and did what they could, but couldn’t go too far.
More covertly yet, Caleb, Lascelle, Hillsythe, Fanshawe, Hopkins, and Dixon concluded that they might eventually need something akin to a small disaster to slow production down. Something along the lines of weakening the second tunnel and causing a cave-in, but that was such a desperately dangerous proposition they decided to keep the notion strictly to themselves.
“The problem,” Caleb said, as he strolled beside Katherine in the softer light of the late afternoon, an exercise that had quickly become a part of their daily routine, “is that from what Dixon’s seen of the second deposit, he’s convinced it’s going to yield many more diamonds per foot of tunnel, and they’ll be larger, too, and hence more valuable.”
Her arm twined with his, Katherine frowned. “Isn’t that good? For us, I mean.”
“Good as far as it goes. Whoever’s behind this enterprise, they, and certainly our mysterious backers, are in it for the money. They’re greedy for wealth, and the second tunnel looks set to offer them that and more. So opening up the second tunnel and demonstrating that there’s untold wealth there for the taking will be the most effective way of keeping the mine open. If we present it correctly—and keep production up—they’ll argue and fight to keep the mine operational and everyone here alive.”
“To keep us working and producing the diamonds.”
“Exactly. Dubois might be a cold-blooded killer, but he’s consistently demonstrated that he’s pragmatic to the nth degree—as long as he needs us to work the mine, he’ll do whatever is necessary to preserve his workforce, meaning us, in sound and effective condition.” He paused, then admitted, “Truth be told, that he is so amazingly devoid of the usual weakness that afflicts mercenary captains—namely seizing short-term gains rather than holding out for long-term riches—makes him more of a threat in my eyes. That quality of cold calculation is, no doubt, what has allowed him to thrive in this business for so long—and why his men obey him without question.”
She huffed a cynical laugh. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Without Dubois, we wouldn’t be here, and yet now we are here, it’s because of him that we are, relatively speaking, safe.”
Caleb snorted.
Arm in arm, they strolled on, then she glanced frowningly at his face. “You said that the second tunnel having more diamonds was somehow a problem. How so?”
He grimaced lightly. “Dixon’s uneasy over the size of the deposit. He can’t yet see far enough to even guess how many diamonds the second pipe contains, and how spread out they are, which is the critical factor in determining how long it will take us to mine out the deposit. And in terms of us surviving until the rescue force arrives, that is the critical question. Dixon equates the likelihood of discovering a third pipe as akin to lightning striking twice, so effectively, the second pipe is all we have to see us through. An added complication is that once Arsene returns with the extra picks and shovels and more timber, the work will ramp up—those working on the first deposit will soon mine it out, although we’re hoping that by then, we’ll have the second tunnel fully open.”
Caleb paused to draw breath. “And that’s the point at which we’ll know whether lasting until September is going to be a simple exercise or whether we’ll have to manufacture delays. Not having enough of a deposit to stretch the distance output-wise is one potential scenario. Another is that the diamonds are there in sufficient quantity, but are too concentrated and too easy to mine, so the output will escalate, and again, the deposit won’t last long enough. Both those scenarios will require us to act, either to slow the mining itself in some believable way or, in the second case, perhaps to allow the mining to proceed, but to hide the diamonds so we can feed them out at a slower rate.”
“Yet it could be that the second deposit is both large enough and spread out enough that mining it will take more than enough time.”
“True. But that’s the best-case scenario.”
Katherine glanced at him. “And you’re not inclined to place your faith in the best-case scenario?”
He pulled a face. “Let’s just say that I’m more comfortable making contingency plans.”
She smiled, but all levity faded as she envisaged how anything other than the best-case scenario might play out. “As long as the backers are satisfied with the flow of raw diamonds, Dubois is unlikely to concern himself. Which in turn means that as long as we can keep the number and quality of the diamonds sent out to the coast sufficiently high, he’s not going to be overly exercised by any temporary holdups.”
