The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3) (24 page)

His lips were afire as much as hers were, the passion in their kiss well-nigh scorching.

Then he pivoted and put his back against the wall, hard hands and steely arms locking her tight against him. His lips ravaged hers, more demanding and infinitely more commanding than before, and she gloried and plunged headlong into the tumultuous maelstrom welling and swelling between them.

Caleb’s head was whirling—a novel occurrence for him. He’d waited, patiently, to see what she wanted, where she would lead them—he’d never imagined it would be into this.

This whirlpool of want that even now threatened to suck him under.

Sensual greed—to touch her, to take the next step—burned beneath his skin.

Yet there was something he was missing in this—something that might make sense of her tack.

It took more effort than he’d expected, yet he managed, finally, to break from the kiss—not that he succeeded in parting their lips, so heated and yearning, by anything more than a fraction of an inch.

Eyes closed, he concentrated and managed to utter, “Why?”

He waited—could almost sense the battle she waged to corral her careening wits.

Eventually, she murmured, “Because I need to know.”

Then she kissed him again—pressed the reality of her wants, her wishes, on him again.

Several heartbeats passed before he succeeded in refocusing his wits, then parting their lips enough to ask, “About what?”

“About
this
.” She leaned into him, caught his face between her palms, and threw her all into making him understand...

Oh.
Even as realization dawned, he—the elemental male inside him—was moving to meet her. To meet the demands—now quite clear, insistent, and unequivocal—that she was pressing upon him.

A distant part of his awareness instinctively, protectively, scanned for danger, but they were cloaked in darkness, and the patrolling guards rarely if ever marched close to that spot. As long as they made no sound—as long as he kept his lips locked with hers—they would be safe enough.

She leaned in again, pressing against him, the demand in her kiss enough to scramble what wits he’d retained.

He eased his grip on her waist and sent one palm skating upward to brush, tantalizingly lightly, over the swell of her breast.

Katherine stilled—just for an instant, just long enough to savor the sudden scintillating spiking of her senses—then she dove back into the kiss and urged him on.

And he obliged, closing his hand about the soft mound of her breast and gently kneading.

Only a thin, now nearly transparent chemise and the lightweight fabric of the drab dress supplied by the mercenaries separated his hot, callused hand from her skin, from her yearning flesh.

Nerves she hadn’t known she possessed came alive.

His long fingers stroked, then the pad of his thumb circled her nipple, and she would have sworn flames leapt beneath her skin.

Her breast swelled beneath his hand, her flesh flushed, heated. Her nipple was an excruciatingly tight bud when his wandering fingers returned to caress it.

Artful, repetitive, and far too knowing, his lazy caresses slowly, step by tiny step, drove her on.

Drove her—the passionate self she’d only just discovered—wild.

Until she had to have more—whatever more entailed—and she needed more now, and she wasn’t afraid to beg.

But begging, she realized, had to be accomplished not with words but on this very different plane of communication.

The kiss had turned lazy, too. Despite the effects of his ministrations, despite the compulsive haze overwhelming her mind, she discovered she could still give as good as she was getting. A shift of emphasis, of pressure, a change of intent, and with a nudge, she took control—and the kiss turned sultry.

Hotter, more imbued with welling passion than before.

It was like learning a new language; she hunted for the right expressions to make her needs known.

And realized that the tiller of their engagement, at least at this point, lay—literally—in her hands.

She eased her palms from the beard-roughened planes of his face and boldly set both to his shirt-draped chest. She allowed her hands to rest there for a heartbeat, two, then slowly, with intent, swept them wide, and immediately felt tension invest his muscles and lock his long frame.

With a soft hum in her throat, she set herself to caress, to explore—and through that, to demonstrate her own desires. She located his flat nipples beneath the thin fabric and circled both. Felt the thud of his heart through his rib cage and hers accelerate as she played...

He wasn’t slow.

He let her lead, let her show him, let her fill her mind—her senses—with him, then he reciprocated. He raised his other hand from its position at her waist and closed it about her other breast. And proceeded to send her senses into overload, caressing her breasts in concert, kneading, then tweaking, fondling, then petting, ultimately possessing.

Instinctively, her fingers curled, and her nails pressed into the broad muscles on either side of his chest.

Through the kiss, she sensed his sharply indrawn breath—and inwardly smiled.

They took turns—him, then her—at playing on the other’s senses. Never had she been party to such an exchange. Some distant—very distant—part of her brain suggested that she ought to be shocked, but she wasn’t. She was thrilled, and too honest not to admit it.

More, something in her exulted.

This was right; this was proper. This was as things should be.

At least, between them.

Gradually, however, she sensed him drawing back, retreating from the tumult of the absorbing kiss. Reluctantly, she conceded and eased back from him, allowing their lips to part.

He didn’t immediately set her from him, although he released her breasts—with a reluctance to match hers—and returned his hands to either side of her waist.

