WHAT A WAYWARD LORD NEEDS, page 10
part #2 of LORDS OF HAPPENSTANCE Series
“That’s vague. Almost like the stories Santiago told me when I first met him of an offshoot Inca civilization.”
“It isn’t a well-known theory. Only the elders in some tribes still tell those tales.
“Still.” He snorted. “Have you been to that location?”
“No, but it sounds romantic enough, even in legend.” A tiny smile was tugged from her. “Intrigue is all around us in the jungle.”
He rolled his eyes. “Had your husband?”
“Perhaps. Everything he did is now suspect.”
“What about Paddington?”
“It’s highly possible. Why?”
“I’m not sure. I must ponder the implications.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did your husband keep journals?”
“At times.”
“I assume you travel with them?”
“Yes. They’re in one of my bags, tucked away with some of my notes. Would you like to see them? No doubt they’re full of research scribbles that have no bearing on this.” Did they, or was that part of Michael’s secret life too?
Why exactly had he been down here in Venezuela?
“I will, of course, as part of the investigation, but it can wait until we’re settled in Maripa.” Then his hard gaze bore into hers. “Never once did you think about reading his notes?”
“No, why should I? That would be an invasion into his privacy, and I, perhaps stupidly I realize now, trusted him. We were a team.”
“Fair enough.” Bentley brushed a fly from his cheek. “Prepare yourself, for in delving into this, you might discover you knew your husband not at all. No one should have to hear such things about a deceased spouse.”
“While his death was sad, it wasn’t shocking. I knew. I… mourn him as I would a close colleague, I think. Perhaps that is where more sorrow comes in, that we had drifted so far apart.” She nodded, and the man opposite her never dropped his gaze, merely looked at her with patient sympathy. “I suppose we’ll discover together what he truly was.”
And she’d try not to take out her disgust and frustration on Bentley, who was an agent like her husband had been.
Chapter Eight
Day Fifty-two
Saturday
October 26, 1822
I’m becoming accustomed to writing by firelight. Hell, of doing everything by firelight. On the one hand, it’s primitive. Yet, on the other, it’s quaint and plunges my fellow explorers into soft focus. By firelight, a man can forget he’s in a jungle where everything wishes to kill him.
We’ve reached Maripa, and have visited what the locals call a market. In British standards, it was little more than a collection of vendors with hand-carts along the street, but they had some of what we required, so there are no complaints. Tomorrow, we leave the river and its tributaries in favor of the jungles. Elton, I don’t mind telling you, I am not looking forward to it, no matter how much the lady might smile and tease.
Bentley looked up from his spot. Moss and grass provided a cushion of sorts while a fair-sized boulder at his back gave him support. He’d drawn up one knee and had propped his leather-bound journal upon it. Deuced difficult to write that way, but Cora was utilizing the tent for privacy while bathing, so he and the other fellows were keeping themselves occupied outside.
Manuel and Gibbs had great fortune in hunting up an animal for dinner this evening. Even now the meat—procured from a bird the same size as a chicken back home—roasted on a spit over the fire and the tantalizing aromas made his mouth water. There was also the ever-present fish as well as a pot of beans and another of rice. Major Anderson was in charge of making tea. And the man had made passable scones. How, Bentley wasn’t quite certain, but the scent of vanilla wafted through the air and it made him damned hungry.
Surprisingly content, he resumed his writing after smacking at a sting on his knee. He flicked away a red-and-black ant from his breeches.
Life here goes at its own pace. Food is straight-forward and without a whole lot of variety, but it’s filling and much appreciated. I’ve tried my hand at hunting with Manuel and Gibbs—who has taken to life here admirably—but I’m miserable at it, don’t have the light touch needed to sneak up on animals or fish. The guys don’t seem to mind. I do enough rowing and camp building to round off the work detail.
Again, he looked up and then was obliged to smack at a crawling insect that had taken a bite out of the back of a thigh, right through the fabric.