Caleb nodded. Several paces on, he mused, “I’m sure Dubois knows, or at least guesses, that we’re plotting and planning, but as long as we don’t test him—as long as we make no overt bid to escape and keep working, and the diamonds going out satisfy his masters—he really doesn’t care. His men maintain absolute control over the perimeter, and while that’s in place, he knows there’s no point worrying about what we might be up to. We can’t get out, and he has immediate access to effective hostages should we ever attempt a challenge. As far as he can see, we’re no threat and never will be. All of which is true. For us, there is no way out of here unless some force attacks from outside—and even then, with so many hostages, Dubois believes he’ll always have the upper hand.”
“Still,” she murmured, “if we’re forced to act to influence production, we can’t afford to have him guess that we’re doing so.”
“That we’re manipulating him?” Caleb’s grin took on an edge. “No. We need to ensure he never has any firm evidence of that. He might suspect, but he won’t act on suspicion—he still needs us to keep working the mine. As long as there’s nothing overt—as long as we do nothing that forces him to confront the reality that we’re managing him—he’ll leave us be.”
“But if he does find out…” She shivered.
Caleb unwound their arms, looped his arm about her, and drew her against his side.
The medical hut was near; he steered their steps in that direction. He glanced at her and caught her eye. “There’s no sense worrying—we all know the score, that we have to keep our activities hidden.”
He guided her into the dense shadow at the side of the hut, then halted, leaned his shoulders against the plank wall, and drew her to stand before him.
Resting her hands lightly on his chest—an innocent, all but absentminded touch he felt to his marrow—she studied his face. Then in a transparent bid to lighten their mood—to turn to a happier subject—she demanded, “Tell me about your home. Does your family live in Aberdeen?”
He grinned. “No.” Settling his hands comfortably about her waist, he held her gaze. “Our business—the shipping company—operates out of Aberdeen, but home is a manor house at Banchory-Devenick. That’s about two miles west…” He paused. Her eyes had widened, her brows rising. “What?”
“I know the place—not the house but the village.” She held his gaze. “I was born not far away.”
“Oh? Where?”
Katherine studied his eyes, drank in the uncomplicated interest that was evident even through the shadows. She tended to keep her background private, but it was no real secret, and she wasn’t ashamed of any of it. “Fortescue Hall. It’s just outside Stonehaven—on the coast about fifteen miles south of Aberdeen.”
His eyes flared. “You’re a local!”
She couldn’t help but smile at his open delight. Yet she felt forced to continue, “Although I was born at the Hall, my father was a younger son, so we lived in a house in the town, in Arbuthnott Place. And later, after he died, my mother and I moved to a small cottage on Mary Street.”
There was nothing deficient about Caleb Frobisher’s understanding; his features sobered and the expression in his eyes grew more intent. “Your father left debts?”
His tone held no pity, just a simple wish to know.
She nodded. “My mother had broken with her family in order to marry him, and although my grandmother—my father’s mother—always stood ready to help, my mother refused to live on charity. She was a gifted needlewoman, so she became a sempstress specializing in fine embroidery, mostly, of course, for the local gentry.” Which had ensured that she, as the daughter of their sempstress, was forever excluded from the social circles into which she’d been born.
She drew in a breath and lifted her chin. “When Mama died, I had the option of living as a poor relation with any of several connected families, but I decided I was too much my mother’s daughter.” She smiled somewhat wryly at her memories and met his gaze. “I saw an advertisement in The Times for the position of a governess with a family located in Freetown, so I went to London and applied, and ultimately, that’s how I came to be here. Dubois decided he needed someone to oversee the children, so he asked Kale to get him a governess.”
For one instant, his expression was—unusually for him—difficult to read, then he grimaced. “On the one hand, I wish Kale had chosen someone else. On the other”—his blue eyes held hers—“if he had, I wouldn’t have met you.”
And I would never have met you. She could feel the connection between them—new, growing, still fragile, yet quite tangibly there… “Truth be told, I’m not sorry Kale seized me—there’ve been times I’ve been glad, even grateful, that I’ve been here for the children.”
