The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3) (38 page)

Hornby duly related how he came to be delivering the satchel.

Declan and Robert barely glanced up, then again abandoned Hornby to their ladies in favor of wading through the information Caleb had sent.

Edwina smiled at Hornby and directed Humphrey to make the old sailor comfortable.

Hornby looked uncertain. “I daresay I should get back to
The Prince
, ma’am. Lieutenant Fitzpatrick will be waiting to hear that I handed the information over.”

“We’ll send a messenger.” Edwina gripped Hornby’s sleeve and inexorably drew the old sailor deeper into the hall. “We can’t let you return to
The Prince
until these two”—she waved at Declan and Robert—“and the others are certain they have no more questions for you. I take it you were with Caleb when he found the mine?” When Hornby confirmed that, Edwina beamed. “In that case, once we’ve digested Caleb’s news, I’m sure we’ll all have more questions for you.”

With that, she consigned Hornby into Humphrey’s care. “Don’t worry about the door—I’ll get it.”

Robert and Declan were busy with various documents, and Aileen had commandeered the satchel and was examining a map. Edwina started for the door—only to see a carriage and four, the horses lathered, drawing up at the curb before their house. She halted. “Who on earth...?” She glanced at Declan. “Are we expecting anyone?”

Alerted by the sound of stamping hooves, Declan and Robert had looked up. At Edwina’s words, the brothers walked to the doorway and halted on the threshold, shoulder to shoulder, effectively filling the space.

Edwina scowled and pushed to peer around her husband’s arm, while on the other side of the doorway, Aileen stood on tiptoe to look over Robert’s shoulder.

Aileen steadied herself with a hand on Robert’s back. The carriage rocked on its springs, then the door opened, and a man stepped out. Aileen registered the tension that infused Robert’s muscles, but her attention was riveted by the gentleman who, having gained the pavement, looked up—directly at Robert and Declan.

The man was tall—every bit as tall as Robert and Declan, and possibly an inch or so more. His hair was black as night and fell about his well-shaped head like ruffled silk. His features, while clearly hewn from the same mold as his brothers’, were harder, more sharply chiseled, perhaps a touch more finely drawn. His jaw was uncompromisingly square, and there was an understated strength in the way he moved that was nothing short of mesmerizing.

He was dressed fashionably, but with a certain negligent ease, as if clothes were of little importance to him. His figure was long, lean, sleekly yet powerfully muscled, the thighs revealed by his buckskin breeches those of a man who rode frequently.

Aileen watched as, with a graceful elegance that was transparently innate, the gentleman turned back to the open carriage door.

“Royd,” Robert unnecessarily informed her in an undertone.

Aileen reflected that everything she’d ever heard about the impact of the eldest of the Frobisher brothers was, quite evidently, true.

She was still staring at Royd when he straightened, stepped back, and handed a lady from the carriage.

If Royd’s appearance had made Robert—and no doubt Declan, too—tense, then the sight of the lady shocked both brothers into rigidity.

Aileen had to admit the lady was stunning—an eminently fitting visual foil for Royd Frobisher. She was tall, too—her head reached to just below Royd’s eyes—and she possessed the same ineffable grace. Her hair was pure midnight, a wealth of glossy curls frothing over her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in a severely plain carriage dress, but her figure did wonders for the outfit. She was all sleek curves; given the way she raised her head, she reminded Aileen forcefully of a very fine Thoroughbred.

Royd turned to give orders to the driver.

The lady, retrieving her hand from Royd’s, turned to speak with the postboy and pointed to a bandbox lashed to the roof.

Declan shifted. “Wolverstone said he’d written to Royd, telling him about Caleb and asking him to take on the final leg of the mission.”

In a tone that testified to the depth of her mystification, Edwina whispered, “But who is she?”

Aileen leaned around Robert’s shoulder to look at Declan. Only to see Declan’s expression grow studiously impassive, then he shot a glance at Robert.