Regarding Lady Trammel—Cora. She’s… amazing. There’s simply not another way to say it. From the clothing she rigs herself out in to navigate the jungle and river, to her outlook in life after a possible betrayal from Lord Trammel, to her steady nerves when it comes to defending the camp against would-be predators, I have yet to meet another lady like her.
Though I would like to see her pitted against Lady Archewyne in a duel (note to self, cross this out once home lest Lord Archewyne see.)
I suppose, in an effort to remain truthful to the account of my time in the jungle, I should point out here that she kissed me the other day. And, again, being truthful, I enjoyed the brief embrace more than I should have. But she’s a recent widow and a potential suspect to this case besides. Morally, I cannot find myself involved with her, but if things were different? Perhaps I might pursue whatever it is that’s simmering between us.
Unless I’ve read the signs wrong, and she only kissed me out of curiosity or boredom. It wouldn’t be the first time such a thing happened, for I’m not skilled enough with the fairer sex to know what they’re thinking.
Regardless, I feel there is something bigger going on with the widow. Whether she’s working with me or against me is another matter entirely, but I suspect she knows something she’s not telling me. I can see it in her eyes, but her sense of betrayal is real. As is her zeal for her research, which is why we’re currently on this fool’s errand. She wants to fix what she assumes she did, but as with everything related to men in power and the weapons they seek, I rather doubt merely destroying a bunch of orchids will do the trick.
And please, God, let her discover an antidote sooner rather than later.
Swat! What the devil insisted on biting him through his breeches? When he prepared to resume writing, another two bites made themselves known. Then another one. Then another five until he couldn’t discern the individual stings any longer. “What the hell?” Bentley rubbed a hand over his backside but that didn’t alleviate the ongoing biting. He glanced down at his breeches. Hundreds of black-and-red ants, bigger in height than his thumbnail, swarmed over his lower limbs. “I’m being attacked!” He jumped up and down, slapping at the ants with his journal, running about in the attempts to dislodge them. “Manuel!”
Lady Trammel’s assistant came running while Gibbs shot to his feet at the fire. Manuel took one look at Bentley and burst out laughing. “They are army ants, Señor Castlereagh. Perhaps they thought you were dinner.”
“It’s not funny.” Bentley hopped from foot to foot in the hope the ants would leave him alone. “What do I do?”
“Lady, lady!” Manuel darted to the flap of the tent. He scratched at the oiled fabric. “Señor Castlereagh is being eaten by ants.”
While Bentley proceeded to slap himself silly with his journal, the tent flap opened and Cora stepped outside sans the weapons belt and the leather vest. Her skin glowed pink in the firelight and the scrubbing she’d no doubt finished. “Am I going to die?” He shot a frantic glance her way.
“Poor Bentley.” She snickered as she landed her gaze upon him. “Ah, it seems you’ve have had a run in with the marabunta, or legionary ant. Manuel prefers to call them army ants, for how they work together in a swarm to overcome their prey.”
“Dear God, will they begin to eat me?” He slapped harder at the insects, but by this time his skin crawled, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the ants or his reaction to them.
“No, but they were probably after something within your vicinity.” With a small smile, she passed him in favor of checking out the area Manuel led her to where Bentley had sat not two minutes ago. She moved a few pieces of detritus about with the toe of her boot and then finally nodded. “And here is why.” Not two feet from Bentley’s former writing spot was a carcass of a small rodent of unknown origin for it was well on its way of being dismantled by the ant army.
“Am I dessert?” The bites on his legs began to itch, and unwilling to look like a manic in front of the company, he gritted his teeth against the sensation.
“You are not. In fact, these kinds of ants seldom go after human flesh, but they are dangerous to small animals.” Cora came close to him and he caught the faint scent of apple blossoms. “However, since you sat beside their feast, they would have seen you as nothing more than a log or rock on the forest floor.” She shrugged. “It’s a good idea to fully examine the ground where you intend to occupy though. There are much more dangerous things in the jungle that would have every intention of causing you harm.”
“I appreciate that, but in the meantime, what the devil do I do about the bites?” He pleaded with his eyes. “Help me.”