“Like Diccon.”
She nodded. “Although I had no siblings, I grew up with tribes of cousins, which is why I chose to be a governess—because I liked children and knew how to deal with them.”
She lowered her gaze to her hands, to where they rested splayed on his chest. Through the thin linen of his shirt, she could feel the warmth of his body impinging on her fingers and palms, seducing her senses. If they’d been in some more normal place, she would have felt compelled to break the illicit contact—and step free of his grasp, away from the hard hands that rested gently yet firmly about her waist.
But they were here, and this was now, so she looked up and met his eyes. “Tell me about your brothers—about you and them.”
Caleb smiled easily and proceeded to entertain her—and distract himself—with long-forgotten tales of the Frobisher brothers’ exploits. “Royd was always the leader, of course—and often there were far more in the group than just us four.”
There were so many tales to choose from, he rattled on, seeking to draw her smiles, and even more her laughter, yet his nerves were alive in a way they’d never been before, and something—a web woven of primitive instinctive interest and some more fundamental need—had wrapped about them and now held them.
As if they were trapped in that moment in time, in a place far removed from either of their homes, and so very far from the comfort of family—and there was some degree of visceral understanding they each had of the other that made each unique to the other…
Here. Now. Together in this place.
When he came to the end of his latest tale, he felt as if the weight of the moment had reached a peak that demanded he act.
His eyes remained on hers, her gaze locked with his. They’d been speaking not just with words but with their eyes for long minutes.
So it seemed natural, expected—certainly anticipated—when he slowly lowered his head…
At the last, she pressed her hands more firmly to his chest and stretched up—and their lips met.
It was a gentle kiss, innocent and almost heartbreakingly tentative…at first.
Then he angled his head slightly and settled his lips over hers, and she kissed him back—and for an instant, his head spun.
But her direction was clear, and he was only too happy to oblige—to sup at her lips, to explore their contours. And when he found her lips pliant and plush, just begging to be parted, desire ignited like a leaping flame, and he pressed in.
And savored.
And only just remembered in time that he shouldn’t go too far too fast—that he couldn’t simply plunge in, ravage, conquer, and seize.
Even if her untutored enticements made him feel like a chest-beating barbarian.
Yet her encouragement was plainly there, openly tendered, and that, in itself, made him feel unexpectedly humble—as if she and Fate had conspired to gift him with something indescribably precious.
Here, in the depths of the West African jungle, while held captive by violent men, and with their survival nowhere near assured…
Perhaps Fate hadn’t changed her spots all that much.
Katherine felt giddy. She wasn’t sure she was even breathing, but couldn’t spare any mind to care, not with her senses whirling and darting this way, then that, wanting to absorb, to experience and remember every tiny detail of this—their first kiss.
Not her first kiss, and certainly not his, but in that instant of feeling drawn into the exchange, all but drowning in the compulsion to go forward, she’d made her decision and knowingly taken that step—just as he had. In that moment, she’d sensed a tide, a pressure quite unlike anything she’d previously felt—as if this kiss was meant to be. As if she needed it. As if, for her—and for him, too—this kiss was a vital part of their way forward.
Ridiculous, some long-buried kernel of conservative caution informed her. How could she be so sure when she’d only met him mere days ago?
Yet she was.
Experience—not just since her mother had died and she’d been alone, but even before that—had taught her to trust her judgment. That the one thing in life she could rely on was herself and that inner knowing.
So she leaned into him, gave herself up to his hold, and slid her hands up the solid planes of his chest. She curved her palms over the heavy muscles of his shoulders, then reached farther to feather her fingers over his nape, then into the thick, tumbled locks of his dark hair.
The fall of the silky locks over the backs of her hands was a sensuous caress that made her shudder.
Want bloomed—a new flame within her.
She noted it—that burgeoning need—and sensed that he did, too.
To her surprise, she felt a small shudder rack him.
Then his lips firmed.
And without thought or hesitation, she met their demand, and the siren she’d never known lived inside her rejoiced.