Hanging on Robert’s arm, she looked at his face and saw that his expression had turned every bit as uninformative as Declan’s.

Determined, Aileen pinched Robert’s arm.

Focused on the lady, he didn’t even flinch.

“Who is she?” Aileen repeated.

Sotto voce, Robert replied, “Trouble. Trouble with a capital T.”

THE END

Dear Reader,

I hope you’ve enjoyed the thrills and building tension as Caleb and his men pursue the third leg of what has evolved into a full-blown rescue mission. And now that Caleb has found Kate and she him, together, they’ve faced and—thus far at least—prevailed against the challenges life in the mining compound has thrown their way. They and the other captives have banded together and succeeded in protecting the group and planning for their rescue—most importantly, securing a way to stay alive long enough for their rescuers to reach them.

And even under such trying circumstances, love has found a way to bloom, welding Caleb and Kate into an ever-stronger partnership—an evolving relationship they will fight to preserve and continue.

So the stage is set for the last and final leg of the rescue and, as expected, execution of this critical phase falls to the oldest Frobisher brother, Royd. But when Royd arrives in London to pick up his orders, he’s accompanied by a strikingly beautiful lady—one whose appearance Robert declares spells trouble. Read the excerpt following to learn the mysterious lady’s name and her connection to Royd—and to the mission.

If you enjoyed reading of Caleb’s adventures and the evolution of his and Kate’s romance and feel so inclined, do share your thoughts with a review here.

And I hope you’re looking forward to the thrilling culmination of the mission, spiced with the passion and drama of a long-denied love reclaimed, played out against a backdrop that spans the tropical jungle to the ballrooms of the haut ton. You’ll meet many old friends, and, yes, we’ll have three weddings to celebrate at the very end.

Stephanie.

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COMING NEXT IN:

THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET

The mission reaches its thrilling conclusion on December 27, 2016 in

Volume 4:

LORD OF THE PRIVATEERS

PROLOGUE

Aberdeen
August 9, 1824

Royd Frobisher stood behind the desk in his office overlooking Aberdeen harbor and read the summons he’d just received a second time.

Was it his imagination or was Wolverstone anxious?

Royd had received many such summonses over the years Wolverstone had served as England’s spymaster; the wording of today’s missive revealed an underlying uneasiness on the normally imperturbable ex-spymaster’s part.

Either uneasiness or impatience, and the latter was not one of Wolverstone’s failings.

Although a decade Wolverstone’s junior, Royd and the man previously known as Dalziel had understood each other from their first meeting, much as kindred spirits. After Dalziel retired and succeeded to the title of the Duke of Wolverstone, he and Royd had remained in touch. Royd suspected he was one of Wolverstone’s principal contacts in keeping abreast of those intrigues most people in the realm knew nothing about.

Royd studied the brief lines suggesting that he sail his ship,
The Corsair
, currently bobbing on the waters beyond his window, to Southampton, to be provisioned and to hold ready to depart once news arrived from Freetown.

The implication was obvious. Wolverstone expected the news from Freetown—when it arrived courtesy of Royd’s youngest brother, Caleb—to be such as to require an urgent response. Namely, for Royd to depart for West Africa as soon as possible and, once there, to take whatever steps proved necessary to preserve king and country.

A commitment to preserving king and country being one of the traits Royd and Wolverstone shared.

Another was the instinctive ability to evaluate situations accurately. If Wolverstone was anxious—

“I need to see him.”

The voice, more than the words, had Royd raising his head.

“I’ll inquire—”

“And I need to see him now. Stand aside, Miss Featherstone.”

“But—”

“No buts. Excuse me.”

Royd heard the approaching tap of high heels striking the wooden floor. Given the tempo and the force behind each tap, he could readily envision his middle-aged secretary standing by the reception desk wringing her hands.

