Not that many hours later, Royd was dragged from sleep by a scratching at the cabin door. He gently disengaged from Isobel’s embrace and silently rolled from the bed. He yanked on his breeches and confirmed with a searching glance that Isobel hadn’t stirred; he debated waking her for only an instant—he suspected he knew what the question was, and she would need her sleep for the trek to come. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair as, his boots in his other hand, he walked to the door. He opened it to find Williams leaning against the corridor wall.
Royd stepped out of the cabin and closed the door.
Williams murmured, “We’ve spotted a ship anchored close in to shore a bit ahead. We think it’s Lascelle’s Raven, but we’re not sure.”
Royd nodded and bent to pull on his boots. “I’ll come and take a look.”
A minute later, he swung up to the stern deck and accepted the spyglass Williams offered. He walked to the corner of the deck, put the glass to his eye, and studied the vessel in question, still at some distance off the starboard bow and tucked into the lee of a small promontory.
Clouds had obscured the moon; in what light remained, it was difficult to discern the color of the hull—was it black or some other dark color? The ship had no lights on deck; neither did The Corsair, but that was standard practice for any covert venture. Royd angled the glass upward and inspected the ship’s masts and yards. The Raven ran with a distinctive angle on her upper yards...
He lowered the spyglass and handed it to Williams. “It’s The Raven, which means we’ve reached our destination.” He paused, then beckoned Williams to follow and walked to stand beside Kelly, who had replaced Liam Stewart at the wheel. “They can’t see us any better than we can see them, and The Corsair is even less distinctive than The Raven.” To Kelly, he said, “Take us in on their larboard side, but slowly.” Turning to Williams, he ordered, “Light the running lights and run our flags—we need to let them know who we are before we get too close, and once we are close enough, confirm by hail.” He eyed the distant bulk of the other ship. “We can’t assume whoever’s on watch will recognize us, or know how nervous they might be—no need to start this junket off with an unnecessary alarm.”
Kelly and Williams grunted in agreement.
Royd headed back to the cabin. There were several hours yet to daybreak.
He paused in the corridor to remove his boots. On impulse, he opened the door to Duncan’s room and looked in. Duncan lay sprawled in the bed, sound asleep. Smiling, Royd closed the door, then opened the door to the main cabin and, his boots in his hand, padded inside.
He stripped and crawled back into the bed, raising the covers to slide his length alongside Isobel’s soft, slender limbs. The touch of her delicate skin against his tougher, rougher hide soothed something inside him. She was facing away from him. He settled his head on the pillow behind hers and spooned his body around hers.
Only then did she stir.
He lifted his head and skated a hand over her bare shoulder. “All’s well,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
He saw the upper corner of her lips lift, then she took him at his word, and all tension flowed from her, and she slid back into slumber.
He studied her face, in sleep stripped of the dramatic animation that so often distracted an observing eye. Regardless of what she might think when awake, her trust in him ran bone-deep; trusting him was an all-but-unconscious act.
The realization sank in and settled in his gut. Or perhaps slightly higher.
His lips curved. He dropped his head to the pillow, settled one arm across her waist, closed his eyes, and joined her in dreams.
* * *
Over an early breakfast, Isobel listened as Royd led the necessary negotiations with Duncan over him remaining aboard. It was a novel experience to be able to sit back and consign the difficult and touchy task to one who—she had to admit—was better qualified than she to accomplish it.
There remained not the slightest doubt in her mind—or, she suspected, in Duncan’s—that Royd understood him better than anyone else possibly could. That was borne out by the tack Royd took, explaining that he and she needed to concentrate on saving the poor people held captive at the mine, and they wouldn’t be able to do that—or keep themselves safe, let alone everyone else—if they were anxious and worried about him.
It would never have occurred to her to appeal to Duncan’s nascent leadership abilities. She gathered that Royd had previously described the situation to Duncan, telling him about the children and what Caleb had reported about their lives in the compound.
Given that, she wasn’t all that surprised when, his expression sober, Duncan solemnly swore he would remain on board under the care of Kelly and Jolley. As Duncan had already struck up a friendship—more like an apprenticeship—with the bosun, Jolley, and was on friendly terms with Kelly, who had a son of his own of similar age, Isobel had no reason to imagine their son wouldn’t be actively entertained as well as adequately supervised over the days she and Royd were away.