But almost immediately, she sensed him pause—then, very clearly, he took control and eased them both back…
Until their lips parted.
Until, from under weighted lids, their gazes met and held.
Their breaths mingled, their breathing not as steady as it had been.
As her heart slowed, he murmured, “Enough.” Not here.
She held his gaze. “For now.” Later.
* * *
The cavalcade that marched into the compound late the next day was impressive in its way.
A long row of native bearers swung through the gates two by two, each pair supporting a bundle of long, roughly dressed timber beams on their shoulders. Others carried pallets on which rested all manner of other mining supplies, while Arsene and his men hefted heavy packs, no doubt weighed down with nails and the rolls of metal strips used to anchor the bracing.
Caleb stood with the other men in the shaft of afternoon sun flooding the mine’s entrance. They watched as the bearers halted and let the timber tumble from their shoulders to the ground. Under the direction of one of Arsene’s men, the pallets were set down in front of the supply hut.
“That’s an awful lot of everything,” Dixon said.
Fanshawe muttered, “Dubois is clearly taking no chances on any of those items running out again.”
At that moment, Dubois emerged from the barracks. He paused on the porch to survey the scene, then descended to speak with Arsene, who’d halted not far from the steps.
The guards who’d been idly patrolling the perimeter ambled up to stand by the fire pit—between the captives and the natives—as the latter approached Dubois and Arsene.
Dubois paid off the bearers, then the band—at least twenty strong—turned and, eyes forward, strode for the gates. Only as they stepped out of the compound did a few of the bearers cast furtive—unhappy, even worried—glances at the captives. But then they were gone, vanishing into the jungle, presumably marching back to some village.
“Dixon!” Arsene called from across the compound.
Caleb and the other men looked and saw Dubois retreating into the barracks.
Arsene beckoned. “Bring the men and store these supplies.”
As Caleb followed Dixon across the compound, he whispered to Hillsythe, walking alongside him, “No doubt Dubois wants us to see that he’s brought in more than enough to keep us going.”
Hillsythe nodded. “And therefore there’s no excuse for us not simply getting on with mining the second pipe. With Dubois, there’s always a message.”
They reached the packs and the pallets. The jumbled timber lay nearby.
After a word with Arsene, Dixon set one group of men under Fanshawe and Hopkins to stack the timbers in an organized way between the gates and the men’s hut. Then Dixon and the others hefted the packs and the heavier packages off the pallets and carried them into the supply hut.
While he unpacked bundles of long nails and stacked them on one of a row of crude shelves, Caleb studied his surroundings; he’d been inside the hut only once, to fetch a lantern, and hadn’t had a chance to assess what possibilities the hut and its contents might offer.
Although Arsene watched them unburden the pallets, he didn’t bother venturing into the stifling atmosphere of the hut. Through the open door, Caleb could see him and his men loosely gathered in the shade cast by the barracks, keeping nothing more than a vague eye on the hut and the men inside.
On the other side of the hut, Jed Mathers and several others were unwrapping and stacking picks and shovels. Jed paused to study a short-handled shovel. “Be damned if this isn’t brand new.” Raising his head, he looked at Dixon. “Weren’t the others—the ones we already have—secondhand? Like from some store that resells things after others are finished with them?”
Jed glanced at the shovel, then held it out to Dixon. “Here. Take a look.”
Frowning, Dixon reached out and took the shovel.
Jed released it, then turned to survey the small mountain of new tools—including pickaxes, shovels, and numerous pry bars of various sorts. “This all looks brand new. Must’ve cost Dubois and the backers a pretty penny an’ all.”
Dixon, frowning even more deeply, turned the shovel over, then looked along the shaft—and swore.
“What?” Hillsythe asked.