Still, Gladys Featherstone was a local. She should know that Isobel Carmichael on a tear was a force of nature few could deflect.

Not even him.

He’d had the partition separating his inner sanctum from the outer office rebuilt so the glazed section ran from six feet above the floor—his eye level—to the ceiling; when seated at his desk, he preferred to be out of sight of all those who stopped by, thinking to waste the time of the operational head of the Frobisher Shipping Company. If callers couldn’t see him, they had to ask Gladys to check if he was in.

But he’d been standing, and Isobel was only a few inches shorter than he. Just as the glazed section allowed him a view of the peacock feather in her hat jerkily dipping with every purposeful step she took, from the other side of the outer office, she would have been able to see the top of his head.

Idly, he wondered what had so fired her temper. Idly, because he was perfectly certain he was about to find out.

In typical fashion, she flung open the door, then paused dramatically on the threshold, her dark gaze pinning him where he stood.

Just that one glance, that instinctive locking of their gazes, the intensity of the contact, was enough to make his gut clench and his cock stir.

Perhaps unsurprising, given their past. But now...

Nearly six feet tall, lithe and supple, with a wealth of blue-black hair—if freed, the silken locks would tumble in an unruly riot of large curls about her face, shoulders, and down her back, but today the mass was severely restrained in a knot on the top of her head—she stared at him through eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate set under finely arched black brows. Her face was a pale oval, her complexion flawless. Her lips were blush pink, lush and full, but were presently set in an uncompromising line. Unlike most well-bred ladies, she did not glide; her movements were purposeful, if not forceful, with the regal demeanor of an Amazon queen.

He dipped his head fractionally. “Isobel.” When she simply stared at him, he quirked a brow. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Isobel Carmichael stared at the man she’d told herself she could manage. She’d told herself she could handle being close to him again without the protective barrier of any professional façade between them, too—that the urgency of her mission would override her continuing reaction to him, the reaction she fought tooth and nail to keep hidden.

Instead, just the sight of him had seized her senses in an iron grip. Just the sound of his deep, rumbling voice—so deep it resonated with something inside her—had sent her wits careening.

As for seeing that dark brow of his quirk upward while his intense gaze remained locked with hers...she hadn’t brought a fan.

Disillusionment stared her in the face, but she set her mental teeth and refused to recognize it. Failure wasn’t an option, and she’d already stormed her way to his door and into his presence.

His still-overwhelming presence.

Hair nearly as black as her own fell in ruffled locks about his head. His face would make Lucifer weep, with a broad forehead, straight black brows, long cheeks below chiseled cheekbones, and an aggressively squared chin. The impact was only heightened by the neatly trimmed mustache and beard he’d recently taken to sporting. As for his body...even when stationary, the masculine power in his long-limbed frame was evident to anyone with eyes. Broad shoulders and long strong legs combined with an innate elegance that showed in the ease with which he wore his clothes, in the grace with which he moved. Well-set eyes that saw too much remained trained on her face, while she knew all too well how positively sinful his lips truly were.

She shoved her rioting senses deep, dragged in a breath, and succinctly stated, “I need you to take me to Freetown.”

He blinked—which struck her as odd. He was rarely surprised—or, at least, not so surprised he showed it.

“Freetown?”

He’d stiffened, too—she was sure of it. “Yes.” She frowned. “It’s the capital of the West Africa Colony.” She’d been sure he would know; indeed, she’d assumed he’d visited the place several times.

Stepping into the office, without shifting her gaze from his, she shut the door on his agitated secretary and the interested denizens of the outer office and walked forward.

He dropped the letter he’d been holding on to his blotter. “Why there?”

As if they were two dangerous animals both of whom knew better than to take their eyes from the other, he, too, kept his gaze locked with hers.

Halting, she faced him with the reassuring width of the desk between them. She could have sat in one of the straight-backed chairs angled to the desk, but if she needed to rail at him, she preferred to be upright; she railed better on her feet.