“Fine.” She exchanged an amused glance with Manuel, who shrugged while Gibbs didn’t even try to quell his guffaws.
“Dinner done soon,” was all the man said as he returned to the fire and his cousin.
“Thank you, Manuel. We shall do justice to the feast when it’s ready.” Cora turned her full attention to Bentley. She helped dislodge any remaining insects from his clothing. Then she brushed at his hair. “Come into the tent. Cold water on the bites will help to calm them, but any pain or itching will fade within the hour. The water left from my sponge bath will suffice. There is not enough venom to fell a human, but if you were a grasshopper or bird or small mammal, you’d be incapacitated.”
Somewhat mollified, Bentley followed her into the tent. A tin tub—no bigger than a basin in a washstand at home—rested on a packing crate. An oil lantern burned on another crate between the two narrow cots. A wet rag rested on the tub’s side. “What should I do?”
“Strip.” She pointed to a cot. “Then sit down so I can cut your hair and give you a shave.”
He gawked at her. “I…” A forced swallow didn’t help his confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you wish for my assistance with the bites, or don’t you?” When he nodded, she continued, “I cannot examine you while your clothes are still on.”
“I understand that, but what did you mean about cutting my hair?” He dropped his journal onto the nearest cot and then shrugged out of his jacket of lightweight tan wool. Not exactly appropriate to stamp through the jungle, but it was all he had that would somewhat blend in with the scenery.
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts which had those charms straining against the fine lawn of the man’s shirt she wore. “You look like a beast instead of a man. I merely thought you might enjoy some needful grooming, and since I used to do the same for my husband, I wanted to offer my services.”
“It might be nice. The beard does itch, especially when sweaty.” He ran the fingers of one hand through the bushy facial hairs. “But ant bites first.”
“Of course.” Her lips curved into a sweet smile. “I’ve never seen a man with your knack for falling into scrapes.”
“It’s the damned jungle. I swear it.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat of green brocade embroidered with golden leaves. It fell to the cot, shortly followed by his linen shirt after he let down his suspenders. When he stood before her clad only in boots and trousers, a bout of self-consciousness suddenly beset him. “Uh…”
“Yes?” She lifted an eyebrow in question.
“I do not make a habit of wearing drawers, and especially out here, for they chafe.” Heat crept up the back of his neck and over his ears.
Cora shrugged. “Suit yourself, but I cannot treat the bites through your trousers.” She moved to the opposite cot and picked up a shawl of Battenberg lace—another impractical garment for the jungle—but an essential ladies accessory. She tossed it to him. “Wrap this around your waist if you insist on modesty.”
Did she think less of him due to his hesitation? He stared across the small amount of floor space at her, but she didn’t blink, and the insect bites itched terribly. “You are an impossible woman, do you know that?” When she grinned, he turned about. “I suppose it would be a waste of time to ask that you don’t peek?”
“You don’t possess anything I haven’t seen before, my lord.” Amusement clung to her tone. “Privacy is difficult to come by on an expedition.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive for some decorum,” he groused as he toed off his boots, stumbling out of them. Thank God he’d chosen to bring them instead useless dress shoes. A trace of comfort enveloped him as he glanced over his shoulder. She’d turned around, not looking at him. Taking a shuddering breath even as every muscle in his body went as taut as a bowstring, Bentley quickly shed his trousers. They joined the pile of garments on the cot, and he wrapped the shawl about his waist as instructed. “Satisfied?” he asked in a low voice as he pivoted to face her once more. “I’m naked.”
Without clothing in front of a woman he hardly knew.
Cora turned. She raked her gaze up and down his person. “Not exactly true,” she said as her attention snagged on the shawl at his waist. “But it’ll do.” When she moved to the tin tub, Bentley let out his held breath. Damn, the woman was potent. “Sit down so that I can tend to your bites. Besides, it’ll be easier for me to cut your hair in that position.”