Dixon studied the shaft for a moment more, then he raised his gaze and looked at Hillsythe, then at Caleb and Phillipe. “I’d noticed the army stamp on most of the tools before, but they were used, so I assumed they’d come from some mining store’s secondhand stock, and in a place like Freetown, the fort would be the principal source of used tools. But these bear the army stamp”—Dixon held up the shovel, then handed it to Phillipe, who was closest—“and as Jed said, they’re brand new. And there’s no reason I can think of for Fort Thornton to have ordered any huge number of such tools, only to send them out as surplus. That makes no sense. Major Winton would never make such a mistake—not when things have to be brought by ship all the way out here.”
“Wait—Winton.” Caleb frowned. After a moment, he said, “Major Winton’s the commissar at the fort, isn’t he?”
Dixon nodded.
“My soon-to-be sister-in-law,” Caleb said, “heard that the supplies came from someone named Winter, but she was gagged and had a canvas sack over her head at the time.”
“You think she misheard Winter for Winton?” Hillsythe look struck, then he glanced at Dixon.
Whose frown was now black. “Not Major Winton.” Dixon’s tone was adamant. “The major is old school, and a more solid man you won’t find.” Dixon paused, then drew breath and went on, “However, the major has a nephew—one William Winton. A spineless wonder, if ever I saw one. He’s greedy, and I can readily see him being two-faced. But more to the point, he’s the major’s assistant.” Dixon looked around at their faces. “William Winton is the assistant commissar at the fort.”
Hillsythe sat on a stack of boxes. “So we have Winton in the fort and Muldoon in the navy office.”
“And someone in the governor’s office who we’ve yet to identify.” Caleb had been keeping an eye on Arsene and the guards. “We need to keep unpacking. Let’s table this for later.”
The others all glanced through the doorway, then with grunts returned to their labors.
Later, as Dixon, Caleb, Phillipe, and Hillsythe followed the other men back to the mine, and Fanshawe and Hopkins joined them, they returned to the subject of William Winton and the fact that their tools and all mining supplies appeared to be coming directly from the fort’s commissariat. Dixon explained that Winton had to have ordered extra supplies specifically to support the mine. “Which means he’s pulling the wool over his uncle’s eyes, and as the major got him the post—it’s one a civilian can hold—this is going to fall hard on the major.”
“What a way to repay someone for doing you a good deed,” Phillipe murmured.
Snorts of agreement came from all around.
They reached the mine and went inside, but halted in the area just inside the entrance. They all looked at each other, then Dixon said, “With the first deposit on its last legs and our stockpile of ore running down, too, we don’t dare delay completing the shoring up of the second tunnel so we can start mining the second pipe—and with all that timber, there’s no viable excuse to do so, anyway.”
His expression grave, Hillsythe nodded. “But once the second tunnel is open, now we have all those tools and all the mining supplies we could ever need, Dubois will expect production to increase.”
Dixon paused, clearly calculating, then said, “We can increase by a small amount, but until I properly assess how far the second pipe reaches, we’d be unwise to mine without restraint.”
Caleb met Hillsythe’s gaze. “It looks like we need to start being inventive sooner rather than later.”
* * *
After all the captives had gathered for the evening meal and had shared the latest news, Caleb and Katherine went for a stroll around the compound. The evening perambulation was an exercise Dixon and Harriet had pioneered, and one Annie and Jed also frequently indulged in, seizing the quiet moments in the cooler evening air to share insights, reactions, and feelings, and above all else, to bolster each other’s spirits.
Tonight, all three couples had grasped their chance, leaving the rest of the company about the fire pit. Each couple struck their own course, ambling arm in arm between the huts, avoiding the occasional perimeter guards, and pausing here and there as inclination took them.
Dixon’s discovery of the source of the supplies had been touched on only briefly about the fire pit. Caleb elaborated, explaining that they now believed that “Winter” had really been “Winton,” referring to the younger man of that name known to be second-in-charge in the fort’s commissariat.
After digesting that, Katherine asked, “Given the large amount of mining supplies Dubois has brought in, what are the implications for us stretching the mining out long enough for the rescue force to reach us?”