He held her as she was, pressed wantonly to him, and from close quarters, from under heavy lids, his eyes met hers.

He didn’t seem to study her eyes, her expression, so much as look into her soul.

Then, softly, his words a whisper in the night, he asked, “Why? Why did you need to know?”

Somewhat to her surprise, she didn’t need to think; her response, the words, leapt readily to her tongue. “Because at some point, we’re going to need to fight, and knowing that this might be ours if we survive to claim it...”

She saw understanding bloom in his eyes.

He held her gaze for a heartbeat more, then he nodded. “You’re right.” There was a whisper of steel in his tone that she hadn’t heard before when he confirmed, “Knowing that makes doing whatever we must to survive that much easier.”

He paused, then he set her back on her feet, captured her hand, and pushed away from the wall. “Come. I’ll walk you back to your hut.”

She walked beside him through the night, satisfied that she’d gained the knowledge she’d sought—and, indeed, more.

CHAPTER 14

The men spent the next day with most of them breaking rock in the second tunnel. The resulting amount of rough diamonds and the ease with which they were mined only served to underscore how urgent was their need of an effective way of slowing the process down.

The gatherings about the fire pit at midday and again in the evening were unusually quiet, tending grim.

Later that evening, while working with Dixon to extend the second tunnel onto a lower level in the hope of gaining access to yet more stones, Caleb sliced open his left palm on an extrusion of exposed diamond. He swore and stepped away from the rock face.

“Let me look.” Phillipe took one glance and said, “No stitches required, but go and get it cleaned. You can’t risk it festering.”

Caleb grumbled, but he knew Phillipe was right. Holding the cut closed with the fingers of his other hand, he turned and made his way past the other men in the second tunnel, clambered over the piles of rock they’d left for the children to cart away in the morning, and finally walked out of the mine.

He looked across the compound to the women’s hut and saw Katherine sitting on her stool. Even before he set out to meet her, she’d realized he was holding his hand and had quit the porch and was hurrying to meet him.

“What have you done?” she asked the instant she reached him.

“Just a cut. It’s not that deep.”

She caught his hand. He allowed her to tug it free and examine the wound. She snorted. “Bad enough, especially for here.” She seized his sleeve as if afraid he would bolt. “Come to the medical hut and let me take care of it.”

He was entirely content to fall in with her wishes. Aside from his mother, no other woman had wanted to take care of his hurts before; it was, he discovered, rather nice.

Her lips set, she all but towed him along.

The medical hut was dark and full of shadows, but she knew where the lamp and tinderbox were kept. He stood in the doorway of the same room they’d used when he’d first come to the compound while she lit the wick, then set the glass in place.

Golden lamplight bathed the scene, making the room appear cozier than in daylight.

Already busy searching in a drawer, she glanced back at him, then frowned and waved him to the bed. “Sit down.”

The bed was draped with the usual mosquito netting suspended from a hook above; even the hammocks they slept in in their huts were swathed with the stuff. He crossed to the bed, swept the netting aside, and sat on the edge of the well-stuffed pallet.

Apparently satisfied she’d assembled all she would require, she poured water into a bowl, then set aside the pitcher, tipped liquid from a blue glass bottle into the water, swirled it around, then set aside the bottle, picked up the bowl, and carried it to him. “Here. Balance this on your lap.”

He did. Then she crouched before him, took his injured hand between both of hers, and gently dunked it in the water.

He hissed and nearly jerked his hand away, but she’d anticipated his reaction and held tight, keeping his palm submerged. “It’ll stop stinging in a minute.”

Teeth gritted, he said nothing, but sure enough, the vicious sting faded until it was merely pain. “What the devil is that?” he finally managed to ask.

“Believe it or not, it’s a tincture Dubois gave us. The children often get cuts and scrapes. After one of the boys got a badly infected hand, he—Dubois—gave us the bottle. He said it was something the natives used to treat wounds.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “Whatever it is, we’ve found it to be highly effective.”

He grunted. He peered down at the cut as she gently bathed it. “Given the pain, it’s a wonder the damned thing isn’t cauterized.”

She chuckled.

After washing and drying the wound, she stroked salve across it—making him shiver. She smiled softly to herself, set aside the pot of salve, then picked up a long strip of gauze. After carefully laying the strip across his palm, she wound the bandage around his hand and tied it off with a tiny knot.

“There.” She patted the bandage, then rocked back on her heels and stood. “At least you had the sense to come and get it cleaned straightaway. If you can manage to keep that binding more or less on for more than a day, and avoid putting too much pressure on the cut itself, it should heal nicely.”

He grunted again. He watched her tidy and put things away; he would have offered to help, but he didn’t know where anything went and suspected he would simply get in the way.

But when everything was neat and she came to smile down at him, he reached out and took her hand. He caught her eyes, saw her brows faintly rise in question, then, holding her gaze, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed a long, slow kiss across her knuckles.

It was her turn to shiver.

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.”

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.