He did so with alacrity, but when she approached him once again and then knelt, her hand on his knee, he was thankful for the shawl which hid the growing evidence of his interest of her being so close. What the hell is wrong with me? She was part of the mission, nothing more. And it was the height of rudeness to have a carnal reaction to the first woman he’d seen in this damned jungle.
If Archewyne or Trewellain ever find out about this, I’ll never be able to show my face in London again.
“Relax, Bentley. This won’t hurt,” Cora said in a low voice as he fixed his attention to the open tent flap and the men gathered about the fire beyond. She drew the wet, cool rag up and down his leg, and everywhere her fingers traveled prickled with awareness. Keeping her focus on her work, she asked, “Is this the first time a woman has ever touched you?”
It was pointless to lie. “Yes,” he forced out from between clenched teeth. “Since becoming a king’s agent, I have no time to indulge in flirtations.”
“And before that?” She transferred her care to his other leg.
Every hair on his body stood at attention. He shrugged and his gaze crashed into hers. “I worked for the Home Office in domestic affairs. It didn’t allow me much free time either, and once each day’s work ended, I couldn’t wait to escape.”
“What did you do? No doubt you had much pent-up frustration.” When she trailed the rag over the flesh of his inner thigh, he bolted upright with a gasp and a certain twitch in his length.
“I engage in pugilistics at the Daffy Club in the Castle Tavern.” If she didn’t leave off, he’d embarrass himself further… and ruin her shawl.
“Ah, that explains why you’re in such prime form.” She leaned back on her heels to survey him, her gaze sweeping over his shoulders and chest. He was glad he’d spent countless hours in the boxing ring, honing his strength and body—for the admiration in her eyes.
“It helps to endure what a mission might bring.” Heat rolled over him and he kept a tight hold on the shawl.
“My husband didn’t do much to exert himself. He was much like a pale fish when he disrobed.” With a smile, she moved to the basin and dunked the rag into the water while Bentley took a deep, calming breath. “How do the bites feel?”
At this point, he couldn’t remember that he’d been assaulted by those bloody ants. “Better. Thank you.”
Cora nodded. She took up a pair of silver scissors and an ivory-handled hand mirror from the crate beside the tub. “Let’s turn our attention to making you presentable again, shall we?” She gave him the mirror. “How do you wear your hair, or do you trust me to style it?”
He met her gaze and a half-smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I’m completely at your mercy, but you’ll have to beg Gibbs’ forgiveness later.” Bentley ignored the burning skin at his nape. Would she see the telltale signs of his discomfort when she came near again? “Personal style does not matter on the river, correct?”
“Correct, but it’ll make you resemble less of an animal.” Then she slipped behind him and began trimming his hair. The rhythmic snip snip of the scissors lulled him to a state of calm once more as did the delicate touch of her fingers. “Once we’re finished here, you should make use of the water and wash up. It will refresh you.”
“Perhaps I shall. What a novel idea of being shaved and presentable for dinner.” When she moved in front, he couldn’t help but stare at her breasts. In the low light, the rosy tips of her nipples flirted with the thin shirt, for she wore no stays, not even a shift, and why would she with her choice of outfit? She was so close he could press his cheek against that ample swell if he should desire. What would those breasts feel like in his hands, the tips against his tongue? For months since India, he’d dreamed about this woman, and some had been rather wicked. Now, here she was in the flesh, and she was as distracting. As his member hardened further, he shifted and kept the shawl fabric bunched before him.
“Almost done.” Then she blew upon his neck and shoulders. “Pardon. Need to remove the clippings from your skin.”
Shit, shit, shit. He was coming dangerously close to being the first king’s agent to spend simply due to having his hair cut. Wouldn’t his mates think that was hilarious? “Thank you,” he finally ground out, and desperate to take his mind from her and how easy it would be to take her into his arms, Bentley glanced through the open tent flap. Manuel pulled the fish from the fire and laid them onto a plate. The major poked at the bird on the spit, nodding enthusiastically. The evening meal was nearly ready. “Are we finished with our river journey?”