Caleb grimaced. “We still can’t tell.” Through the shadows, he met her gaze. “As you heard, we’ve little choice but to make a good show of working the mine at increased efficiency, with all the men working for the next three days.” That consensus had been discussed and adopted before they’d left the group. “Unfortunately, the first deposit is almost mined out, and increasing output even by only a small amount—which we have to do in response to having more men working and for longer hours—will run down the stockpile to almost nothing.”
He glanced ahead. “However, by the end of those three days, we’ll have the first level of the second tunnel fully open. We’ve done the exploratory work, and the entrance and first stretch are already shored up. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll have men mining the second pipe—and the first call on the results will be to replenish the stockpile. And by then, Dixon should be able to give us a firm answer as to what we face.”
They continued strolling. Leaning on his arm, Katherine looked ahead. “I haven’t been in to see the new tunnel yet—where does it start?”
“The opening is about ten yards down the first tunnel, on the right. The second tunnel runs at roughly ninety degrees to the first—more or less parallel to the ridge line.”
“So the entrance to the second tunnel lies before the section where they’re mining the first deposit?”
“Yes. At the moment, the second tunnel is not that long—not even fifteen yards. Once we have it fully open, it’ll be more than forty yards, and Dixon will assess how much of the second deposit we can mine from that run. He’s already sure we’ll need to extend the tunnel on a lower level to reach all of the deposit, but as the second deposit is richer in diamonds, both in quantity and in size, it’s possible we might not need that lower level—not before September.”
He glanced at her and smiled. “Best-case scenario is that even with all the men working longer hours, even with us increasing the output from the mine, the mining from the first level of the second tunnel will nevertheless last long enough—until the seventh of September, at least.”
“So we’ll know in three days.”
“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “And if we don’t get our best-case scenario, then we’ll decide when and how to slow things down. Dubois didn’t bring in more lamp oil, so running down the oil remains a possibility.”
Katherine nodded and walked on by his side. With her arm looped in his, she was very conscious of the muscled strength of him, of his easy, confident stride. Just being physically close to him, as well as hearing his indefatigably positive private thoughts—positive even when he wasn’t trying to carry his men with him—gave her heart.
Gave her heart enough to think of the future—of home. Of Stonehaven. Of Banchory-Devenick. Of Aberdeen.
She felt his gaze touch—and caress—her face.
“A penny for your thoughts.” When she looked at him, he grinned, rueful and inviting. “Yet even that penny will have to be on tick, for I haven’t even one farthing on me.”
They’d reached the back of the cleaning shed, out of sight of the mercenaries in the tower, and the patrolling guards had passed them minutes before. She halted in the deeper shadows, drew her arm from his, and faced him. “I was thinking of home.” And you.
“Ah.” He studied her face, but she doubted he could make out much of her expression in the dark. “And?”
Was it madness to hope? So soon? To leap so far ahead? Yet life was for living. She tipped up her chin fractionally. “When we get back”—not if, but when; he’d infected her with his confidence—“our homes are so near, we’ll no doubt see each other. In Aberdeen, if nowhere else.”
He gazed at her, then, his voice deeper, huskier, he said, “I was hoping for somewhere else.” When she waited, he went on, “For instance, your home—and perhaps Fortescue Hall, if your grandmother’s still alive. I believe I’d like to meet her. And at Frobisher Manor, too—for I’m sure my parents would love to meet you.”
She blinked at him. What he was saying—what she wanted to hear…she stared into his eyes. “We can’t talk about this—not yet.”
He compressed his lips, then nodded. “It feels too much like tempting Fate.”
Thank God, he understood. She stared at him for an instant more—then she reached for him.
In the same heartbeat, he reached for her.
Their lips met—not tentatively this time but in the confident expectation of welcome. His fingers firmed about her waist, and he drew her closer, until her hips met his thighs. She released the folds of his shirt that she’d gripped and slid her hands up the acres of his chest, clasped his nape, and held him to her as she parted her lips and clung tight as he accepted her wordless invitation.
And her senses giddily spun.