She was less certain about his safety. Leaving him aboard ship while said ship was in Southampton harbor was one thing; leaving her precious son aboard his father’s ship on an isolated African shore was something else entirely. Or so her maternal instincts insisted.
Unfortunately, said instincts didn’t offer a solution.
So she said her goodbyes to Duncan; careful to conceal any hint of her concern, she hugged him fiercely, mollified by the strength in his answering hug.
But he didn’t cling; he released her, stepped back, and grinned up at her. “Papa said that while the ship is anchored here, Jolley and the others can teach me to climb the rigging—but only as far as the first yard.”
Quashing her immediate thought of broken bones, reminding herself that he climbed trees much higher when at home, she shouldered a satchel containing extra clothes, a brush, and sundry other necessities and managed a creditable smile. Discarding a range of admonitions that poured through her brain, she settled for, “Be good.” That, she felt, covered all possibilities.
Unable to help herself, she caught his face between her hands, drew him to her, and planted a kiss on his forehead.
Then she released him, stepped back—looked at him for one more instant—then resolutely turned and walked to where a rope dangled over the ship’s side.
He ran to steady the rope for her.
She grinned, stepped onto the rope, waved with her fingers, then slid down into the tender to be rowed ashore with a batch of Royd’s men.
They massed on the beach just short of where a path led into the dense jungle. While waiting for the tender to ply back and forth, ferrying more of Royd’s crew to shore, she studied the two ships now moored side by side. The Raven was black-hulled, a touch smaller than The Corsair, but she rode a fraction deeper in the water and, to Isobel’s educated eye, looked to be carrying a significant number of guns.
She raised her gaze to The Corsair’s deck and saw Royd preparing to leave ship. The returning tender drew alongside, and more sailors eagerly slid down the ropes, almost filling the rowboat.
After giving final orders to Kelly and Jolley, who would remain with five other men as a skeleton crew, she watched Royd turn to Duncan. He ruffled Duncan’s hair, then said something, and Duncan grinned and snapped off a crisp salute—which Royd returned.
Then, his pack slung over his shoulder, Royd stepped out onto the rope and slid down, dropping lightly into the waiting tender.
Immediately he sat, the tender pushed out from the ship and headed for the shore.
It beached not far from where The Raven’s tender also crunched on the sands. Five men waded to shore from that tender. Royd sent his men ahead and crossed to speak with the men from The Raven. A hand shading her eyes, Isobel watched the exchange. There’d been a short conference conducted over the ships’ sides that morning, with Royd sharing their plans to march to the compound with the Frenchmen—Lascelle’s crew—so that they could decide what to do.
Apparently, some had elected to join the party.
She watched as the largest of the five men greeted Royd with a broad smile and offered his hand; the pair shook heartily, friendly acquaintances at the very least. After nodding respectfully to Royd, the other four French sailors slogged through the sand to where Royd’s men waited. Isobel heard the murmurs as they introduced themselves, and Royd’s men reciprocated.
Bringing up the rear, Royd and the large man headed for her.
Royd halted beside her and waved to the other man. “Jacques Reynaud, Phillipe Lascelle’s bosun—Isobel Carmichael.”
Reynaud grinned and bobbed a bow. “Enchanté, ma’moiselle.”
Isobel returned a smile as Royd continued, “Reynaud was in command of the group who escorted Hornby back to The Prince and saw Caleb’s ship on its way back to London.”
“Aye,” Reynaud said. “I am glad The Prince got through, and even more glad to see The Corsair.”
“Reynaud and the men who walked out with him are going to return to Caleb’s camp with us—they know the way.”
“You have Hornby, c’est vrai”—Reynaud raised a hand in salute to Caleb’s steward; he was standing with Royd’s men and saluted Reynaud back—“but more men who know the terrain will be of help.”
“Indeed.” Royd cast his eye over his men. To Reynaud, he said, “Why don’t you, Hornby, and Williams take the lead? Mr. Stewart and Bellamy will take center, and Miss Carmichael and I will bring up the rear.”
“Very good.” With a nod to Royd and another to Isobel, Reynaud crossed to where the others waited.
Seconds later, the men formed up in a line and started marching into the jungle.
Isobel fell in with Royd at the rear, but when they reached the point where sand gave way to beaten path, she paused and looked back at The Corsair.
Duncan stood in the bow, with Jolley nearby. Duncan waved.
Isobel waved back, but she didn’t smile.
She felt Royd’s gaze touch her face. Lowering his own hand, he murmured, “He’ll be safer there than he would be with us. There are fourteen men aboard those two ships, and enough firepower to discourage any marauder. On top of that, The Corsair is The Corsair again—any pirate captain worth his salt will recognize both ships and steer clear.”
Isobel sighed.
“And”—Royd closed his hand about hers and drew her around and on—“Sea Dragon will be mooring alongside, most likely within twenty-four hours. Trust me—no one’s going to take a tilt at those ships. Any pirate will take one look and pile on sail.”
She sighed again, this time resignedly. “I know you’re right, but a part of me still doesn’t like it.”
He grinned, but said no more. She lengthened her stride and picked up her pace, and they marched into the warm dimness.
Although uneventful, the trek through the jungle proved more demanding than Royd or, he felt sure, Isobel had expected. The path led them more or less directly south, but went up and down, wound about the flanks of small hills, and dipped into gullies. Given several groups had been up and down over the past months, the path was unobstructed, but the surface rippled with tree roots, and vines snaked across, a risk for the unwary. Looking down and concentrating on where to place one’s feet became a habit; they glanced up only occasionally to check their direction and keep their bearings. Not that there was much to see—the boles of trees and palms hemmed them in; rarely could they see as much as ten yards beyond the path’s side.
The farther they slogged from the coolness near the shore, the more oppressive the atmosphere grew. They were all sweating freely by the time Royd called a halt for a late lunch.
After taking stock, he decreed they should rest until the sun westered and the temperatures started to ease before moving on again. No one argued—not even Isobel.
As he settled beside her on the ground sheet she’d spread over a patch of fallen leaves, he suspected that, of their company, he was the most impatient to get on. A familiar urgency was rising inside him—the impulse to go to Caleb’s relief. He’d felt it often enough in the past to recognize the prodding for what it was, but this time, there was a shift in the emotion behind the prod. Previously, he’d been driven to protect his youngest brother. This time...he felt no real fear for Caleb’s well-being; as far as he could tell, his little brother had matured and had run his leg of the mission with exemplary good sense. He had little doubt that Caleb was well, most likely busy plotting and planning. No, this time, his impatience had more to do with wanting to be there and take a hand in the action—similar to Declan’s worry over being left out.
As he closed his eyes, Royd admitted he was looking forward to what was to come.
* * *
Hours later, when they finally made camp for the night in a hollow large enough to hold them all, while still impatient to reach Caleb’s camp, Royd was feeling rather less sanguine about the time spent getting there.
At least the temperature had started to fall, and a light breeze ruffled the treetops, enough to stir the air below and make them feel they could breathe again.
Somewhat to his surprise, Isobel—who as far as he knew hadn’t even tramped the moors—had managed the trek fairly well. She’d survived rather better than some of his heavier men; she was carrying much less weight.
Without anyone asking—no one would have dared—she took charge of preparing the meal. Taking charge meaning giving explicit orders, but none of his crew minded. In the state they were in, they were entirely willing to have anyone point them at something and tell them what to do. Isobel was very good at that.
Leaving her to it, he consulted with Hornby and Reynaud. They pored over Lascelle’s map; it appeared they’d traveled more than half the distance to Caleb’s camp. “So,” Royd said, “if we wake early and walk on while it’s cooler, before the temperatures rise, we should, with luck, make the camp by early afternoon.”
Hornby nodded. “Aye, and we’ll be climbing through this stretch.” He indicated a section of the path on the map—the first stretch they would tackle the next day. “That’ll be easier going in the early morning, and it’ll be a touch cooler once we get onto the level of the mine.”
“Good.” Royd folded the map. “That’s what we’ll do.”
They woke before dawn and were on their way before sunbeams started to slant through the canopy. The pervasive gloom of the jungle enveloped them, along with the smell of decaying leaves and rich soil, spiced here and there with heady drifts of perfume emanating from deep-throated flowers depending from various vines. As on the day before, there was little talk and no conversation; everyone saved their energy and attention for the steady upward climb.