Then they resettled and realigned, yet it seemed on a different plane of reality, one where only they existed—him and her in each other’s arms—communing in the warm dark.
She might have been a relative novice in this sphere, yet every long, drawn-out exchange had meaning. Each kiss, each slow and utterly absorbing caressing stroke of their tongues, each shift in pressure, took them both on a journey of exploration. His lips were firm and seemed cooler than hers, but then hers seemed so hot, so flushed and swollen. As if the realization had triggered a spreading of the sensation through all her nerves, over all her senses, her breasts caught the fever, then the heated sensation washed in a wave all the way through her. All the way to her toes.
She felt alive, radiant, heated and buoyed on a cresting tide of need. Of wanting.
Desire whispered softly through her mind, trailing seductive tendrils of hunger over her wits, before wreathing through her senses.
The strength of him, latent in his tall frame, in the lean, taut, steely muscles sheathing his heavy bones, should have made her wary. Any other man and she would have shied from being this close—from allowing him to tighten his hold about her waist and urge her closer still.
Any other man and she wouldn’t have gone, would never have let him draw her flush against him.
Would never have thrilled to the feel of her breasts compressing against the iron muscles of his chest. Would never have gloried in the heady delight of feeling his erection, rampant and solid, press against her stomach.
She might be a virgin, but she was no wilting flower. Yet with no other man had she ever felt this wanton—no other man had ever made her crave the sensation of his hands caressing every inch of her skin.
All with just a kiss.
A heady, hungry, greedy, wanton, shockingly heated kiss.
He couldn’t indulge her—shouldn’t, not here, not now—but the fire had been kindled and now smoldered beneath her skin.
Caleb knew it—knew that she was his, and that, somehow, he was and always would be hers. He’d indulged with more women than he could count—his easygoing nature and physical stature had always made attracting the fairer sex a simple matter—but this was different.
So very different he felt as if he was embarking on some voyage—one vital to his future life—with no effective compass.
But the needy sound she made, trapped in her throat, was one sign he recognized. That, and the way she pressed against him, so open in her burgeoning ardor that he couldn’t mistake her hunger. Her rising passion.
He wanted to claim it, and her—wanted to gorge and satisfy the hunger she evoked. For one instant, that need threatened to overwhelm him—to take control and drive him. But then he realized the danger and, on a mental oath, wrestled his libido into submission.
Not now. And certainly not here.
How long had they been kissing?
Too long, the tactical part of his brain drily informed him.
Too dangerous.
That thought gave him the strength to ease back—to ease them both back from the exchange. Yet her mouth was a haven of delicious delight, honey sweet and tempting; it required serious effort to haul his senses from their absorption, to convince them to relinquish the heady taste of her.
To draw back from an exchange that spoke so convincingly to the man he was, that lured the daredevil and tamed him.
Claimed him.
Irrevocably ensnared him.
Another minute ticked by.
Finally, he drew breath and raised his head, and their lips parted—reluctantly, overtly so on both their parts.
Through the darkness, lips still parted, their mingling breaths not at all steady, they looked into each other’s eyes—as if, despite the darkness, they could see into the other’s soul.
He filled his lungs, then, gently, set her on her feet.
He steadied her. Then he breathed deep again and quietly stated, “Just to be clear, my interest in you—this”—with one hand, he waved between them—“has nothing to do with being here—with us being trapped here together. There’s nothing incidental, much less casual, about how I feel about you. Had I met you anywhere else—in a ballroom, in some drawing room—the result would have been the same. I would have come after you. I would have sought you out.”
She tipped her head, her gaze steady on his eyes, then she equally quietly replied, “I could say the same. I could point out that I’ve been here for months, yet I’ve felt no need to kiss any other man. Yet with you…from the first, you were different in my eyes.” She paused, then went on, “I don’t know where this will lead—this connection between us—but I know I want to find out. With you—together with you.”
He held her gaze for a moment more, then he held out a hand.
She placed her hand in his.
As one, they twined their fingers, then they turned and, side by side, walked on through the night.