Birdcalls cut through the silence, raucous and strident, quite unlike the genteel twitterings of home. The higher they climbed, the more often they heard rustlings in the dense growth around them. Several men tugged small crossbows from their packs, but although Hornby and Reynaud confirmed there were wild goats and probably boar in the area, no one sighted any prey.
Finally, the upward toil ended, and they stepped out along a flatter, more even stretch.
“Not far now,” Hornby told Royd. “Less than a mile to the camp.”
Eagerness caught them all. They picked up the pace, swinging along. Royd moved forward to take the lead, and Isobel went with him.
As he passed his men, Royd warned them to keep their voices down and their eyes peeled for Caleb’s scouts.
Twenty minutes later, Reynaud, walking just behind Royd, pointed past him to their left and whispered, “That’s the opening to the track that leads to the camp.”
Royd halted at the entrance to the track—little more than an animal trail.
Strung out behind him, the column of men came to a shambling halt.
Standing beside Royd, Isobel saw his eyes narrow as he stared down the track as far as he could, then he looked down.
After a moment, he crouched and examined the leaves that littered the ground.
Slowly, he straightened. To Hornby and Reynaud, he murmured, “Pass the word—everyone keep their eyes peeled, but I strongly suspect Caleb and his crew are no longer in this camp.”
While the order was passed down the column, Royd turned to her, a question in his eyes.
She shook her head, then jerked her chin forward—silently informing him that she wasn’t about to retire to the rear of the column.
She waited to see what he would do.
He held her gaze for a second while he waged some inner debate, but then he nodded. Leaning nearer, he whispered, “Stay close.”
He started down the track.
She followed. She could be as quiet as he creeping through the jungle, and if her eyesight wasn’t on a par with his, her hearing and her instincts were every bit as good.
They crept down the track so very silently, she doubted anyone could have heard them. When the track cut to the left a little way ahead, Reynaud reached past her to tap Royd on the shoulder.
When Royd looked back, Reynaud signaled, indicating that, after the left turn, the path dropped through a series of steps, and then the clearing in which the camp had been would open up before them.
Royd nodded and led the way on.
In the end, their caution was wasted. There was no one there.
They filed into the clearing, turning this way and that, searching for what, she didn’t know. Royd turned in a circle, surveying the clearing’s floor. “No sign of any fight that I can see.” He raised his head, but kept his voice low. “Anyone see anything useful?”
Negative murmurs came from all the men.
Hornby had paled; he suddenly looked haggard. “They must’ve got caught.”
Royd clapped the old sailor on his shoulder. “Believe it or not, that might not be a bad thing.”
Isobel glanced at him and wondered what he meant. He’d been sunk in thought through much of the trek there; she knew he’d been juggling this, trying out that, piecing together scenarios in his mind about what they would find, as well as how they would act and ultimately rescue the captives.
His relative calmness suggested that Caleb not being there—that Caleb and his men having been captured and taken to the mine—had featured in at least one of those scenarios.
Royd shrugged off his seabag and let it fall to the ground. “Make camp. Liam—set our pickets.” He glanced around. “We need more information—we’re going to find that rock shelf and see what we can see.” He included Isobel with his gaze.
She promptly tossed her satchel beside his seabag. Among other weapons, she’d borrowed one of the mid-length knives from his armory chest; it rode in a scabbard belted at her hip and tied along her right thigh. She loosened the blade and stood ready.
“Hornby and Reynaud—you know the way.” Hands on his hips, Royd scanned his men, then pointed to two. “Giles, Macklin—you two come as well. We’ll be setting up a constant daytime watch from that shelf regardless.”
That made six. They left the others sorting out the camp under Liam Stewart’s eye and followed Hornby and Reynaud into the jungle via a different path that, again, was little more than a goat track.
She’d memorized Caleb’s sketch of the mining compound and its surrounds. It took her a little while to orient herself, but then they glimpsed a small lake to their left, and she knew where they were. As they climbed the narrow, rocky path up the flank of a hill, she caught tantalizing glimpses of the compound’s roofs through the brush and trees to her right.
Reynaud led them unerringly on. He and Hornby looked grim; for both of them, their captains were missing, along with friends.
Eventually, they reached the rock shelf. They clambered onto it, then sat with their backs against the rock wall and avidly focused on the scene below.
The mining compound lay spread before them, a hundred feet or more below. The open gates lay almost directly opposite their position, with the mine entrance concealed beneath an overhang that was part of the rising flank of the hill on their right. The central hut that was the mercenaries’ barracks lay a little to their left, a long rectangular building running right to left across the middle of the cleared and palisaded space.
A crude guard tower rose above the far end of the barracks. Beyond the tower lay several buildings they couldn’t see well due to the barracks lying between.
It was midafternoon. While there was a pair of armed mercenaries ambling about, another pair propped against the posts of the open gate, and three in the hut at the top of the tower, there weren’t any captives visible.
Isobel leaned forward, then pointed. “The girls who do the sorting are under that awning. If you watch, you can see them when they reach out to the piles of rocks.”
Sometime later, a gaggle of rag-tag children came out of the mine, lugging woven baskets. They tottered to the piles of ore close by the awning and upended the baskets, adding more rocks to the piles.
Isobel’s gut clenched; many of the children were younger—certainly smaller and thinner—than Duncan.
She vowed then and there that she would get all the children out—and then she would turn her attention to whoever had enslaved them.
The afternoon dragged on, then Reynaud sat up. He stared down at three men, dusty and begrimed, who had come out of the mine to help themselves to water from a barrel nearby. “That’s Ducasse—our quartermaster. And Fullard, but I don’t know the other man.”
“Good.” Royd leaned back against the rock wall. “So some of them, at least, are there.”
Over the next hour, with growing relief, they identified more men from Caleb’s as well as Lascelle’s crew, but of the two captains, there was no sign.
Isobel rarely looked away from the hut Caleb had labeled the cleaning shed. On two occasions, a woman came out, walked down the compound and around the mercenaries’ barracks, and disappeared, only to return sometime later, but neither woman was Katherine.
Finally, as the afternoon was fading, the cleaning shed door swung open, and two women emerged. Isobel sat straighter. Her gaze locked on the slender woman with soft brown hair; she felt painfully certain, but didn’t want to be wrong—then the woman turned to smile at her companion, and relief flooded Isobel. She nudged Royd. “That’s Katherine.”
He was studying the women as well. “The brown-haired one?”
“Yes.” Isobel watched as her cousin crossed the beaten dirt of the compound to where the group of girls worked under the awning. “This must be the checking Caleb mentioned.”
After twenty minutes or so of working with the children, Katherine and her companion turned and, carrying baskets of ore, headed back to the cleaning shed. They dumped the ore on a pile outside the door, then set the baskets down, climbed the steps, and went inside.
Isobel sat back. Katherine was alive and well and, apparently, in good spirits. Isobel breathed in, then out. Then she glanced at Royd. Now if only they could sight Caleb and his friend Lascelle, all would be well.
Instead of looking back at the compound, she continued to study Royd’s face. His gaze was fixed on the activity far below. His features were rarely revealing, and they certainly weren’t informative at that moment, yet still...she sensed he was curiously patient and not at all concerned over Caleb.
Given Royd’s protective streak—a trait with which she was well acquainted—that seemed distinctly odd.
They were sitting at one end of the rock shelf, with a corner beyond her; the other men were far enough away to risk a quiet conversation. Leaning back against the rock wall, close enough that her shoulder brushed Royd’s, she murmured, “Why are you so certain Caleb’s still alive and that he’s down there somewhere?”
Royd glanced sideways at her. After a moment, he murmured, “I suppose, logically speaking, I don’t know, yet... I do.” He looked back at the scene below, then went on, “Of the four of us, Declan’s the most...rigid. The most conservative. Robert thinks he is, but he’s always had another side—he’s just quieter than Caleb or me. Caleb and I are cut from the same cloth. We might not be twins or anything like that, but if he was dead, I’m sure I’d...feel it. I’d just know.”
She arched her brows. “I always thought you, of the three of you, rode Caleb the hardest—and I always thought that was very much the pot calling the kettle black.”
He grinned. “You’re right. But that’s why I did it. The only difference between Caleb and me is that I learned early on to curb my wildness and direct it toward those instances when I could get away with letting it loose. So I understand the lure, the attraction he feels to that sort of behavior, but I also appreciated much better than he did—or at least, than he used to—the dangers of becoming wedded to the risks and thrills.”
“Than he used to?”
He nodded toward the compound. “I’ve been waiting, especially over recent years, for him to bring that wild side of himself into line, under his control. To learn how to exercise that control and when to do so. His strength, like mine, lies in leading men, but to claim his true position—the position he could fill—he needed to learn how to harness his wild streak.” He paused, staring down at the compound. After a moment, he went on, his voice still low so only she could hear, “Finally, with this mission, I’ve seen him take that bit between his teeth. Step by step, he’s made the right decisions, and for the right reasons. Despite all temptation—and I’m sure there would have been plenty in a situation like this—he’s held to what he needed to do and not given way to his wilder impulses.”
He shifted, stretching his legs, then drawing them up again. “I’ve hauled him out of dangerous scrapes too often to enumerate, but this time, it’s different. This time, I’m coming in to join with him to effectively deal with a truly difficult situation.”
Her gaze still locked on his face, she tilted her head. “More like a partnership instead of older brother leading the way?”
His smile was swift. “Exactly. This time, he gets to run a part of the mission all by himself. But as to why I feel so certain he’s down there...” He paused for long enough to make her look down at the compound to see if there’d been any new appearances, but there hadn’t been. As she glanced back at him, he said, “The one insurmountable difficulty in safely rescuing all the captives was that there weren’t anywhere near enough men who were effective fighters inside the compound.”
She blinked, then looked back at the compound. “You think Caleb somehow got himself and his men taken in as captives?”
“I think that something happened, and he saw the opportunity and seized it.” He lifted one shoulder. “It’s what I would have done, and in action, he thinks and reacts very much as I do.” He refocused on the area below. “We’ve seen the men who were with him—most of them are there. I’m just waiting to see if Caleb and Phillipe are, too—if Caleb managed to pull the wool over this Dubois’s eyes enough for the man to allow Caleb inside his palisade. If Caleb has managed that...then he’ll have removed the biggest stumbling block lying between us and a successful rescue.” He shifted his shoulders against the rock. “And I cannot tell you how grateful I’m going to be if he has.”
She arched her brows, but said no more. She sat back and let all he’d said sink into her mind and reshape her views—of him, of Caleb, of his relationship with his youngest brother. Royd’s view that they were very alike rang true. She’d always thought he was especially harsh on Caleb, but of the four brothers, she’d known Caleb the least well. Yet as Royd had been acknowledged as the greatest seafaring hellion of his time, his criticisms of Caleb had seemed two-faced.
The sun had dropped below the hills to the west, and shadows were starting to swallow the compound.
Abruptly, Royd sat up.
Isobel looked into the compound, saw what he had, and sat up, too.
Men were streaming out of the mine—men who’d ventured out before, but also lots of men they hadn’t previously seen.
Someone sent up a shout of “Food!” and the captives streamed toward one of the buildings screened by the barracks.
“Caleb’s sketch put the kitchen over there,” she murmured.
Royd nodded, his gaze locked on the men who were exiting the mine in small groups.
The exodus reduced to a trickle, and Isobel realized she was holding her breath.
Then Hornby nearly leapt to his feet. “There he is!” He managed to keep his voice down.
Reynaud heaved a huge sigh of relief. “And Phillipe, also.”
The pair, as begrimed as any of the men, their dark hair liberally grayed with dust, were among a group of six who were last to exit the mine. Unaware of the intense scrutiny aimed at them from above, they ambled, loose-limbed and clearly free of any restricting injury, across to join the line of captives waiting to be handed their plates. The women and children had already been served and had returned to logs arranged around a fire pit to sit and consume the simple meal.
Once Caleb and Lascelle reached the front of the barracks and passed out of sight, Royd sat back, then he rocked to his feet and smoothly rose. He reached a hand down to her and smiled as he hauled her to her feet. “He’s there, as is Lascelle. So now it’s time to go back to the camp and rework our plan.”